Tomorrow, I thought, as I snuffed the wick of the lamp and fell into bed, tomorrow perhaps I would make some sense of it.
The following days blurred together, one running over into the next, each day filled with anxious thoughts and musings. But one summer day was different—we had visitors. At the sound of the ship’s bell tolling, Uncle Victor ran to the window and peered out. “Who in the devil …,” he began. “Addie! Addie, go and find out what they want!”
I followed her to the door. My school chum Emma Pratt stood there dressed in her Sunday best, staring down at her fine button shoes, a bunch of daisies clenched in her fist. Mrs. Pratt wore a pitying expression and held out a blueberry pie in her white-gloved hands. She nodded toward me but looked at Addie. “It was high time we came to offer our condolences,” she said. “Isn’t it, Emma?” She nudged Emma with her elbow. “Emma!”
Emma didn’t look up. “I’m very sorry about your … um … loss,” she mumbled. Mrs. Pratt nodded and smiled in a pinched way. “Given the fact that there wasn’t really a funeral, or calling hours, we waited until things were, well, settled....”
I didn’t know what to say, but Addie saved me. “Well, isn’t that sweet of ye; now come in, come in.” She gestured in an expansive way, took the pie from Mrs. Pratt, and led them inside.
“Mr. Simmons, sir,” she called, “Mrs. Pratt and her lovely Emma have come to pay their respects. I’ll put on the tea.” She turned. “Lucy, show our guests to the parlor now, would ye?”
We sat awkwardly on the settee. Emma looked at me, finally. “So, what’s it like to be a real live orphan?” she blurted.
“Emma!” Mrs. Pratt exclaimed. “What a thing to say!”
I felt my face color. At that moment Aunt Margaret sashayed in, followed by Uncle Victor.
“Afternoon,” Aunt Margaret crooned. I noticed she’d changed her dress and was wearing a lot of jewelry. Mother’s jewelry! My mouth dropped open. Uncle Victor crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels.
“I’m Victor Simmons, and this is my wife, Margaret. We are in charge of this place now that my dear brother and his lovely wife have tragically passed on. Still in mourning, aren’t we, Margaret?”
Victor’s smile and the sparkle in his eyes told a different story. Aunt Margaret, dabbing at her eyes, was, to me at least, equally unconvincing.
Just as Addie started through the door with the silver tea service, Victor stepped in front of her, stopping her short.
“Given that the household is still grieving,” he said, “I do suggest we postpone this little visit. You understand, of course.”
Mrs. Pratt’s long white face turned pink as she stood and took Emma by the hand.
“I promise we shall not be disturbing you again,” she said. “Come along, Emma!”
Emma looked over her shoulder at me, trying, I imagined, to get one last look at a real orphan.
“Toodle-oo!” Aunt Margaret cried as the door closed behind them. “Appreciate the pie!”
I could imagine them walking down the front path, the look of distaste pulling at the corners of their mouths.
“We’ll have no more uninvited guests snooping around here,” Victor said. “Next time, Addie, you will turn them away! Now, out of my sight!”
Addie turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging behind her.
Still, I was relieved. I couldn’t bear to have any more of my friends meet my aunt and uncle, to see what shameful, ungracious people they were.
As if sensing my relief, Uncle Victor shifted his beady eyes in my direction. “What are you standing there gaping at? There are chores to be done, missy! You’ll thank me someday for teaching you the value of hard work! Now get on with the dusting!”
I turned toward the broom closet, grateful for anything to get me away from him.
“And don’t forgot the bathroom!” he shouted.
I took the feather duster from its hook and headed for the dining room, lost in my own musings. It was as though, in lieu of family and school chums, the house had become my companion, my ally. I leaned my forehead against the cool oak paneling in the hall and closed my eyes. “I need you,” I whispered, my breath leaving a moist circle on the polished surface. I paused, listening for the quiet breathing of the house, feeling for that sense of life that had pulsed through it on that peculiar night. Stranger still, I believed the house actually responded to my recognition of its energy, its soul. My cheek tingled, and even behind my closed lids I was dazzled by starbursts of color. I was suddenly infused with a giddy burst of energy, a high-spirited sense of fun.
I bounded off, the feather duster a magical wand in my hand. I waved it with a flourish along the wainscoting in the dining room and up along the edge of the tall built-in corner cupboard. I sang as I worked, “A la dee dah dah, a la dee dah dee!” But the top ledge of the cabinetry was beyond my reach. As I stretched on tiptoes in an attempt to complete the chore, the ledge began to glow—not a wild, garish shine, mind you, rather a low-luster, good-natured sort of twinkle, and the cabinet bent over, ever so slightly in a courtly bow, just enough to meet the ruffled tips of my feathery wand. I waved the duster in a salute, giggled, and moved on.
With unbounded energy I fairly skipped to the basement to retrieve the bucket and scrub brush, star water, and sponge, and lugged them back upstairs. Suddenly, the prospect of scrubbing the tile floor and shining the brass fixtures of the lavatory seemed like an adventure. I ran the water, assembled my supplies, and began with the sink. In seconds it was gleaming. Then I approached the deep claw-footed tub. But I’d left the metal bucket and the scrub brush on the opposite side of the room. I turned and stepped back for them, anticipating the strain of hauling the heavy pail of sloshing suds a step or two nearer. I hoisted the bucket in one hand, turned, then stopped short. The tub itself moved, its claw feet flexing slightly, inching along the black-and-white checkerboard floor until it snuggled up beside me.
I set the bucket down and grinned. As if to remind me of the task at hand, the smooth rolled edge of the tub curled over in a gentle curtsy-like dip—an invitation for me to do what I’d set out to do. I scrubbed, staring in amazement as the suds sparkled and swirled, encircling the inner perimeter, erasing the last trace of Uncle Victor’s dull beige tub ring. The sparkling mist swirled into a neat funnel shape, and the small glittering tornado spun down the drain, leaving the tub gleaming. Then, just as I knew it would, the tub tiptoed back to its place. I applauded, and once more it curtsied.
Still marveling, I carried the bucket and scrub brush back to the cellar and set them down next to Father’s “chart room.” Here he’d built a platform on which he’d set his prized trophy from his last sea vessel—an enormous nautical wheel. I climbed up, grasped the knobs at the end of each rung just as Father’d once done. I closed my eyes and turned the wheel, imagining …
“Set our sights for Australia!” I shouted, feeling anything was possible, spinning the wheel to the right. We’d sail the Eastern seaboard, past the islands, around Cape Horn, and across the South Pacific—eventually we’d hit Australia, wouldn’t we?
I sang out, “A la dee dah dah, a lah dee dah dee....” I could swear, as I sang, that the lilting tone of Father’s flute accompanied my song. “Raise the sails full-tilt!” I commanded.
“With cutlass and gun, oh, we fought for hours three.
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we.
The ship it was their coffin, and their grave it was the sea!
A-sailing down all on the coasts of High Barbaree.
A la dee dah dah, a lah dee dah dee....”
The squeal of the winch and the flap of imaginary canvas against the wind bolstered my bravado. “We have a job to do! Find Miss Prudence Simmons and banish the evil Victor from his illustrious brother’s estate!” One hand on the wheel, I raised the other in a defiant fist and shook it in the air.
Then, in a flash, a viselike grip on my wrist yanked me, not only from my imaginary dram
a at sea, but clear off the platform.
7
His face was beet red, his temples throbbing. He spoke to me through clenched teeth, lips curled back in a snarl.
“This is how you avoid your chores, is it, missy? Mocking the duty your aunt and I perform here, disrespecting us with your … your … theatrics?”
I thought my wrist might snap, he’d twisted it so far behind my back. I swallowed the cry that threatened to erupt from my throat. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
In his left hand he held a wire rug beater and raised it above his head. He shook it, in the same way I’d shaken my fist just moments before.
“There’ll be a beating here today,” he said, fairly spitting the words at me.
I braced myself for the blow when I heard Addie descend the stairs. He released my wrist, glared, and thrust the rug beater at me.
“Take this and the hallway runner outside and beat it until it’s clean. Do you understand me, missy?”
Addie stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide at his icy tone of voice. “And one more thing,” he said. He turned toward Addie. “You’ll see to it that this wench stays out of the cellar.” He turned to me. “Now, get out!”
I flew up the stairs, rug beater in hand, and grabbed the hallway runner from the floor. Aunt Margaret, who had a way of slinking around eavesdropping, clearly had overheard the whole exchange. She smugly shoved a basket of darning into my other hand.
“While you’re at it,” she said, and turned on her heel.
I set out toward the water, Mr. Pugsley trotting along behind me. My hands were still trembling, and the white anger I’d felt toward Victor was finally dissipating, turning my joints to jelly.
Yet, as always, the sight of the sea and the feel of the ocean air bolstered my spirit. I loved the ruffle of white foam curling around the shore on the crest of the waves, the way the water slipped in between the rocky crevices and was sucked back, over and over again. Down, down we hiked, along the rocky path toward the shore, each step stronger and more determined than the previous. The hypnotic tune found its way to my lips still again—“A la dee dah dah, a la dee dah dee”—perhaps because it was the last tune Father and I sang together. How I wished I knew the rest of the lyrics.
My eyes were suddenly drawn to a small strip of shore where the water glittered brilliantly and bubbled over a narrow ribbon of sand, skirting a number of black rocks. I paused beside a slight dip in the ground sheltered by rosebushes, a spot unseen from the path. I shoved the carpet, the beater, and the basket of needlework inside the fragrant hideaway and continued on, drawn to the place that seemed to be churning diamonds in the surf. I stepped quickly, deftly, off the path, rock to ledge, stone to stone, down, down, down toward the hypnotizing tide, so dazzling now that I had to shield my eyes with my hand. The surf rushed in, splashing over my shoes and the edges of my skirts, but still I pressed on, inexplicably drawn to the spot. Between the surge and slosh of the sea, I heard something else that my heart recognized before I could name it. I froze. It was the sound of Father’s flute, playing that tune that refused to leave my mind! I looked down. Gasped.
Upon hitting the rocks beneath me, the incoming waves burst into a million sparkling particles that curled and tingled around my feet and ankles. The gleaming vaporous mass crested for an instant and ebbed, receding with the tide.
But there at my feet, balanced precariously on the craggy rock, was Father’s flute, delivered up from the sea! It dripped salt water and diamond glitter, still playing the tune of its own accord. It hummed, tingled. A la dee dah dah, a la dee dah dee—each note carried by a lilt and puff of sparkling vapor like the breath of a phantom flautist. I bent, snatched it up, put it to my lips, my fingers drawn to the tone holes. Guided by an unknown force, I began to play. At the end of the refrain I stopped, incredulous, and held the flute out before me.
Mr. Pugsley whined, and his small curlicue tail began wagging frantically. His paws slipped and slid on the slick stones. “What is it, Mr. Pugsley?” I asked, with some alarm. Someone must be near! With trembling hands I placed the precious flute deep in my pocket for safekeeping. Mr. Pugsley’s little rump wiggled side to side, and he shot ahead. I grabbed him just in time, held his wriggling body against me, and leaned forward for a look.
There she was, just down the shore, different in the afternoon light, but somehow still the same. She walked smoothly toward the water in a regal way. This was no idle stroll—her movements were strong and purposeful.
Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat braid, her limbs long and graceful. I was certain that the gray robe she wore was the very same one she’d wrapped around herself on the night of the full moon. As she reached the water’s edge, she looked around as if to make certain she was not being watched, and let the robe slip from her shoulders.
I covered my mouth with my hand. She wore nothing at all beneath the robe, and in her nakedness moved surely, confidently into the sea. The only sign that the water was cold was a slight hunching of her shoulders, and a slow lifting and lengthening of her neck above the water.
She glided out with strong, sure strokes, her braid trailing the surface like a sleek water snake. She swam for a bit, then floated, occasionally diving underwater, resurfacing with a blink of her eyes, her mouth open for a wide gulp of air.
I held Mr. Pugsley tight and carried him up, up, back to the rosebush hideaway, where I could watch without being detected. I lifted the branches and quickly ducked inside. The hanging boughs surrounded me in tangled masses, dotted with small, dense deep-pink roses. I pushed one aside, creating a peephole, and there—I spotted the old woman still swimming with confident, smooth strokes.
Something farther down the thin strip of sandy beach caught my eye. Not wanting to take my eyes off the woman, I stole a glance in the other direction.
Mr. Pugsley saw it too, the short tawny hair on his back bristling in alarm. Holding his squirming body close, I felt the low rumble of his growl and the rapid drumroll of his heart.
It was the Brute, barreling across the beach. He called out to the woman in a menacing voice, words carried off by the ocean breeze, hands waving above his head.
She became immediately alert, interrupted her stroke, and drew herself up like a curious otter. Did I just imagine her eyes narrowing, or did I actually see it? She dived forward and swam in a straight line toward the shore. This I watched with a sense of impending danger, as it was clear the Brute was closer to her robe than she was.
That was when Mr. Pugsley shoved off against me with his small sturdy legs and projected himself out of the rosebush and onto the trail.
“No, Mr. Pugsley!” I shouted, but as I moved to follow him, I stopped short. No one knew of my hiding place, and I could not reveal it to the Brute. Biting my lip, I pulled back and watched as Mr. Pugsley tore down the path, kicking up clouds of dust in his wake.
The Brute slowed to a stop and turned—first his head, then his entire frame—in the direction of the little beast. “No, Mr. Pugsley,” I whispered. “Stay away from him!” Tears welled up in my eyes. I was ashamed that my terror held me back, that I was powerless to intervene for my canine friend.
“Is that you, you ungrateful …,” the Brute began, the rest of his ugly words lost to the wind. He lunged at Mr. Pugsley, but the little dog was too nimble for him, passing around behind him, nipping at the legs of his ragged pants.
“You son of the devil …”
The Brute bent over and swept his hand in a powerful arc toward the dog and kicked wildly in an attempt to shake Mr. Pugsley free of his pants.
The sight of the woman slipping into the gray robe was almost lost to me, so engaged was I in poor Mr. Pugsley’s fate. I watched, scarcely breathing, as the Brute stomped his feet around my little friend, and I nearly cheered as Mr. Pugsley let go at precisely the right moment, scooting back between the giant’s legs. Trying to keep the little fellow in his sights, the Brute spun about, and must have lost his balan
ce on the thin strand of slippery rocks, driftwood, and debris that edged the shore. He went down like a felled tree, and Mr. Pugsley took the opportunity to grab his shirtsleeve, shaking it violently back and forth. He must have connected with skin, because amid the growling and the tearing of cloth, I heard the Brute cry out and grab at his arm.
The little dog trotted back, head raised high, clearly proud of his work. Before the man could right himself, Mr. Pugsley scrambled off, disappearing into the tall grass that ran along the shore.
I sank back in relief, but only for an instant. I watched the Brute peering about, and that was when we made the discovery together—that both the old woman and the dog were gone. I followed the Brute’s crazed gaze to the water’s edge, to the place where her robe had been.
He turned this way and that, eyes furtively searching the shore as well as the cliffs above. “I’ll get you yet,” he shouted, “you sea hag, you, you … witch of the water!” He raised his fist high, gesturing wildly, calling out into the salty air. I stayed perfectly still, watching as his eyes skimmed past my hiding place, and followed his retreat into the knoll of pines until he disappeared altogether. I stared out for what seemed like hours, desperately looking for Mr. Pugsley, and wondering where on earth the old woman had gone.
Suddenly I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Without thinking I jumped to my feet, the thorny branches scratching my face, yanking my hair. I gasped. My hiding place was no longer a secret.
8
“Shhh!” she said, crouching down and pushing past me into the hideout. I stared, openmouthed. “Who …? What?” I stammered.
“Shhh!” she repeated, more vehemently.
I gaped at her holding Mr. Pugsley tightly against her chest. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, staring through the space in the bushes.
“Sit down, sit down!” she whispered, flapping her hand like the wing of a bird. I knelt alongside her, shamelessly studying her strong profile. Wispy silver strands had escaped her braid and hung along the sides of her face, reminding me of the side feathers on an Indian headdress. Her skin was a warm honey brown, sun-weathered and deeply lined. A long, straight nose was chiseled in between high cheekbones—all of which completed the look of an Indian brave. Her eyes were quite riveting—the palest shade of green—and staring at them from the side made me think of a pair of shiny aqua marbles. In the hollow of her throat hung a large oval silver locket.
The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons Page 4
