I watched her expression change from rapt attention to one of slight amusement, the skin around those fine eyes crinkling, the corners of her mouth turning slightly up. She cast a quick glance my way, nodded outward with her chin in the direction of the path, and then raised a long, bony index finger to her lips as a reminder for silence. She tipped her head, a motion that made me listen more closely.
That was when I detected a weak huffing sound out along the path. She raised an eyebrow at me and I nodded, acknowledging that we both heard it. The huffing got louder, raspier, an escalating series of ragged pants and gasps. I knew even before I saw him—it was the Brute climbing the steep trail in pursuit of the woman he’d called a sea hag, a witch of the sea. The woman I was crouching beside, who had my dog in her arms.
And, I might add, I felt more than a tinge of jealousy at Mr. Pugsley’s carrying on. There he was in her arms, flirting in the way he usually reserved for me, blinking his long-lashed brown eyes adoringly, nudging her hand with his nose, looking for a pat on the head, snuggling as close as he could. And, not only that—as the Brute emerged over the summit, I’d have expected a barrage of yipping and ferocious growling, but Mr. Pugsley behaved like a docile lamb.
This was a good thing, because the Brute placed himself like a sentinel at the top of the trail, not fifteen feet from where we hid, shielding his eyes from the sun and peering down toward the shore. He muttered under his breath, and shook his head of wild black hair in agitation. I strained to hear the snippets of his utterings that drifted toward us: “playing with magic,” “swimming like a siren,” “the singing of a sea nymph.”
We both knew whom he was referring to. She gave me a quick glance, her eyes amused, one corner of her mouth pulled up in a half smile, an eyebrow raised. The smile I returned felt stiff and peculiar on my face.
The Brute’s words disturbed me. Not the babbling about playing with magic. No. It was the part about the sirens—the sea nymphs—that sent a chill along my spine. I remembered all too well Father’s tales of these mythical sea creatures whose haunting songs charmed seamen to leap into the sea to their deaths. I recalled the painting back in our library of Ulysses, the famous Greek mariner bound to the mast of his ship in order to resist the sirens’ death call.
I couldn’t help but wonder whether my own father, and perhaps the Brute himself, had heard such a call on that fateful day. Or whether the Brute’s words had something to do with the terrible curse Aunt Pru referred to. Those thoughts continued to pull at the edges of my brain, the image of that painting I’d always found fascinating—in a dark, foreboding way—nudging me. It was as if there was something important I was missing, something almost understood but just beyond my grasp. At that moment I felt the flute tingle against my skin through the lining in my pocket. Or perhaps it was a shiver.
The Brute, apparently satisfied that the woman had vanished, threw up his hands and started off again down the path. We watched him trudge along the zigzagging trail until he reached the shore. He stared across the water for some time before moving down the beach and into the pine grove in the distance.
The woman put Mr. Pugsley down and turned to me.
“So,” she said, her voice rather low-pitched, smooth, and warm, “we finally meet, face-to-face—officially, that is.”
To this, I said nothing, although I imagine I probably nodded stupidly.
“Well, come along then,” she said.
Without waiting for my reply, she crawled out through the opening in the rosebush.
Mr. Pugsley darted out beside her, his eagerness grating on me more than a little. I followed along behind. I felt a pang of guilt over the fact that I was excited. It seemed disloyal to Mother and Father to be enjoying things in their absence. This was something, after all—something happening to me that buoyed me up out of the sea of sadness pulling me under.
“So,” she said, her voice deep and rich, “how are you surviving?” She reached over and gently brushed the hair from my face. Curiously, she ran her finger over the scar on my forehead and nodded, as if pleased.
“Uh …,” I stammered, “well, I …”
“Since the accident,” she added. “How are you getting along is what I want to know?”
I felt my face flush. “How do you know about the accident? How do you know who I am?”
She looked at me kindly. “Well, dear, everyone along the coast knows of the tragic event. I’m quite certain I remember the day more clearly than most.”
“Well,” I said, flustered, “I suppose I’m doing … all right.”
It was all I could manage. Nibbling the inside of my cheek, I stared at her, questions gnawing at me. I believe she understood quite a bit more than I actually offered.
“You are a brave and unusual sort, Lucy P. Simmons,” she said.
I felt as though I had passed some kind of test. This bolstered my courage, and my words came in a rush.
“But, who are you? I don’t remember ever seeing you about town, or out here by the shore until, well … since …” I avoided the words with a shake of my head. “I’ve watched you at night, out in the moonlight. That’s when things started to—” I stopped abruptly. Perhaps I’d said too much.
She looked straight ahead, then put her finger to her lips, silencing me. Mr. Pugsley stood still and began to whimper. I followed her gaze and, to my great dismay, saw Uncle Victor clambering along the path.
“It’s my unc—” I stopped short. The woman had moved off the path and was weaving in and out of the pines. Mr. Pugsley watched her intently, and for a moment I feared he might run off after her. But my faithful friend stood there beside me. I stared after her, fighting the urge to call out. She nodded at me, with a slow blink of her green eyes. It was a gesture of assurance that set my mind at ease, at least for the moment. As she disappeared into the trees, I looked back toward Uncle Victor, his thin legs carrying him swiftly toward me.
“What are you doing dawdling out here on the path?” he demanded. “And where, pray tell, is the carpet? Your aunt nearly slipped in the hallway!”
Before I could answer, he went on. “And who was that I heard you talking with?” He peered this way and that through narrowed eyes. “Answer me, missy!” he said.
“Which question?” I asked, and rather rudely, I might add. Something about my encounter with the woman had emboldened me.
“Which question?” he bellowed. He sputtered for a moment, apparently unsure himself. “What do you think you’re doing dawdling out here, when you have chores to do? I asked you what you were doing, is what I asked!”
I looked at him in what I hoped was an innocent manner. “I was …” I hesitated. But what with the appearance of Father’s flute, the Brute, and then the woman, well, I was at a loss. “I was … airing out the carpet,” I said quickly. “And doing my needlework.”
As soon as I said it, I knew I’d made a mistake. I’d left both the runner and my basket of sewing inside my hideaway, forgotten.
Uncle Victor looked at me closely, his nostrils twitching like a hound picking up a scent. “Really? And where exactly is the carpet now?”
I bit my lower lip. “It … it was airing out on the rocky outcropping there, and I dozed off in the sun and … and … I think a bluster of wind may have carried it off?”
He circled around me, looking me up and down. “That, my dear niece, is a blatant lie! Absolute poppycock! Hogwash! Just look at you!”
My hand went instinctively to smooth my hair, my skirts. I was suddenly painfully aware of the soaked and filthy hemline of my dress, of my black button shoes now encrusted in mud. I ran my hand across my forehead in an attempt to tidy myself and was appalled to see a streak of red on my fingers. I’d forgotten how I’d entangled myself in the rosebush, how I’d gotten scratched. I felt the color rise to my cheeks at the memory of my hair being yanked by the branches, and could only imagine how wild it must be, hanging from my ribbons as it was.
None of this escaped Uncle Victor
, who grabbed me roughly by the arm. “You might have gotten away with behaving like a wild Indian living under my brother’s roof,” he hissed, “but you’ll not act as a banshee living here with me!” He shoved me along the path, his skinny fingers pressing into my arm like a vise. Mr. Pugsley ran around, circling wildly, yipping in protest.
“I’ll have to have a word with your aunt about this,” Uncle Victor said, shaking his head and wagging a long finger in the air. I tripped along beside him, cringing at the scene I knew would follow—a perfect opportunity for Uncle Victor to bully both me and Aunt Margaret at the same time. It would be doubly bad for me, of course, for once he was done with Margaret, she would take her frustration out on me as well.
As we approached the house, I was captivated by the sunlight playing off of the front stairs that led to the wide wraparound porch. The afternoon light seemed dappled, dancing across the steps, like sunlight on water. But as we got closer, I grew more excited. It was not ordinary sunlight playing on the stairs. It was sparkling, glittering. I chanced a glance at Uncle Victor, who marched on, unaware, his eye trained on the front door.
I held my breath as he dragged me toward the first step, my eyes cast downward. I felt the electricity at my feet and blinked at the wavy lines of energy—like heat shimmering on a paved road baking in the sun—that I saw emanating from that wavering step. I watched as Uncle Victor’s side of the wooden step grew, as though drawn up in the flow of energy surrounding it. Just as he lifted his foot to scale the step, the flute vibrated, and something like the shrill cry of a bird flew from it and pierced the air. Victor swiveled his head, eyebrows raised. The vapor seeped along the base of the stair, and just as he stepped up, the floorboards bulged.
The jolt of his shoe meeting the swollen step sent him flying forward. He released my arm and I sprang up the stairs and out of his grasp, Mr. Pugsley beside me.
I heard the clunk of his nose against the upper stair, and the shower of curses that followed. The flute huffed and puffed a ruffle of tuneless air ticklishly against me. I immediately recognized it as the cadence of laughter, and stifled the gahuff that threatened to spring from my lips.
Aunt Margaret barreled past me, her eyes opened wide, fleshy cheeks jiggling, hands grasping the edges of her apron.
“What on earth?” she chirped, her words coming in nervous bursts.
I shrugged a little and watched Mr. Pugsley run to his hiding space beneath the stairwell. “I guess he tripped,” I said, and rushed toward the library.
I closed the door behind me, shutting out Uncle Victor’s demands for an ice pack, some brandy (he was always boasting of the medicinal qualities of brandy, after all), a bandage, a cigar.
I walked slowly toward the painting that hung on the wall opposite the window and stood before it. The blood pulsed in my temples, and my heart hammered against my chest.
There was Ulysses tied to the mast of his ship, his wild eyes raised toward the sky. He was the focal point of the painting, the part that drew your eye and held it.
But this time I forced myself to look, really look at the rest of the painting—at the huge white moon that illuminated Ulysses’s fear, casting a ghostly path across the water—and in that path, the head of the siren, the sea nymph, radiating like a star in a black sea-sky.
I picked up the ivory-handled magnifying glass from Father’s desk and approached the painting. With trembling hands I held the glass up, and the circle behind it sprang into view, increasing impressively in both size and detail.
The wavy-edged image in the glass fairly sparkled as it tripled in size. And I stared at the siren in the moonlit sea approaching the ship, her silvery hair streaming out behind her.
I shook my head and stepped away from the painting. Perhaps my imagination was getting the better of me, but the siren in the painting and the woman on the path could have been one and the same.
9
In my room I waited out the storm. Standing before my dressing table, I retrieved my precious flute, rolled it over and over in my hands, and brought it to my lips. I kissed it, and placed it on the bureau cloth. A large looking glass hung behind the dressing table, and catching sight of my appearance, I gasped.
I’d always been told how much I resembled Mother, with her serene blue eyes and auburn hair. But at that moment, it was not the ghost of my mother that stared back at me—it was more like my Aunt Prudence, more mischievous than Mother for sure, and yes, maybe even a little reckless. My sweaty face was smeared with dirt. My hair, which Addie usually arranged in waves held off of my face with fine ribbons, was mussed and tangled, a halo of reddish curls and frizz. Small leaves were stuck here and there, even a thin twig or two. These I gingerly pulled out and hid in my pocket.
There was a knock on the door, followed by my aunt’s waffling voice, even higher pitched than usual.
“I need a word with you, Lucille. Open the door and let me inside!”
I attempted to wipe off my face and pull my hair into some kind of shape before opening the door. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked down, trying to appear repentant.
Aunt Margaret stood directly before me, twisting the sash of her dress nervously around her plump fingers. She was positioned so that glancing up put me at eye level with her massive bosom. I looked back down and waited.
“What in heaven’s name were you up to out there?” she asked. Her voice was whining, wheedling. “Now you’ve gone and got your uncle all upset,” and as if to justify the irritation in her voice, she quickly added, “And I can’t say that I blame him! What do you have to say for yourself?”
I mumbled an apology. “I’m sorry, Aunt Margaret,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
“Well, you’ll have to go down and tell him that yourself,” said Aunt Margaret, who by now was pacing back and forth, her lower lip curled over like a spoiled child’s. “Now you’ve got him in a tizzy.”
And, as if his tizzy needed explanation, she added, “He’s in a lot of pain, thanks to that little dog of yours.”
“What do you mean, thanks to my little dog?”
Aunt Margaret paused. “For tripping him on the step,” she said, annoyance bending the pitch of her last word up a tone or two.
I suddenly paid more attention. If he blamed Mr. Pugsley for this fall, would he decide to get rid of him?
“Aunt Margaret,” I said, “it wasn’t Mr. Pugsley’s fault. It was my fault.”
“Yes, it was,” she said, her bottom lip still curled out, her rolls of chin held high. “He is your dog, after all, and your uncle is nice enough to let you keep him!”
“No,” I said. “No, Mr. Pugsley didn’t trip Uncle Victor. It was my fault, it was my … my …” I struggled for something that would work, my eyes scanning the room for some clue.
“What was it then?” asked Aunt Margaret. I detected movement just behind her, and to my surprise the flute was levitating above the dresser! Incredulous, my eyes followed it floating around the bookshelf, dancing above the commode and washstand, and finally making its descent toward the bowl of marbles atop my desk. There it hovered and dipped, pointing and jabbing repeatedly at the collection of cat’s-eyes and jaspers, aggies and opals. That was it! Of course!
Without thinking, I wagged my finger accusingly at the bowl of marbles. The flute rapidly dipped behind the bowl, out of sight.
“I told Uncle Victor I was out doing needlework and airing the carpet,” I blustered. “But I wasn’t. I was out playing marbles, out on a flat place on the path,” I said, gathering energy as the excuse grew. “And then, coming back, I dropped one—yes, that’s it—I dropped a marble on the step, and Uncle Victor must have slipped on it!”
I was so excited that I’d been led to fabricate a tale to save my little friend that I almost smiled. Addie suddenly appeared in the doorway, watching me curiously.
Aunt Margaret frowned. “He was right then,” she said, pouting. “You did lie to him!” She made a series of tsk-tsk sounds with her
tongue. “Well, that will make it all the worse for you, I’m sure. He’s resting in the library. You’d best go and see him, missy, and be ready to take your punishment.”
“I’ll go along, ma’am, and see that she behaves,” said Addie, making a show of ushering me out the door. Aunt Margaret nodded, pleased, I’m sure, to be addressed as the lady of the house. I looked at Addie appreciatively, for I understood her intent. I would be punished less severely in her presence.
She held my elbow gently as we walked down the stairs, tipped her head slightly toward mine, and whispered in my ear. “Maybe, lass, you’ll be tellin’ me what ’twas you were actually doin’,” she said, not unkindly, concern warming her words.
The library door was open and Uncle Victor saw us coming. He made quite a show of pulling himself upright. My eyes widened at the sight of his bruised and battered face. His nose had a large bump about halfway down, looking as though one of those marbles I’d lied about had been jammed up there beneath his skin. The area around his eye was swollen an angry red with the promise that by tomorrow it would turn black and blue.
“You are dismissed, miss,” he said to Addie, the iciness in his voice sending a shiver along my spine.
“I thought I would stay, sir,” she said evenly, “in order that I might help in maintaining the discipline of my young charge here.”
“I said, you are dismissed!”
Addie gave my arm a little squeeze, and I watched her mouth pull into a straight line. “But, sir—”
“Out!” he yelled, the snaky veins in the side of his head throbbing.
The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons Page 5
