Shorecliff

by Ursula Deyoung

  It turned out that Condor would be absent at the same time, making his annual trip to Brunswick to visit his niece and buy supplies for the long, lonesome winter at Shorecliff. When the Delias learned he would be gone, they developed their own plan, and thus the central bricks were laid for the night after the uncles’ departure. Of course it was only later that I was able to piece together everything that happened. I played a part in the night’s adventures too, but it was not an important one until the end.

  The beginning we all saw. Less than a week before we were scheduled to depart from Shorecliff, the three uncles set off on their last hunting trip, loaded down with packs, guns, and tent poles. The aunts kissed them good-bye or patted their shoulders. The cousins, ranged in sullen rows on the stairs, looked on in silence.

  “Look at you up there, all those sourpusses,” said Uncle Cedric. “The sun is still shining, kids! The weather’s warm, the shore awaits. Go outside, all of you! Try to find some fun here while you still can.”

  He scanned our faces one by one, seeing Francesca’s gloom, Fisher’s wide-eyed concern, Yvette’s wrath, Isabella’s distress… Yes, we had certainly become an odd crew. I for one could not keep my eyes off Uncle Kurt. He was strapping on his bags without paying attention to us, except that he flashed us an occasional smile. I searched for remorse and saw none. He looked chipper and excited, as if he were being allowed to do something he had always wanted to do, the way I probably looked when I went on adventures with my cousins. A wave of curiosity rolled over me. What was it like, that gambling house with its pretty women and poker tables and all-night dancing?

  Uncle Kurt looked up and said, “Hold down the fort while I’m gone, Richard.”

  I was so in awe of his duplicity that I replied, “Yes, sir.”

  He thought I was joking and laughed, turning to Uncle Frank. “Move out, sergeant!” he cried. “We leave at 0900 hours.”

  When they left, the family scattered again. Somehow I whiled away the rest of that day—reading, possibly, or playing with Pamela, or drifting from bedroom to bedroom, seeking company and reassurance.

  Delia and Delia went to their room. There was nothing unusual in that, and none of us knew then that they were planning Barnavelt’s Great Escape. That night, however, at about half past two, they emerged. After hours of planning, all they had really decided was that Barnavelt deserved to be free and that they were the ones to free him. They knew Great-Uncle Eberhardt and Condor would try to get him back, so they planned to put him on his leash, walk with him to the secret field where Uncle Cedric had taken us for our picnic, and release him there. It was strange that they could have been so oblivious to the cruelty of their plan, not realizing that taking Barnavelt so far away and abandoning him would probably condemn him to a speedy death. Barnavelt was most assuredly a domestic fox—not as tame as a dog, for his ancestry did not hold countless years of servility, but still lacking the skills necessary for survival in the wild.

  Delia Ybarra, however, had grown up in Manhattan and Delia Robierre in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Neither had ever learned about the ways of wild animals, and their notions concerning the morality of capturing foxes were taken exclusively from their own fantastic notions of what it meant to be free. They had long ago personified Barnavelt as a captive, something like an American Indian from a storybook, yearning to run through the forest and commune with nature. They thought, pityingly, that Condor loved the fox as much as they did but had less understanding of Barnavelt’s true nature as a wild creature. I heard Delia Ybarra say once, “Condor just can’t stand to give him up.” So they ignored his warnings and set out for the cottage on the night of his departure.

  The top of the staircase leading down from the third floor of Shorecliff was situated between the Wight boys’ room and Philip and Tom’s room. To reach it the Delias had to pass three rooms and come close to a fourth, and in doing so they woke up four cousins—Pamela, Isabella, Philip, and Tom. Pamela woke up when Delia Robierre crashed into the wall of her bedroom, eliciting a gale of giggles from Delia Ybarra. Really it was amazing that the two Delias left the house without waking up any adults, for they were the worst in our family at sneaking around. Isabella was roused by more giggles as they passed her bedroom, and Philip and Tom said that they were awakened when Delia Ybarra tripped going down the stairs. As often happened, the two boys woke at the same time, and each opened his eyes to the other’s watchful face.

  “What’s happening?” Philip asked.

  “I don’t know. Someone’s going downstairs.”

  They got up, listened at the door, and then went to the window. Their bedroom was at the back of the house, looking over the cliff, and when they peered out they were rewarded by a glimpse of two figures dashing toward the woods. The Delias had had an extended argument about whether or not to bring a flashlight—Delia Robierre voted for one, Delia Ybarra claimed it diminished the thrill of the adventure—but in the end, when Delia Robierre flat-out refused to go unless they brought some form of light, Delia Ybarra agreed to take one. Philip and Tom thus saw a bobbing light accompanying the two figures, and the silhouettes it revealed betrayed their identities.

  “The Delias,” said Tom. “What are they doing running around out there?”

  “They’re probably going to see what Barnavelt does at night,” Philip said. “You know how they are about him, and Condor’s gone. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were going to set him free. It would be the perfect opportunity.”

  “Those crazy kids, they’ll kill that fox.” Tom didn’t care much about Barnavelt, but the idea of freedom was dear to his heart. He leaned against the windowsill and compared himself with Barnavelt. After a moment he turned to Philip and said, “Do you want to head out?”

  “Head out where?” answered Philip, grinning.

  “I don’t know. Let’s go over to Lorelei’s and see if she’s awake.”

  “I don’t think you need me on that particular expedition.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Phil! I know it gives you a kick to think of me as some kind of rutting savage, but I’m not always running over there to sleep with her, all right? I just want to get out of this godforsaken place and do something exciting. Can we go? I know Lorelei would be glad to see us. And I want to see her.”

  He muttered this last phrase in a lower tone, but I heard the speech preceding it because it was his exasperated exclamation that woke me up. His voice drifted out of their open window and in through mine, and with my fine-tuned ability to sense cousinly intrigue, I sat up in bed and listened for clues about their plan. That was how I entered the night’s activities.

  Isabella, as it turned out, had also gone to her window and seen the Delias running for the woods, and when Philip and Tom shrugged on sweaters and came out into the hallway, she heard them and opened her door.

  “Where are you going?” she whispered, smiling in anticipation.

  Philip was leading the way. He looked at her as if deciding something and then said, “Oh, nowhere special.”

  “Can I come?” she asked.

  “Not this time.”

  Tom added as they went down the stairs, “It would be too dangerous with more than two. Sorry, Bella.”

  “Dangerous?” she repeated scornfully, but they were already gone.

  When I came into the hallway, clad in my red-striped pajamas and green bathrobe, I found her standing stiff as a board, with her arms crossed and her face distorted in a grimace. That was how she looked when she got angry.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “Nothing unusual. Tom and Philip are being bastards,” she replied. Isabella rarely swore, so I knew she was upset.

  “Are you going to follow them?” I asked.

  “Why should I?” she said, shrugging. Then she added, “I do want to make sure the Delias are all right, though.”

  “Why? Where are they?”

  “Didn’t you hear them leaving? They’ve run off to the woods.”

  “Why
?”

  “I don’t know. Should we go after them?” She smiled at me, and inwardly I leapt with delight. Isabella and me, going on a private midnight adventure into the depths of the woods! My heart began to pound.

  “Is anyone else awake?” I asked, anxious that no one should interfere.

  “I don’t think so,” she said as she disappeared into her bedroom to don outdoor clothes. “Put on a sweater, Richard. It might be chilly outside.”

  Isabella and I left the house thinking everyone else was asleep. Pamela, however, had been keeping careful track of the exodus from the third floor, and soon after we had gone out the front door, she followed, leaving Yvette in bed—the only cousin, as it turned out, who slept through all the commotion that followed. Pamela told me the next day that she had gone to keep an eye on me, but I think she liked the idea of being all by herself in the woods at night, following two people who didn’t know she was there. It was a night game more suspenseful than any of the games we had played before.

  The air outside was warm and full of thrumming from hidden insects. The sweater Isabella had told me to wear was unnecessary, and I discarded both it and my bathrobe outside the door. I had put on shoes, knowing we would be going into the woods, but aside from them I was wearing only my striped pajamas. Even my hair stuck up the way it always did after I had been in bed. Isabella was nearly invisible in a dark skirt and long-sleeved jersey—she looked like a cat burglar on the prowl. There was almost no moonlight that night, only a few weak rays from a crescent high in the sky. Isabella turned to me as we trotted across the lawn, and I saw her eyes gleaming. I wondered if she had been crying in her room before we left. She didn’t say anything as we headed for the woods.

  Disaster struck, as far as I was concerned, almost as soon as we passed through the first line of trees. The moonlight was lost under the foliage, and we plunged into a darkness filled with sharp twigs, clinging underbrush, and slimy bugs under our hands on the tree bark.

  “We have to go to Condor’s cottage,” Isabella said. “I’m sure the Delias went to visit Barnavelt.”

  I jumped at the sound of her voice and tried to follow it. She strode ahead, and I ran forward, trying to keep the patch of moving blackness in sight, but I tripped over a branch and fell on my face in a clump of moss. For a few moments all I could do was spit dirt out of my mouth. When I looked up I was alone.

  “Isabella?” I said. “Isabella? Where are you?” I didn’t want to shout. It would have been too terrifying to yell into the darkness and not receive an answer. I stood up, put out both my hands, felt a tree, and held onto it for a while.

  In her defense, Isabella was upset. Under less emotional circumstances, she would never have left me like that, alone in the middle of the woods at night. But she was intent on finding Tom and Philip (in spite of what she had said to me, the two Delias were a mere aside to her), and her sense of urgency propelled her forward. She told me later that when she realized I was no longer by her side, she was struck by a jolt of worry. She looked all around, called my name, and then out of desperation kept going in the same direction as before. There seemed to be nothing else to do.

  At least for her there was an objective in crashing through the woods. I stood motionless, not knowing which way to go or whom to seek out. Gradually, as my eyes adjusted, I began to see the dim bushes and tree trunks all around me. They were indistinct shapes, and some of them were moving in the breeze. It took about two minutes for me to convince myself that the nearest one hid a hulking murderer out for blood. Fear washed through me. Logically it was ridiculous, but logic is unimportant when you’re alone in the dark. Every bush I saw became a crouching psychopath, every tree the shield for a slavering killer. Some people fear wild animals, but I was petrified by the wicked cunning of which only humans are capable. I had read enough comic books and mysteries to be able to imagine the appearance of all the murderers who surrounded me. Each one was dressed in black, and whether he was short or tall, bulky or wiry, each had the same glint of homicidal dementia in his eyes.

  Suddenly, and with great vividness, I remembered Uncle Kurt’s story about walking through the snow-covered woods with his platoon and being surrounded by Germans. I looked around, my heart beating so forcefully that I thought I might be about to die. The woods seemed to be covered in a blanket of snow. I waited for white German faces to burst out from the darkness. The breeze picked up for a moment, and one of the bushes nearby rustled and swayed. It was all I needed. With a squeak of pure panic, I put my arms over my eyes and ran.

  The strip of woods between Shorecliff and the Stephensons’ farm was in fact quite sizable, and though by day the sunlight shining in on either side was enough to show that the trees did not go on forever, in the darkness one could wander for a long time without finding a way out. I probably ran for about ten minutes, though it seemed like hours. I fell several times, hit my head on branches, collided with trees. A few minutes into my galloping retreat I began to cry, and the tears did nothing to clear my vision. I was a wreck. The only reason I stopped moving was that my breath was getting ragged, and I had just run into my fourth maple tree. Leaning against its corrugated bark, I wiped my dirt- and tear-smeared face and looked around. Instantly the gang of spectral murderers encircled me again. I couldn’t escape them. It began to seem as if I would never leave the woods, as if I would be trapped in a hell of leafy killers forever. I was becoming nearly hysterical. Then I turned my head and saw a white face peering at me through the bushes.

  Immediately I thought, “A German!” and screamed like a rabbit being slaughtered. Unlike Hennessey, I recovered my voice only when my fear reached unprecedented heights. I shrieked and shrieked and fell to my knees. Even when hands gripped my shoulders and shook me, it was at least a minute before I stopped. Eventually, however, I couldn’t find any more energy to scream, and I opened my eyes. Simultaneously I heard a voice that I realized had been speaking for some time.

  “It’s okay, Richard, buddy! It’s me—Fisher. It’s just me, boy scout. Stop shouting! You’re all right. It’s just me. It’s Fisher.”

  Gentle, kindly, lovable Fisher out in the woods, searching for owls. The relief was so strong I practically fainted. The murderers vanished. I knelt on the ground, unspeakably grateful for Fisher’s hands on my shoulders, and wiped my eyes, snuffling. Something glinted by my knees, and I reached down and found my telescope. Fisher had dropped it while trying to comfort me.

  “It’s not much use in the dark,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “But I like to have it with me just in case.”

  I murmured an unintelligible response and clasped the telescope in my fist. The feel of its cool metal casing reassured me.

  Fisher let me recover for a moment longer and then asked, “What are you doing out here, boy scout?”

  “Everyone’s out here,” I replied. “I came with Isabella. We were following Tom and Philip. They went out to visit Lorelei. Delia and Delia are out here too—I don’t know why. Isabella thinks they’re going to visit Barnavelt.”

  “The only person I’ve seen is Pamela,” Fisher said.

  “Pamela?” I echoed. Hers was the last name I expected to hear.

  The explanation for her presence came only later in the night, however. First came Barnavelt, for he was the one who began the night’s fiasco.

  While I was racing through the woods in panic, Delia and Delia arrived at Condor’s cottage without mishap. They had visited so frequently that they knew the way better than everyone else, except of course Condor himself and Uncle Eberhardt. Eberhardt, however, was someone they had forgotten about. Cautiously they opened the door—Condor didn’t believe in locks, claiming he owned nothing to steal—and crept into the main room. The bedroom door was closed, and no sound came through it. Barnavelt lay curled in his wooden house, his black nose resting on his bushy red tail.

  Delia Ybarra found the leash hanging on the wall and bent over the wooden house to fasten the end of it around
Barnavelt’s neck.

  “Should we, Eel?” Delia Robierre whispered suddenly.

  “Of course we should! Don’t be stupid. We’ve come all the way out here, and this is our one chance.” Cordelia slid the loop at the end of the leash over Barnavelt’s head.

  He watched her with his black eyes, his snout quivering. When she had finished, he jumped up and ran to the door of the cottage.

  “See?” she crowed, clutching the leash. “He knows what’s happening! What a smart fox you are!” she crooned at him. These comments were probably what woke Great-Uncle Eberhardt.

  Just as the Delias were following Barnavelt outside, the bedroom door crashed on its hinges and Eberhardt appeared in black long johns, his white hair flying. “Get back here, you hooligans!” he shouted. “Thieves! Kidnappers! I’ll have your hide! I’ll whip you until you bleed!”

  Delia and Delia heard every word, and though they laughed about it afterward, at the time they were terrified. They sprinted into the woods with Barnavelt and soon discovered the same thing I had—that running in a pitch-black wood is sure to result in bruises and scrapes. Behind them Eberhardt was crashing nearer.

  “Turn left, Lia!” Delia Ybarra said in a hoarse whisper. The two girls veered, Barnavelt still at their heels, and some minutes later, they stopped to listen. A few indistinct shouts sounded in the distance and one terrifying scream—mine, they discovered later—but no furious old man pursued them.

  “We’ve shaken him off,” Delia Robierre whispered.

  Now that they were out of danger, the girls regained their appreciation of the adventure. It took them no time at all to collapse in a storm of giggles.