by Janet Lunn
“It’s the 16th of August in 1865, and the war’s been done since April and poor Mr. Lincoln shot dead in the theater and cold in his grave by now, and they still haven’t caught that crazy Mr. Booth who done it. If you come from New York like you said, how come you don’t know that? How come you.…” Susan stopped. She studied Rose intently. “There’s something queer about you,” she said, then added quickly, “I don’t mean nothing by that. I don’t think you’re looney or nothing. It’s just there’s things I can’t figure out about you. You come here three years back. You said you was running away and you wanted to stay here so bad. Then, quick’s a flick of a cow’s tail, you was gone. Will went in the house for no more than three minutes, and when he come out you was gone and we ain’t set eyes on you from that moment to this. And here you are as though it was yesterday you come, and you ain’t changed. Not growed, nor changed. Not a hair of you. You even got the same clothes on. It gives me the jitters.”
“I know,” said Rose remembering the day Mrs. Morrissay came through her bedroom wall. “I don’t understand it either, but I did tell you, Susan, I did. I told you and Will when we were having our picnic over in the apple trees, but you didn’t believe me. I do come from New York, only I come from New York more than a hundred years from now. You have to believe me because it’s true. It’s three years ago for you, but for me it’s only three weeks. I haven’t grown any because I’m only three weeks older.
“I didn’t mean to disappear that day. I ran down into the cellar because I was scared, and then I got stuck and it took me all this time to figure out how to get back. It was because of the shadow—don’t, Susan, don’t!” she begged, because Susan was backing away, her eyes wide with fright. “I’m real. Really, I’m real. Stop looking at me like that! It’s just this thing with the root cellar!”
“What thing?” asked Susan, keeping a good distance between herself and Rose.
Rose set her bag down. She looked at the open doors of the root cellar and said slowly, “Well, it’s … it’s … I think it’s because of Mrs. Morrissay. I don’t mean Will’s mother, it’s another Mrs. Morrissay. She started it, but I’m not sure she knew she was doing it. Anyway, she showed up the day I came to live in this house, and she stayed until I found the root cellar. I told you about that. Then, after we had our picnic, Will’s mother scared me and I ran back down into the cellar. When I went back up the stairs I was in Aunt Nan’s time. I tried and tried to come back, but I only found out today how to do it. There’s a little hawthorn tree—it’s like that one over on the other side of the creek—and when the shadow from that tree falls exactly between the two doors that lead to the root cellar, I can open the doors, go into the cellar, and come up in your time. Do you understand now?”
“How old are you, Rose?”
“I’m twelve.”
“You said you was twelve when you came here before.”
“I was. I keep telling you, Susan, it was only three weeks ago for me. I wish it wasn’t because now you’re three years older and Will isn’t here!” She looked accusingly at Susan. In her frustration she felt that it was somehow Susan’s fault. “Anyway,” she said impatiently, “what we have to do now is find Will.”
Susan sat down on the ground, put her head in her hands, and burst into tears. Rose had never been with anyone crying before. She felt embarrassed and awkward. After a long, fidgety moment she put out her hand and touched the top of Susan’s bowed head. Susan jumped back in fright.
“You might be a ghost,” she whispered, and suddenly it all struck Rose as funny. Mrs. Morrissay, herself, Will, the whole Henry family, maybe they were all ghosts. She began to laugh, loud bellowing laughs such as she had never laughed before in her life. She laughed so hard she had to sit down, shaking with laughter.
“Do I look like a ghost? Or feel like a ghost? Susan, I’m not a ghost.”
“You don’t and that’s a fact,” said Susan. She dried her eyes on her apron and smiled her wide, warm smile. “No, you ain’t a day older nor a hair changed from what you was three years ago, and if you can get along with the queerness of it then I suppose so can I.”
Then Rose told Susan again how she had found the root cellar. Together they marveled over the strangeness of it, and Rose told her how she felt that this world was where she really belonged. Then she said confidently, “I know Will’s alive somewhere. We have to find out where so we can bring him home.”
“We can’t do that,” said Susan. “We wouldn’t know where t’start. It was an awful big war, and them things can’t be as easy to sort out as eggs or apples.”
Rose jumped to her feet. “Yes, they can!” she cried. “Yes, they can. They can be if all you have to do is look in history books for them. Back at Aunt Nan’s or in the library in Soames or somewhere there must be a lot of books that tell about the Civil War.”
“But, Rose, them books, even if you can find ’em, ain’t going to say what happened to William Morrissay from the Hawthorn Bay, Canada West.”
“No, I guess not.” Rose felt deflated. Then she brightened. “Maybe old Tom Bother knows. He says his family’s always lived here.”
“Bothers lives up the road.”
“And they do on Aunt Nan’s road. At least, one does, and I can ask him, and maybe there are other people who might know. I’ll go and find out. I’ll come back tomorrow night.” Rose stopped short. “Susan, what if I come tomorrow night and another three years have gone or maybe even more? How can we make it be the same time for you as it is for me?”
“I don’t know,” said Susan unhappily. “I don’t know, unless mebbe if we … no, I guess there ain’t a sure way to do it.”
“What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say there’s them believes if you give a promise and a keepsake, then you always come back when you say. But Will left me a keepsake and I give him one and he ain’t come back.”
“Did you say when though? I heard you doing that because I was behind the tree, and I don’t remember that you said when.”
“No, that’s so, I didn’t.”
“So we can try it. I could leave you my suitcase.”
Susan was doubtful. “That ain’t really a keepsake. A keepsake’s got to be something you care a good deal about. It’s like leaving a bit of yourself for the promise.”
“Here.” Rose reached up and undid the chain around her neck. “You gave Will your locket. So you have mine. It’s a rose for me.”
Susan took the silver rose and held it in the palm of her hand. “Ain’t it pretty,” she said softly.
“It came from someone a long time ago. My father gave it to my mother when they got married and my mother gave it to me when I was born. My grandmother told me. It’s what I care most about in all the world, so if I leave it with you then it has to mean I’ll come back when I say. Here, I’ll put it on you.”
Carefully Rose clasped the chain around Susan’s neck. Susan said, “Wait here,” and ran into the house. In less than two minutes she was back. “Here. You take Will’s song he left me. It was what he wrote after the day we was all together in the orchard. It’s my keepsake from him, and it’s what I care most about in all the world. This way you got a keepsake from both of us.”
The scrap of paper had been carefully folded and wrapped in a bit of flowered cloth. Rose put it in the deep pocket of her jeans. She started toward the steps. She turned back and solemnly shook Susan’s hand. “There, that seals it. When I come back the same amount of time will have passed for both of us. Goodbye.” She ran down the steps, this time without looking back.
Stowaway
When Rose came into the kitchen Aunt Nan was getting supper and chattering away about the story she was writing. Uncle Bob was sitting on the high stool beside the stove, drinking coffee and listening.
“I want to know about the Civil War,” said Rose, not looking directly at either of them. She felt like a cheat. It suddenly didn’t seem fair to be accepting their hospitality. She fel
t as though she ought to tell them where she was going, but she couldn’t.
“The Civil War?” asked Aunt Nan. “Do you mean the Spanish Civil War or the English Civil War or the American Civil War?”
“The American. Abraham Lincoln’s war.”
“Are you doing a project, dear? I guess you could start with the encyclopedias. They’re on the bottom shelf of the bookcase in my writing room.”
Rose went at once to find the books.
“Funny girl,” she heard Aunt Nan say, but this time she did not mind. She pulled volume after volume off the shelf until she found what she was looking for. She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the bookshelf and read.
“The American Civil War, also called the War Between the States, the War of the Rebellion, and the War for Southern Independence, was a war between the eleven states of the south and the states and territories of the north. The causes of the war were many and complicated but, although emotions ran high on both sides on the issue of slavery, the basic cause was economic. The issue was the right of states to their own government. Abraham Lincoln was elected president in 1860 as an advocate of strong central government.… The south could not accept Lincoln. The war began when seven states in the south seceded from the Union and fired on the federal Fort Sumter in Charleston, South Carolina, on April 12, 1861. Soon afterward the other five southern states seceded and formed the Confederate States of America under the presidency of Jefferson Davis. Its capital was at Richmond, Virginia.… Slavery was outlawed when Lincoln issued his emancipation proclamation in 1862. This further inflamed the south.…
“The war ended on April 9, 1865, when Robert E. Lee, general of the Army of the Confederacy, surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant, general of the U.S. army, at Appomattox, Virginia.”
The encyclopedia went on to say that the war was a bitter one. Robert E. Lee, a descendant of George Washington’s wife, had been a graduate of West Point Military Academy and had freed all his slaves, but he had loved his home state of Virginia too much to fight against it. Rose remembered again her grandmother’s stories of her great-great-grandfather.
The encyclopedia had pages of descriptions of battles and pictures of generals from both sides.
It’s interesting, thought Rose, but Susan is right. It isn’t going to say a single word about Will.
That afternoon she got off the bus at Old Tom Bother’s. She found him out behind his house, wrapping a piece of tin around a young birch tree.
“Just making sure the rabbits won’t get at it in the winter,” he told her. “I like the rabbits. I always throw out bread for ’em, but I don’t like them chewing on my trees. Come along inside.” Rose liked Old Tom. He said “mebbe” the way Will and Susan did and talked in their same easy, twangy way.
Settled comfortably on the kitchen couch, Rose asked him: “Can you tell me things about the people in Collivers’ Corners and Soames in the Civil War?”
“The Civil War? The War of the Rebellion in the States, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see now. I remember my old dad used to say we sold a lot of wheat in that war. Collivers and Soames and even my old grandpa made good money selling wheat to the Union army. It went by schooner across the lake. There was busy shipping in those days. There was always schooners in and out of here. There was wharves all along the Hawthorn Bay. All the big farms shipped wheat and barley, and anything else they could sell, over to Rochester and Oswego. Boys around here used to earn their money shipping out for a day or week or sometimes a lifetime. And sometimes they was known to stow away when they couldn’t get a berth and then go off and find themselves work in the States. My old dad was a great hand to go off on the schooners. I never did. It wasn’t so popular when I was a boy. Wasn’t quite the trade no more neither. Barley was finished. Wheat wasn’t so big. The railroad come through in ’78 and there wasn’t much call for shipping. It’s all gone now. There’s nothing on the lake but yachts and a bit of fishing. But, you know, this whole island was built on shipping.”
“What about the people around here? Didn’t some of them go and fight in the Civil War?”
“Yes, they did. I remember Dad saying there was a Whittier boy from here got killed.”
“Didn’t … didn’t one of the Morrissays go?”
“Mebbe so. I don’t know much about that war, except that we sold a lot of wheat. Canada had no part in the war, though of course around here many people had relatives across the lake in New York. What made you think of Morrissays?”
“Well, you said they used to live in our house—I mean, in the Henrys’ house.”
“Oh did I? Well, of course there always was Morrissays in that house right from the start. When I was a boy there was just the old lady, but she had a young relative from Winnipeg every summer. Name was George Anderson. He used to come every year and we had grand times together when we was boys. The old lady was good to us. I still remember how particular she was about that house. Loved it. It’s a shame what happened to it after she died. Nobody lived there more than two, three years, excepting the raccoons. I hope you folks plan to stay. Be good to see it put back in shape.”
Rose said nothing. She wished he wouldn’t talk so about “putting the old house back in shape.” It made her feel slightly guilty. She got up to leave. She was beginning to feel discouraged about finding out where Will had gone. There was only one place left where she could think to search.
“Where’s Oswego?” she asked.
“Why, it’s just across the lake. About sixty miles as the crow flies.”
“How do you get there?”
Old Tom scratched his head. “Well, back when I was a boy, we went by schooner as I told you, but nowadays I expect you have to go all the way around the lake in a car, or mebbe there’s a bus. But now I think of it, if you’re bent on getting to Oswego I believe your Uncle Bob’s going there this weekend.”
“This weekend?”
“I believe so.”
“Then I’m going with him. Goodbye, Old Tom. Thanks for the tea and everything.” She grabbed her jacket and hurried out the door and up the road.
Uncle Bob had just come in when she got there.
“When are you going to Oswego?” she demanded.
He blinked and drew back in surprise.
“When are you going to Oswego?” she asked again.
“Well, Rose, as a matter of fact I’m going there this weekend. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.” George came across the room, slapped the huge pile of toast he was carrying onto the table, and wagged his finger at her. “No, you’re not. Sam’s going and I’m going. Mother’s not coming and the twins aren’t coming and you’re not coming.”
“Afraid so, Rose,” said Uncle Bob. “I promised the boys. I’ve been invited to a Canadian-American environmental conference that’s being held in Oswego on Friday and I’ve promised to take the big boys. An outing for the three of us. We’re leaving early tomorrow morning. You must have heard us talking about it?”
Rose hadn’t. She had been so engrossed in the strange events of her own life that she had missed everything going on in the Henry household.
“Please, I won’t be any trouble,” she said. Rose had never pleaded for anything in her life before, but she pleaded now. While George shouted, “No! You can’t, you can’t!” and danced up and down around her, she pleaded earnestly and steadily with Uncle Bob to let her go. She might have won if Aunt Nan had not come bursting out of her writing room looking mussed and cross.
“My Lord, what’s all this commotion?” she cried.
“She says she’s going on our trip,” said George indignantly.
“Is Rose going to Oswego with Daddy and Sam and George?” The twins had come into the room behind their mother and were edging their way around her. “Are you, Rose, are you?” they asked anxiously.
“No,” said Aunt Nan, “of course not. Rose, this
is Sam’s and George’s trip. One of these days we’ll have a trip, though I would have thought you’d had enough travel to last a lifetime. Now will you stop all this racket? Who can work with this noise going on? Rose, why don’t you set the table, and I’ll be out in a few minutes and start supper.”
Rose set to work without a murmur. She had made up her mind that she was going to Oswego. Even while she was pleading with Uncle Bob to take her, she had remembered Old Tom Bother saying, “Sometimes they was known to stow away when they couldn’t get a berth,” and she had decided that she was going to stow away in the station wagon.
The next morning, before the sun was up, her running shoes in her hand, she crept downstairs and out into the front yard.
Dew was heavy on the ground. It was a still morning filled with unexpected November warmth. A flock of geese rose from Heaton’s cornfield and, honking and squawking, formed into their V-shaped flight. They passed high over the house, their loud calls and the noisy beating of their wings breaking sharply into the silence. Rose gasped in startled delight and craned her neck to watch. She had a sudden longing to share them with Will. I suppose he’s seen them lots of times, she thought.
A noise from inside the house sent her scuttling behind the big lilac bush.
In a minute or so the twins appeared like two heralds, followed soon after by the rest of the family sleepily lugging raincoats, blankets, suitcases, a huge picnic basket, and Uncle Bob’s briefcase. They packed it all into the station wagon, unpacked it when Sam pointed out that they had put everything on top of the lunch, and packed it again. “I wish we could go,” said the twins wistfully and Rose heard Sam saying, as they trooped back to the house for breakfast, “I’ll put you in my suitcase with my harmonica.”
In an instant Rose had crawled into the back of the station wagon under the raincoats and blankets beside the lunch. It seemed like hours of cramped waiting before the others came out of the house again, hours more before they were actually ready to leave. Aunt Nan had one more last question, one more last warning about the road. Then she suggested, just as Uncle Bob put his foot on the gas pedal, that they really shouldn’t leave without saying good-bye to Rose. “Poor kid, she’s probably lonely. Maybe you could have.…”
