"Nope."
"Roddy, there's another secret I have to tell you," she said urgently, seeing Marty strolling along the bank, firing rocks out over the water. "Promise you won't tell?"
"I won't."
"I won't be teaching here no more after tomorrow—there's another teacher coming. A real nice one, too," she quickly added as Roddy's eyes widened in surprise, "but I'd like to hear the end of your story before I go tomorrow—"
"But I don't know it—"
"Go ask the rock," she interrupted. "Seeing how it's my last day teaching, it might tell you the rest of the story."
Jamming his hands into his pockets, Roddy glanced out the window and up over the hills. "It's a long ways in, miss—where the rock is."
"Oh." Clair's eyes dampened as she followed his glance up over the woods. "Oh dear."
"Not that far, though."
"Can you go by yourself?"
"God, yes. I goes in by meself every day in the summertime. Just that I mightn't be back till recess, is all."
"Ohh—that's fine, that's just fine. It's special schoolwork you're doing, so it don't matter how long it takes—and I needs the rest of your story so's I can give you a mark before I leaves. And a red star to stick on your book. And Roddy," she said with a quick grin as he was setting off, "keep your promise about the new teacher and I'll give you two stars."
"I won't tell, miss."
"Not even the rock," she called after him, but he was gone, the door slamming once more, and the sound of his footsteps stomping down over the steps.
The morning crawled. Keeping everyone occupied with copies and readings, she wandered to the window every two minutes, scaling the hills, searching for Roddy's red-topped head. When she had a free moment, she slipped into the back storage room where she had the pup resting in the top drawer of a discarded desk, soothing him with a few drops of milk from the tip of the bottle dropper.
Recess came—and went. And then lunch. No sign of Roddy. Watching everyone leave for the evening, Clair called after Marty to tell Nora Roddy was doing an errand for the teacher, and then she returned to the window with a leaden stomach, searching for the thousandth time the woods covering the hills. He met with a bear, she thought.Oh, Lord, suppose he met with a bear. Or fell down and broke his leg. Or he's lost and becoming more lost as she just sat there, waiting, praying—for a boy to come back from talking to a rock. Ohh, what had she done? And what won't Willamena do with this? And everyone else. But wait—there he was coming down through the woods, leaping and jumping, his hair glinting like a new penny. Onto her feet she was and running outside to greet him, near frightening the youngster out of his wits as she swooped down over the steps, grabbing hold of him in a hug. "I thought you'd gotten lost!" she exclaimed. "Oh dear, I thought you'd gotten lost."
"On that old horse road, miss? Sure, you can't get lost on that; it leads right to the brook and back down on the beach."
"Ooh, thank God you're back," sighed Clair, weak with relief, "thank God."
"Yup, I'm back, miss, but the rock never talked."
"Never?"
"Nope, miss," said Roddy, shaking his head.
"Oh." She stared, speechless. "Did you tell it I—I was leaving?"
"You said not to," said Roddy, smiling, the clear grey of his eyes shining, his ears reddening further. And then he burst out, "Nay, miss, the rock talked—I was only joking. And that's how come it took so long, because I was a long time remembering it."
Her release was painful. "I should strap you," she said. "Come, come, tell me," she cried out, grabbing the boy by the arm and dragging him towards the school.
"But it's not school time!" Roddy protested.
"There's no school tomorrow, remember? And I've got to hear your story to give you your mark—hurry now, and the pup wants to hear it, too."
Roddy's eyes brightened as he lit inside the school door. "What'd you call him?"
She stopped. "I haven't thought of it," she replied, and then, "Henry," she burst out. "His name's Henry."
"Hah," Roddy said, laughing, "he'll like that."
"Who'll like that?"
"The rock, miss. And oh," Roddy exclaimed suddenly, "the rock said if you wants to hear any more of the story after I tells you this one last bit, you got to ask it yourself."
"The rock said that?"
"Yup."
"Where—did he say? Or ... or when?"
"Nope, he never said. Where's Henry?"
"You stand in front of the desk—just like school time," she said, "and I'll get the pup." And letting Roddy nuzzle with it for a minute, she took a seat near the window at the back of the room, holding the pup against the warmth of her throat, and signalled for Roddy to begin.
Shuffling self-consciously with just the teacher as his audience, Roddy dug his hands in his pockets, and began.
"Louder," said Clair.
Clearing his throat, Roddy began again.
"And so, miss, it was like I said before—Henry was just sloused ashore to the other side of the beach across the mouth of the cavern. And he was getting scared because he knowed the way them fellows looked, with their dirty hair and scraggly whiskers, they wouldn't from the Basin, nowhere, but was probably the ones from that foreign fishing boat who stole the youngster off the wharf that time and put him in boiling tar. And he was getting such a fright thinking about it, that his breathing would've stopped if Sammy never come outta the cavern at that minute and stood besides him.
"But then the strangers made a bolt towards him, singing out, 'We're going to get ye'.
"'I'll fight with you, Henry,' Sammy said, but Henry was already jumping back into the water and beating across for the other side.
"'Run, Sammy, run!' he was bawling out, and then he tripped in the kelp and fell, head and eyes in the water. When he come back up, he was choking so hard he could scarcely see, and when he did, he seen Sammy running behind him with the gun hold up so's it wouldn't get wet, and Conner running besides him, screeching out, 'They're coming after us! Run! Run!' And it sounded right weird, it did, with the cavern echoing his words over and over 'Run, Run Run!' And that's what Henry did—started thrashing his way through the water, back to shore. A loud bang went off behind him and when he turned, he seen Sammy falling into the water, and the blood bleeding down his face and Conner screaming like a baby besides him. And then he seen the strange fellows just standing on the other side watching them, and he knowed they wouldn't chase them after all, just playing around. But it was too late to figure that out now, because Conner was hauling Sammy towards the beach and Henry near fainted to see his eye all shot out and the blood pouring down his face. And after he helped Conner haul Sammy up on the beach, he fell onto his knees and started to cry.
"'He's not dead, Henry; he's not dead!' Conner kept saying, and then he saw the ten-cent piece fall out of Sammy's pocket and he picked it up and handed it to Henry. 'Here, you take it, Henry,' he said, 'and perhaps if you goes up the Basin with your mother sometime, you can still buy the orange drinks—you want to buy the orange drinks, Henry?'
"But Henry was shaking his head, still crying and shivering and looking down the shore to where he could see a grey cloud rising over the hills, which he figured was smoke from his mother's chimney. 'It's all right, Conner,' he said. 'I don't want no drinks.' And heisting Sammy onto his shoulder, he started lugging him down the beach towards his mother's house, and where he knowed the fire was always lit on cold days like this."
"CRIPES, YOU'D THINK LUKE WAS TWO YEARS OLD the way Prude was getting on last night," Willamena began the second Clair had entered the door after school. "I swear she gets foolisher. I wouldn't wonder what she's going to be like ten years from now—my, what's wrong? Getting a cold, is you?" she asked as Clair, scarcely looking her way, came in through the porch door and headed straight across the kitchen, head down, sniffling a little. Mumbling something about a bad head, Clair let herself into her room, closing the door.
"Poor little thing,"
she murmured, pulling the pup, still shivering and whimpering out of her pocket and laying it on her pillow. With the wind blowing a gale, the youngsters were mostly crowded around the patch this evening, adding their charm to that of the scatter piece of clothing flapping on the lines, and the clucking of Aunt Char's hens. Nate stopped to invite her over for tea, but Willamena was quick to meet him at the door, explaining Clair's bad head, but how she'd make sure and tell her of the invite the second she got up.
"And be sure to tell her that Nora and Beth's been down Lower Head all day sitting with the old midwife," he added.
"That I will," said Willamena.
"And that they're not expecting her to make it through the night, but however it goes, Nory's planning to have tea at the school tomorrow, after the vote—so's they can celebrate her staying on as teacher."
"That's a fine idea," said Willamena. "I'll be sure to tell her, soon as she wakes up."
Clair pulled back from her window as Nate traipsed across the patch, calling out warnings to one of the youngsters poking a stick at a cornered hen. And when he'd gone inside, she pulled her suitcase near the window and sat, watching outside as she coaxed the pup into drinking some milk from the bottle dropper. It was growing dark when he at last swung down the path from the woods. The last of the youngsters had been called in for the evening, and taking a quick look around the patch, his glance dallying around her window, he went inside his house. Clair began to rock, stroking the pup more quickly. The clack-clack-clack of the telegraph sounded through the house, as did Willamena's footsteps as she hurried across the kitchen. Her French door squeaked open the same instant as Prude's door swung open and Luke stepped back outside, a fall jacket tossed over his shoulders and his accordion hooked off his thumb by a leather strap. He sat down on the stoop, settling the instrument onto his knee, fiddling with the keys. Clair kept rocking. The French door creaked again and Willamena's footsteps drew nearer.
"Clair. Clair, you got a telegram. Clair?" she called out again, tapping on the door when Clair didn't answer. "My, I thought you was sleeping," she said, her eyes widening questioningly as she nudged open the door, peering in at Clair perched on the edge of her suitcase, staring out her window, her scarf rolled into a ball and held to her throat. "Still got a bad head?"
"I's fine. Who's it from?"
"Maid, it's from Sim. Your grandmother's getting worse. He wants you home tomorrow."
Clair nodded.
"You want a cup of tea?" asked Willamena, lingering.
"No—thank you."
"You want I should go get Nate? Perhaps he might take you up tonight."
"No. Don't do that."
"Well, then," said Willamena, and with nothing else forthcoming from Clair, she withdrew, quietly closing the door. A fleeting melody danced from his fingers outside, then deepened into a long drone that throbbed as though it wore the pressure of the finger plying the key. Clair rose, lifting her coat off the bed.
"Change your mind, did you?" asked Willamena as Clair came out of her room, the drone ripening into a more tender pulse behind her. "Sure, I can go get Nate if you wants."
Clair didn't answer. And ignoring Willamena's eyes burrowing after her, and ignoring the trembling in her knees and the pounding of her heart, she walked across the kitchen and out into the porch, her lips twitching spasmodically, her breathing erratic, and the hollow of her throat quivering at the rate of a hummingbird's. Reaching for the doorknob, she quietly opened the door and stepped out in the cold, salty night, raising her eyes to those of the fair-haired young man rising to greet her.
Book Two
Hannah
Chapter Ten
HANNAH SQUATTED BESIDES HER AUNT MISSY, helping her root up the newly budding sweet williams and replace them with the bluebells they'd dug up from the bottom of the yard. "Go, spread them around the fairy ring," said Missy, brushing the sweet williams to one side. "Hurry now, I'm getting too hot."
"It's not hot," chided Hannah, scooping up the flowers.
"Go, get," said the aunt, dropping a kiss onto her niece's nose.
Clutching the flowers to her chest, Hannah ran with them across the yard to a circle of beaten-down grass, and began dropping the pink-and-purple buds around its outer ring. All done, she snatched a seeding dandelion from its stem, blew its fluff into the air and began skipping around the circle, chanting, "Fairies, fairies, one, two, three; fairies, fairies, come to we; banshees, banshees go to hell; little girl sleeps in her little bluebell."
Her aunt turned to her, and the laughter that usually rippled from her throat like a chorus of morning chickadees was subdued this afternoon and, in fact, had been for some weeks now—perhaps even months.
"Come, Aunt Missy, let's go to the thicket," called Hannah, leaping out of the ring, disliking this new quietude.
Missy shook her head, rising, her face flushed with heat. "Your mother'll be here soon," she said, pushing her fingers through her mat of curls and fastening them behind her ears. "Let's get you cleaned up."
"We're going to ask if I can stay, right?" said Hannah, scooting back across the yard.
"We'll ask," said Missy.
"We'll make her let me, won't we?" said Hannah.
After they had washed and fed on raspberry syrup and crackers, Hannah trailed to the door, pleading, "Now, can we go to the thicket?"
"Lord, Hannie, I can't keep up with you these days," said Missy, yawning and settling herself on the divan, her hair puffing up like her cushion beneath her head as she lay back. "Come, lie down with me. Come on," she coaxed as Hannah groaned, dragging her step towards her. "I'll tell you a story."
"A fairy story!" exclaimed Hannah. She hopped onto the divan besides her aunt.
"An old-man story," said Missy. She shifted to one side, cuddling her niece besides her. "He was ugly, very ugly, and he drank some squaw-root tea so's he could see the fairies. At first, the fairies didn't mind that he could see them because he left them alone. But one day, he got greedy and thought he could catch one and sell him for a lot of money. So one night he set a trap in the woods. And the next morning when he went to check his trap—guess what?"
"What?"
"A hundred fairies jumped on him."
"Ooh, what did they do?"
"They stole his eyes."
"They blinded him?"
"Now every day the fairies leaves him bread and butter—fairy butter—so's he won't starve to death. And he won't ever leave them because he waits and waits and waits for them to give back his eyes."
"We won't try to catch one, will we?"
"Noo, never. But tonight's a full moon," said Missy, her eyes bluer than the sea as they poured into Hannah's, "and if Clair lets you stay, we'll scrape some fairy butter and leave it wrapped in a handkerchief besides the huckleberry bushes. If the fairies likes the butter, they'll spread the hanky over a spider's web, and by morning, the dew will have marked in silvery letters the day we're going to die."
"Ooh—" A shuffling sounded at the door, and Hannah sprang up on her elbow. "What's that—it's Uncle Sim," she then shouted, and leapt to her feet, running to greet the uncle as he pushed his way in through the door, his grizzled face partially shadowed by the peak of his cap, and his thin frame hunching forward as he ambled past her towards the bin, reminding Hannah of the old mule her father once told her about, forever needing a mulberry bush to woo him forward.
"She's not come yet?" he asked, his tone more gnarled than the knotted fingers holding a skipper of trout.
"Nope," said Hannah, prancing around to the other side of him, poking her fingers at the frozen fish eyes, "and when she does, Aunt Missy's going to ask if I can stay the night, aren't we, Aunt Missy?"
"Grumpy," chided Missy as the uncle more snorted than sniffed, laying his trout into the dishpan. "You want tea?" she asked, rising, stifling a yawn, but it was Clair's voice that answered—calling out Hannah's name from the front of the house.
"Mommy!" said Hannah. "Come on, Aunt Missy, let
's go ask," but her aunt had sunk back down at the sound of Clair's voice.
"Hannah! Missy!" called Clair, and Hannah darted to the door. "Coming, Mommy," she called out. "Aunt Missy, you coming?"
"Go, go," said her aunt impatiently, waving her outside.
"Mommy! Mommy, can I stay the night," sang out Hannah, bursting onto the step. "Aunt Missy said I could and I really wants too. Mommy—?" Her voice faded. Her mother was leaving the roadside, where she always stood whenever she came to collect her, and was now coming down through the gate, her eyes on the uprooted flower bed as if refusing the sight of the bluebells standing there, so preserved in memory were the pink-and-purple sweet williams they had replaced.
"He did this, didn't he?" she declared, as Missy appeared in the doorway besides Hannah.
Hannah inwardly groaned. There was always a tinge of anger riding her mother whenever she came collecting her, reserved for the uncle, no doubt, for stealing her father's house after he died, and putting her mother out to work—leastways that's what Lynn, Uncle Frankie's girl and only two weeks older than she, always told her. And not wanting this anger to spill over onto her aunt before getting consent for the evening's sleepover, Hannah hopped off the stoop. "No, Mommy—we did it—we made a fairy ring," she sang out, skipping towards the trodden-down circle of grass, decorated with the wilting pink-and-purple buds. "Come see, Mommy—now the fairies can sleep right here in the bluebells and we can hear them if they rings." She trailed to a stop, turning back. Her mother was clutching on to the gatepost, gazing at her aunt, who was standing quietly in the doorway, looking as petulant as she, Hannah, when caught in the bigness of a wrong committed with full knowing. But her mother was seeing nothing of her aunt's look. She could tell by the discomfited look in her eyes that her mother had gone to that place again, the one her father told her about once, as she'd sat on the spindle, pouting that her mother had yelled and was mad at her again.
"No, lovie, she's not mad; she's not even here," he'd said, easing his foot on the treadle and pressing the blade of his axe on the mounted grindstone. "Remember I showed you once the big burst of sparks from where Chouse crashes into the sea? Well, them's little fishies making them sparks, and that's where your mother is right now, thrashing with the fishies amidst the waters of Chouse. And best to leave her alone, lovie, when you finds her thrashing the waters of Chouse."
Downhill Chance Page 22
