Orphans of Stone: HomeComing: A Curious Middle Grade Fantasy

by Rae Craig

  She turned on her side and tugged the quilt up over her shoulder.

  Chapter Two

  Ella

  Harriet woke to morning light. She flung on clothes and tried to brush her hair plain and ordinary, but the blond and brown streaks fell into the usual loose waves. Her reflection in the crackled mirror stared back at her- way too sweet except for those coffee colored eyes glaring out of the brown face. She bundled her hair into a messy ponytail, snapped on a rubber band, and planned to ignore the mirror from now on, but as she tossed the star quilt up over the messy sheets, she caught her reflection. With her hair pulled back and her glasses on, she saw the essence of her brother.

  Yank! Out came the rubber band with several attached hairs. Extra hard brushing just made her hair stand out with static instead of being plain. And, she could not take the glasses off, because although her sight had slowly improved after the concussion, no one knew how good it would eventually get. Her plan to wear red glasses because they were nothing like her brother’s metal rims had not worked out too well just now.

  The spicy smell of hot cinnamon rolls drew her down to the kitchen.

  Mom waved her toward the counter. “It’s Market day tomorrow, so we’ll stock up on fresh food, but for today there’s Grandma’s cinnamon rolls.”

  Vanilla milk steamed on the stove. Family rules said Harriet was not old enough yet for coffee mixed into it, but the milk tasted good on its own. She slathered soft butter on her roll, blocking that activity with her body so Mom would not notice her heavy butter usage.

  She jumped self-consciously when Dad said. “Harriet, go to Grandma’s after breakfast. She has a project for you.” Then he and Mom were out the door.

  She poured the last of the coffee from her parent’s mugs into an Empire Everything mug and topped it off with steaming milk. That hint of coffee made her feel grown up and immediately dunking the used cups into soapy water was her brother’s trick to hide coffee rule violations.

  On the way back up the stairs after breakfast, there were no tingling arms or flickering lights.

  Cool unused air whispered against her skin from the doorway of the empty third bedroom. The bed that should have been Clarence’s stood next to a window open to the back yard. Yellow yarn tufted the perfectly arranged quilt- smooth, with an exactly placed white pillow, looking nothing like her required bed-making in the next room. The wrongness of the bed drew her in. Although alone in the house, she tiptoed in and carefully lay back with her arms tight against her sides. Above her, concentric rings embossed into the white plaster ceiling calmed her like wind-waves blowing through a field of grass.

  The room tolerated her, but did not invite her to stay. Harriet examined her handy-work from the doorway. Now someone had obviously used the bed, leaving hollows and wrinkles on the pillow and quilt. The room still broke her heart, but was no longer wrong.

  She thought about the farm as she walked to the shophouse. Grandma had owned the farm her whole life and Great-Grandma Morak before that. Harriet did not know these new owners, but Grandma said they came from Shi-octon originally. If Harriet visited the farm now, it would not be her family’s anymore.

  On the other side of Center Road ‘Jameson’s Antiques” was stenciled across the windows on the front of Dad’s store. The white building stood a full two stories high, with a rising slope in back that led to hay-loft like doors on the second floor. The shophouse attached on the left was shorter, with two squinty upper windows tucked between the porch below and the roof above. It reminded Harriet of a face: the windows as the crinkled eyes and the porch as the wide smiling mouth.

  A hand-pulled wagon filled with packages was parked on the sidewalk in front of the store. Harriet went over to investigate, but stumbled back in surprise when a pale, blond girl burst out of the store.

  The girl sneered and stuck out her chin. “Move yourself, outcast. I have important deliveries to make.” She laughed down at Harriet as if she was a shriveled-up sidewalk worm and jerked her wagon up the road.

  Loud voices drew Harriet’s attention to the far side of the shophouse. Grandma stood close to the road arguing with a wild haired old woman sitting in a ramshackle truck. Grandma calmly leaned into the open cab. “Hush now, Theo. I hear you. You have to trust us with this.”

  Harriet could not understand the woman’s reply, just the bark-like intensity. She hung back, but Grandma motioned her closer.

  “Harriet, meet Theo Laird.” Grandma stood aside so Harriet could see into the truck.

  The woman shielded narrowed eyes with her hand, as if Harriet was painful to behold. Harriet had practiced polite conversation with her brother. “I’m pleased to meet you Mrs. Laird. We just moved into Shi-octon. My dad, Donnell Jameson, has this antique store and my mom, Jenny Jameson, makes twig furniture.”

  “Oh! I know exactly who and what you are! That’s the problem.” Theo Laird glared at Grandma. “Helen! What are we going to do with her?” Mrs. Laird jerked her fingers through her rough grey hair and locked her intense eyes with Harriet’s. “Don’t call me Mrs. Laird; my name is Theo.” She stomped on the gas making them jump back from the truck and as if on cue, two huge black dogs stood up in the truck bed, howling down the road with their noses pointed to the sky.

  Grandma shook her head. “Don’t let Theo Laird bother you, she has good intentions.” With that not very helpful advice Harriet followed Grandma into the shophouse.

  Inside, Morgan had tucked himself into a mushroom shape, soaking up a patch of sunshine. He had adjusted from barn cat to house cat, although Grandma said he presented a dead mouse at her feet every day. Harriet envied his simple life, especially because he lived with Grandma.

  Grandma picked up her kitchen towel from the chair in the living room. “We’d better get started.”

  Harriet breathed out a sigh and relaxed.

  In the kitchen, huge, red striped apples filled a basin on the table. At harvest time on the farm Grandma had extended that table using four extra leaves, feeding many hungry workers, but here the table fit perfectly at its smallest. Familiar furniture and kitchen tools from the farm made Harriet feel at home.

  A dark tan girl sat at the far end of the table, glossy black hair cut just below her ears balanced by razor straight bangs. Vague familiarity whispered across Harriet’s memory as the girl lowered her chin and smiled up through her bangs with startling crystal blue eyes.

  Grandma rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Harriet, this is Ella. She’s Hermando and Nori Matta’s daughter. They have the farm now.”

  Harriet’s gaze shifted from Grandma to the girl and back again, questioning the situation. Ella was settled into the chair, so hers was not a quick visit. Harriet pulled out a chair and sat down hard in frustration; she had wanted time with Grandma by herself.

  Grandma said, “I volunteered us to make pies for Market tomorrow. First thing is peeling these apples.”

  Ella used both hands to lift an apple. “Aunt Helen, how do apples get this big?”

  Harriet remembered those apples when they hung in the farm orchard, branches heavy with fruit propped up by wooden poles. Grandpa Hoier had spent hours tending those trees.

  Grandma smiled and turned to roll out a pie crust on the countertop. “Those are the last of our river apples.” She glanced back at Harriet. “Your grandpa babied those trees. He sat in the orchard on spring evenings beating his drum. He said it helped the sap flow.”

  She lifted the pastry into a pie pan. “Harriet, show Ella how to peel them.”

  Harriet picked up a worn but sharp knife. When she had first used a knife, she had been afraid of the blade, but confidence had come with practice. A long, striped peel curled onto the table.

  The blue-eyed girl watched with single minded intensity. “Will these huge apples only fit into an extra large pie? Does the peel have to be in one long strip?”

  Harriet was caught by the innocence of the questions. She grinned and said. “The bigger the apple, the bigger t
he pie. Can you peel with a knife?”

  The girl looked at her. “I can use a potato peeler. Will that work?”

  Without turning Grandma said. “Now Harriet, show Ella how to use the knife. I lost my peeler during the move.”

  Harriet placed a knife into Ella’s hand, stressing the importance of a long continuous peel. As they finished each apple, Grandma sliced it into a pastry lined pan.

  Harriet said. “Grandpa Hoier always said: Peel the apple, not your finger.”

  Ella smiled up through her bangs. Her open, trusting face forced Harriet to act with more kindness and less teasing. She explained, “Grandpa was a champion apple peeler, even though he had only one arm. He said an unbroken peel brought good luck. We had peeling contests and he won every time, but he was always so pleased with himself that we didn’t mind”

  When they had peeled all the apples, Grandma set the filled pies on the table. “Now sprinkle a teaspoon of cinnamon and two teaspoons of tapioca over each pie.” As they finished, she added chunks of butter, then arranged pastry over the top.

  She gave them forks. “Go around the edges, pressing down with the forks. It will seal the juice between the top and bottom crust.”

  At first they pushed down in straight lines, like spokes on a wheel, but soon turned the forks in different directions, creating interesting patterns. Grandma dusted sugar and cinnamon over the tops, cut leaf-shaped vent holes in the centers, and slid the pies into the oven.

  She waved them out the back door. “Now run outside. Throw the peels in the compost pile and go get Jenny for lunch.”

  As they closed the garden gate behind them, hammering came from the open loft doors of Dad’s store. They started toward the mill.

  Ella said, “Will your dad be ready for Market tomorrow?”

  “He’s been shipping stuff here for weeks. There was plenty of room to store antiques in the barn after Grandma sold the cows.”

  Ella laughed, “Dad says Aunt Helen whitewashed the milking parlor so beautifully that the new cows think they’re in a resort and expect massages and grass smoothies.”

  “It’s strange to hear you call her Aunt Helen. To me she’s Grandma Hoier.”

  “I’m named for her, except Ella sounds different because it doesn’t have the H. I haven’t seen her since I was little, but there’s been lots of letters back and forth.”

  “How are you related? All I know is that it’s through Grandpa Hoier.”

  “My Grandma Matta is Uncle Clarence’s sister.”

  Harriet stopped and faced Ella near the creek bridge. “We knew your grandma. Whenever we saw her, she would ask us about what we were interested in. I called her Aunt Tomatta and she didn’t seem to mind. I mailed her a letter once for a school project.”

  “I saw that letter!” Ella beamed her sweet, open smile. “Grandma Matta hung it on her fridge.” Harriet’s chest tightened. This girl wanted to be her friend.

  Harriet changed the subject. “Let’s look at the granite in the bridge.” She urged Ella to examine the mostly dark grey crystals mixed with white quartz and a sprinkling of deep rose.

  Ella traced her finger around a rose crystal, then showed Harriet her fingertip. “It’s oily. What could it be?”

  They reached the mill and looked down a steep, boulder tossed bank to the mill race channel below. There was no way down to Mom’s workshop here. The building’s walls of rough granite blocks rose next to them with a lower level down by the creek. At this end, a red headed woman with a bouncy shoelace tied ponytail bagged flour as it poured out from under rotating mill stones. She raised her hand and smiled as they walked by, but it was too noisy to talk.

  A screeching whine poured from the open doors of the saw mill further down the building. They peered in, the peppery smell of fresh cut wood hanging in the sawdust thick air. Wood shavings carpeted the floor.

  A deep voice rolled out over the noise. “Ella Matta. Come inside where I can see you and bring your friend.”

  Harriet recognized that rolling voice. She knew that person only too well and knew she was not ready to confront them in this time and place. She reluctantly followed Ella inside as the large circular saw whined down to a stop. Next to it stood a square man, blocky from his head to his feet. A man whose face Harriet failed to recognize no matter how hard she tried. He must sound like someone she had known before, but she couldn’t think who.

  He stepped toward them. “I am Hetric Rethic, Ella. Don’t you remember, you were here with your dad, picking up lumber. I told you to stop and visit anytime.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rethic, but Dad told me not to wander in here when you’re working.”

  The man frowned. “Call me Hetric Rethic not Mr. Rethic. Who is your friend?”

  Harriet stepped forward. “I’m Harriet Jameson and my grandmother is Helen Hoier.” Boards were stacked along the far side of the saw and just beyond them a dark hole disappeared into the floor. She very much wanted to look down that hole. “What’s that hole in the floor?” Silently, she added to herself: and why do I feel I know you really, really well when I’ve never even seen you before?

  “That is a very good question. If you can keep your hands to yourselves and do not bump into my carefully stacked boards, I will show you.”

  They walked out the doorway and back in on the other side of the saw. the blocky man stomping in ahead of them to protect his boards. He drew himself to a halt and pointed at his feet, where wood rollers formed a chute funneling down into the darkness.

  He said. “My son Dana will feed these boards down into the pick-up room and stack them according to people’s orders.” He fed a board down the chute with a clatter. “He will be back soon and he will work at this all afternoon.” He nodded at Harriet. “This morning he is gathering vines and saplings for your mother.”

  Harriet watched Hetric Rethic intently as he talked and moved. Although she had recognized his voice before she saw him, when he emerged from the sawdust cloud she had not recognized his face. Now it would take just a minute to remember who he was. She was sure with a little more time the memory would pop into her head. As she watched him talk, as she watched him move, the need to know grew stronger, but she remembered nothing. It was an itch she could not reach and she wanted to leave.

  She interrupted him. “We’ve got to get down to Mom.”

  Hetric Rethic glared at them. “You will come back. Dana must meet you.”

  They escaped into bright sunshine and followed the drive around and down to Mom’s creek level workshop. The lumber pick-up room stood open next door, with several orders already stacked. Along the creek side of the building, water from the flooded mill race lapped over a granite walkway making crystals sparkle in the sun. Seen through the open workshop door, Mom stood on a ladder organizing her supplies. Anyone could see Jenny Jameson was worn out and way too thin and Harriet knew it was all her fault.

  Jenny saw them. “Oh good. Hand me that ball of twine.”

  Ella handed it to Jenny, who put it up into a wood box, feeding the loose end through a hole in the bottom. Down from the ladder, she turned toward Ella with a questioning look.

  Harriet said. “Mom, this is Ella Matta. Her family has Grandma’s farm.”

  Jenny welcomed Ella with a smile. “I know your grandmother. My children call her Aunt Tomatta.

  Harriet quickly joined in to stop any more talk of ‘children’. “Mom, Ella remembers the letter I wrote to Aunt Matta.” It was difficult saying Matta instead of Tomatta.

  Jenny and Ella shared memories of Aunt Matta, Ella talking about the rock collection she worked on with her grandma, while Jenny remembered doing the same when she was a girl. Thankfully, they were talking about the long ago past instead of the dangerous recent past.

  Harriet wandered around the workshop while they talked, sunlight blazing through the floor to ceiling windows. Finished twig chairs and stools stood ready for Market tomorrow. Harriet would be moving those soon, that was one of her jobs.

  E
lla asked about the bins of willow branches, vines, sticks, rolls of wire, and fasteners. As an answer Jenny drilled holes in the center of three glossy red sticks, crossed them to form a star, and wrapped the center with copper wire.

  She gave it to Ella. “You can weave yarn around this or hang it as a star.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jameson.” Ella raised the star so that the sun streamed through it onto her face, twisting it back and forth for different effects. An expression of intense concentration hung in her blue eyes.

  She asked. “I need to know: is this a wishing star or a shining star?”

  Silent for a moment, Jenny answered. “It’s a wishing star; a new start in a new place requires a wishing star.”

  Harriet, who was done exploring, interrupted. “Mom, Grandma wants to feed you lunch.”

  She studied the mill race outside the window. “Mom… Do I know Hetric Rethic from when I was little? I feel I know him, but I just can’t remember.”

  Jenny searched Harriet’s sunlit profile as if doubting she was her daughter. “I’m sure you haven’t met him before. He was always busy with projects when we visited and you were too young to remember him anyway. He probably reminds you of someone else.” She hung up her drill and wire cutters. “Let’s go have lunch.”

  Passing the sawmill, Hetric Rethic’s voice rolled out an invitation to stop and visit, but Jenny replied with a hurried promise to come back another time.

  Jenny moved smoothly away from the mill. “I’m sure he’s too busy to talk.”

  At Grandma’s back gate they washed their hands at the garden faucet using soap hanging in a net bag. The thick smell of apple pies drifted from the kitchen.

  Grandma called through the screen door. “Jenny Wren! You’ve kept us waiting.”

  Dad already sat at the table. “Come in girls. When Helen Hoier calls her daughter ‘Jenny Wren’ you know she’s serious. Only Clarence Hoier himself could get away with using that name, since he chose it.”