The Eyes of the Amaryllis

by Natalie Babbitt

  “It’s half over,” said Gran. “We’re in the eye. It will only last a few minutes.” She did not take her hands from the wooden head in her lap. She did not stir at all.

  Jenny got up from the sofa and ventured again to the window. The sea had risen just over the top of the bluff and now, instead of rushing sidewise to the arm of land beside them, it raged like boiling water in a great pot, tumbling, churning, rushing in every direction at once, smashing against itself and casting up bursts of glittering spray. The sky overhead was a brilliant blue, with only a few loose clouds to mottle it.

  But Jenny saw with horror that before them and encircling them was a towering wall of thick, black clouds, closing them in, rising from the water like the sides of a chasm, miles into the air—a chasm from which there could be no escape. She could see the topmost edges of the wall, folded back smoothly against the sky. And she could see that it was moving, its far arc gliding toward them across the furious sea.

  Gran did not get up to look. She stayed where she was, her hands on the wooden head, and she said, “It will start again soon.”

  Jenny stood hypnotized at the window, watching as the wall of black came onward. Gradually, the room grew dimmer, the dazzling patch of sky was curtained out. And then the clouds engulfed them. Instantly, the wind began again, shrieking louder than ever, and the world outside was lost in new sheets of rain that swept in the opposite direction now, northward toward the town at the other end of the bay.

  This shift seemed to catch the house off-guard. There was a crash high over their heads, and a sluice of water spread into the parlor from the fireplace, like blood streaming from a wound. “Why, the chimney’s gone!” Gran exclaimed. She sounded shocked, surprised. The sudden breaching of her fortress seemed to jar her own determination; she bent a little in her chair, gripping the wooden head, and her voice had lost a fraction of its metal.

  Jenny sensed the loss and it chilled her, for she had been drawing her own slim courage from Gran. She moved backward from the window and stood distracted in the middle of the room, her hands tight over her ears now to cut the screeching wind. She had no notion what to do. Her mind was numb, her bones like jelly, and it seemed as if only the locking of her muscles could hold her upright. From the kitchen came another crash, a sound of shattering glass, and at once the house was full of wind. A lamp toppled, the curtains rose up like banners. And with a noise like a cork popping from a bottle the front door burst its bolt and was flung wide open. It hung flapping from one twisted hinge, and in the next moment the sea came over the sill.

  It purled into the parlor silently, a foam-flecked, spreading puddle, soaking the braided rug, reaching across the floor. It looked harmless, a simple spill from a pitcher, easy to mop away. But Gran shrank back in her chair. She lifted the wooden head from her lap and held it close in her arms while the water rippled toward her. A low wave rushed at the doorsill and the puddle deepened, spreading rapidly, sliding around her feet, and Jenny’s feet, until an inch stood on the floor, from wall to wall, and still Gran sat transfixed. The wind screamed round and round the house and rushed in through the breaches in a triumph, bringing with it salty flakes of spray. The water on the floor rose slowly, with little currents of its own that beckoned backward toward the gaping doorway even while it rippled in.

  Jenny could stand it no longer. “Give the head back, Gran!” she shrilled. “Give it back!” But she could hardly hear her own voice against the wind, and she began to sob, explosively, all efforts to control her tears gone flying.

  Then Gran was pushing up from her chair. Her crutch had drifted out of reach, but she stood erect without it. “All right!” she cried, but she was not speaking to Jenny. Her face was dark, her jaw thrust out. “All right!” she cried again. “All right!” She began to wade across the room, moving firmly in spite of her bundled foot.

  Jenny’s sobs caught in her throat. “Gran!” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

  But Gran did not hear her, did not reply. She moved forward, the drenched hem of her skirt trailing out behind her. She came to the doorway and without a pause went out into the storm.

  Jenny splashed after her. At the battered door, she shouted, “Gran! Be careful! Just drop it into the water, Gran, and then come…” But the shout died in her throat, for all at once it was clear that Gran did not mean to come back. She was pushing forward, leaning against the wind, out toward the flooded bluff, and she showed no signs of dropping the wooden head. Her hair tore loose from its pins and twists and streamed out sidewise. “Gran!” shrieked Jenny. “Gran, no. Come back!”

  But Gran could not have heard, for the wind shrieked louder, and the waves were dragging at her knees. She staggered, her arms flew out, and the head, released at last, fell free. And as it fell, the sea rose up and swallowed it. She paused. And then she found her balance once again and struggled on, nearer to the margin of the bluff. Jenny, near fainting, floundered over the doorsill. “Gran!” she shouted. “Wait!”

  Then: a miracle. A hand grasped her shoulder from behind, a voice boomed out above the wind: “Jenny! Go back.” It was her father—drenched, his hair wild, his jaw thrust out like Gran’s. He lifted her and set her back inside the doorway. And then he plunged out into the wind and water, and seized Gran in the final instant, just as she sagged and was dropping into the sea.

  Tea. Strong, hot, with lots of sugar. It warmed away the cold of Jenny’s heart as the blankets wrapped around her warmed away the shivers in her legs. She sat upstairs, in Gran’s room, sipping, and watched as her father ministered to his mother. He had cut away the sodden bandages and splints from her ankle, stripped away her dripping dress and petticoats, and bundled her into bed. Then he had gone downstairs, sloshed to the kitchen, coaxed water from the balky pump. He had managed somehow to kindle a fire in the stove, had boiled water in the kettle. He was amazing. And now he was spooning tea into Gran as if he were feeding a little child, except that her cup had been sharpened with brandy. She lay quietly, accepting it. She had not said a word.

  The hurricane was gone. It had whirled directly over them, moved inland, and was breaking up against the hills and trees. “Just another rainstorm by now,” said Jenny’s father when she asked him. “Noisy and wet, but mostly harmless. You had the worst of it here.”

  “But, Papa,” she said, “how did you know to come?”

  “I sat there in the store,” he told her, “and I watched the barometers go down and down and down. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer. I hitched up the buggy and I came.”

  Jenny held her hand over her tea and felt the rising steam turn to dew against her palm. She was thinking about her father—coming out in the storm, coming to the sea. “Papa,” she asked him, “where’s the buggy now? Where’s the horse?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” he said. “After a while the wind got so bad that limbs were cracking and there were twigs flying everywhere. The horse kept shying, and at last he reared and broke the traces. He ran off, and there I was, sitting like a dummy in the buggy all alone, with rain blowing in my face. So I just climbed out and came the rest of the way on foot.” He seemed, himself, amazed at this, even while he told about it.

  “On foot!” Jenny exclaimed. “How far?”

  “I really don’t know,” he answered. “A few miles.”

  “That must have been terrible!” said Jenny, her eyes round. “When Gran went out, I thought the wind would blow her over!”

  “I didn’t really think about it much,” he said. “All I wanted to do was come to the two of you. Why, for all I knew, the house had flooded and you might be…well, never mind. It didn’t happen. I got here in time.”

  They were quiet then. He set aside Gran’s spoon and teacup, and smoothed a red-gray strand of hair away from her cheek. She sighed and closed her eyes, and he murmured to Jenny, “Come, we’ll let her sleep a little now.”

  In her bedroom, in his bedroom, they sat together on the edge of the bed, and he took her hand and hel
d it. Jenny thought about the sign—the wooden head—and wondered if he’d understand when he knew.

  “You’ve had a bad time,” he said at last.

  “Oh, no!” she protested. “Not until today! Before the storm, it was—fine, mostly. Papa, do you remember a woman named Isabel Cooper?”

  “Hmmm,” he said. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Well, but do you remember a man named Nicholas?”

  “Yes,” he said, “if you mean Nicholas Irving, the one who carved the figurehead for the Amaryllis. He was like a big brother to me there for a while. Why, he taught me how to swim! But that was a long time ago, Jenny. Has Gran been talking about him?”

  “Yes,” said Jenny. “She’s talked a lot about the old days. Nicholas Irving was in love with Isabel Cooper, but she didn’t like him. That’s why he tried to drown himself.”

  “Ah!” said her father. “Yes, I remember now. A terrible thing. Isn’t it amazing what people will do for love!” He paused, and his serious expression turned into a smile. “Why, some people will even go out in a buggy in the worst storm of the age!”

  “And come to the sea, even if they don’t like it,” Jenny added wisely.

  “Yes,” he said. “And come to the sea.”

  After a moment, she asked, “Were you scared, Papa?”

  He lifted her hand and moved her fingers about, as if he was amazed at how well they worked. “You know,” he said, “I didn’t even stop to think about it. I just…got into the buggy and came.”

  “You were brave, the way you went and rescued Gran,” said Jenny admiringly. “Maybe you won’t be scared ever again after this.”

  There was a pause, and then he said, “Maybe not.”

  Jenny hopped down off the bed. “Wait here, Papa,” she said. “I want to show you something.” She hurried into the back bedroom and returned with the little tin trumpet and the wooden cannon. “Look, Papa. Look what we found in the trunk!”

  Her father took the toys and stared at them in astonishment. “Good Lord. Why, I remember these. Imagine her saving them all this time!” He sat there thinking, and then he said, “Jenny, what was Gran doing, out there in the storm like that?”

  Jenny looked at him soberly. “It’s hard to explain, Papa. Wait. I’ve got one more thing to show you.” She hurried out again and went to Gran’s room. Gran was dozing, her face slack against the pillow. Jenny tiptoed in, went to the highboy in the corner, and took the gold watch from the drawer where Gran had told her to put it for safekeeping. Back in her father’s room, she laid it gently in his hand. “It’s for you,” she said. “Grandfather had it all engraved and everything. For your twenty-first birthday. But Gran forgot.” Then she added quickly, “But she’s very sorry. Look inside the lid, Papa. Open it.”

  Her father lifted the thin back carefully and stared at the engraving. “Oh!” he whispered. Then, in a steadier voice: “Jenny, how incredible! Why, it’s almost like a message, isn’t it? After all these years!”

  Jenny drew a deep breath. “Papa,” she said, “do you believe in things you can’t explain?”

  He looked at her, puzzled, and then he said slowly, “Yes, I guess I do. Sometimes. Here, especially.”

  And so she told him everything.

  Later, when the story was done, Jenny leaned her head against her father’s shoulder and sighed. “But, you know, Papa, she waited so long—and now she doesn’t have anything.”

  “But she does!” said her father. “She has us, just as she always did. Maybe she’ll see that, now.” He picked up the little tin trumpet and blew into it. The thin bleat sounded loud in the quiet, and he put it down quickly, but it was too late. From the next room a voice called.

  “George?”

  They went to the door of Gran’s room and saw that she was sitting up in bed. “Well, George,” she said. She sounded very tired.

  “Well, Mother,” he returned.

  “Dear boy,” she said to him, “come and kiss me.”

  They ate their supper upstairs in Gran’s room, a supper thrown together, by Jenny and her father, any old way in the ruined kitchen. But Gran had very little appetite. She sat propped up with pillows, and she kept moving her foot under the covers.

  “How does it feel?” Jenny asked.

  “Light without all those bandages,” she said. “But whether it’s mended or not, I really can’t tell.”

  “Well,” said Jenny’s father, “either way, you’d better come back to Springfield, at least until we can get someone to clean up the mess downstairs.”

  “Is it very bad?” she asked him.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “The wind smashed the kitchen window and blew everything all around, the front door’s almost off, the chimney’s gone entirely. And the floor—some of the boards are bound to warp. It may take weeks to dry.”

  “It’s been a good house,” said Gran. “It just couldn’t quite hold out. I couldn’t hold out, either, George. We’re old, this house and I.”

  “And yet,” he said, “you can mend, both of you.”

  “No,” said Gran. “We can be patched up, stuck back together one way or another, perhaps, but it wouldn’t last for long. You’ve been urging me to come and stay in Springfield for years, George. I think the time has come for me to do it now.”

  “We’ve always wanted you,” he said, “but only if you really wanted to come.”

  She shrugged. “I’m tired,” she said. “I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

  “I’ll find a horse and buggy first thing in the morning,” he told her, spreading up her covers. “We’ll get an early start.”

  “All right,” she said, and closed her eyes.

  Jenny went up to the bed and leaned down to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “Good night, Gran,” she said.

  And Gran said, “Good night…Jenny.”

  In the morning, Jenny woke to soft sunshine. She climbed out of bed and crossed to the window. Below, the beach was clean and smooth, and the sea lay smiling and slopping contentedly far down the sand. Just offshore, a gull was wheeling against the bright blue sky. “Yesterday,” Jenny reminded herself, “there was a hurricane!” But it was hard to remember now. Until she remembered Gran. “We’re all going home today,” she murmured, and in spite of the warm sunlight, she was filled with sadness.

  She was pulling on her clothes when her father appeared in the doorway. “Well, lazybones,” he said, “it’s about time you were up. I’ve been to town already and brought back a first-rate horse and buggy. Pack your things. We’ll be leaving soon.”

  “How’s Gran?” she asked him.

  “She’s ready,” he said. “We’ve both had breakfast. There’s milk and bread and an orange for you downstairs. Come along. I’m anxious to get started. Your mother will be worried to death.”

  “I’ll be ready in a minute,” she said.

  Downstairs, it would have been impossible to forget the storm. The parlor had a dismal look and a damp, unnatural smell. Water stood in the corners, and there was wet sand crusted everywhere. From the blown-in kitchen window a light breeze stirred the limp curtains and passed on out through the space where the front door had been propped against a side of the gaping doorframe. The clock in the hall had stopped. Jenny took up her orange and, peeling it as she went, wandered sadly through the rooms. The life had gone from the house. It looked defeated.

  She paused in the dining room and, sucking her orange, looked at the picture of the ship. It hung a little crooked now, but here, at least, there was spirit still. The ship was so beautiful, a crisp, strong, winged thing, the figurehead intact and calm, with the big red blossom cradled in its hands. It had a presence, an unshakable intent; it seemed almost, this morning, to leap from the frame and sail into the room. Jenny could feel its force. She lowered the orange from her mouth and stood puzzled, staring.

  “Jenny!” her father called. “We’re ready. Come along.”

  She backed away from the picture reluctantly and, turnin
g, went through the parlor to the door. Her father was carrying Gran in his arms, crossing the strip of grass to the rented buggy. Gran’s face was quiet, closed. The horse stood waiting, jingling his harness. Jenny went out across the doorsill and hesitated for a moment. The air was warm and soft and the sea sparkled, tossing up tiny whitecaps. It was very still, and yet—somewhere there was an urgency. “Just a minute,” Jenny said to her father. She felt drawn strongly to the beach. She ran down across the sand, down to the water’s edge, and looked out.

  The flashes of sunlight reflected from the sea were blinding. She rubbed her eyes to free them of the dancing red spots that filled them and made them water. And then she began to walk along the edges of the low, ruffling waves, down the empty beach in a final tracing of the searches of the week before, still responding to the urgency that seemed to be drawing her.

  Coming at last to the scrub-pine stump, she stopped and looked out again. And caught her breath. No more than ten yards out, a small, bright object floated on the swells. No, it was only the flashing of the sun in her eyes again. But something seemed to stay beyond her blinking, something reddish-orange, a vibrant spot of color that rode forward on the water. The breeze increased and the object took on dimensions, sailing nearer and nearer, and then, with a final lift of wave, it was slipped across the foam to her feet.

  It was a blossom, not made of wood, but real, with six wide, curling petals, and a long white fragile stamen arching out from its cone-shaped heart. A lily, just like the one in the picture. A big red lily from the islands—an amaryllis.

  Jenny bent and lifted it up, cupping it in her hands. And then she turned. “Gran!” she cried. “Oh, Gran!” She ran back along the beach to the bluff and crossed, up the sand, holding the blossom out before her. “Gran!” she cried again.