by Ilie Ruby
The Language of Trees
Ilie Ruby
In loving memory of J.M., who left too soon
Trees are the most trusting of all living creatures because they trust enough to put their roots down in one place, knowing they’ll be there for life.
—AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Contents
Epigraph
Map
Author’s Note
Prologue
THE SILKEN HAIR OF the three children glows bone white…
Part I
1
AT DAWN, A TORNADO hits the Shongos’ cabin window like…
2
ONE DAY OUT OF the year, the mayflies swarm Canandaigua…
3
BY NOON IN CANANDAIGUA, the air is already thick and…
4
THE EARLY AFTERNOON DRIZZLE starts and stops as the flies…
5
CLARISSE MELLON, WHO HAS lived next door to the Ellis…
6
IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON hours, some people claim that there…
7
THE JEEP’S BROKEN BUMPER trails along the road, making a…
8
AFTER WATCHING ECHO DRIVE away, Grant races the setting sun…
9
LIGHT. MELANIE WAKES SUDDENLY in the darkness. It has been…
Part II
10
GRANT HASN’T WANTED TO go anywhere in three weeks. But…
11
TWICE A YEAR, MEN who live along the lake put…
12
LEILA ELLIS IS EXHAUSTED from driving through the streets all…
13
LUCAS’S CRIES REACH ACROSS the cold water like white ribbons…
Part III
14
VICTOR ELLIS HAD ALWAYS been suspicious of moving water. The…
15
LION KNOWS HE’S GOT to do something. Melanie has been…
16
AS DUSK SETTLES OVER Canandaigua, Echo slips on an ivory…
17
MELANIE HAS BEEN GONE for four days. If she has…
18
SINCE THE MOMENT GRANT Shongo dropped her off, Echo’s mind…
19
LEILA DOESN’T CARE THAT she’s already called everyone she knows.
20
GRANT DRIVES LEILA’S CAR back from Two Bears’ Cave alone.
21
MAYA ELLIS HAS SPENT the last several years living in…
22
NO ONE IS AT Grant Shongo’s cabin when Echo returns…
23
HUGE THUNDEROUS STORMS WRACK the sky. Lightning flashes for miles …
24
WHEN CLARISSE MELLON DRIVES to the Feed & Grain to…
25
LUCAS?” MELANIE WHISPERS. SUNLIGHT streams in through the windows, filling…
26
AS HARD AS PEOPLE pray for something to happen in…
A+ Author Insights, Extras & More…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Ilie Ruby
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
Map courtesy of www.visitfingerlakes.com
AUTHOR’S NOTE
WHILE EVERY EFFORT HAS been made to verify the history of Canandaigua and the volumes of Seneca folklore, this is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed are imaginary. Their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
MAY 1988
THE SILKEN HAIR OF the three children glows bone white in the moonlight as they paddle the stolen canoe out into the icy waters of Canandaigua Lake. The May wind is like a rabid wolf howling in the darkness, darting this way and that, biting at the rain as it sweeps across the surface in blustery sheets, hitting the children’s flushed faces. The children know that on nights like this, the spirits of the Seneca Indians are weeping. Some are buried out on Squaw Island, a few miles away, and the children know if they put an ear close to the water’s surface, they will hear the spirits calling, inviting them under.
Melanie Ellis, the eldest, sets her heavy wooden paddle down at the stern, and leans her thin body over the side of the canoe to listen for their whispers. Her long blond hair trails over the water, making large ripples. Her purple cotton dress billows up, revealing two bruised knees. Maya, just eight, jostles the boat as she pounds her fists and drums on the canoe’s seat. Little Luke sits precariously on the canoe’s edge, his head of blond curls tossed in the wind. Luke can withstand a thing like the foul weather, even if he is only seven, even if his body is so light, his skin so pale under the glowy moon, his sisters tease him that he looks like a ghost.
The sky becomes a deep pearl gray as the fog thickens around the coast of Squaw Island, a mystical and forbidden place that the children have only dreamed of visiting. It is the only place on earth where rare white lime deposits known as water biscuits exist. Illuminated by moonlight, they cling to its shores.
The island is too far out to swim, but not to row.
Melanie plunges the paddle into the icy water. Squinting toward the hazy distance, she can see the island encircled by feather trees brushing the sky, the edges of its shoreline vanishing into the lake. The high water level has swallowed up the land bridge that once connected it to the mainland. Long ago, the island was so large one could get lost in the trees. During a war in 1779, Seneca women and children escaped to safety across this bridge to hide in the grove of trees that covered the island. Melanie has always imagined them seeking shelter in the knees of trees and praying silently, sitting still as stone, and breathing so quietly that even the wind wouldn’t notice them. Just as she, herself, has done on nights when her father drinks too much and the smartest thing to do is sneak out of the house and hide, and breathe without making a sound, and imagine that she is disappearing.
The drops of rain are coming harder now, not soft marbles that roll down her face, but drops that feel like a million needles. Everything going on at home is distant now, pushed into darkness by the clamoring rain and the scent of restless spirits.
The storm is kicking up.
Thunder wracks the sky as Melanie forces the paddle against the waves. The wind howls, rolling the water like a serpent under the canoe. The lake begins to buck and push. The waves splash up against the sides of the boat, drenching the children in icy water. Maya and Luke have started to cry, begging her to go back. Melanie pushes her wet hair out of her eyes and glances behind her toward the Shongos’ property. For a moment, unmoving, she is captivated by the sight of the Diamond Trees, the two great willows whose flickering leaves, when caught in the moonlight, create diamonds of light scattered across the water. These trees light the way for those who are lost. She quickly turns back toward the island, trying to gauge the distance ahead. She can see it out there in the mist, floating toward her.
The waves are pushing the canoe toward the island.
The heavy paddle slips from Melanie’s hands, the waves wrestling it away. She crawls toward the front of the canoe, straining to retrieve it, but the paddle is quickly disappearing into the darkness. The boat is tossed aimlessly, caught halfway between the mainland and the island. The children cry out for help, their voices lost in the fog as they hold on to each other. Icy water surges up, filling the boat. Melanie must think fast. She edges toward the middle of the canoe, takes a deep breath, and plunges her hands into the numbing water to paddle. Luke reaches out for her, but she pushes him back, trying to keep the island in view. As the waves pull the boat closer, Melanie suddenly sees something: a figure moving on the island. Through the moonlit mist, her eyes can just make out the shimmering silhouette of a man so
tall storm clouds rest on his shoulders. His body is so large that when he bends over with his shovel, he carries the moon on his back. He is digging furiously.
Trembling, Melanie calls out to him but her voice disappears into the crashing waves. She hears her siblings whimpering, and looks at their small bodies huddled against the seat, frozen, wide-eyed, watching her. Bracing her feet against the sides of the canoe for balance, she waves one arm at the giant as she struggles to stand. The island is closer now but the giant does not hear her. As the waves tip the canoe back and forth, she leans her weight from side to side, yelling to the giant again and again. Then there is a sudden roar of thunder followed by a whip of lightning that cracks the surface of the lake. In the flash, Melanie can see the giant more clearly, his wide face and black hair. She watches now as he throws down his shovel and picks up a large axe. Her eyes focus on the shadows as he lifts the axe into the air and down again, over and over, as though smashing the moonlight.
Maya catches the shock on her sister’s face as Melanie panics, tipping the canoe, her feet slipping out from underneath her. Melanie falls, her cheek slamming against the seat, her arms and legs scraping and sliding against the cold, wet floor. Her vision blurs. And as she begins to black out, she can see Maya moving near the edge of the boat, the red of her dress darkening into the sky’s gray. She can hear the sound of her name being called through the wind.
Small cries are wrestled into a deadening quiet. Rain stops. Then there is nothing but the swishing of the boat.
NEAR DAWN, THE SKY is hushed pink. Wisps of clouds rise from the chalky white shoreline of Squaw Island. Melanie is awakened by the soft scrape of white stones against the canoe’s floor. Peeking out from the island’s thin trees is the rusted door of an old Boy Scout cabin. Where there once was a giant, now only his imprint is left in the trees, his dark shadow clinging to the leaves and branches.
Floating in a lucent pool, Melanie trembles as she pushes herself up, despite the piercing pain that weighs her head down. She whispers Luke’s name as her eyes search for him.
Melanie feels her heart quicken when she doesn’t see Luke in the canoe. Only Maya, who is staring at her, her arms wrapped around herself, her dress, torn at the shoulder.
Melanie scans the horizon. On the island, she can see a shovel stuck in a pile of dirt.
A heavy curtain of mist slowly lifts off the water.
The lake still reflects each star, as though it were holding on, unwilling to let them fade.
“It’s all your fault,” Maya whispers, with pale eyes.
PART I
1
MAY 2000
AT DAWN, A TORNADO hits the Shongos’ cabin window like a fist. Broken glass pierces the sky before piling up in the grasses at the foot of the two largest willows on Canandaigua Lake. Grant Shongo runs out onto his porch, imagining this as the sound of his own heart breaking. He recalls Susanna’s words as she left him just over one year ago: I love beginnings. She had told him these words on their first date and repeated them on the night she left. There was nothing more after that but the sound of her car disappearing down the rainy street.
An amethyst sky bleeds up from the bank as he scans the homes that ring the 36-mile shoreline, the old summer cabins built from wood and cobblestone, and new lakefront mansions covered in stucco and brick, with lavish front lawns that are an unnatural shade of green, next to gleaming boats resting tentatively by their newly christened docks. It is early, he guesses. There is no working clock in his cabin and he threw out his watch when he left Rochester three weeks ago. Though he hasn’t been back here in five years, he can still tell time by the color of the water, which changes from rose at dawn, to dark gray-green in the afternoon, to a rusty golden patina in the evening. It’s about five o’clock in the morning, judging by the water’s hue. The lake is still in motion. Its restlessness has always calmed him. He looks out at the trees, the way they seem to be pulling the dew across the uncut grass. Felled branches crisscross the lawn. The scent of destruction that tore through them last night is still in the air. The oaks are breathless.
All night, the wind kicked up glassy leaves that stuck to the porch screen like wet paper. Grant had sat on the twin-size mattress, listening as torrents twisted through the reeds, tossing skeletons of driftwood back toward land. But even the sorrowful whine of the oldest oak being ripped from its roots couldn’t stop him from grabbing his knife. The cry of the splitting branches and the wind’s moan didn’t let up. Even the wolves’ howling couldn’t loosen his hands from the wooden statue he held in front of him. Although he hadn’t picked up a knife in several years prior to his return to the cabin, he carved the entire night through without stopping. Even though sweat burned into his eyes, his fingers and palms chafed with wood dust, he just slicked the knife faster, carving the statue of a Seneca warrior in quick precise movements until his hands felt like claws. At thirty-three, his hands remembered the shape of the statue by heart, the warrior’s wide face, long straight nose and sharp cheekbones, the head shaved for battle except for a lock of hair at the back; a cap, with one eagle feather sticking straight up in back, distinguishing it from the other Iroquois tribes. The leather breechcloth, and leggings that went from ankle up to mid-thigh to protect the legs when running through brush. A belt wrapped around the waist where a knife was kept close to the body, the pouch filled with arrows, and the thick powerful hands that held a bow. Even the physicality of carving couldn’t cut his guilt away. He had thought that leaving Rochester would dull the painful memories.
Grant had stayed in the old Victorian on Park Avenue for a year after Susanna left. Rochester was a far cry from New York City, but compared to the sleepy town of Canandaigua, it was bustling. Their gentrified neighborhood was thriving and replete with distractions: trendy bars, restaurants, and sidewalk cafes, where Grant liked to sit alone for hours on Sundays reading the newspaper and grading papers, drinking shots of espresso, and losing himself in the latest educational dilemmas facing schools. There had been comfort, not loneliness, in the routine.
But once Susanna left, the emptiness had hit him hard. Their charming house only haunted him, the bright green shutters and the elegant bay windows, the garden patio that he meticulously constructed to her design, brick by brick. Even with all the noise of city life, the house held the silence of their marriage. Susanna told him she would never return, but he hadn’t believed her. He had always been the one who had doubts, not her. So he waited for her in the house for a year, angry, impatient yet unwilling to leave. There were nights he thought he heard her footsteps on the patio. He’d lie still, one minute wishing it were her, and the next, praying those cries he heard were only the wind. Her leaving was right, he felt. But he did not know what to do without her.
There had been miscarriages. Three, one right after another. Susanna first blamed herself for the three souls that came and then left, each following the other to the spirit world. Their stays had been brief, but each had left an indelible mark. Their few months of life had made her a mother. And just as quickly, their passing had made her something else.
One night, he had found her kneeling in the backyard, her dark hair smeared across her cheeks with tears as she clutched the ultrasound pictures to her heart. She blamed the losses on her teenage promiscuity—how she had prayed for negative pregnancy tests back then, on her inability to complete any project, on the Camel nonfilters she occasionally snuck in the garage when he was up all night grading papers and writing lesson plans. When she could no longer bear the weight of the grief, she blamed Grant. He never truly gave her his heart, she said. He hadn’t ever let her in. She had felt it throughout their four years of marriage. Their babies had, too. That’s why they didn’t survive, she said.
He wants to tell her she deserves none of the guilt.
If Susanna believed in fate, she’d realize that some souls know beforehand that they’re going to leave, their purpose having already been fulfilled.
He would never
admit that he has been skipping rocks to send messages to them through the water.
Strands of long black hair fall in his eyes as he turns the wooden statue on its side. He squeezes the knife in his fist, letting the hot metal bite at his skin, and then he watches a few drops of blood fall. Pain is a signal that he is awake and alive. It is because an uncomfortable numbness has come over him, not unlike how he imagines death to feel: one day fading into the next, the hours blurred, merging waves lost in the lake.
Time is different here: the minutes, hours, and days tracked by a set of different colors, smells, directions and strength of wind across the water. At night, Grant counts the hours by the direction of moonlight on the shifting water.
And the days, by the number of statues of Seneca warriors. Twenty-one statues fill the cabin, one carved each day since he’s been back to the place of his childhood. He needs to connect to his ancestors this way, through this language of mourning, a language his father once shared with him on summer nights after Grant’s mother had gone to sleep.
Grant would watch his father’s skilled fingers work the knife as though it were a part of his hand, quickly carving a beaver or a bear, which would then be packed in a cardboard box and taken back to Rochester in September to be placed in a bigger box and carted up to the attic, never to be seen again. Even on nights when there was little moonlight, Ben Shongo would sit on the porch and carve these figures so easily and with such swiftness and detail that Grant believed his father had the power to see in the dark. His father had told him this was good exercise for the mind, that if he had the right attitude and focus, he wouldn’t ever need to actually see the wood, that the picture he held in his mind was enough. After he had been sent to bed, Grant would hear his father out on the porch, and he knew his father was carving other things that Grant would never see. In the morning, there would be nothing but wood shavings and dust.