The Spirit Rose

by Renee Duke

  “I’m sure she does,” Mr. Marchand said in what his son and daughter knew to be his this-person-is-an-idiot-but-I’m-not-going-to-pick-a-fight-with-him voice.

  “In a year or two, she’ll be going to one on the Continent,” Cousin Willoughby went on. “Thanks to private tutors, and holidays abroad, she’s already fairly fluent in French and German, but we want her to perfect her accent. And soak up some art and culture too, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Marchand.

  Half an hour later, he closed the door behind them with a sigh of relief. “I take it back, Jack. They are that bad. Compared to them, even my whacky cousin Bev comes across as great company. We’d better call Grantie and warn her they’re on their way.”

  “I did that from the kitchen whilst ostensibly helping Gus clear away the dishes,” his wife informed him. “Dad was still there, so I dare say they’re speeding towards his house even as we speak. When the W-Hs get to Rosebank, she will not be home.”

  “Do you think she’ll stay away all afternoon?” asked Paige, knowing this could affect their plans to return to Rosebank and present her with their discovery.

  “And well on into the evening, if she’s smart,” Mr. Marchand projected. “They’re the kind who’d barge in and tell Mrs. Purdom they’d wait for her.”

  “I feel badly for Grantie, too,” said Mrs. Marchand, misinterpreting the children’s groans of disappointment. “We’ll have to try and keep them away from her as much as possible and—Oh, goodness! What a fright.”

  With the unerring perception of cats, the usually sociable Socrates had made himself scarce while the Wolverton-Hernes were around. Emerging from behind a box on a high shelf near the door, he sprang onto Dane’s shoulder, knocking his glasses askew. The glasses had already suffered a mishap on the children’s last trip into the past, a mishap he had explained away with a vague reference to a fall. Though temporarily mended in that time period, the bridge had since snapped, and was being held together with duct tape. Thanks to the unexpected jolt, it had now come apart again.

  Mr. Marchand inspected the damage. “Beyond me. We’ll have to get them repaired properly.”

  “We can take care of that after we’ve been to Anna’s,” said Mrs. Marchand. “With luck, they’ll then hold together until we get home and can get him a new pair.”

  “I thought I was getting contacts,” Dane protested. “You said I could have contacts once I turned eleven.”

  “You’re getting both. You have to have both, especially at first. Don’t worry. You had your annual eye exam before we left. As soon as we get to Vancouver, we shall procure the desired objects from Auntie Janine.”

  “Auntie Janine’s an optician,” Paige explained to Jack. “Dane’s been getting his glasses from her ever since he had his first eye test at the age of three, and couldn’t always tell which way the E was pointing.”

  “What E?”

  “The one on the card they use for little kids. It’s only got Es on it. They vary in size, and point in different directions.”

  “Why couldn’t he have just read letters off of a proper eye chart?”

  “Because, unlike you, I couldn’t read when I was three,” Dane replied, a little huffily.

  “I could read at two, actually,” Jack said loftily.

  He had never before boasted about his superior intellect, and his cousins were not about to let him start now.

  “Bet you weren’t potty trained, though,” Paige jibed.

  “I was so.”

  “Yeah, well, you probably still had a dummy,” said Dane.

  “I never had a dummy.”

  “He certainly didn’t,” Aunt Augusta confirmed. “Disgusting objects. How people can let children suck on such things, I’ll never know.”

  “Paige used to suck on the corner of a blanket,” Dane revealed.

  “Yeah, and you used to gnaw on chair rungs.”

  “Only when I was teething.”

  “You teethed on everything. Even Marijane had bite marks.”

  “Your favourite doll. A doll you still have. And still play with.”

  “I do not. She’s just part of my doll collection.”

  “You—”

  By now, voices were raised. “That’ll do,” Mr. Marchand said sharply. “How did all this sniping come out of a discussion about glasses?”

  “It’s Bentley and Co.,” said Mrs. Marchand. “They bring out the worst in people.”

  “That I can believe. Come on. Let’s get these baby goats over to Anna’s before they start butting each other.”

  Chapter Four

  Anna Lytham’s studio adjoined the office of an animal shelter run by her sister Florinda, who was out tending to its denizens when they arrived. Both in their fifties, the two women were unmarried and devoted themselves to their respective passions — art and animals. Jack knew them quite well, but Paige and Dane had never met them, so Mrs. Marchand cautioned them to look at Cousin Anna when they spoke to her. Deaf from an early age, she had to read lips to know what people were saying.

  “Should we sign, too?” Dane asked.

  “Can you?” his mother inquired, looking surprised.

  “Yes,” he replied. The whole family had learned sign language two years earlier, when Mr. Marchand was doing what turned out to be an award-winning documentary on the subject. He and Paige had mastered it quite easily, and he wondered why she would assume they had forgotten it.

  “Well, signing won’t be necessary,” said Mrs. Marchand. “Just make sure she can see your lips.”

  Inside the studio, the mural ran along a far wall and did promise to look impressive once it was finished. Many party-goers had already applied their handprints, resulting in a bright array of colours.

  Cousin Anna came forward smiling. “Hello there, everyone. Is Gareth not with you, Gus? I have places for spouses of family members.”

  “Something’s come up,” Aunt Augusta replied. “He said he’d try to pop by later. Have you got almost everyone else who lives locally, or somewhat locally?”

  “Yes. I’m really only missing the ones who’ve not yet arrived from foreign climes, and the out-of-area people just coming for the day. But there’s still three days to go for the foreigners, and if I put the mural up in the hall early Saturday morning I can shanghai the day trippers as they appear. Thank you for e-mailing me all the responses to the invitations so I could get the design laid out properly, Tania.”

  “Happy to help, but it will be missing some. We’ve just been told the Wolverton-Hernes will be there en masse.” Mrs. Marchand allowed herself a small smile. “Too bad they didn’t let us know before. I expect it would be rather hard to add them now you’ve got it all marked out.”

  “Virtually impossible.” Cousin Anna didn’t look as though she especially regretted this. “Come on over to the paint trays. I’m using a different colour for each generational connection. For your lot it’s red for adults and orange for children.”

  “Aren’t the spouses in green?” queried Mr. Marchand, looking at all the green handprints above those of direct family members.

  “Yes, but you’re more than that.”

  “I am? What?”

  “A Wolverton offshoot, Alan,” said a voice from the door. “Isn’t it great?”

  “What are you doing here?” Mr. Marchand demanded, as the least popular member of his own family swept into the room and made a graceful twirl that caused the long gauze scarf around her neck to waft around her. Beverly Marchand, now legally known as Ophelia Path-Holder, was an intense, garrulous woman who pursued a number of interests, some conventional, and some not. She was currently staying in Grantie Etta’s village with Reg Dexter, and his wife, who were old friends. Leastways, Mrs. Dexter was an old friend. Mr. Dexter mostly just put up with her.

  “I came to put my handprint on. You see, Tania’s cousin, Trevor, was at Miss Wolverton’s—ooh, I guess I can call her Grantie now, too, can’t I?—well, anyway, he was having tea with he
r when I stopped by there a while ago, looking for Reg. Isn’t it amazing how the Threads of Destiny always get us to where we’re supposed to be? After we got to talking, he told me he does all the family genealogy and said Anna had asked him to make her a connections chart so she could plan out her mural. I guess you’re Anna, aren’t you? Hi!” She, too, knew sign language, and signed her hello as well as spoke it, indicating she knew of Cousin Anna’s hearing problem.

  “He could tell I was really interested, and a couple of days ago, he called me up from Canada and told me he’d just learned you and I are related to Grantie through our paternal grandparents. He knew that, in seventeen-eighty-five, the granddaughter of a Giles Wolverton married a visiting Frenchman called Gaston Belrose and later went to Canada with him, but it wasn’t until he saw Gaston and Apollonia’s names on some document in an Arcadian museum that he was able to pursue their line further and find out that, a few generations on, their descendant, Mercedes Belrose—our Grand-mère Sadie—married our grandfather, Pascal Marchand, making us Grantie’s tenth cousins or something. I can’t tell you how excited I was to hear that! Anna already had the connections chart, of course, but Trevor said he’d e-mail her and let her know I wanted to be on the mural too. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

  “Very.” Mr. Marchand’s expression did not bode well for Uncle Trevor.

  “Reg dropped me off here and is going to pick me up at the museum later on. I love museums. He said I could stay all afternoon if I wanted, and just call him when I was ready. He’s very accommodating that way.”

  “I bet he is,” said Mr. Marchand. “How long are you staying with them, Bev?”

  “Ophelia,” she corrected automatically. “Just until the end of next week. Then I’m off to the States for a while. New England. I love the fall foliage. Nature’s preparation for the ravages of winter connects to me at the very deepest level.”

  Cousin Ophelia travelled a lot, moving around the world in response to some inner sense of what she referred to as the Threads of Destiny.

  “Oh? Well, enjoy,” said Mr. Marchand.

  “I intend to. I’m certainly going to enjoy Grantie’s party. The gathering of generations is always a moving experience. Trevor said that, now I’m family, it’d be okay for me to attend. I’m so glad, because, well, try as I might, I haven’t really been able to establish much of a rapport with Grantie. Whenever we’ve met, she’s seemed a little antagonistic toward me. But I’m sure we’ll be able to bond on such a happy occasion as a party.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Marchand. “Grantie is rather set in her ways, though.”

  “That’s only to be expected at her age. I won’t press it if it makes her uncomfortable. Elders must be respected. The only other person I’ve known who got to her age was my great-grandmother. My aboriginal great-grandmother. You wouldn’t remember her, Alan. She passed on before you were born. I loved her very much. She used to call me her little stunx, which is ‘little beaver’ in nsyilxcn. My childhood name, Beverly, means ‘from the beaver meadow’ and I felt drawn to both beavers and meadows when I was little.”

  “You did?” This came as a surprise to Paige. “Dad told us you started doing name changes because Beverly had never suited you, and you considered it a psychological burden.”

  Cousin Ophelia gave her cousin a reproachful look. “I expect he was just trying to be funny. He never did take my re-namings seriously. Beverly suited me very well until I was almost fifteen. Then it no longer seemed in keeping with who I sensed myself becoming.”

  Jack was intrigued, but not by Cousin Ophelia’s name changes. “You had an Indian grandmother?” he asked. “From a tribe called the nah sil…nah silchens?”

  “Not Indian, sweetie. First Nation. She belonged to the syilx nation, also known as the Okanagan. Nsyilxcn is the language, not the people.”

  “What about your great-grandfather?”

  “He was a French Canadian, descended from one of Canada’s earliest settlers. I’ve never been able to find out much about that particular ancestor, but I do know the Marchands were in Canada long before the Wolverton-Belrose side of the family.”

  “He might have been a voyageur,” said Jack. “I’ve read about them. They used canoes to transport goods for the big trading companies.”

  “Canoes loaded with animal pelts.” The animal-loving Dane scowled. “And our ancestor probably was one of the guys who got them for them.”

  Paige sighed. “That was a long time ago, Dane. Back then people had never heard of animal rights. Fur-trading was considered a legitimate way of making a living. Preservation of wildlife wasn’t compatible with that.”

  “Especially since the newcomers didn’t have the same spiritual connection to animals that the native peoples did,” said Cousin Ophelia. “They hunted and trapped too, but only in accordance with their basic requirements. They revered those who supplied their food and clothing, and thanked them for their sacrifice.”

  “Like that was any consolation to the poor brutes they caught,” Dane said bitterly. “They didn’t die right away, you know. They don’t now. Fur trapping still goes on today.”

  “But not by our family,” Mr. Marchand emphasized, seeing Cousin Anna’s frown. “It stopped with my grandfather and his brothers. They all trapped a bit as young men during the Depression. It bothered them in later years. Especially Grand-père. That’s why he’s now one of the most zealous members of an organization called the Fur-Bearer Defenders.”

  “Good for him,” said Cousin Anna. “Flo would approve of his trying to make amends. She loves animals. She’s saved hundreds through her shelter.”

  It did not take them long to do their handprints. Cousin Florinda came in just as they were finishing, and showed her preference for the animal kingdom by foregoing any inquiries into the well-being of absent humans. Instead, she asked after Socrates and Jack’s pony, Butterscotch, both of whom had been rescue animals. Jack belonged to an equestrian club in Windsor and boarded his mount at a local stable.

  “Socrates is fine. As for Butterscotch I’ve been quite busy and haven’t ridden her as much as I should. I’ve taken Dane and Paige to visit her a few times, though. We all rode her a bit then.”

  “No gymkhanas?”

  “Not this summer. Too much on.”

  Cousin Florinda clicked her tongue and gave a mock frown. “She’ll be getting fat and lazy.”

  “The stable owner’s daughter exercises her when I can’t.”

  “Hmph. What about you two? Do you have horses at home?”

  “We’d like to,” said Paige, looking at her father. “But Dad says we’ve got a big enough menagerie. I’ve got a white Persian cat and a big grey rabbit. Dane’s got a little Havanese dog and a huge tabby cat.”

  “Cupcake’s staying with my best friend while we’re away,” Dane put in. “A neighbour’s looking after the cats and the rabbit.”

  “That’s good. Better than spending weeks in a kennel. Would any of you like to see my menagerie?”

  The children nodded eagerly, and the adults all went along too, with the exception of Cousin Anna, who said she was expecting the Australian contingent to drop by.

  “We have an Australian contingent?” Paige asked her mother as they followed Cousin Florinda outside.

  “We have two. Grantie’s Uncle Edward wasn’t the only member of the family to seek his fortune in Australia. Her cousin, Sebastian Travers, did too. Their respective descendants make periodic trips to the homeland, this time for the party.”

  Most of the shelter’s residents were cats and dogs, but there were some birds and rabbits too, as well as two hedgehogs, three ferrets, four guinea pigs, a snake, and a tortoise. After the tour, Aunt Augusta gave Cousin Florinda a donation toward the shelter’s upkeep, which she gratefully accepted.

  The group returned to the parking lot in time to see a middle-aged couple come in off the street, accompanied by a girl in her late teens and a young couple with a baby in a stroller.

 
“And there you have them,” said Aunt Augusta. “The Australian contingent, or at least some of it. Hello Grant, Natalie.”

  Grant and Natalie Travers smiled and introduced their son Darren and his wife, Kiah, an attractive young Aboriginal woman, and the young couple’s seven-month-old daughter, Jannali.

  “They’ve never been to England before,” said Cousin Grant. “Neither has Teage. Teagan Bonner, my sister’s girl. Her mum and dad couldn’t get away, so we brought her with us.”

  “What about your parents?” asked Mrs. Marchand. “They were supposed to be coming too.”

  “They have, but they’re in their eighties, and while that just makes them young things compared to Grantie, they found it a mighty long haul. We got in on Monday and they’re still getting over the trip. Godfrey will bring them over here when they’re feeling up to it. That’s who they’re bunking with.”

  “I thought they were at Malcolm’s, with you.”

  Malcolm Marsden, grandson of Sebastian Travers’s sister, Aurelia, had a large, rambling house on the outskirts of Staines. According to Mrs. Marchand’s accommodation list, Cousin Grant’s parents were supposed to be staying there, rather than with Malcolm’s father, Godfrey, who also lived in Staines.

  “I think that was the original plan, but Godfrey didn’t think Mum and Dad would be able to stand Malcolm’s grandkids. They’ll be coming in from Leicester tomorrow, and he claims they’re right little devils. Glad ours is such a poppet.”

  “She’s gorgeous. Yes, you’re gorgeous, aren’t you?” Cousin Ophelia cooed, chucking Jannali under the chin. Many babies and toddlers found Cousin Ophelia overpowering, and voiced strong objection to her attentions, but this one grabbed her finger and chortled happily, staring up at her with expressive brown eyes.

  Kiah smiled shyly, glowing as all mothers do when their babies are admired.