Stormer’s Pass

by Benjamin Laskin

  “By love, that first did prompt me to inquire,” continued the old woman in recitation. “He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far as that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise.” She stopped, smiled, and took a bow.

  “Bravo!” Mr. Thoreson said, applauding.

  Aidos leapt from the stump to her father’s side. She took his hand and led him over to the old woman. “Dad, this is Ms. Winters from the library,” she said excitedly.

  “How do you do?” he said, offering his hand. “Hardy Thoreson.”

  She clutched his fingers, “Virginia Winters.”

  “That was wonderful, Ms. Winters,” Aidos said.

  “Oh my,” the old librarian blushed, “it’s been so awfully long… Do you do this often?”

  “Well, last week we did Hamlet, and next week we’re going to do Chekhov.”

  “Really? How interesting.”

  As they chatted, Beowulf moved in for a closer inspection of the stranger. He sniffed about her shoes and then swooped his muddy snout up the librarian’s yellow spring dress.

  “Beowulf!” Hardy scolded.

  “Beowulf?” Ms. Winters said, trying hard not to show her embarrassment, “That’s…darling.” She gave the dog a dainty pat on the head. “Nice doggie. Big doggie…”

  Aidos and her father exchanged guilty glances, both having spotted the blotches of mud left on the librarian’s dress.

  Ms. Winters said, “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

  “Tell us,” Hardy said, putting his arm around the woman’s shoulders, “over a cup of tea.”

  Hardy pulled up an extra chair around the small kitchen table and Aidos put on the water.

  “Do you live here year round, Mr. Thoreson?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Really? I’m surprised that I’ve never met you before. After all, Pinecrest is a small town.”

  “We like to keep to ourselves,” he said. “I recognize you, though.”

  “Hmm, I don’t…”

  “We don’t go to your library very often,” he added.

  “Yes, I gathered that from your daughter. I tried to give her a library card and she turned it down.”

  “It’s not worth the trouble, is it Dad?” Aidos said, turning away from the stove and pulling up another chair.

  “Well, honey,” he said, “if you really wanted the books…”

  “Oh, I’d like to have them all right, but I can do without if it means having to scramble back and forth to town every two weeks like a crazed squirrel.”

  “She likes going to town even less than I do,” Mr. Thoreson explained.

  “Why is that, dear?” Ms. Winters asked.

  “I’m a busy girl,” Aidos boasted. “Besides, where would you rather spend a morning or an afternoon—there or here?” She spread her arms as if to embrace the entire mountain.

  “How about you?” Mr. Thoreson asked. “Have you always lived here?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m from Boston originally. I moved to Pinecrest about five years ago. My sister lived here. I took her place running the library after she passed away. And it has been nothing but trouble ever since too.”

  “It’s a fine library,” Aidos said. “You should be proud.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She looked down at her thin, spotted hands that were folded politely on her lap. “It is rather lovely, all in all…”

  Mr. Thoreson said, “Have you always been a librarian?”

  “Pshaw,” she snorted. “I knew next to nothing about running a library before coming here. No, for most of my life I was a French teacher at an all-girls school in New England.”

  “Is that so?” Mr. Thoreson said. “May I ask did you ever marry?”

  “Three times.”

  “What became of them all?” Aidos asked.

  “Dear, you don’t really want to know, do you? I warn you, young lady, get a garrulous old woman like me started talking and she’ll yap your ear right off.”

  Hardy chuckled, Aidos pleaded, and the event-filled story of Miss Virginia Winters began.

  She told how she met her first husband—a struggling playwright—while studying overseas, but the marriage lasted only two years. She was young, just eighteen, and had fallen in love with his romantic nature and idealism. Upon their return to the States, however, his charm withered and his Romanticism turned out to be nothing but a murky mix of Marxism and existential ennui. He became increasingly cold, calculating, and mean-spirited.

  “He severed his mind from his bloodstream,” the old woman said. “No warmth, no heart, no compassion. He was disillusioned, and disappointed in the world, but so what? Was he the only person in the world with troubles? I say not! And so I left him. The last I heard of him he was in jail for fraud, but that was some thirty years ago.”

  She met her second husband, Joe, while on vacation in California. He died in the Vietnam War. She loved him best and never got over the loss. He was neither intellectual nor artistic, “Just a plain Joe.” But he was hard working and knew how to make her laugh. She said that the few short years they were together were the happiest of her life.

  She waited another fifteen years before meeting and marrying her third husband, a wealthy businessman who was ten years her senior. She loved him in a sisterly way. “He was a gentleman. Kind, giving—the best friend I ever had.” He died in his sleep about a month before he was going to retire and sell his business so that they could sail around the world.

  “His children never accepted me,” she recounted, “and made quite a fuss when it came to dividing up his estate. I felt sad and lonely and was disgusted by their insensitivity. I didn’t feel like fighting with them. I let them have all that they wanted. They left me some worthless stocks and bonds, and then I never heard from any of them again. Perhaps I should have been tougher, but money was never that important to me. I was still teaching at the private school. I could support myself. I just wanted to get on with my life with as little commotion as possible.”

  They chatted through the morning, until Ms. Winters glanced about the room in search of a clock. But there were no clocks.

  “How do you know what time it is in this place?”

  Aidos glanced out the window. “It’s lunch time,” she said.

  “About twelve-thirty, I’d say,” Mr. Thoreson guessed.

  “Oh my, I must be going.” She stood, and peeking around the corner into the den, let out a chuckle. “You really do like to keep to yourselves. No television, no phone, no clocks. Have you even a radio?”

  “Should we?” Aidos asked.

  “Well, I don’t know. Most people do.”

  Mr. Thoreson said, “We’re not most people.”

  “No, you’re clearly not.” The old woman smiled. “Would you mind if I came visiting again sometime?”

  “You have to,” Aidos said. “I want to hear more of your stories.”

  “Anytime,” Mr. Thoreson said.

  They walked Ms. Winters out to her car, and Hardy opened the door for her.

  “Oh, by the way…” Ms. Winters said, leaning into the car and reaching across the seat. She dragged out a heavy tote bag. “Here my dear, keep them as long as you like. If there are any other books you want, just tell me and I’ll bring them to you, okay?”

  “Thank you, Ms. Winters! I’ll make a list!”

  The librarian handed Aidos the bag, and she skipped away with her treasure into the house.

  “She’s darling,” Ms. Winters said. “So fresh and alive. So pretty and clever. I’ve never met anyone quite like her.” She hesitated. “May I ask where her mother is?”

  “She was killed by a drunk driver when Aidos was five,” Hardy answered. “Julie went to the city to finish up some business related to our move. On the way home she was hit head on.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ms. Winters said, her hand at her lips. “It seems so unfair…”

  Mr. Thoreson n
odded. “It was Julie who insisted that we move up here. She was adamant about it; as if she knew something that I didn’t; and that the future of the world depended upon it. You never met a more stubborn woman than my wife. When Julie got something in her head there was no stopping her. She made her mind up before Aidos was even born. She said she had dreams about it. We must have looked at a dozen cabins before this one—all of which I thought were much nicer—but as soon as we pulled up here she said that this was it, without even looking inside. And let me tell you, it was a dump. She was funny like that. I never fully understood her. Methodical and levelheaded one day; spontaneous and idealistic the next. I was nuts about her.”

  “I’m sure she would have been proud of you both,” the old woman said, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  “Aidos is happy here. Julie was right about that. And she is a remarkable girl. Julie was right about that too. Still, I often think that if we hadn’t come here Julie would still be alive.”

  “But you couldn’t possibly have known that,” Virginia said.

  “No, of course not, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking it. Nor that I should have stopped her from traveling that weekend. It was Memorial Day weekend for God’s sake.”

  “But honestly, Mr. Thoreson, it was an accident. Accidents happen. They can happen to anyone.”

  Hardy let out a droll, ironic chuckle. “Well,” he said, “that’s one thing Julie was wrong about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She said she didn’t believe in accidents.”

  8

  An Impenetrable Shield

  Ms. Winters began to visit the Thoreson’s home two or three evenings a week. Father, daughter, and friend would have a simple dinner together, talk about books and life in the woods, and listen to more anecdotes from Virginia Winters’ life. She also began tutoring Aidos in French. The old woman quickly realized that the girl had a knack for languages and possessed a near photographic memory. By the time their friendship was a year old, Aidos could already converse with ease in French about most any subject. Before she was twelve, she was also fluent in Spanish, another language in which Ms. Winters was conversant. Then came Italian and Portuguese. Aidos also studied Hebrew and Latin—for fun.

  Together the two of them would take evening strolls, chatting away in French, then Spanish, then back to French. Ms. Winters learned early on that she couldn’t talk down to the girl. Aidos required no babysitting, flattery, or insincere comments of any kind. They stood on equal ground, and the more of herself Virginia Winters revealed, the more she learned about Aidos.

  It was a relief to Ms. Winters that she did not have to pose as worldly and wise. Although she had been around a lot longer and carried with her a lifetime’s experience, both bitter and sweet, she could draw few conclusions from any of it. Aidos never asked for advice and Virginia gave her none. What could she tell Aidos that she didn’t already seem to know? If anyone had something to learn, Virginia Winters thought, it was Virginia Winters.

  Aidos noticed things, and through her the old librarian began to notice things too. Life sprang up before the girl’s footsteps like grasshoppers, and wherever Aidos led Virginia, nature lit up and became more animated, as if by the hit of a switch. The girl seemed able to coax everything into conversation—trees, plants, the moon and stars, and especially animals. When their friendship was three years old, Ms. Winters joked that Aidos was fluent in four languages: English, French, Spanish, and Nature.

  Sometimes Mr. Thoreson joined them on their evening strolls. Together the three waded into the thinning light and the sweet vapors of the forest floor, often thinking little or nothing. They watched, observed, and waited with the knowledge that at any moment something strange and wonderful would occur. For Hardy and Virginia, it was Aidos herself who was usually the source of their surprise. On a recent and particularly sublime evening, she turned to them and with an inspired smile said, “Life is perpetual inchoation, and we are immortality’s mortal moment!”

  Virginia adored the girl, but she worried about her too. Clearly Aidos was happy, but for how long, she wondered, could she, should she, remain apart from the rest of society? Eventually Aidos would have to join the human race, wouldn’t she? And what then? Hardy never spoke of the girl’s future, and Virginia never more than hinted at the question; a hint that Mr. Thoreson always chose to ignore.

  Hardy Thoreson, however, had been thinking and planning for the inevitable for years. Unlike himself, the social engineers and grease monkeys had not tampered with his daughter. There was no oil in her veins; no plastic or mechanical parts controlling her thought and movements. The machine had yet to find the girl and gobble her up. But it was coming, and her father felt it was his job to see that Aidos was ready when it arrived.

  Hardy knew his daughter was wrestling with big questions; struggling to make sense of the threads of knowledge and experience that she relentlessly pursued. These threads, he believed, were the same ones that the stubby, clumsy fingers of theologians, philosophers, and psychologists have forever tried to weave together into some pat, but ultimately unlivable theory. He too had tried, but despairingly discovered that his hands were as arthritic as the rest.

  But it wasn’t too late for his daughter. Aidos had a chance. She was not jaded. Her mind was nimble and uncallused. She was oblivious to any limits of possibility—circumscribed by neither society’s nor her own expectations. She was, he thought, the freest being on earth.

  Hardy Thoreson knew he could not protect Aidos forever. She would have to learn to protect herself. He had given his daughter time and space and love, but society was a vicious, many-headed monster. In order to defend herself from its spiked teeth, Aidos needed something godlike—a special kind of courage that allowed her to stand within herself like an impenetrable shield. He couldn’t give her that sort of courage. He knew he lacked it himself. But he believed he knew a way she might find and develop it. The question became—and it frightened him terribly—would his way prove deadlier than the enemy he hoped for her to evade?

  9

  Girl Hunting

  “I don’t know who the girl is,” Max Stormer said, tipping a large cup of ice to his mouth. “All I know is I spotted her and a big dog up on the hill a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve seen them there four times since.” He crunched down on the ice. “I don’t know how long she’s been watching us.”

  “What does she look like?” Steve Hanson asked from across the table. “Hey, you guys, quit hogging!” He swatted at a pair of hands that reached greedily for some fries in the center of the table.

  “I bought ‘em,” Randy Dawson protested feebly.

  “All I could tell was that she had long hair. Down to about here…” Max twisted, and with a chop of his hand pointed to the middle of his back.

  “She got big hooters?” snorted Alex Humphreys, who was sitting next to Max.

  “I told you that I didn’t get a good look at her.”

  It was a bright Saturday afternoon, and after a morning of video games at the local arcade, the group of friends had decided to hang out at the Dairy Queen to pass a couple of hours shooting the bull while they sucked down colas and munched on fries and onion rings. The four small plastic booths in the restaurant were filled with the rest of the gang doing the same thing.

  “Maybe she’s a spy,” Randy said.

  “A spy,” Steve repeated, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. What’s there to spy on?”

  “Well, she could be from Morningcreek or Stillwoods, or some other school checking out our team.”

  “Maybe if it was football season,” Steve said, “but this is baseball and we suck at baseball. Besides, the season is nearly over.”

  Alex said, “Maybe the girl has the hots for one of us?”

  It was a tantalizing idea, but too good to be true. As much as they wanted to believe it, they couldn’t. And even if it were the case, the boys figured it would be Max the girl was scoping out anyway. The girls alwa
ys went for Max.

  Randy tried again. “Could be there’s more of them up there,” he said. “Remember after that game with Morningcreek? They said they were going to kick our asses. Maybe they’re just trying to lure us up there.”

  “You’re all nuts,” Max said, knocking the rest of the ice into his mouth. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Alex said, “Well, I think we should check her out.”

  “Me too,” Randy said.

  “I am sort of curious,” Steve said, grabbing up the last fry.

  Max looked at the eager faces, shook his head and chuckled.

  “Come on,” Alex said. “It’ll be fun!”

  The others nodded in agreement and looked to Max with hope-filled eyes. They all believed that it was up to Max whether they were going to do anything about it.

  Indifferent, but amused, Max said, “Anyone got a plan?”

  His friends cheered and Alex stood up and waved the rest of the gang over to huddle up.

  The plan was not an elaborate one. They couldn’t rush the hill head on because by the time they arrived at the top, whoever was up there would have had plenty of time to get away or get ready, whichever the case might be. They decided they would wait until school let out, and then instead of leaving the building from the back, which meant crossing the playing fields, they would file out the front, form two flanks, and then race up the sides of the hill to sandwich whoever was up there between them.

  Twice that week the girl showed up but both times she did not hang around long enough for school to end, which only excited the already antsy youths all the more. Steve had given them strict orders not to let on that they knew she was there, but to just ignore her and “act your usual retarded selves.” His friends found this difficult to do. It wasn’t long before one kid or another was reporting how he saw at least four or five figures moving around on top of the hill, until by the middle of the second week the boys were sure that a veritable army was waiting for them there.