But it wasn’t the usual imaginary daylight Miss Ruth saw through her window that night. It was Sophie—wearing a rain slicker and hurrying down the edge of the street before bolting across it and disappearing out toward the marsh.
What on earth is she up to? Running around at all hours? Miss Ruth smiled, and suddenly, she didn’t mind at all that she was not able to fall asleep.
Sophie was nearly at the big palm when the moon arose over the treetops, and she didn’t need a flashlight anymore to lead her to where Miss Anne had told her to leave the bottles of water for Mr. Oto to find. But when she reached the tree at last, she noticed the narrow path through the palmettos, and without a moment of hesitation, she followed it, knowing that at the very end of it, he would be waiting.
In the dark cabin, Mr. Oto slept, dreaming that he was tending the flowers in his father’s garden and with the warm California sun glowing against his back. His grandmother was standing in front of where he was working in the flower beds, and he could see her feet encased in tiny, brocaded shoes, and he heard her saying, “. . . so that the great crane turned into a beautiful bride who came to the old woodcutter’s hut to bring him love and good fortune.’’
Then, in the dream, he stood and looked past her tiny shoulders to the snow-covered land where the great cranes were dancing with their wings spread wide and their heads pointed toward the heavens. The great, horned feet prancing and dancing in the pure snow and the red streaks on their heads against the white snow and the white feathers like silent fireworks.
One lone crane, a female with no mate, separated herself from the dancing flock and walked toward him slowly. Majestic head held high. And the deep eyes gazing at him out of the glare of winter sun.
But even in his sleep, Mr. Oto knew of the movement of the blanket nailed over the open doorway, and he sat up, half-asleep and looking at where the Crane-Wife stood, gazing down at him and with the beam of a bright light coming from her eyes to illuminate the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-three
When Sophie pushed aside the blanket from the open doorway of the cabin and shone the flashlight inside, she was completely startled by Mr. Oto’s face directly in its beam, even though she knew he would be there. But nothing could have prepared her for this face.
Certainly, this was the same kind and gentle face, but now wreathed in a glow of childlike wonder. If ever she had doubted him, that doubt dissipated now. This was, most assuredly, not the face of an enemy. Not in any way.
She stood silently in the confirmed gladness, looking at the way his hand reached toward her, a gesture that at one time both broke her heart and gladdened it.
Such a gesture she had seen only once before, when her Aunt Minnie had called to her in the middle of one night and Sophie had gone to her room, anticipating that she would be disoriented and confused, as she usually was. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, Aunt Minnie was in one of her last lucid states that Sophia could remember, and she held out her hand to Sophie in just such a way. And Sophie had sat on the side of her bed while they talked and laughed together for hours.
“I know what you’ve been doing,” Aunt Minnie laughed, looking sideways, the way she always did when she was teasing, instead of that full-face stare with nothing behind her eye.
“What have I been doing?”
“It’s the birds,” she answered. “In the pantry.”
“What about them?”
“You didn’t throw them out like I told you to do.”
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“You put then all in a box, though.”
“Yes ma’am. I did that.”
“Why didn’t you throw them out?”
“Because they were Mama’s.”
“They weren’t your mama’s,” she said emphatically. “Birds don’t belong to anyone except to themselves; throw them out. Find something that will last.”
“You have come.” His voice was so soft that she barely heard it, almost as if the words were those he was afraid to speak.
“Yes, I have come,” she answered, moving into the room and carefully replacing the blanket back over the doorway while he lit the kerosene lantern and its comforting light filled the inside of the cabin.
“Did you see it?” he asked.
But she didn’t even hear the question, for her eyes had fallen upon the painting of the Crane-Wife. And she was face-to-face with the pale, slender arms and the smooth, unlined face. Herself. So that was the mysterious painting he did not think was worthy for her to see! And was that beautiful lady in it truly her? Is that the way he saw her? Like that? It was almost more than she could comprehend.
Very slowly it became obvious to her—and with no doubt whatsoever—that this painting had been created by an artist who deeply loved his subject. Undeniable truth.
Love portrayed, too, in the powerful, sensual image of the huge bird behind her in the painting, its wings spread out in imitation of her own arms, and each wispy feather captured in paint against the deeper green of the shadows and the palmettos near the live oak tree.
“Did you see it?” he repeated.
“The painting?” Sophie whispered, still gazing at it, taking into her own being everything that was in the heart of the artist. How could I not have known? she wondered.
“No, not the painting,” he replied. “The great crane itself. It’s right outside. I saw it only a little while ago.’’
Sophie waited before answering. “Nothing is outside,” she finally said, but she didn’t know what her words were.
“Well, it’s gone again, then,” Mr. Oto said. Then he added, “But you are here.’’
Sophie tried to look at him, but her eyes refused to move from the painting. “It’s very, very beautiful,” she whispered finally.
“You don’t mind?” The question was a very old one, worn smooth around the edges from having been in his thoughts for so long.
“I don’t mind,” she whispered. Then, “What is the bird?’’
“The great crane. From outside, tonight. But earlier, from Miss Anne’s own garden,” he said. “And before that, from the land of my father’s ancestors. And a very old story about happiness.” He did not add and love. Because he didn’t have to. She knew. He could tell—she knew.
For long minutes, neither of them said anything else. Sophie gazed at the painting until she had imprinted its every element into her being forever. In complete silence he waited, until at last, she turned her eyes upon his. And for the first time, she could identify what was in their depths—and it was the most incredible thing, something she hardly knew how to recognize. But recognize it, she certainly did.
Remembering then all the way back to her childhood, where she sat on the foot of Miss Anne’s bed, watching her making tatted edges for the pillowcases in her hope chest, and asking, “How do you know if he loves you?”
“Oh, I know,” Miss Anne had answered.
“But how?” Sophie had persisted.
“I can see it in his eyes.’’
But until that day so many years later and in the old fishing cabin, Sophie had not understood. Now, she was looking right at it—the incredible thing she could never have described to anyone, or understood from what anyone else said about it.
“Have I offended you?” His voice came through the fog of memory.
“Oh, no. You haven’t offended me in the least,” Sophie said. “But you have surprised me.’’
‘‘I know,’’ he answered. “I would rather that you had not seen it.’’
“Why?”
Sophie’s question was genuine. And more than just a question about the painting itself.
“I think perhaps it tells too much—about what I have no right to feel.’’
To this, Sophie did not answer. For she was watching the new feeling deep inside her, also something that, perhaps, she had no right to feel, either.
“How is it you have come here?�
� he asked, seeing that she had curled inward, toward her own being, and also knowing that it had been enough, what was said between them. For now, at least. “How did you know where I was?” he asked.
“Miss Anne told me. She hurt her ankle and has to stay off it for a while, but it’s nothing serious. And she trusted me with the secret. I’m so glad she did.’’
“It is a trust well placed,” he said. “What she—and now you have done for me is probably a very dangerous thing.’’
“Yes, I understand that now,” Sophie answered. “I’ve read the papers and listened to the radio. I know all about the rage people are feeling and about the fear everyone has of the... of your people.’’
“I assure you as I did Miss Anne,” he said carefully. “I am an American.’’
“I know.” Sophie smiled at him, feeling yet another surge of relief. Not the enemy. Not this man. Not this man who loved her.
Somehow, it was all becoming more than she could think about, so that she felt as if she were dividing into two—like an amoeba—one cell of her wanting nothing more than to be with him forever; the other crying for solitude so that she could taste this most delicious reality. Every wonderful drop of it. Feel every feeling. Taste every joy.
“Here, this is for you.” She remembered the outward purpose of her trip to the cabin and drew forth the bottles of fresh water, holding them out to him. “Miss Anne said you would need these right away. And when I come again, I’ll bring more.’’
He took the bottles from her as if he were receiving a great gift, and his hands touched hers and did not draw away. For a long moment, he held her by the barest touch of his hands and with his great, dark eyes.
Chapter Twenty-four
Miss Anne said:
Sophie came back to see me the first chance she had the very next day, as I knew she would do, to let me know if she had found the big palm. But of course, she had to wait until Ruth and all her whole entourage had made their daily call, with Big Sally stomping around, being just as unpleasant as she dared to be and enjoying every minute of it.
And the whole time, I was thinking that Ruth was looking at me in a very strange way. But she never said a thing, except for the usual chitchat. And of course, I was all caught up in thinking of Mr. Oto and wondering if Sophie had found the big palm after all.
Finally, finally, the ladies all left—with Ruth casting one more of her strange glances at me—and then I began waiting for Sophie to come. It would have been so much easier if I could have used the phone, but of course, it was all the way down the hall.
Once again, I knew for a fact when it was Sophie knocking at my door because Big Sally was really quite pleasant to her—and even pleasant to me, too, the whole time Sophie was there with me.
“He’s fine.” Sophie smiled around the words, after she closed the bedroom door and pulled the chair up close to my bed. Once again, I noticed how pretty she looked. But no time for thinking about that.
“You saw him?” I asked, somewhat surprised and wondering how on earth she could find the old cabin what with only those few directions I had given to her.
“I saw him,” she answered, and she looked me right in the eyes and never wavered her gaze in the least little bit.
“And he’s okay?” I asked, because her steady gaze made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, and I had to say something.
“He’s fine... except... well, he says he’s seen some kind of crane, and I’m not sure he really has.”
“Well, I expect he has, what with his being right there by the river.”
“Not like the cranes around here,” Sophie said. “This one is very large, with great wings and a bright red crest.”
“No, I’ve never heard of one like that,” I admitted. “Have you seen it?”
“I’ve seen a painting he did of it,” Sophie said, and for some reason, her cheeks reddened. “I didn’t see the crane myself, but he told me he first saw it in your own garden.”
I was thinking then. About the time when Mr. Oto told me the story of the crane who became a bride for the old woodcutter. And told me how he thought he saw such a crane in my garden.
“He said he thought he saw something like that one time,” I said. “But I didn’t see it.”
“Perhaps he’s only imagining it,” Sophie suggested—rather reluctantly, I thought.
“Perhaps.” After all, Mr. Oto himself had said there was just such a possibility. But there was something else I had on my mind by then, for I still had not told her what needed to be said.
“You haven’t asked me anything about Mr. Oto. Not really,” I said, finally.
“I don’t need to.” Sophia answered back so quickly that I knew she’d already turned over all the possibilities in her mind.
“So you do know how important it is that no one sees you go there?’’
“I understand,” she said.
Still, I was worried about it. Just seemed to me as if Sophie wasn’t thinking all that clearly. But I decided I needn’t worry about it—not right away, at least—for, after all, she wouldn’t be going again until the next Sunday night.
So that was all we said about it. We both knew everything there was to know. And I still, to this day, think it was awfully good of Sophie to go all that way and even find the cabin itself. To make sure that Mr. Oto was all right. And I certainly felt better, after that, knowing that someone was looking out for him. I just wanted her to be careful. And I’d certainly remind her of that—before the next Sunday.
Chapter Twenty-five
But just as Sophie had asked no questions of Miss Anne, likewise, Miss Anne had asked no questions of Sophie either, for which Sophie was grateful. Because she had not left the cabin until very late—or very early, depending upon how you thought of it. In fact, as she hurried back into town, the first pale shades of dawn were barely visible in the night sky. And how would that look if anyone saw her? Especially snoopy old ladies like Miss Ruth? Old ladies who always want to think the worst. Think there was something dirty about it.
They would never believe that Sophie and Mr. Oto had spent the long, lovely night just sitting close together in the soft glow of the kerosene lantern, sometimes talking, but more often simply listening together to the sounds of the night creatures and then the barely perceptible gurgle of the river as the tide changed in the ocean. The high tide sent a ripple of water back up the river to swirl against the mangrove roots and slap against the eroded banks. Almost music, the rhythmic sounds of the night.
To all this, they had listened together, with the portrait gazing at them. And they had held each other’s hands until the lamp burned low and Sophie knew that the morning would soon come.
Somehow, without her stirring or saying a word, he knew that she must go. And it was then that he spoke. “Will you come again? Tonight?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered simply. And it made everything right. When she hurried back along the road in the early, early light, it was the only thing on her mind.
After Sophie left Miss Anne’s house, she went home, and even though she expected to feel quite sleepy, there was some kind of an exhilarated energy in her, so that she could not rest. Instead, she fried a chicken to golden tenderness and baked a pan full of biscuits. By the time she had finished, washed and dried all the dishes, and wrapped the chicken carefully in waxed paper and put it in the refrigerator, her cheeks were a bright pink from the heat of the kitchen.
Strange, she thought. For the weather to have turned so warm.
Later, she went into the bedroom, pulled the shades down against the early afternoon sun, turned back the bedspread, and stretched out with only the cool sheet covering her. She didn’t expect to fall asleep, but she did. Almost instantly.
And the dream was waiting for her—came upon her with a force that exhilarated her and left her strangely unafraid. A dream so real that she could feel the wind full on her face, lifting her hair. A swirling and fickle wind that first pushed and then pulled her so t
hat her feet in the silent sand moved in a mindless dance that pulled her only slowly toward the edge of the underbrush where she saw the minuscule crease of sand between the palmettos. Drunkenly, she approached it, both fearing and loving the darkness. And once inside the thicket, she felt her face glowing in the sudden stillness.
At first, she only sensed the presence of the great crane. Breathed in the musty, warm aroma of its healthy feathers. When he finally stopped forth in the full majesty and fragile beauty of all nature, he was so wonderful a creature that she could hardly breathe.
He fixed her with his great dark eyes and then slowly drew himself to his full height, the eyes beginning to glow a deep and soft violet in the darkness. The great wings lifted out bit by bit, and he came toward her, still holding her with his eyes. Finally, he was so close that she could reach out to touch the snowy breast, to feel the strong, warm feathers and look into the eyes that shone a deep and glowing purple.
Wings that came forward, deep pinions and shoulder blades of the wing bones embracing, and the eyes willing her—until impossibly!—her shoulders, still tenderly cradled by the great wings, touched the warm sand. The crane bending over her in an arc of love.
She awakened slowly, to the lovely ache deep within her and the warm film of perspiration on her skin like a veil. Surprised that the room was so warm—how strange, in mid-December!—she threw back the sheet, and the aroma that filled the room was the perfume of her own awakened body.
It was almost midnight when Sophie slipped out of the house, once again wearing the rain slicker, but this time with one pocket laden with paper-wrapped cold fried chicken and the other with biscuits. The air was surprisingly still—muggy and oppressive as she hurried along the silent street, and farther along, under the great trees along the sandy lane at the other end of town, she noticed how very still the night air was, with the Spanish moss hanging in limp hanks. And such a silence over everything, so that not a creature even scurried in the underbrush as she hurried past.
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