The Tale of Halcyon Crane

by Webb, Wendy

  In an instant, I was in this house, standing in the kitchen. There, I saw Hannah in her nightdress, her hair wild, her eyes searching, her lips mouthing words that found no sound. I stood at the window, watching her wandering outside in the rain, rubbing her hands together as though washing away blood.

  Finally, I saw her stride purposefully toward the cliff: No, Hannah! I screamed it out, running toward her, but of course she couldn’t hear me. I wasn’t part of these scenes, I was only observing them. I could do nothing but watch as she stood on the edge of the cliff and simply leaned forward, falling in slow motion and hitting the ground below with a thud, a slumped and broken form, limbs splayed this way and that, lying in nearly the same spot where they had found her girls, years earlier.

  I opened my eyes and found myself lying on the chaise in the sunroom. I sat up and shook my head, trying to make sense of what I had just seen. Photos were strewn about; the box I had been exploring was on its side on the floor. Had I fallen asleep? Had I dreamed everything?

  Later, over dinner with Will, I opened one of the albums. “My grandfather,” I told him, showing him a photo of Charles with his animals.

  He studied it, a slight smile on his face. “You know, I remember him quite well. Of course he was much older than this.”

  “He was still alive when we were kids?” This hadn’t occurred to me.

  Will nodded. “Everybody on the island trusted their horses to your grandfather, in addition to their household pets and livestock.”

  “Iris said he had a knack for relating to animals, even at a very young age. Apparently he didn’t talk until he was five years old, and then one day he just started speaking in complete sentences.” I left out the part about the cougar.

  Will took my hand. “You’re really enjoying hearing all of these stories about your family, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. He didn’t know the half of it. “It means the world to me.” I closed the album, then. I could languish in my ancestors’ pasts with Iris, but with Will, I desired nothing but the here-and-now.

  · 22

  Monday morning, after breakfast, Iris appeared at the back door.

  “Will Archer says he knew Charles,” I announced.

  Iris nodded. “Of course. Everyone on the island knew him. But Charles was an old man by that time. There’s much more to tell about his life up until then.”

  With that tease of things to come, Iris set about her cleaning. I knew the story would have to wait until her work was done, around lunchtime, so I pulled on a jacket I found hanging by the back door and made my way outside and down the back stairs to the barn. I hadn’t yet been inside it. The horses were still with Madlyn’s neighbors; I had felt I had enough to deal with without learning the particulars of caring for horses, too. Now I pushed open the side door, and as it closed behind me I found myself nearly overcome by the sweet smell of hay. The barn was dark, but light was streaming in through the windows above the loft, illuminating the dust floating in the air this way and that. In the corner sat a woman’s bicycle with a basket on the handlebars: a few years old, but not ancient. It must have been my mother’s, I thought; the tires were still inflated. What a perfect way to get around the island! Deciding to take it for a spin, I wheeled it outside into the sunshine, hopped on the seat, and pedaled out to the main road.

  I didn’t feel like going down into town—the climb back up the hill to the house would be daunting on a bike—so I turned the opposite way and set off. The houses grew farther and farther apart until they ended altogether, and I found myself riding through the countryside. I love all seasons, but late fall is especially beautiful to me—the leaves have already said their spectacular goodbyes for the year, trees stand ready for the chill to come, everything else is browned and yellowed and dry. It is the time before the death of winter and the rebirth brought by spring.

  Soon I rode into a forest of enormous cedar and red pine trees, towering high above my head. I spied an overgrown dirt path leading from the road deeply into the woods and remembered Iris’s description—was this possibly the way to Summer Glen? I steered my bike onto the path and pedaled slowly through the sweet-smelling trees, sunshine stubbornly poking its way between their great limbs.

  The path opened up into a grassy field ringed by enormous ancient trees and covered with unlikely wildflowers: lupines, daisies, poppies, and tangles of wild rose bushes. What were they doing in bloom here, at this time of year? I noticed overgrown low-lying foliage I couldn’t identify, smelled the heady mixture of their perfumes as I set the bike’s kickstand on the ground to explore the area on foot. I saw the crumbled remnants of an ancient fireplace, on what seemed to be the flat clearing for a house, and suspected I had indeed found Summer Glen.

  This is fantastic, I thought, as I held my breath and walked gingerly through the glen, not wanting to make any noise to stir up the memories that surely resided there. I closed my eyes and tried to use my “gift,” as Iris called it, and almost immediately I saw before me the images of wealthy society ladies sneaking their way here, cloaks covering their faces, each hoping Martine would work her magic for them. I thought of my great-grandmother, so desperate for a child that she’d turn to witchcraft to conceive one. My eyes grew wide as the thought hit me: None of us would have been born—not Charles, not my mother, not me—if not for the concoction Martine had given Hannah, right here on this spot.

  I heard a voice, whispering in my ear: Children conceived out of witchcraft are witches themselves, as are their children and their children’s children. I thought of Charles’s otherworldly way with animals; was that his form of witchcraft? And what about these “visions” of mine?

  Suddenly, I felt as though I wasn’t alone. Something—no, a lot of somethings—swirled in the air around me, brushing at me, nudging me. It was as if I were in the middle of a tornado of spirits. I ran toward the bike, but the rosebushes grew up to block my path, reaching and grabbing at me with their gnarled branches. I pushed my way through the brambles, the skin on my arms and legs tearing on the thorns until I reached the bike, hopped on, and pedaled away as fast as I could. When I was safely inside the cedar forest, I braked to look at my arms and legs, which I assumed would be ripped raw and bleeding from the thorns. But I didn’t find so much as a scratch.

  I pedaled toward home, wondering what, if anything, had happened in that glen.

  · 23

  You’ve been to the glen,” Iris stated, pulling a chicken-and-broccoli casserole out of the oven just as I burst through the back door.

  I nodded, bending low to catch my breath. My leg muscles were throbbing and my throat was parched. I filled up a glass with cold water and drank it all in one gulp.

  “You mustn’t go back there, not yet.” Iris had a stern look in her eyes.

  “What is it about that place, anyway?” I asked, filling my water glass again and brushing the wet hair from my face. “I felt like . . .” My words trailed off. “I don’t know what I felt like.” I eyed the casserole, suddenly famished. After what I had just been through, I wanted only to immerse myself in the safety and familiarity of one of Iris’s tales. I settled into my chair, took a bite of the steaming casserole, and listened as she cleared her throat and began to speak.

  “After Hannah’s death, life went on here in the house. We had a very companionable existence for the next few years. Charles built a thriving business while I ran the household, supervising a staff of three. I’d have breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the table for Charles every day. He had grown into such a fine man.

  “Of course, he never stopped mourning his beloved mother and father. I believe that’s what drew him to Amelia, the woman who would become your grandmother. I thought she bore a striking resemblance to Hannah; they had the same fiery eyes.

  “Amelia’s parents—a wealthy Irish couple from Chicago by the name of Fister—had built a vacation home on the island several years earlier. Charles had a bit of contact with the Fister family over the years; he had seen
Amelia once or twice and never thought much about her. But the year Hannah died, Amelia came to the island with her parents. Her father, no fool, hoped to interest the handsome, rich, and single veterinarian in his daughter, so he arranged a party where they could be introduced.

  “When she came to the house a few days later carrying a sick cat, I tried to send her away. I knew why she was really here. But she was too smart for me. She took it upon herself to find Charles in the barn.”

  Iris’s eyes became black and cloudy at the thought of Amelia, which made me wonder: Had she been in love with Charles all those years? Yes, she had been his nanny, but she was barely a decade older. It was plausible. So I said, “Iris, you haven’t said much about yourself in your stories of this family. Did you ever marry?”

  “Marry?” she spat. “My life was here, in this house, taking care of the Hill family. There was neither time for nor thought of marriage for me.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Never mind me. It wasn’t long before Charles and Amelia were married. She was a thin, slight woman with short dark hair and deep blue eyes. She liked to wear trousers, something many women of the time didn’t do, and she was quite athletic, enjoying golf and tennis and a walk with Charles and whatever animals happened to be on hand in the afternoons. When she came into this house as Charles’s wife, I let her know right away that I was head of the household staff. I told her what was what and how the house was run. I was the one who had taken care of him all of these years, I was the one who was here when Simeon died and poor Hannah lost her mind. I was the one who had cooked his meals and washed his clothes.”

  I saw a fierce determination in Iris’s eyes then, and the familiar darkening that shrouded her face when she was angry. She had loved him. It sent a chill through me. I did not envy Amelia, coming into this house and facing Iris.

  “Of course, everything changed,” Iris went on bitterly. “Our quiet, simple existence was obliterated. In the evenings, Charles used to enjoy reading in the study. I would bring him his tea and perhaps sit with him awhile, doing my needlepoint. All this ended when Amelia arrived. She was an overly talkative, grossly exuberant person. Charles became more outgoing than I had ever seen him, always laughing and smiling, especially when she was around. He was in love with her, anyone could see that.”

  I heard the resignation in Iris’s voice.

  “It was all a whirlwind of parties, dinners, travel, and people until the day she told him their lives were about to change yet again. I was busying myself making my mother’s cabbage rolls for dinner. I remember it plain as day.”

  I could smell the simmering cabbage as she spoke, a curl of smoke rising from the heat of the stove.

  “ ‘Oh, Iris,’ she said to me, as she rushed into the kitchen, breathless. ‘Do you know where my husband is?’ She was bursting with news, her eyes sparkling in anticipation. Of course, I knew immediately what it was.

  “ ‘You are with child,’ I said to her matter-of-factly, stirring the rolls.

  “She looked at me with wide eyes. ‘Yes! I am! I’ve just come from the doctor. How did you know?’

  “Ridiculous girl. Any fool could’ve seen it. ‘Charles is in the barn,’ I told her, and watched her run out the back door. I did not see her fall.”

  Iris stopped talking while a wicked smile crossed her face for just an instant, replaced quickly by a countenance of concern and caring.

  “She fell?” I prodded. “Where, on the way to the barn? But it’s just flat ground between here and there.”

  Iris shook her head as she continued her tale. “Somehow, she found her way to the cliff side.”

  “You mean to tell me she fell from the cliff? How did that happen?”

  “I have no idea,” Iris replied. “The last thing I heard, she was on her way to the barn to tell her husband she was with child.”

  “She died?” Why did Iris’s stories, no matter how lovely and benign at the start, always seem to take a sinister turn?

  “No,” Iris explained. “Remember, child, Amelia was your grandmother, Madlyn’s mother. She did not die at the bottom of the cliff that day. Charles found her. She was alive, but the baby had perished.

  “After that, Charles treated his wife like a china doll, as you might expect. If I thought he doted on her before, it was nothing compared to the way he became. He expected me, along with the rest of the staff, to wait on her hand and foot. Which of course we did.” Iris sniffed at this; I could see her resentment bubbling just under the surface.

  “Within a few months, she was on the nest again, so to speak.”

  “That time, she carried the baby to full term, right? That was Madlyn?” But even as I said it, I knew I was wrong.

  Iris shook her head. “All of Charles’s attentiveness wasn’t enough to stop her from tumbling down the stairs one night.”

  “You’re kidding me. She fell again?”

  “She did,” Iris confirmed, adding slyly, “It was the middle of the night, and apparently she had been sleepwalking. She fell down the front staircase. Accident-prone, that one.”

  But I didn’t think Amelia was accident-prone. It seemed to me that someone or something had pushed her. The girls? As if that wasn’t dark enough, a darker thought crossed my mind. I saw an image of Iris creeping about at the top of the darkened stairway.

  “Iris, you didn’t—” I was too afraid to finish the thought.

  She silenced me with a harsh look and continued her tale.

  “Amelia did a great deal of crying during those years after losing two babies. It was Charles who gave her the strength to keep going, to keep trying. If he hadn’t been so gentle and kind, your mother might never have been born.”

  Iris set her teacup on the table with an air of finality. “I will come again tomorrow,” she said, after studying my face as though she was looking for something. “You were interested in hearing the stories of your greatgrandparents and your grandparents, to be sure, but I can see that you are much more anxious to hear about your mother.”

  She gathered up her things, a tattered old purse and an umbrella, and was gone. It was an hour or so after she left that I realized. Iris had begun her tale where my vision in the sunroom had left off.

  · 24

  I hopped onto the bike and rode down into town. Once the spell Iris was weaving with her storytelling was broken, I felt like some real-world companionship. I coasted to a stop in front of Jonah’s coffee shop.

  “Hey.” He smiled at me as I walked into the otherwise empty shop. “Glad you’re here. I owe you a latte.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I said, climbing onto a counter stool, looking forward to a quiet chat with Jonah. I didn’t get my wish, however, because at that moment, a group of islanders entered the shop, ordered cappuccinos, and announced it was time for their weekly book club. I recognized many faces from the group I had encountered in Jonah’s shop my first day on the island. They were friendly to him, of course, but they gave me the same icy reception they had given me that first day: cold stares and whispered comments as they sat down and took out their copies of the latest book club selection.

  I truly don’t know what it was about that day; perhaps after living with three ghosts, I was unafraid of this lot. I walked over and faced them.

  “Hi, ladies,” I said, leaning down and putting my hands on their table. “In case there’s one person left on this island unaware of who I am, I’m your friend and new neighbor, Halcyon Crane. And I’m just wondering: Are you ever planning to treat me like a neighbor, or are you always going to stop talking and stare and whisper when I come into a room?” Silence from the group, as I expected. I continued. “Because it’s getting tiresome. I’m not sure how long I’m staying on this island, but it’ll be a while. I suggest you get used to it and start acting like human beings.”

  With that I walked away from them, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Nicely done.” Jonah laughed as he handed me a latte. Then he added,
under his breath, “Call me after closing time, Hallie. There’s something more I’ve been wanting to tell you since the night we met for drinks, but I wasn’t sure . . . Like I said, it’s complicated.”

  I nodded and walked out of the shop with my coffee. After a few steps I ran into Will.

  “Hi.” He smiled at me and kissed my cheek. “I’ve just come from dropping some paperwork off at the police station. Care to take a look at what I picked up while I was there?”

  He passed me a plastic bag. I peeked into it just long enough to see a folder with sutton, julie, 1979 written on the front.

  “Will—” I started, but he silenced me with a kiss.

  “I’ve gotta run right now, but I’ll come by the house later and we’ll look at this together.” He winked at me and then headed off down the street, toward his office. I put the bag into the basket on my bike and started the long pedal up the hill to home.

  I stared at that folder on my kitchen table for the rest of the afternoon, dreading what might be inside, but when Will arrived just before dinner, I knew it was time to face whatever it contained.

  Before I opened it, Will shook his finger at me. “I just need to say this: Astonishingly enough, despite the fact that it’s sitting right here on this table, I never saw this file. And neither did you.”

  “Understood,” I said, as I took the folder from him. Now was the time. I took a long sip of wine and opened it up.

  The first thing I saw was an article reporting my death. On a yellowing tear sheet from the local newspaper, I read the headline under a photo of my father and me.