Strawberry Moon

by Becky Citra

  Strawberry Moon

  Becky Citra

  Copyright © 2005 Becky Citra

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Citra, Becky

  Strawberry moon / Becky Citra.

  (Orca young readers)

  ISBN 1-55143-367-2

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8555.I87S87 2005 jC813’.54 C2005-901174-2

  First Published in the United States 2005

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2005922212

  Summary: In 1838, Ellie’s grandmother arrives in Upper Canada to take Ellie back to England to be raised properly. Ellie is determined not to go.

  Free teachers’ guide available. www.orcabook.com

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Cover design and typesetting by Lynn O’Rourke

  Cover & interior illustrations by Hanne Lore Koehler

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  Box 5626 Stn.B

  Victoria, BC

  Canada

  V8R 6S4

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  08 07 06 05 • 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  To Catherine, Helen and Pat

  1

  “Papa’s back!” shouted Max. His boots clattered across the cabin floor. He burst through the door.

  I hurried outside. Papa drove our wagon up the road to our cabin. A woman in a stiff black dress and a black bonnet sat beside him on the high wooden seat. I swallowed nervously. Grandmother!

  The last time I had seen Grandmother was three years ago, when Papa and Max and I stood on the dock in England with our trunks and bags. It had been a cold spring day in 1835. Grandmother had come to see us off on our trip to Canada. Her face had been icy with disapproval. She had not hugged Max or me good-bye.

  Her last words had been to Papa. “You’ll regret this, John.”

  Papa and Max and I had traveled thousands of miles away from England and Grandmother. We sailed across the ocean in a huge ship. We traveled along winding rivers and bumped over rough roads through dark forests, until we came to our homestead beside the blue lake.

  For three years, Papa worked hard to build our farm. We had a sturdy log cabin, fields, a garden and a barn for the horses and Nettie, our cow.

  “It’s the best farm in Upper Canada!” Papa liked to boast.

  Now Grandmother had come to visit us. Papa helped her down off the wagon. Her black dress rustled. Grandmother’s daughter Charlotte, my mother, had died when I was four years old. Papa had told me that Grandmother had been sad ever since, and that’s why she always wore black dresses.

  Papa passed her a cane with a silver top. “What do you think, Agatha?” he said.

  Grandmother’s steel gray eyes flickered past me. I don’t think she even saw the sparkling lake or the blue wildflowers or Papa’s new field, freshly plowed.

  I know she saw the rows and rows of black stumps. She stared at them for a long time. Then she shuddered and said, “It’s worse, much worse, than I ever imagined.”

  Papa’s face fell.

  “Did you have a nice trip, Grandmother?” said Max. Papa had told him before he left to be sure to ask.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Grandmother. “My insides have been completely scrambled up on these dreadful roads.”

  Max grinned, and Grandmother glared at him.

  Suddenly something black and white shot out from under the steps. Star!

  He danced in a circle around Grand-mother’s feet, barking shrilly. Grandmothe gasped. She flapped her black shawl wildly. Star grabbed one end and tugged.

  “Star!” bellowed Papa.

  Grandmother’s cane whipped through the air. Whoomph! She smacked Star across the haunches. Star yelped and slunk toward the cabin.

  “I cannot abide dogs with fleas,” said Grandmother coldly.

  “Star doesn’t have fleas!” said Max.

  “All dogs have fleas,” said Grandmother.

  “But—,” began Max. Papa looked at him sharply, and Max kept quiet. He ran over to Star and crouched beside him, stroking his neck. His chin stuck out, the way it did when he thought something was unfair.

  “I’m sorry,” said Papa. “I can’t understand what got into the dog.” He sounded exhausted. “I’ll put the horses away, and Max, you can help me with Grandmother’s trunk and boxes.”

  I looked in the back of the wagon, and my heart sank. Grandmother had brought enough luggage to stay for months! One especially big wooden crate was nailed shut firmly.

  “Ellie, you take Grandmother inside.” Papa smiled. “Knowing you, I’m sure you have a wonderful supper ready for us.”

  For the first time, Grandmother looked right at me. “The child has certainly grown,” she said.

  And you have shrunk, I wanted to say back. It was true. The grandmother I remembered had seemed so tall and straight. Now I was almost as tall as she was. I smiled.

  “I don’t like sly looks on a young girl’s face,” said Grandmother. “And what on earth is that on your feet?”

  I stopped smiling and glanced down at my moccasins. They were made of soft deerskin and decorated with beautiful red and turquoise beaded flowers.

  “My friend Sarah made them,” I muttered.

  “An Indian, no doubt,” said Grandmother. She sniffed. “I cannot abide Indians.”

  She marched past me into our cabin.

  At supper, Papa asked questions about our visit with the McDougalls. They were our nearest neighbors, a mile away by trail through the forest or two miles by road. Max and I stayed with them while Papa went to The Landings to meet Grandmother’s stagecoach. Papa had sent word that he and Grandmother were arriving today, and we had raced home along the trail to get ready.

  While I ate, I watched Grandmother out of the corner of my eye. She poked at my stew, sighing heavily. “Did you say squirrel meat?” she said finally. “What an extraordinary thing to eat.”

  She studied her piece of bread. “I suppose it’s difficult to get an even heat in such a primitive oven.”

  When it was time for dessert, she peered suspiciously into her bowl of wild strawberries. She pushed it away. “I don’t eat things with bits of leaves and sticks in them,” she said.

  Cold fury rushed through me. I jumped up. “If you knew how long it takes to pick wild strawberries...”

  Max’s mouth dropped open.

  “My word!” said Grandmother. “There’s no need to shout.” She looked at Papa.

  Papa stood up too. “Ellie, apologize to your grandmother.”

  I stared at the floor and said nothing.

  Papa sighed. “Go to bed right now, Ellie. And Max, stop looking like a fish and go outside and finish your chores.”

  Max dragged his feet to the door. I flounced toward the ladder that led up to the loft where Max and I slept.

  A wave of horror swept over me. Before Papa had left for The Landings, he had moved his night things up to the loft and explained that Grandmother and I would share his big bed. I looked at Papa desperately. For a second, his eyes glimmered with sympathy. Then
he turned away and poured two mugs of coffee.

  I walked stiffly into Papa’s small bedroom and blinked back tears as I changed into my nightgown and crawled under the quilt. I lay frozen, as dusk turned into darkness. Our cow Nettie mooed, and I wondered who would milk her tonight. Nobody got as much milk from Nettie as I did. After a long time, I heard Max’s boots and his cheery goodnight to Papa.

  I crawled out of bed and crept to the door. Papa and Grandmother were talking in low voices.

  “I don’t know,” said Papa.

  “It’s the right thing to do,” said Grandmother. “She’s growing up like an Indian!”

  I froze. What did Grandmother mean? What was the right thing to do?

  “A man can’t raise a young girl properly,” said Grandmother. “I’ve bought her passage. She’ll sail back to England with me in the fall.”

  I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

  “So that is why you have made this long trip from England,” said Papa.

  “My friend Dorothy was sailing to Canada,” said Grandmother coolly. “She needed a companion. It seemed like a good opportunity.”

  I heard a tapping sound as Papa filled his pipe.

  “After all, she is Charlotte’s daughter,” said Grandmother. “And my only granddaughter.”

  A long silence followed. Then Papa said quietly, “Don’t say anything to Ellie about this right now.”

  My arms and legs felt like ice. I stumbled back to bed and buried myself in the quilt. When Grandmother came, I pretended to be asleep. She rustled around for ages, getting ready for bed. Finally she knelt beside the bed and said her prayers in a voice that droned on forever.

  “I hope the little girls in this house have said their prayers too,” she said as she climbed into bed beside me.

  I wasn’t a little girl! I was twelve years old, and Papa always said he couldn’t imagine how he could get along without me. But he hadn’t said that to Grandmother. He hadn’t said anything.

  I lay stiffly on my side of the bed, filled with misery. I didn’t care what Papa said. I would never go back to England with Grandmother. Never!

  2

  The light outside the window was pale gray. It was too early to milk Nettie. I curled up in a ball to go back to sleep. Then I remembered that I was in Papa’s big bed with Grandmother.

  I rolled over and stared at her. Her hair was hidden under an enormous lace nightcap. Her mouth was open, and she was snoring.

  I slid out of bed, dressed quickly and eased the bedroom door shut behind me. Red embers glowed in our huge stone fire-place. There was no sound from the loft.

  I pulled my shawl over my shoulders and went outside. The barn looked like a gray smudge in the dim light. Our three big geese, who nested in the bushes beside the vegetable garden, were pale white ghosts. I whistled for Star, but he was probably still asleep in his straw bed in the barn.

  I was glad I was the first one up. I walked down to the lake and sat on a stump. Bullfrogs were singing in the reeds at the edge of the water. Papa always said they sounded like they were saying Get out! Get out! Get out! That’s what I wanted to say to Grandmother. Get out! Go back to England!

  I tried to picture Grandmother’s house in England. I remembered dark shadowy hallways and clocks that boomed the hour. I must tell Papa that I refuse to go with Grandmother, I thought. I shivered. He would be angry that I had listened at the door.

  I walked back toward the cabin. I was thinking so hard about Grandmother I nearly didn’t see the fox. I stopped walking and held my breath.

  The fox stood frozen in the long grass beside the garden. Its bushy tail drooped between its legs. A small breeze off the lake ruffled its thick fur, deep orange on its back and creamy white on its belly and chin. Goose bumps prickled the back of my neck. In my whole life, I had never been that close to a fox. And I had never seen anything so beautiful.

  The fox’s long ears swiveled. Its nose quivered faintly. In a horrified instant, I knew what it was going to do.

  The fox leaped in a smooth silent arc. It landed on the back of a goose, hunched in sleep at the edge of a bush. There was a terrified squawk, a frantic flapping of wings and then silence. White feathers floated in the air like snowflakes.

  The fox turned and ran. The white goose hung limply in its mouth. It turned at the edge of the garden and looked back. For a second, its calm golden eyes stared right at me. A tingle ran up my spine. Then the fox disappeared into the shadows along the creek.

  I stood frozen, shocked by what had happened.

  Someone called my name. Papa strode across the field. So I wasn’t the first up, after all!

  “Hello, early bird,” he said as he came closer.

  He saw the white feathers scattered on the ground. His smile faded. He picked up a feather and stared into the forest.

  “It was a fox!” I said.

  The other two geese scuttled into the open, honking anxiously. Papa sighed. “What a shame Star didn’t scare it away. It took our best goose!”

  “The fox was beautiful,” I whispered. Then I bit my lip. What would Papa say if he knew I had stood there and watched it kill our goose?

  “This time of year there’s a good chance it has babies,” said Papa. “That’s all we need, a family of foxes. It’ll be after the chickens next.”

  Again, Papa stared into the forest, as if hoping he would see the fox. “I’ll take Max out later and hunt for the den.”

  I had a pretty good idea where the den might be. I had watched the fox run behind the garden and up the creek bed. But for some reason I didn’t tell Papa.

  Nettie mooed mournfully from her shed.

  “You have a cow to milk,” said Papa. “And then it’s time for breakfast. We’ll deal with foxes later.”

  After breakfast, Papa disappeared outside. A few minutes later he was back, lugging the big wooden crate that Grandmother had brought from England.

  “It’s heavy enough to be full of books,” he teased, but I think he was half hoping he was right. Papa loved his books!

  Max and I crowded around while Papa pried off the top of the crate. Grandmother hovered behind us, her stiff dress rustling. “Watch now. Be careful!” she said sharply.

  Max peered in. “It’s just an old spinning wheel,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment.

  Papa lifted the spinning wheel out of the crate and set it in the corner of the room. Max gave the wheel a hard swing. Whoosh! Grandmother smacked the seat of his trousers with her cane.

  “Ouch!” cried Max.

  “This spinning wheel has come a long way to be broken now!” snapped Grandmother.

  “It is a beauty,” said Papa, but he looked disappointed too.

  I looked at Papa uncertainly. What was it for? I had a small flock of three sheep, but Papa always took my wool to Sally, a widow who lived at the end of the lake, to be spun into yarn. He had helped me wash and shear my sheep a few weeks ago, and the sacks of wool were ready to go.

  Grandmother was the only one who seemed pleased. She wiped the spinning wheel carefully with a piece of flannel and stood back to admire it.

  “I’m going fox hunting,” said Papa. “Max, you may come with me. But first, Agatha, I will put a chair outside for you in the sun. It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  After I had tidied the dishes, I went out to the garden. I bent over the row of tiny green beans, pulling out weeds. Grandmother had finally left the spinning wheel. She watched me from a chair beside our big old oak tree.

  Papa came out of the barn, carrying a burlap sack. His gun was slung over his shoulder.

  Max chattered beside him, but Papa’s face looked sad. He hated killing things, and when he went hunting he never shot an animal that we didn’t need.

  “Papa found tracks behind the garden, Ellie!” Max called. “They follow the creek.”

  I nodded. I knew then that the fox didn’t have a chance.

  “You’ll have to drown the babies,” said Grandmother. “
Don’t go feeling sorry for them. We had foxes when I was a child. They cleaned out our whole chicken house in one night.”

  Papa and Max left. The sun grew warm on my back as I worked up and down the rows.

  “Those carrots look ready for thinning,” said Grandmother. “You’ll never get good carrots if you keep them crowded like that.”

  I gritted my teeth and kept weeding. When I got to the end of the row, I peeked at Grandmother. Her hands were still folded on her lap, but her head had slumped forward.

  I started on a row of turnips. I listened for Papa’s rifle, but the only thing I heard was a sapsucker, tapping on a tree beside the garden, and the gentle bleating of my sheep in the pasture.

  I yanked weeds furiously. I tried not to think of the fox’s golden eyes.

  3

  In the afternoon, Grandmother brought out armfuls of stockings, petticoats and nightgowns from her trunk.

  Her piercing gray eyes looked at me sharply. “Don’t be too vigorous with my washing. This is expensive lace.”

  I made a face. I had planned to pick wild strawberries with my friend Kate McDougall. Gloomily I dragged out the washtub and the scrubbing board. I set everything up outside and filled the tub with buckets of warm water from the fireplace.

  Why couldn’t Grandmother do her own laundry? My mood grew blacker and blacker as I scrubbed a heavy cotton nightgown up and down the board. How could one nightgown have so much material in it?

  I dimly remembered Grandmother’s maid in England, wheeling in the afternoon tea trolley, and Cook rattling dishes in the kitchen. Grandmother was used to having things done for her. And now she thought she could boss everyone around.

  Swish. Swish. The hard yellow soap turned my hands red. I wondered what the fox was doing. To my relief, Papa and Max had come back empty-handed from their hunting trip. Papa had been whistling, and I think he was almost relieved that they hadn’t found the fox. Finally I wrung out the last stocking and dropped it on the heap of wet clothes in the basket. I lugged everything over to my drying racks and started hanging things up.