We rushed along past them—straining for our known end. The rocky points, which like prehistoric beasts had thrust out menacing jaws to stop us on our way north, now shrank back before our urgency to let us pass.
Then somebody said, “Do you remember?” and the memories poured forth, one on top of the other....The hummingbird that built her nest in the rosebush just outside the window, and hatched out the black-skinned babies. The quail whose mate had been snatched up by a hawk, and who went round all spring calling, “Oh, Richard! Oh, Richard!” and Richard never answered at all. The frogs in the pond that stop singing the moment they hear a footstep, even twenty feet away, and make perfect watchdogs—but are very frustrating because you can never get near them. We never thought of Little House all summer—and now we were remembering....
As we made our way down the coast into home water, the maples and alders stretched like daubs of golden paint up the dry mountain sides. The grey unconcerned cliffs stood rigid as usual, letting all the changing ideas of nature sweep around and past them. Where the point gave out the evergreens climbed past and on, sturdily up the ravines and finally there was nothing left but the granite cliffs.
There was the awful cliff with the sheer drop, where the Indian Princess was rumoured to have thrown herself over. As usual the youngsters argued about the exact spot she had chosen. The three little girls each had their favourite site and wasted no further opinions.
Peter contented himself with saying, “Wasn’t she silly?” And John put his thumb in his mouth.
Now into view came the interlacing Cowichan hills—mountains really but at the moment they were only something to serve as markers of distance as we raced on at full throttle against the tide towards the “gathering in.”
Four months of each summer were spent in our small boat up the long and indented coast of British Columbia, but the focal point of our lives was Little House in the middle of the forest. The central point or focus in Little House was the big stone fireplace in the corner of the living room—and the word hearth and focus both have the same meaning—the place of the fire.
Each fall when the days got shorter and the nights got colder and the maple lit their warning signals, Little House reached out, gathering us in. We could feel her gently tugging at us across the gulf and up the far coast. As long as the sun shone and the weather pattern was tranquil we turned a deaf ear and closed our minds. But a time always came when the big south-easter kept us tied to a sheltered bay—or worse when it wasn’t sheltered and you spent a couple of miserable nights up every hour checking your bearings. The morning would show the whole gulf a sullen mass of great heaving waves with billowy white crests.
Following a usual pattern, the wind, when it had exhausted itself blowing from the south-east would storm around to the west, pushing and struggling against the south-east swell it had created. By that time we would all be straining toward Little House. But there was nothing we could do but wait until the gulf was quiet, then take our chance and get across.
Then there was the last home stretch with the islands opening out one by one to let us pass. Our Gordon Setter was standing up in the dinghy now, her tail wagging. We didn’t know what she was recognizing, but she knew we were home. The tide was still too low to land our equipment so we anchored off Little Cove on the south and rowed ashore. The arbutus trees that had been in bloom when we left in June were now ablaze with bright red berries. How tall the forest was, and still! The path was covered with crisp dry arbutus leaves that fell in June and our feet scrunched them as we trod over them through the trees. There stood Little House. The great maple behind glowing yellow and orange like a halo over her head.
LITTLE HOUSE
I REMEMBER WHEN WE FIRST FOUND LITTLE HOUSE, lying all by itself in the middle of the forest. It was June-time. Everything was covered with the roses in bloom—on the paths—in the porch—over the house—up the roof...roses were everywhere. They formed a cordon round the house—we couldn’t get near it. They caught at our legs and tugged at our clothes. “It’s ours, it’s ours!” they cried, and did their best to keep us out.
It was the first time we had ever found a little fairy tale house in the middle of a forest, and we didn’t know quite what to do. So we called out, “Little House, Little House, who lives in Little House?” and nobody answered.
So we called louder, “Little House, Little House, who lives in Little House?” And still nobody answered.
“Well, then,” we said, “we’ll live here ourselves,” and we crept in through the window and settled ourselves in Little House.
That was the tale the children used to tell on winter evenings, in front of the roaring fire in the big stone fireplace, about how we came to live in Little House. Just when everybody was feeling happy and contented about it, Peter always broke the peace by saying, “You’re not in this, John, you weren’t here at all.” And John always said, “Well, I came along suddenly, and when you all answered, I said ‘I’m Mr. Bear-squash-you-all-flat,’ and I squashed you all flat as anything.”
You would understand all this better if you had read our favourite book of the moment, Russian Picture Tales. In one of the stories, a mouse finds a big earthen water jar lying in a field, and thinks what a nice house it would make to live in. So he says, “Little House, Little House, who lives in Little House?” and nobody answers. So he calls louder...and when still nobody answers, he says, “Well then, I shall live here myself.” So he settles himself in Little House. Then a frog comes along and asks the same question, and when Mr. Mouse answers that he, Mr. Mouse, does, they decide to live together. Several other animals join them, the last being Mr. Bear-squash-you-all-flat, who comes along suddenly and spoils everything by sitting down.
Anyway, our Little House looked just like a fairy tale house. It was built of half-logs with the rough bark still on, all up on end. The casement windows, in groups of three, had leaded panes. The roof was very steep, also of bark, with a great stone chimney breaking through on one side of it and a gable window on the other. There was a porch at the front of the house, and beside the porch grew a great rose bush with a trunk as big as a man’s arm. It climbed up over the steep porch roof and peeked in through the leaded-paned windows of the upper room. Then, since nobody would let it in there, it scrambled up under the wide eaves and tried to find cracks into the attic, or pry the bark off the logs on the roof—for it was a very strong rose bush and had no shame.
After we had called out and asked who lived in Little House and crawled in through the unlatched window, we lost our hearts to it. For inside was a great square living room with a big stone fireplace across one corner, and a winding staircase in another. Long groups of windows with diamond panes looked deep into the green forest that crowded close. As you shrank back—a little dismayed at such dangerous living—the low dark ceiling spread itself over you, and you at once felt all right again.
Then we tiptoed through the echoing dining room; looked into the silent kitchen; crept up the winding staircase to the bedrooms, where the wooden walls sloped steeply and made the ceilings seem on strangely intimate terms with the floor.
Anyway, there it all was—fireplace, latticed windows, winding stairs, low dark ceilings and of course roses...one was rather helpless against them all.
When we crawled out through the window again, there on the ground right underneath the window was a round silver dollar. We considered that a very good omen, and spent it on ice cream and salve for the thorns.
Seven acres of its own land surrounded Little House. On three sides was the sea, and on the fourth side the big forest. If you hold your right arm and hand, palm up and slightly cupping the hand, thumb close in—you have a relief map of Seven Acres. You approached, as though along your arm, through half a mile of forest with the sea on your right. Seven Acres began just before you reached the hollow that your wrist makes with the joint of your thumb as it swings out. This hollow was called Big Cove—a sandy cove that cleft the high cliff for no app
arent reason.
Little House faced south and slightly east, and a garden ran from the house to Little Cove—which was where the big cliff ended. The ball of your thumb and the thumb itself was the rugged cliff which rose two hundred feet up from the sea and sloped abruptly to your palm. The driveway skirted the inner base of the cliff or ball of your thumb, along where your Life Line and Line of Destiny run. And where your lines of Life and Destiny meet your Heart Line, there nestled Little House. And here too, Life and Heart brought Destiny to us.
Destiny rarely follows the pattern we would choose for it and the legacy of death often shapes our lives in ways we could not imagine. Death comes to everyone in their time—to some a parting, to some a release. We who are nearest go with them up the long golden stairs—up—up. A trumpet shrills—a gate clangs and we are left standing without. Then down the long stairs we retrace our steps to earth—an earth that is all numb and still—so still that one hears strange sounds—catches strange vagrant notes on one’s heightened senses.
But small hands are tugging and voices are insistent.
“Will he ever come back from that other place?”
“Oh no, he doesn’t want to come back!”
“Does he like it there?”
“Oh yes, he loves it.”
“Well then, that’s good.” And happy laughter rings through the tall green pines and along the rocks and sandy beaches by the sea.
No one grudges him his place in the sun.
A very special counsel was held in front of the big fireplace and summons were dispatched by Mrs. Bear to Miss Elizabeth, Miss Lou, Miss Jay and Mr. Peter.
“Of course I’ll be there too,” said Mrs. Bear.
It was the beginning of October and the evenings were to close in early. I knelt down and put a match to the fire in the big fireplace and while I waited for my fellow councilmen, I once more read the letters that had come that afternoon. They were full of underlined words. What one letter forgot the other ones said. “Impossible, impossible...impossible...not fair to the children. You’re far too young to isolate yourself in that isolated place. Pack up at once. Just send a telegram.” How nicely they had my life planned out.
I was still muttering and growling when Mr. Peter came in and seated himself panting on the council rug.
“Are you mad?” he asked glancing from my face to the letter.
“Grrrrr,” I muttered.
Peter sniffed cheerfully. This was evidently going to be an interesting council. Miss Jay came in and seated herself beside him.
“She’s mad,” he whispered.
Jay dug her elbow hard into his ribs and ignored him. Little boys shouldn’t be encouraged to speak of their mothers like that.
Then Miss Lizbeth took Mrs. Bear by the hand.
“It’s dash as dash,” said Mrs. Bear. “Where’s Miss Lou?”
“She’ll be here just in a minute, she’s in a boat and she has to anchor it.”
“In a boat?” I jumped to my feet.
“Mummy, Mummy,” they all cried, “It’s just in the woods.”
“Oh,” I said sinking back, “that kind of a boat.” Even I knew how it was to anchor that kind of a boat and as for Miss Lou, another name she went by was, “Linger-Longer-Lou.”
High leaped the flames of the council fire and the case was put before them....Go back to town—leave Little House!
Tears flowed freely. The only thing I was able to gather at all was that everybody thought as I did. It would be impossible to leave Little House. Then when things dried up a bit we discovered that John was missing. Though he was only two and a half, John never allowed anyone to see him crying. If tears must come, and they quite often did, he shed them in private, under the stairs, in the cupboard, in Pam’s kennel. No one was under the stairs. No one in the cupboard. I opened the back door. Pamela was half in, half out of her kennel and looked at me reproachfully with her liquid eyes. “What have you been doing to your offspring?” they enquired, and looked anxiously into the kennel.
“John,” I called kneeling down.
“I’m not going to that old city,” said a tearful voice. John who had never been to a city. “I’m going to live here with Pam.”
I sent the telegram off the next day. It wasn’t very polite—and I didn’t care much. “Can’t I?”—and did.
SEVEN ACRES
AFTER A BIG STORM WE ALWAYS HAD EXPEDITIONS AND explorings to find out how many trees had blown down and what had been cast up on the beaches—the choice depending on how strong the wind had been.
If we were going to the forest we would start off in pairs in different directions, our boundaries being fixed by mysterious points such as the Big Cedar, High Mound, Upper Water Hole, Mink Run and others that the children knew. Armed with bows and arrows and stout sticks and packages of sandwiches in our pockets we would separate. Two would go along the north sea trail, two up the back trail and John and I up the central trail—all to meet at the outer gate before the sun went down. It never worked out quite that way. How could anyone wait until the sun went down to report on an important find? Also after the sun went down one’s feet turned instinctively toward Little House—shadows might be anything. All during the expeditions explorers would crash through the forest demanding that we detour to inspect this or that find. After we had finished sorrowing over the death of a tree that Christopher Columbus might have known we would hastily compute how long the bark would last us for burning—if it were a Douglas Fir. Then we would all take mental notes of where the tree lay so that we could find it again, and off we would go our separate ways once more.
Once John and I made the biggest discovery, and the most exciting. A huge fir was down right across the road. So John and I shouted and hullooed until the other two parties broke through the forest. The big trunk had to be measured—about four feet in diameter we agreed. Then we stared blankly at each other realizing that it was also four feet of barricade and that we couldn’t get our car out until the tree was sawn up. Exploring forgotten, we had to make our way down to the nearest farm and tell the farmer about our trouble. He was full of his own troubles. After we had exchanged troubles, we agreed that ours was the most pressing and that he would come out in the morning with the big saw and the sledge and wedge and we would saw our way out.
The farmer’s wife had made us hot tea as the day was cold and snow lay on the ground. When we went outside again, the sun was long since down. I thought uneasily how dark it would be in the forest. The farmer perceived this and lent us a little lantern. The glass was smoked up and the wick needed trimming and it made fearsome shadows all its own. We went up the long lane from the farm, hurried up the hill and then holding hands we took long breaths and entered the forest.
How still a forest usually is! But after a big storm it is also uneasy and passed its uneasiness on to us. Uprooted trees after all are still alive and they are not used to this new position. Now and then a protesting branch would liberate itself with a sharp crack. Something snuffled and there was the sound of claws scratching on bark. A coon probably. But the heart thuds and the children crowd close to one’s heels. We have to go in single file finally and Elizabeth holds the lantern higher and two shiny eyes gaze at us. We let out sighs as it bounds off.
“Deers are nothing,” says Peter stoutly, holding on to my coat tails.
Then down the canyon hill, Big Cove lies quietly on our right; up canyon hill and now we can see sky and stars over our heads as we enter the clearing. There is the dark outline of Little House. A few more steps and the explorers break into a run. We cut around to the back door and push into a warm kitchen and oh, the blessed sound of a closed door.
It is November today and I found a little lizard, brown and orange below, standing on the cold cement floor. I stooped down to look at him. If it had been warm he would have disappeared in a flash. He was sluggish and also cold. You could feel the ton weight that held each foot from moving.
There were a dozen or more quails out i
n the sand pile scratching up the pale succulent roots that sand piles seem to produce. Now the quail began to jerk nervously. That means they are about to make the perilous run past the window to the flower bed. Their feet all twinkle together as they fly past and duck for shelter under the worn out weeds and naked shrubs. Then they begin to scratch and dig again, their little topknots bobbing and bobbing and bobbing. I wonder if it has uses as antenna. They are so quick to sense and transmit the slightest sound. Whizzzzz and in a burst of wing they are gone. I wish I were an artist—such simple vigorous lines would draw them. Two sharp parallel white lines on the back where the wings cling close to the body. Then more sharp white strokes at an acute angle outlining the primary feathers. The strange little black velvet mark edged with white held on with white strings over the ears. Then the scalp-lock gathered up and surmounted with a bobbing topknot.
I surprised them late the other afternoon. I cut across the path by the cedars where there is an eight-foot pole that supported a great round clump of ivy. They flew up from under my feet as I reached the cedars but instead of flying off out of sight they flew up, and dropped feet first into the bush. I clapped my hands and sure enough the ivy exploded quail in all directions.
Today a hawk chased a little quail bang up against the kitchen window. Then she sat on the window sill and shrieked. I went over to look at her but she yelled at me and said she had had all she could stand at the moment and flew off, still shrieking.
Yesterday I thought the snow was over and I swung the axe with a reckless flourish that buried it deep in the chopping stump—and then with an equally reckless glance at the chimney, I made for the woods.
The Curve of Time Page 20