The Hollow Tree

by Janet Lunn

  “From home. He followed me.”

  “He got a name, too?”

  “His name is George.”

  “George? For George Washington, I guess.”

  “No, he’s named for—”

  “I know, for some stupid-looking fella with red hair and a set of whiskers.”

  “No, it was more his ears and the way his eyes stare.” Phoebe pulled George from her shoulders and shook him. “You scared me out of whatever wits I have, George. I thought you were a catamount.” George jumped to the ground.

  “You got any more family that come along over the mountains with you like Bartlett and George? Mebbe a nice friendly rattlesnake?” Without another word Jem started off again, walking at a furious pace.

  “Jem Morrissay,” Phoebe said timidly.

  He didn’t reply. He just walked faster, and Phoebe had to run to keep up with him.

  “Jem Morrissay.” Again.

  He still did not reply.

  “Jem Morrissay, you’re going in the wrong direction. You’re taking us east.”

  “I come the way the path come.”

  “It had a branch.”

  “Huh?”

  “The path. It had a branch off to the east. That’s the one we’re on.”

  He looked at her suspiciously.

  “Jem Morrissay, why would I mislead you? Look at the trees.” She showed him where the moss grew and pointed at woodpecker holes that made almost straight lines, which meant east. Without a word of thanks, he retraced his steps to where the paths separated, and they started on the northward one again. Until they heard voices coming towards them. They got off the path then and hid in the thick bushes until the people had passed, two men and a woman talking in loud, cheerful voices about “the trouncing they’d given old Gentlemen Johnny and his redcoats at Saratoga and Freeman’s Farm.”

  In about an hour, they reached the place near Chimney Point where the path crossed the military road. There they left the path and moved inland into the forest in order to avoid the road and the ruins of the old, burned-out French settlement that gave Chimney Point its name. “It’s only that old chimney and a lot of rubble, but God knows who might be camped there,” Jem said.

  It was not really cold, despite the threatening snow, and Phoebe was not uncomfortable as she walked steadily and silently. She was glad the land near Lake Champlain had no high mountains. And she was glad, as she had been so often, of the deerskin leggings and tunic that did not catch on every bush and bramble she had to push from her. The way through the forest was dim. The pines and spruces cast thick shadows over the bare branches of the hardwood trees. The spicy scent of the evergreens was strong in the damp lakeside air. Small animals scurrying away from their scent and the thumping of their passing, Bartlett and George snuffling along behind her, and the harsh cries of the jays and the piping sounds of chickadees and kinglets announcing that strangers were on the way accompanied her thoughts.

  She was trying to make some sense of all that had happened. From the moment Jem had said, “There’s no one at the fort,” the dispiriting thought had been creeping up on her that she had once again been stupid, really stupid. How could she have believed that, alone, without any knowledge of the war’s battles and the movement of soldiers, she could carry out a soldier’s mission? If only she had stayed in Orland Village! She knew that Anne’s hysterics never lasted forever; she would have gotten over them. They could be comforting each other with the rest of the family in front of the warm fire in the kitchen. Instead, she was following a strange boy through the wilderness, a boy who, if he could be believed, was part of one of the families she had set out to save — too late. The realization of what she had thrown away for what she now saw as high folly sank into her as though she had swallowed a lead weight.

  After they were sure they were well past the ruins at Chimney Point, Jem led the way back to the path along the lake, although he did have the grace to mumble that he didn’t suppose he was “all that much of a guide.” But, before they went on where the path led north, away from the shore, they slid down the slope to the lake for a drink. Gratefully Phoebe cupped her hands and drank until the water was dripping off her chin. Jem put his face right down into the water and sucked it up the way a horse does. He wiped his mouth with his hand and sat back on his heels. He watched Bartlett wade into the lake and George sniff at its shore. He looked at Phoebe, one eyebrow raised.

  “You got a name?” he asked.

  It seemed so long since anyone had said her name that Phoebe looked at him in surprise.

  “You must have a name.”

  “Yes, I am Phoebe Olcott.”

  “From over the mountains.”

  “By the Connecticut River.”

  “That’s a fair distance.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Mistress Phoebe Olcott from over the mountains, whatever brung you here, we gotta get on our way. But I’d sure admire not to be takin’ that bear — nor the cat, neither.”

  “They’ll follow.”

  “I reckon so. Let’s go.”

  About an hour later, when the sky had darkened so much that Phoebe knew it must be late in the day, she heard the sound of voices in the distance ahead. Jem slowed. He motioned Phoebe to do the same. He pulled his hunting knife from its sheath, then, crouching low, looking to either side of him, he continued cautiously. Phoebe was right behind him. As they proceeded, the voices grew louder, more distinct.

  “I hear cows,” said Jem. He straightened his pace and, in a few minutes, they reached the edge of a large clearing. Phoebe saw several open fires with people collected around them, and carts and two or three cows at one edge of the clearing.

  “There they are,” Jem said, “but there’s sure a lot more of ’em than I figured. Come, I see Ma.” He strode into the clearing. Phoebe followed nervously, suddenly not so sure of the kind reception she had anticipated.

  A tall girl was standing by one of the fires about two feet away. She had her back to Phoebe, but something about the way she was standing, something about the set of her shoulders and her long light brown hair falling over her rose-coloured shawl made Phoebe’s heart lurch.

  “Anne?” she whispered. “Anne Robinson?”

  The girl spun around. Her mouth fell open. Her eyes went wide. “Phoebe!” she cried. And slid to the ground in a faint.

  Anne

  At the sound of Anne’s cry, Aunt Rachael came running. At once, she was on the ground, with Anne’s head in her lap, looking around wildly to see what had happened. She saw Phoebe. Her hand went to her throat. Her eyes widened. She half rose to her knees. Then her whole face lit up. At that moment a tall, stout woman appeared, carrying a pan full of water. She flung it into Anne’s face.

  Anne sputtered, and struggled to her feet with Aunt Rachael supporting her. A moment later she caught sight of Phoebe. “You’re dead,” she cried. “I know you’re dead. We saw that squaw wearing your mother’s cloak. We saw her!” Anne’s voice began to rise to that hysterical note Phoebe knew so well.

  Phoebe realized she had been clutching Jem Morrissay’s arm and let it go quickly. She took a step forward. “It was Peter Sauk’s sister. I gave it to her. I … ” Her voiced trailed off. She was suddenly acutely uncomfortable. In the growing dark it seemed as though a hundred people had gathered around Anne. In the flickering light from the fires dotted around the clearing behind them, they looked menacing. “I … she … we exchanged our clothes. You see, I have her Mohawk ones.” Nervously she gestured towards her tunic, and moved close to Jem.

  Anne seemed not to hear her. Clinging to her mother, water still dripping down her face, she cried, “You’re a ghost! I know you’re a ghost! You’ve come to haunt me because I said those things to you when Gideon …” She began to cry piteously.

  “Anne.” Phoebe ran to put her arms around her weeping cousin. Anne shrieked at her touch and backed away. “Go away! GO AWAY!”

  “For the sake of all that’s holy, stop tha
t caterwaulin’. It don’t take but half an eye, and that one blind, to see this ain’t no ghost.” A short, stout man had come, elbowing people aside, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. He shook Anne’s arm roughly.

  Anne stopped crying. In the sudden silence a child’s voice sang out, “That ain’t no ghost, that ain’t no ghost, that’s my brother.” A small girl detached herself from a red-haired woman standing just behind Rachael Robinson and threw herself at Jem. He scooped her up into his arms and he grinned at the red-haired woman. “I brung you some more company, Ma.” He looked around at all the people. “Though I don’t guess you was lookin’ for it. She come from over the mountains, she says. Her name’s Phoebe Olcott.”

  “She’s dead! She’s a ghost!” Anne’s voice started to rise again.

  “No, I am not,” Phoebe said at the same moment that Aunt Rachael said, “That will do, daughter. You can see quite plainly that Phoebe is no ghost.” She drew Phoebe into her arms and held her close. “Thanks be. Thanks be to Providence for your safe return to us. Later, when we have had supper, we will talk. Now, child, come with me. Come, Anne.”

  Phoebe turned to obey. The shock of seeing Anne and Aunt Rachael here was, if possible, greater than the shock she had had that morning when she’d found she could not give Gideon’s message to the General at Fort Ticonderoga. Her mind was spinning. What had happened? How had they come here, almost to the shore of Lake Champlain? Why? Even in the gloom she could see how worn her aunt looked and that her usually fastidious appearance was marred by a soiled gown. But she seemed so much the same kind, quiet, capable person she had always been that Phoebe felt comforted.

  “No.” Anne stepped in front of her mother. She would not look at Phoebe. Her voice shook. “I wish she were dead. She should be dead. It’s her fault we’re all out here in the wilderness with no place to go. It’s her fault Gideon died. She’s a traitor — didn’t her father fight for the rebels in Boston? Didn’t she run away right after Gideon was killed? What is she doing out in the woods alone? Alone! Phoebe Olcott is too scared of everything that moves to come out in the wilds alone. I don’t believe she’s alone. There’s someone else, others like her, waiting to murder all of us. She’s a traitor like her father! Make her tell!”

  For a moment the silence was so intense that the sharp howl of a wolf in the near distance was like an echo of Anne’s last words. It was too dark now to see faces clearly, but, by what light there was, Phoebe could see the people, shuffling, moving. She could feel them coming slowly towards her. She could hear their low muttering. “No,” she cried, “it isn’t true. Aunt Rachael, I am not! Jem?”

  He backed away from her. “You sure musta been laughin’ at me talkin’ about the things you rebels done to us,” he said bitterly. The angry whispering from the crowd was louder. A man stepped forward, a stick in his hand. Phoebe felt as though her heart would stop beating. She grew icy cold.

  “No!” She swallowed hard. “Anne? Aunt Rachael?” She stopped, her mouth too dry to form words.

  Rachael came swiftly to her side and put her arm around her. She turned and faced the crowd. “We are all in this same sorry state,” she said. “It is no time to be turning on our own. Don’t we all know how that feels? Phoebe is no traitor. I know she is not.” She looked around at the other people, her arm tightened protectively around Phoebe’s shoulders. “Come, we must get you something to eat and a place to sleep. No one will hurt you.”

  “Mother!”

  “Anne, we will have no more of your hysteria tonight.”

  Anne said no more, but the look she gave Phoebe made Phoebe slip closer to her aunt, and all night that look would give her nightmares. She let herself be led through the hostile crowd to the fire beside which Jed, Noah, and their father were all sound asleep. Still shaken, she was standing, gazing bemusedly down on all their faces, when someone cried, “Bear!” She looked up to see Bartlett lumbering towards her across the clearing as fast as he could, with George trotting along beside him. She heard a child scream. She saw men priming their muskets. She ran.

  “Don’t!” she cried. “He’s an orphan. He won’t hurt anyone. Please, oh, please don’t.” She threw herself to the ground beside the bear. She was no longer afraid for herself; all she could think was that no one was going to kill her bear.

  Amazingly Jem stepped forward. “Let the bear be,” he said gruffly. “Go ahead and shoot that wingein’ cat if you wants to, though,” he muttered, as he took his little sister’s hand and walked away. The crowd fell apart into tired families huddled by fires kept burning high enough all night to hold the wolves and catamounts at bay. But not the nightmares.

  Camp

  Phoebe woke just before sun-up the next morning. She sat up and looked around her. She had been sleeping on a bed of pine needles under an enormous pine tree. It stretched its thick green branches over her, keeping away both the wind and the snow that had sprinkled the ground in the clearing beyond. Between the stumps, at a little distance from one another, small knots of people slept around the embers of camp-fires. Aunt Rachael, Uncle Josiah, and the boys were huddled together under a quilt a foot or two from where she sat. Anne was wrapped in her cloak with her back to them.

  Even in the dim light Phoebe could see that there were not nearly as many people as there had seemed to be the night before. She counted seven camp-fires, including the Robinsons’, and there looked to be no more than twenty-five or thirty people.

  She shuddered, feeling again the terror she had felt when those people had moved slowly towards her in the night’s half dark. They all hate me, she thought. They think I’m a rebel and a spy. I must leave, I mustn’t stay with them. Near her, Rachael stirred in her sleep. As dim as the light was, her features were clearly discernible and they looked so careworn, so sad, even in sleep, that Phoebe knew she could not leave, not without a word, not again.

  “How they must be worrying about you,” Peter Sauk had said. And last night, before she could roll herself in Katsi’tsiénhawe’s blanket beside Bartlett and George, Rachael had pulled her into her arms.

  “What Anne said is true,” she had whispered. “We all thought you were dead,” and Rachael Robinson, who had not wept for Phoebe’s father or for Gideon, not where anyone could see her, had had a catch in her voice and, even more astonishing, had kissed Phoebe on her cheek. Aunt Rachael was so reserved that the only time Phoebe could remember her actually offering physical signs of affection was when they had stood together by Gideon’s coffin and she had put her arm around her.

  Anne had refused to talk to Phoebe or to look at her. When her mother gave Phoebe a dish of the boiled beans she had cooked for the family earlier, Anne had walked away and not returned until she had lain down to sleep — at a conspicuous distance. But, despite the fatigue that wearied them both, Phoebe and Rachael had talked long into the night. Phoebe had realized, as soon as she had settled safely by her aunt’s camp-fire, that she must tell about coming upon Gideon in Hanover and about the message in the hollow tree that had sent her across Vermont’s Green Mountains to Fort Ticonderoga. When she had come to the end of her story, Rachael had said nothing for such a long time that Phoebe had feared she would say nothing, ever, about what she had been told. It was not so. In a low voice, heavy with tears, Rachael had said, “There was never any dissuading Gideon from whatever he determined to do, not from the moment he was born. How well I remember him — he was only three then — stubbornly refusing to eat your mother’s fine gingerbread that he loved when we wouldn’t give any to our old beagle because sweets made him vomit. But Gideon managed, when no one observed, to feed his portion to the dog, who was soon violently ill. What was important to Gideon he would do, and he never stopped to consider the consequences. He would go off into the woods for his plants no matter what else needed his attention. He would go off to fight for the King against your uncle’s deepest convictions — and mine. And he would come home to see his Polly, no matter how risky it was. I should have known, I supp
ose I did know, when he went off to war, that he would never come home to us.”

  She had taken Phoebe’s hand. “I know that God means us not to succumb to life’s trials, Phoebe, but sometimes life’s trials seem more than a body can bear. The loss of that dear boy …” Rachael’s voice had become so low Phoebe had hardly been able to hear her. But the voice had strengthened and there had been a note of humour in it. “He was most certainly a wilful soul, our Gideon, and” — she had squeezed Phoebe’s hand — “so are you. I cannot fathom what was in your mind to set: you out over the mountains alone, without confiding in a soul about what you had found or what you meant to do, you who were always so much a stay-by-the-fire child. Why, Phoebe? Why did you not tell us?”

  Holding tight to Rachael’s hand, Phoebe had gazed intently into her face, its pained expression evident in the light of the fire. Haltingly, she had confessed to Rachael that she had been sure, from the moment she had agreed to take Gideon’s letter to Polly Grantham, that she should not have done it.

  “If I had not taken that letter, he would not have gone near the village; he would be alive and you would not be out here in the cold forest. Anne was right, even though she didn’t know why. It’s all my fault, all of it.”

  Phoebe had been trembling when she said those words, in part from the misery she felt at what she had done, in part from the relief of having told Aunt Rachael. Rachael had wrapped her arms around Phoebe and held her close.

  “You must not believe that. It is not true, Phoebe. Gideon ought not to have been in Hanover for you to find him there. He ought not to have written to ask Polly Grantham to meet him. He ought not to have asked you to deliver his letter. You are not guilty of those acts. You ought not to have taken it upon yourself to deliver the message you found in the tree, but you were grieving, and Anne ought not to have blamed you for what happened, but she, too, was grieving.”

  “I know, Aunt Rachael. I know how Anne is. Only,” Phoebe had said in a small voice, “I thought she would get over it and she hasn’t — she still believes it was my fault. And she believes that I am a rebel because Papa was.”