Sanctuary

by Jennifer McKissack

  I felt very cold. I looked out at the sea, trying to pull in its strength.

  After a moment, Eli asked, “Was she French?”

  “My mother?” I asked, confused.

  “Amoret. It’s a French name, from amour.”

  “You’re right! Of course! Love, it means love.”

  Eli was smiling at me. Suddenly I wanted to touch him, to feel his cheek upon my hand, for just a moment. His eyes changed, reflecting back at me what I hoped for, although I didn’t even know what that was. Drawn to him, I saw his hesitation. We looked away from each other, but then our eyes caught. He smiled at me again, but it was more reserved, less inviting than before. And yet there seemed to be something that remained, that charged the moment, the space between us.

  “Hear that?” I asked excitedly, pointing at the waves. “It’s the rolling rattle of the pebbles in the waves.”

  “I hear it,” he said with a smile.

  We stayed like that, listening. I stole small glances at him, liking the look of his face and the thoughtfulness in his eyes. Once, he smiled a little, without glancing my way, and I wondered if he knew I was watching him.

  “Time to go,” I said, jumping up. He seemed startled out of his thoughts, but stood with me.

  We walked across the now-exposed gravel path connecting Sanctuary to tiny Granite Island. The wind blew at us fiercely. I pulled my sweater around me tight as we walked across the sea. Eli was enjoying this. I was too.

  The lighthouse was in poor shape, having been abandoned long ago. I wondered if some of the men on our island had taken turns manning it. We climbed cast-iron steps inside the tower, coming out onto the windy top. Granite Island was so small, we felt we were hovering about the sea, with wild waves crashing around us. I grinned at Eli, and he grinned back.

  I hadn’t visited the lighthouse in a long while, and even then, I’d always come alone. Tess hadn’t been interested. Sometimes I’d see Ben standing off on the beach, watching me, probably worried I’d get trapped by the returning sea.

  Being here with Eli felt very different.

  After a while, we climbed down and out of the cold wind, and across the sandbar before the sea swallowed it back up.

  We walked side by side on the path. “Do you have any talents, Eli?”

  “I play the trumpet.”

  “The trumpet?” I asked in surprise.

  “I’m not too shabby, actually,” he said. “I sometimes play with a swing jazz band.”

  “I’d like to see you sometime.”

  “I’d like for you to see me,” he returned quickly. We caught eyes, and my skin tingled, which caught me by surprise.

  “Would you teach me to play?” I asked.

  “I would like that.”

  AS WE GOT CLOSER TO THE HOUSE, MARY CAME OUT THE FRONT DOOR, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, smiling, saying, “We’ve already eaten. Let me fix you a late lunch.”

  “Thank you!” Eli said. “I’m famished after our walk.”

  He looked at me, but I shook my head. “I’m not hungry,” I lied, seeing his look of disappointment as we walked into the foyer. The truth was, I was starving, but there was something I had to do and I wanted some privacy. I slipped back through the library door.

  Going to the case, I scanned the titles. Mary’s comment about Tess’s reading and also Eli’s news about the captain’s history reminded me of the books Tess was always lugging around.

  They were about the French settlers Eli was talking about—the ones who’d been expelled from Nova Scotia—thousands of them, if I remembered right. Long-time French settlers the British pushed out, moving them to other places, during the French and Indian War in the mid–eighteenth century, about the same time Sanctuary was built.

  Amoret must have been Acadian, then, because Tess was only interested in Amoret.

  Mother had only been interested in a book if Tess was reading from it.

  But Tess … for her, it was just Sanctuary, the island, Amoret, and her books. She hadn’t always been so singularly focused. When we were younger, we explored the island and the sea together, never far from each other’s side. But things had changed.

  As I looked through the shelves now, I realized most of the volumes appeared to be in the same places I’d left them. I had my own system for organizing them, and I was pleased Aunt Laura had left them that way. I’d placed the ones Tess liked on the shelf closest to the inner wall, at the bottom. I had liked being in control of the books—the one who knew about them, who knew where they were, what they were.

  Sitting on the floor now, I investigated the volumes on that shelf, but they weren’t Tess’s books after all. And things looked different to me. I thought hard, trying to pull the hazy memory from the past.

  Looking to the shelves above, I realized there weren’t as many books on them. Someone had rearranged them, I was sure of it. But why would Aunt Laura have changed these shelves only? Why would she have taken Tess’s books?

  Pulling out the books one at a time, looking at the titles, I saw they were all about the fall of the Roman Empire. When reaching for another, my fingers hit something behind them. I leaned down to look and saw that there were books behind the books, carefully placed so they couldn’t be seen behind these larger volumes.

  Opening one, remembering it, I ran my palm along its wavy pages, marred from Tess’s bath, its title Acadian Reminiscences: The True Story of Evangeline.

  Gently, I pulled another out. The cover was old, cracked leather, and its vellum pages, wrapped up by twine, were only loosely held together by fraying strings. It wasn’t a book, it was a journal, written by someone named Dr. William Clemson. The name was familiar to me, but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it before.

  I settled myself in my leather swivel chair, which was too large for the small desk, but comfortable. The book was handwritten, and the cursive words not easy to read. The diarist was on a ship, talking about the weather. Not a riveting way to begin.

  I flipped the pages, and a yellowed piece of paper slipped to the floor. Picking up the fragile note carefully, I held it close to read the faded words. It was in two hands: the message on top not as practiced as the one precisely written below it. But the top message wasn’t in English. The one below it was:

  But I most ardently want to help you.

  It was in the same handwriting as the diarist’s.

  Intrigued now, I perused the journal, still finding it dry and boring, catching words and phrases like “the angry sea,” “dysentery and other ailments,” “the captain,” and “our dependable ship.” I wondered if the captain was our Captain Winship.

  Dr. William Clemson hadn’t been a very enthralling storyteller, but he was a good artist, sketching members of the crew and various parts of the ship. They were a hard-looking, sea-worn lot. But the sketches brought their days to life more than the doctor’s words did.

  Then on the last page of the journal was a drawing of a young woman, about my age. The sketch didn’t have the dry seriousness of old portraits. She was facing the artist, but gazed off with wild dark eyes, her hair unpinned and hanging over her shoulders, wisps of it wrapping about her neck. But a very small smile played about her lips, as if something pleased her. The tension that the artist captured—of a woman both delighted and haunted—was compelling.

  Amoret, Tess’s voice whispered.

  The ghost in the graveyard, I said silently back.

  The door opened, and I jumped, the note falling from my hand.

  Eli was there, his hand on the knob, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, quickly picking up the paper. But I wasn’t all right.

  “You are so pale. Are you sure—?”

  “I am.” I tucked the paper in the pages of the journal, shutting the cover on the sketch. “I was just … intent on what I was reading. You ate quickly.”

  “I had to get back to my reading!” he said with enthusiasm. He settled on the love seat i
n the library, studying the books and writing in his notebook. I opened the journal again, trying to turn my thoughts from Eli.

  As I studied the sketch, the woman’s emotions came more into focus. Some past hurt pulled her gaze away from the artist, but her eyes also conveyed a dangerous rage. Yet there was something soft about the tilt of her chin and the subtle curve of her mouth that revealed a nature more naturally joyful—although very spirited, perhaps. Or was it an artist’s hope that brought that out?

  It struck me suddenly that he’d loved her, that William Clemson must have loved her, to capture her so clearly and closely. And the delight on her face, was he the cause?

  At that realization—that the artist-diarist must have loved this complex woman deeply, for I felt strongly I was right—the journal itself became very enticing. I stumbled through the sentences as I tried to decipher the older English style and the elaborately cursive writing.

  The doctor also liked to record all the ailments, no matter how small, of the crew. For such hardy seamen, they had many complaints. The sketches of them were intriguing—men with craggy faces and baggy pants, their eyes narrowed, but some with a glint of amusement. Underneath their pictures, the doctor had written their illnesses, not their names.

  While reading, my thoughts strayed to movements on Eli’s part. Once he got up to replace a few books on the shelves and to retrieve another, his body stretching to its longest as he reached for it. I swiveled quietly in my chair as if I were lost in my reading, glancing at him as he read still standing by the shelves.

  It was possible he might be a little nearsighted, because he put the book up close to his eyes as he read. I caught a small smile on his lips and wished he’d read aloud what was amusing him. But then a feeling came over me that he knew I was watching him again and I immediately turned back around, a flush of warmth spreading over my neck. I pushed to plod through the journal.

  While skimming over the dry recording of battles with the French in Nova Scotia and how much cannon the French had or who had the most prisoners, and the whippings of the crew for stealing food and rum, the name Captain Winship caught my eye.

  “Aha!” I cried, thumping the journal with my fingers.

  “Aha?” asked an amused Eli, still at the shelves.

  I looked up at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

  “Did you find something interesting?” His eyes went to the journal in my hands.

  “Not really.”

  He laughed. “Tell me.”

  “Just go back to what you’re doing over there,” I said, waving my hand at him.

  “I’d rather see what you’re doing over there,” he said, imitating me and waving his hand back at me. He had such a winning smile.

  A strange feeling came over me—a strange, happy feeling. Turning reluctantly from him, I went back to the journal.

  Captain Winship ordered the burning of a village and the loading of the women and children on the ship. Without commentary or emotion, Dr. Clemson wrote that this task proceeded smoothly. The detached description of the destruction of these people’s way of life rattled me so much I had to stop reading. Are you so sensitive? Tess might have chided. But then perhaps she wouldn’t have. She had been obsessed with these books. She’d have wanted me to know this.

  If Amoret had been one of these villagers, how did she become Captain Winship’s wife?

  I picked up the other book of Tess’s I’d taken from the shelves, the one on someone named Evangeline. Eli had moved back to his place on the love seat, settling himself there.

  I skimmed the table of contents, then turned to the chapter entitled “A Night of Terror.” This particular group of Acadians had tried to escape from the hands of the English by leaving their village in the middle of the night. But they were found and loaded onto ships.

  We were huddled in a space scarcely large enough to contain us. The air rarefied by our breathing became unwholesome and oppressive; we could not lie down to rest our weary limbs.

  So, Dr. William Clemson, why not include these details in your journal?

  With but scant food, with the water given grudgingly to us, barely enough to wet our parched lips; with no one to care for us, you can well imagine that our sufferings became unbearable.

  I turned back to William’s journal, flipping through the pages, until I saw a change in his writing:

  Only two days out, and I must confess the carrying of these souls is wearing on my own. They are packed into the hull of the ship. At the end of the day, when I lie in my cabin, their moans and cries haunt the night, turning us into a ghost ship.

  Clearly, we were overly concerned about the Acadians. Most were not supporting the French, despite their shared ethnicity. I see no great allegiance there. They were content to stay out of our war and live their lives in peace. It is—was—a close community they’d established, building it over decades. In only a few months, we dismantled it.

  A young woman is on the ship, the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, so unlike the women back home. Her eyes change and bring you in. She roams the deck and looks back toward Acadia, her face filled with grief, but rage too.

  What tragedy have we begot here? How many generations have we affected? We have done a terrible thing, I fear—one for which History will not forget or forgive.

  “Cecilia.”

  “What!” I said, jumping, staring up at Eli’s smile.

  “You do get engrossed, don’t you?”

  I smiled, shaking my head, looking up at him. He made me feel so light, even as I read this terrible account.

  “Would you like to raid the kitchen with me?” he asked. “We missed dinner.”

  “I would.”

  EVERYONE ELSE HAD GONE UPSTAIRS, SO WE HAD THE KITCHEN TO OURSELVES.

  “Are you very hungry?” Eli said with a laugh.

  I laughed too, without knowing why. I loved his laugh, and the way his face looked when he did. “Well, I am. But why?”

  “The way you hurried through the dining room. I could barely keep up.”

  I smiled, pretending it was hunger that had me rushing through that room. I didn’t like it in there. I lifted a dark blue towel to find a clay bowl filled with biscuits. “We need butter,” I said, turning to the icebox.

  “I’ll be right back,” Eli told me as he left the kitchen for the service stairs. I pulled out plates from the cabinet and two glasses as well, filling them with water. By the time Eli returned, our places were set.

  “What is that?” I asked, gesturing to the can in his hand.

  “Peanut butter.”

  “You carry peanut butter around with you?”

  “Yes,” he said, sitting down. He pulled the key off the bottom of the can to open it.

  “Peter Pan peanut butter,” I said, watching him smear it on one of Anna’s biscuits. I sat down across from him. “I’ve never seen anyone eat a peanut butter biscuit.”

  “It’s great on biscuits. Pancakes. Would you like some?”

  “I’ve never had it before.”

  “Not really,” he said, surprised. At my nod, he began making me a peanut butter biscuit. “You’ll love it.”

  Our fingers touched when he handed it to me. The first bite was delicious. “It’s both salty and sweet.”

  Taking a bite himself, he chewed like a happy kid.

  I laughed, covering my mouth.

  “What?”

  I shook my head, still giggling.

  “What?” he asked again.

  I gave a small shrug. “You remind me of a little boy.”

  He raised his eyebrows and took another bite.

  “What were you like as a boy?” I asked him.

  “I collected turtles.”

  “I did too! I kept them in a box.”

  His eyes lit up. “I made a pen for them in the yard.”

  “Mine were painted turtles, only about six inches long. I’d kidnap them from a beaver pond and bring them back to Sanctuary to care for them. I fed them insects. I
’m sure they were miserable.”

  “They are fascinating creatures.”

  “I envied them their shells.”

  He finished off his biscuit. “Will you show the pond to me?”

  “We could go tomorrow.”

  “We’ll need to bring a box.”

  “Oh, we can’t do that,” I said. “We should leave them to their pond.”

  “Quite right. Then we’ll just watch them poke their heads in and out.”

  “And walk very, very slowly.”

  “It does make you wonder why we find them so fascinating.”

  “Perhaps we’re still children,” I suggested. I cocked my head, watching him. I liked watching him. “What else did you do as child?”

  “Well, I was very curious. My father told me I wouldn’t stop asking questions, that they tumbled out of my mouth one after another, sometimes without even a pause for the answers. I wanted to know everything.”

  “But you do know everything,” I pointed out with a mischievous grin. “Isn’t that what you said?”

  “If I remember right, that’s what you said.”

  “And you agreed.”

  “And I agreed.”

  There was a beat of silence as we held each other’s eyes. Realizing simultaneously that we were both staring at each other, we looked away.

  “What about you?” he asked, the first to recover. “Were you curious as a child?”

  “The sea captivated me. The island too,” I said, watching him make another biscuit. “All of its creatures and plants. The books in the library. Not just to read. Their pages. The way they are bound. The feel of their covers. And I liked to read stories too, of course.”

  “So the history of this house must’ve intrigued you?”

  “A little,” I said cautiously. “I knew it was built by a sea captain and that he and his wife are buried in the graveyard.” I stared at the biscuit I’d just picked up and put it back down. “But I was born here. Sanctuary was my home, not a museum.” But that was just an excuse.

  Once I’d been talking to my mother and wanted her to pay attention to me like she did to Tess. So I made up something about Captain Winship in hopes of impressing her, of seeing her eyes light up like they did when Tess talked to her.