by Janet Lunn
“Mrs. Morrissay, you have no right to be here!” Rose could barely control her shaking voice. Her sense of how things ought to be had never been so disturbed, not even by her grandmother’s death. “You don’t belong here, Mrs. Morrissay—” Rose stopped abruptly, her fear and her shock subsiding before Mrs. Morrissay’s smile. “I suppose it is your home?”
“Of course it’s my house. I grew up in it. I was married in it. I’m like to die in it and”—Mrs. Morrissay finished with a sigh—“it seems I shift in it.”
She reached over and took Rose’s hand. Rose snatched it away. “It’s all right,” said Mrs. Morrissay soothingly. “Rose, I told you, I ain’t no ghost. I ain’t dead. I’m just shifted, and I don’t know how no more than you do. It just happens, like I said. All I know is that if the good Lord sees fit to shift me, I shift. I suppose it’s … well, I dunno. But I do belong here, and, Rose, I want you to make things right in my house for me.”
“Mrs. Morrissay, I can’t fix your house. It isn’t my house, and anyway, I don’t even like this house. I’m not going to stay here. I’m going back to New York.”
Rose realized that she was actually talking to the old woman as easily as she had used her name, Mrs. Morrissay. “How do you know so much about me? Who are you?”
But Mrs. Morrissay was staring at Rose. As if she hadn’t heard her question, she said, “Don’t talk about going off like that, Rose. You ain’t going to New York, you know you ain’t—oh!” Mrs. Morrissay looked at Rose in alarm, opened her mouth to say something, and disappeared, not slowly the way she had come but instantly, like a light being turned off.
Rose started back. Fearfully she put her hand toward the spot where Mrs. Morrissay had been standing. There was no one, no thing. Her mind was in a turmoil. At that moment, through the window, she caught sight of something blue and orange moving across the glade.
“There she is!” Rose spoke aloud in her excitement. “There’s her kerchief!”
She flew down the stairs and out of the house. But there was no sign of Mrs. Morrissay in the clearing. Rose slumped down against the little hawthorn tree. “It’s true what I wrote Aunt Millicent,” she whispered. “They are mad. And now I think I must be mad, too.”
She sat there, dejectedly scuffing the leaves with her feet, her mind going over and over what had happened. Her toe struck something metal. Surprised, she sat up straight and pushed at it with her foot. It clinked. She went over on her hands and knees to look. She brushed away the leaves and discovered that there were boards underneath with a metal latch of some sort.
“It’s a door, a door in the ground. How odd.” Excitedly she began to pull at the vines and thick grass that had grown over the boards, and when she had pulled most of them away she saw that, indeed, it was a door—two doors, in fact, with rusty hook-and-eye latches that secured them together. With much pulling and wrenching she managed to loosen them and slowly, slowly, with a great deal of straining and heaving she pried them open.
There were steps inside that had been made by cutting away the earth and laying boards across. The boards had all but rotted away, but the earth steps were still there. At the bottom, facing her about three feet away, was another door, upright, also fastened with a hook-and-eye latch. The doorway was so low she had to stoop to get through.
Inside she found herself in a kind of closet with shelves along the sides on which stood crockery jars and glass sealers. On the floor stood several barrels with lids on them. The place was cold and damp, but it looked to be in use.
I don’t understand. If Aunt Nan keeps her pickles and things here, why is it so hard to get into? she thought. She had lifted the lid off one of the crocks and found it full of beets. Another was full of cucumber pickles. She looked up. Someone behind her was blocking the light. Quickly she turned around.
A girl, smaller but probably about the same age as her, stood at the top of the steps with a jar in her hands. It was the girl from the bedroom with the four-poster bed. She wore quite a long dress made of some rough dark brown material, with a white apron over it. On her feet she had awkward-looking ankle-high boots. She had dark brown hair in one long braid down her back, a plain round freckled face, a small nose, a wide mouth—and bright black eyes. They were blinking at Rose in consternation.
“Where’d you come from?” she demanded.
“I … I … what?”
“You’d best get out of our root cellar.” The girl came down the steps. “Missus will be terrible cross.” She reached up to the top shelf and brought down one of the crocks. All the while she kept turning around to stare nervously at Rose.
Rose stared back.
“You’d best come along now.” The girl frowned. “Honest, Missus don’t like having strangers around.” She started back up the steps.
“Look”—Rose followed the girl—“look, isn’t this—” She’d been going to ask, “Isn’t this Aunt Nan’s root cellar?” but the words never got spoken. At the top of the steps she found herself standing beside a little garden with rows of young plants set out in it. Behind it the creek bubbled merrily and a neat stone path led from the garden to the kitchen door. Pansies and sweet alyssum bloomed along the walk and there were hollyhocks against the back wall of the house. The bricks looked bright and the trim around the windows and the kitchen door was fresh and white. Chickens and ducks were squawking and flapping to let her know she was intruding, and a pair of geese scurried across the grass toward her. Down past the creek a cow and a small flock of sheep were browsing. Beyond, where there should have been a field of crab grass and burdock, was an apple orchard in full bloom.
“This time it’s me,” whispered Rose. “I’ve shifted.”
Susan
“Susan!” A fretful voice called from the house. “Susan, Suusaan!”
“Oh, Lord’s mercy, there she is again,” sighed the girl. “I don’t know where you come from, but you best go back there right soon.” She paused. “You aren’t lost or nothing?”
Rose stared at Susan, not really hearing her.
“Are you lost?” Susan repeated.
“Lost?”
“Susan!” cried the voice.
“Stay here. I’ll be back. But mind you don’t go helping yourself to nothing.”
“Susan!” The tone had become imperious. Off went Susan on the run.
Rose sat down at the edge of the garden. She couldn’t believe what had happened. She moved her hand slowly over the soft spring grass. She looked around at the sheep, the neat little garden, the geese, and the chickens who, having assured themselves that she was harmless, had stopped squawking and were clucking peacefully as they toddled and scrabbled around the yard.
“It’s true,” she whispered. “I have shifted. And that girl—Susan—is the girl I saw making the bed in Aunt Nan’s house—in this house,” she amended, realizing that although it looked new and bright, this was the same house she hated so much for being old and ugly. Dazed, she got up and started walking around to the front.
It was certainly the same house, the same back porch, the same shed, except that this one was strong and straight and, peering inside, she could see that it was full of things: a wood pile, a big wooden tub with a scrub board stuck in it, old newspapers, and an assortment of unidentifiable junk. There was a porch along the front of the house, its roof supported by white posts, carved at the upper corners in elaborate curves and curlicues. Dark green shutters opened out from all the windows.
The tangle of bushes that grew so close to the eastern side of the Henrys’ house was gone. Instead there were three large lilac bushes in full bloom. Beyond, partly hidden by the foliage, was a long open-fronted drive-shed where Rose could see an old-fashioned carriage and a wagon parked side by side. Lily of the valley grew in flower beds on either side of the front door. In the middle of the yard was a well with a stone wall around it and a steep roof above it. Out on the road was a row of tall elm trees.
It was a fairytale day. The sun shone warm on t
he soft red brick of the house and turned the creek and the bay beyond to glittering reflections of its own brilliance. To the west and across the road, apple orchards were a haze of pink and white blossoms. Down past the creek, hawthorn trees covered with tiny white flowers grew singly and in clusters like giant bouquets. Bees hummed in the small chestnut tree in the front yard, and everywhere birds were trilling and calling to each other through the trees.
Nearby someone played a few notes on a flute. Rose looked around. There was no one in sight. The notes sounded again, above her. She looked up and saw a boy with blond hair sitting on the roof of the drive-shed. He was intent on his music and had not seen her. She was trying to decide whether or not to speak when Susan came around the corner of the house.
“There you are,” she said, coming toward Rose.
“Damn!” said the boy.
“Oh, Will!”
“Well I almost had him and now he’s gone. Susan, why did you have to—Who’s that?”
“I dunno. He says he’s lost,” said Susan.
“What are you playing?” asked Rose. It didn’t occur to her to wonder at her boldness in speaking up. Talking to Will and Susan came so easily, without shyness or thought.
“I’m trying to talk to the birds. It’s an experiment,” answered the boy crossly.
“Mebbe the birds don’t want to talk to you,” said Susan good-naturedly. “Come along down off of there and help this boy find out where he belongs.” She turned to Rose. “You can’t have come far,” she said reassuringly. “Strangers don’t much find their way down this road—unless mebbe you came off of a schooner what docked over the other side of the bay. Did you?”
“I don’t.…” Rose hesitated, not sure what to say. “I come from New York City. Yes, from New York and I’m not a boy, I’m Rose.”
“I thought you was pretty for a boy,” said Susan, “only your hair is awful short and girls don’t wear britches around here.” She looked at Rose’s jeans. Although she said nothing more, surprise showed clearly in the way her eyes widened. “Well, I’m Susan and this here’s Will.”
“How do you do?” Rose put out her hand and Susan took it shyly.
“New York City’s quite a piece away, ain’t it? It must be awful hard with the war on and all that.”
“Oh,” said Rose vaguely, wondering what Susan could mean. “It’s awfully big and noisy in New York. I think this place is better.”
“Is it?” Will peered down at her from the roof as though she were some exotic bird that had just dropped into the yard. “City folks don’t generally care much for the country.”
“See here,” Susan asked anxiously, “is your schooner like to go off without you? Hadn’t we better help find her?”
“Schooner?”
“Your schooner, the ship you come over on.”
“Oh, my schooner, uh—no, it’s all right. It’s going to be here for ages.”
“Ain’t that grand,” said Susan. “I got my half-day tomorrow and me and Will can show you around if you like. I’m hired girl here and I got to get back to work now but Will, he belongs here so he can help you find where your ship’s docked. Does your pa own it? Has all the boys gone to war? Is that why you’re dressed like a boy? Around here nobody’ll take a girl on the boats—except to work as cook. Only you got to be a good bit older.”
“Yes, my father owns the ship, so it’s all right for me to stay here tonight.” The words tumbled out of her in her anxiety not to appear too outlandish.
“You can’t stay here,” said Susan. “I don’t think so,” said Will, both at the same time.
“You see,” Susan apologized, “Will’s ma, she ain’t so good. Will’s pa fell off of a roof in a barn raising and died a couple of years back and that same year Will’s brother Adam he died of the chills and his ma ain’t been the same since. She don’t open her house much to strangers. I guess I’m the most stranger that’s been near the place since Adam died, except for the hired man who used to come and do the heavy chores. There ain’t much farming here now. We only got them few sheep and geese and chickens and one cow. Bothers works the farm. Will helps and he’s going to take it on when he’s finished growing but—”
“Susan! Susan!”
“There’s the missus. Will, you gotta show Rose how to get back to her schooner. Will you come back tomorrow?” she asked eagerly. Rose promised and Susan smiled, and when Susan smiled it was as though the whole world grew brighter. She ran off as Will slid down from the roof and dropped to the ground. Rose could see now that he was a year or so older than her and almost a foot taller, a serious-looking boy with a thin face and blue eyes. He was wearing a heavy gray shirt and brown woolen britches. His leather boots were laced to the knees. He stuffed his flute into a pocket and started toward the road.
“Come along,” he said curtly. He stopped and turned. “Nope, be shorter by the boat.” He strode off toward the bay, and not sure what else to do, Rose followed him across the back yard, over the two wide planks that bridged the creek, and down to the bay where a small rowboat was tied to a dock. Will leaned over to untie it.
“You get in first,” he said.
Rose had been thinking furiously. “Will, did you ever want to run away?” She did not look directly at him.
“Is that what you done?”
“I want to stay here,” Rose answered. “I could stay over there.” She pointed toward the big red barn just west of the orchard, the roof and back of which could be seen from the dock.
Will looked uncomfortable. “There ain’t nothing here for a strange girl to do, and you’re awful little.” He flushed. “And dainty, even in them britches. If you was a boy mebbe I might sneak you out something to eat and give you a hand finding work and a place to stay. Around here nobody gives farm work—or smithing or milling or nothing—to a girl, and without they know you who’s going to take you on for a hired girl?”
Rose hadn’t thought about the complication of work. She had simply said the first thing that had come to mind. Now she realized she needed time to think. “I guess I’d better go back then,” she said quickly. “But I’m coming again tomorrow.”
Will nodded. “You want me to take you across the bay?” He looked puzzled and uneasy.
“No, it’s all right. I’d rather walk. I came down the road. I only said I was lost because I wanted to stay here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Will nodded again. She could feel his eyes following her as she walked back up past the house and started down the road. When she was sure he could no longer see, her, she sat down on a rock beside the road to decide what to do next.
She was not going back to Aunt Nan’s and Uncle Bob’s. She realized they would never know where she had gone, nor, she figured, would they care. That thought brought a swift, unexpected twinge of pain. She put the Henrys from her thoughts, rested her elbows on her knees, and put her chin in her hands. She looked down at her new running shoes and wriggled her toes inside them. She felt scared but excited by what had happened. She couldn’t sit still. She jumped up and walked along the road, stopping by a wooden bridge that went over the creek.
“I’m really not going back,” she said out loud, startling a blackbird out of a nearby bush. “I don’t have to. I could stay here always. I can talk to these people—” She stopped, realizing with a surge of elation that it was true. Talking to Will and Susan was easy, as easy as talking to people in her daydreams. She was shaken by a thought. Maybe this is where I’m supposed to be. Maybe I belong here. She gazed around at the countryside in wonder. It all seemed brighter and more interesting than any place she had ever seen. Each blade of grass, each tree branch seemed magical. She walked on, savoring every detail, hugging herself with delight.
The road was different from the one that ran past the Henrys’ house. It was more like two dirt tracks with grass and weeds and wild flowers growing between and, on either side, the rail fences, the tall trees and dense bushes. It was like walking through a wood except
that the bright sunlight through the leaves revealed the fences and fields and pastures beyond. She came to an opening in the brush, climbed over the fence, and sat down under a small tree at the edge of the pasture.
“I wonder what Aunt Nan would think if she knew. I wonder if Mrs. Morrissay knew all the time that I was coming here. I wonder if she came to get me. I wonder if I’ll see her here. I wonder.…” Rose fell fast asleep.
When she woke up it was night and she was stiff and cold and hungry. There was neither moon nor stars. The blackness was smothering. She got up. Shoving her hands into her pockets and standing tall to make herself feel bigger and braver, she scrambled over the fence and started back toward the house. Young frogs were crik-criking in a nearby swamp. There was a wind in the trees, rustling the leaves and rattling in the underbrush. In the distance an owl hooted his never-ending hollow hoot and, close by, a whippoorwill whistled softly.
A dog barked across the bay. “The country is full of terrible noises,” whispered Rose. “I wish they had street lights.” Her pace quickened until she was almost running. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she could pick out bushes and spaces, and at last the bushes ended. There was a row of trees, a lawn, and a big square house. A dog growled and began to bark. A chain rattled. A light flickered in one of the windows and went out. Rose kept to the far side of the road, her teeth chattering with cold and fear.
“This isn’t Will and Susan’s house,” she whispered. “I must have walked the wrong way. I may have gone down all sorts of wrong roads by now. I don’t know where I am.”
She was terrified of the dog, but she was so afraid of going farther in the wrong direction and losing herself completely that she decided to stay where she was. She tried to reassure herself by telling herself the dog must be securely tied up.
She sat down across the road from the house, hugging herself against the cold, dozing now and then, springing to her feet every time the dog whined or growled. She thought a lot about Will and Susan. She wondered how old they were, what year it might be, what war was going on in New York. There was nothing in this tranquil countryside or the way Will and Susan spoke or dressed to give her a clue.