"Not dark enough. Did the vet know Daddy, too?"
"Don't know."
"Hasn't Clair asked him?"
"No, and that's why she's fighting with Daddy—because he won't go talk to him either."
"Why won't she go talk to him?"
"Don't know."
"Then why won't he go talk to him?"
"Because he says he's a bastard."
"Luke says he's a bastard? Why does he say he's a bastard?"
"Because he drinks liquor. Are we going in?" asked Hannah as they come to the gate leading into a thicket.
"Not scared, are you?"
"No," said Hannah, staring hard at the dark woods before her, trying to imagine it in its daylight foliage of aspen, brooks and squawking bluejays. "I—I can't see," she protested, fumbling with her foot for the path, hands reaching before her as Missy creaked open the gate, ushering her through.
"You'll see better in a minute—here, hold my hand." With the clarity of a nighthawk, Missy led them straight onto the path through the wood.
"Daddy said a fairy led Grandy into the woods once and got him lost," said Hannah.
"Ouch," exclaimed Missy as Hannah stumbled over her ankles. "What else did he say?"
"That Grandy ate dandelion seeds every day from then on so's to protect himself so's he'd never see another fairy."
"Did it work?"
"I don't know. I think so—" A sudden rush of air struck her cheek and she leaped back with a shriek.
"Shh, it's a bird; it's just a bird," soothed Missy.
"It's a bat!" cried Hannah.
"Bats don't hurt you. Hear the brook? It'll be lighter in the clearing. There's no bats there, and they don't hurt you, anyhow. Lord knows, I'd be dead by now if they did. Come on."
Holding up a hand to ward off further bat attacks, Hannah allowed her aunt to lead her off the path and alongside a brook choking its way free of the underbrush and sliding across a grassy clearing. It was lighter here, as Missy had promised, and taking courage, Hannah shoved herself more boldly through a grouping of huckleberry and alder bushes, closing her eyes against the branches flicking at her face. Finally they broke through, meeting up with the brook again as it tumbled down an embankment, joining with a river onto the gorge floor. But it was impossible to see the river on this night, with the floor of the gorge as black as tar, and Hannah turned her eyes instead towards the pearly grey of the ocean, scarcely visible at the mouth of the gorge, reflecting the final traces of the evening's light.
Missy was brushing off a place to sit besides the brook and Hannah fell to her knees, scrambling to sit besides her.
"Mmm, I loves the sounds of running water," murmured Missy, resting her chin on the crown of Hannah's head and trailing her hand through the brook as it splashed down over the grade. Hannah nodded, closing her eyes to the dark of the gorge, and feeling instead the warmth of her aunt's throat on her forehead.
"Where do you think the stars go in the daytime?" her aunt asked softly.
"Nowhere. The sun makes it hard to see them."
"Getting smart, aren't you?"
"Daddy told me. And he said you can't ever reach them, not even if you piled every house in the world on top of each other, and every ladder and every log, not even then can you reach them—that's how far away they are."
"He must be right, else we'd be lying on a star this evening."
"And he said once he was thinking so hard about it that he made a star fall right across the sky."
"Mmm. Once I believed my daddy could make the heavens dance."
"That's silly."
"Maybe so. Some things are too big to think about." And she lapsed into silence, gently swaying, her chin nuzzling Hannah's crown. They sat like that for some time, Missy much calmer than earlier, except for the strength of her fingers as she more fidgeted than stroked Hannah's shoulders, and Hannah a little uncomfortable because of the damp of the ground penetrating the thin cotton of her slacks, yet remaining still, not wanting to disrupt the aunt's quiet. Despite herself, a shiver ran through her and her aunt immediately rose.
The horizon had given way to full darkness by now, and Hannah clung tightly to her aunt's hand as they fought their way back through the huckleberries and alders. The gurglings of the little brook sounded more like a rushing river in the quiet of the night, and with relief Hannah found herself on the path leading back through the aspens and the glimmer of a lamplight twinkling through the dark. Another glimmer, and another, and they were back besides the gate again, and windows from the Basin burnishing the night.
"See that," sniffed Missy, coming up across the yard and staring up at the upstairs window and the uncle, his hands cupped to the pane, peering down at them. "That's what it's like all the time now—everybody staring at me. You'd think they never seen anybody this way before, and don't let them windows that's dark fool you; that's the ones they're most likely looking through," she added as they made their way up over the garden.
"You can get to bed now," she shouted the second they were inside the house and she had strolled to the foot of the stairs. "We didn't turn into fairies and fly away." Rolling her eyes, she patted the back of the divan for Hannah to sit and, raising the wick, made them each a cup of hot cocoa. "Don't spill," she cautioned as Hannah crept up over the stairs behind her, their shadows looming on the wall from the lamp the uncle had left burning on the landing.
Laying her cup on the bedstand, Hannah stripped off her clothes and snatched up the end of the curtain, covering the opening to the closet, looking for her bag. "You got some squawroot?" she asked, dropping to her knees besides some dried roots gnarled around each other, and leaves shrivelled up like hay drying on a piece of brown paper.
"Get away from that," said Missy loudly, pulling Hannah away from the closet and letting the curtain fall back in place. And seeing Hannah's stung look, she quickly smiled. "Yes, yes, it's squawroot. I dries them for Uncle Sim."
"That's a lot," said Hannah. "Too much makes you really sick, Granny Prude says."
"Never mind," said Missy. "And tell no one about it. There, underneath the bed is your bag. Hurry now, get undressed."
"Is it too hot?" she asked, after they were both gowned and had crawled into bed, sitting up on their pillows, sipping their cocoa.
Hannah shook her head, taking a gulp of the sweetened liquid.
"Bet Clair don't let you drink cocoa in bed."
"Nope."
"Is Brother laughing yet?"
"Just bawls."
"All the time?"
"Yup."
"Nothing else?"
"He slobbers."
"I hates slobber. Do Luke rock him?"
"Yup."
"What else did Luke say to Clair—when they were fighting about the vet?"
"That she's waiting for something."
"What's she waiting for?"
"Don't know."
"And what do she say?"
"That he's scared."
"Of what?"
"Of walking up the beach."
"Since the shooting?"
"Yup."
"Do you think he is?"
"Daddy's not scared of nothing."
Missy laid her partially emptied cup on the dresser, reaching for Hannah's. "Everybody's scared of something, Hannie," she said, leaning over and blowing out the lamp. "Only difference is, some people knows what they're scared of, and some don't. I'd say Luke's one of them that knows exactly what he's scared of, and I'd say Clair's one of them that don't."
"I'm scared of thunder," said Hannah, sinking beneath the blankets.
"And I'm scared of lightning," whispered Missy into her ear, making it all shivery.
"Is this how you and Mommy slept?" asked Hannah, after her aunt had tucked around the curve of her back. "Uh-huh."
"Did you turn in to her back—or did she turn in to yours?"
"She turned in to mine. She used to say my hair felt like bird's feathers."
"Bird's feathers!"
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"Beneath her cheek."
"Let me feel," said Hannah. Reaching beneath her head for a fistful of her aunt's hair, she pulled it across her pillow as had her mother when she was just a girl.
Chapter Fourteen
THE FOLLOWING MORNING HANNAH AWAKENED with the robins, shifting wide-eyed on her pillow, waiting for her aunt to stir. Missy had turned from her during the night, and was curled onto her other side, facing the window.
Inching her head off her pillow, Hannah leaned over and whispered, "Are you awake?"
"Ummm."
"Are we getting up?"
"In a bit."
"Is Uncle Sim gone?"
"Ummm. Ooh, Hannie, I don't feel good in the mornings."
"Why don't I go stoke the fire?"
"Don't burn yourself, then."
Scrambling out of bed, Hannah pulled on her clothes from the night before and, hopping onto the bannister, swooshed down the railing, landing off balance and staggering against the stairwell wall.
"Hannah?"
"I'm just going to stoke the fire." Shoving in a junk of wood, she pulled the kettle forward, humming a little, as her mother sometimes did when she was making breakfast, and pulled open the curtains, letting in the morning sun. She found a knife in the drawer and cut off a slice of bread.
"Hannah?"
"Be up in a second."
Pouring some milk into a cup of tea, she then stirred in some sugar, and rescued the toast before it was too badly burnt. Lapping on lots of butter, she laid it on a tray, along with the cup of tea, and crept up over the stairs, proudly bearing it before her aunt.
"Ohh, Hannie," said Missy, as she shoved herself up on her pillow. "You're such a good girl."
Hannah stood back, beaming. "Now, I'm going to get mine. You can rest some more, if you wants," and swooshing once more down the bannister, this time landing on her feet. She hacked off another slice of bread and poured another cup of tea. It was going to be a grand day, after all, especially with the uncle gone and no one to watch and grumble as she took care of Missy. And after breakfast, perhaps they'd wander about the thicket, scrape some fairy butter and find a good spiderweb to lay their handkerchiefs on come evening. And perhaps tomorrow she could stay again, seeing's how she was being more help than hindrance. Frankie was right; Aunt Missy really did need more fresh air and walking, and in no time at all, she mused, wolfing down the last of her burnt toast, the dark would leave her aunt's eyes, and her cheeks would be pink again from the sun.
It was close to mid-afternoon when Missy came down over the stairs. Her cheeks weren't so pale, but the pained look still pinched her mouth, and her hair looked so much darker, tied back as it was in its tight ponytail.
"You want more tea?" asked Hannah, watching her anxiously.
She nodded, then took the uncle's seat at the table, looking out the window. "It's a nice day," she said simply.
"You want to go for a walk?"
She shook her head and, rising, began pacing the kitchen and looking as if she didn't know what to be doing with herself.
"It'll be good to go for a walk," coaxed Hannah.
Missy sighed, walking briskly to the door, opening it.
"If it wouldn't for their tutting tongues, I might," she said, peering out through. Then, pressing the door shut, she marched over to where Hannah stood pouring her tea. "But the last thing I needs to hear on this day is their tutting. Lord, they thinks I can't hear them, but I hears them—even when I'm not listening, I hears them."
"Let's go down in the thicket then. No one can see us there."
"You're forgetting something," said Missy, sitting on the uncle's chair. "You got to go home today."
Hannah stepped away from the stove as if she'd been burnt. "But—Uncle Sim said—"
"I knows what Uncle Sim said," exclaimed Missy. She laid her cup on the table, beckoning Hannah towards her. "It's—just that I'm sick, and there are—things I have to do."
"I'll help you," cried Hannah, "I been helping all morning, haven't I? You said I was a good girl. I've not been a bad girl, have I?"
"Come here, Hannie," said Missy, holding out her arms, and when Hannah shuffled hesitantly towards her, she leaned forward, pulling her close.
"You couldn't ever be bad," she whispered, "not ever. Not even if it's a bad thing you've done, that's all it is—a bad thing. That don't make you bad. You listening, Hannie? You're a good girl, the best." And pulling away, she peered into Hannah's eyes. "Tell you what," she exclaimed, the pallor of her face belying her sudden enthusiasm, "I'm going to take you to a secret place—a real secret place. You thought I was making it up yesterday, didn't you? Well, I wasn't, and this evening, if you promise never, never, ever to tell—not ever—I'll take you there."
Hannah nodded. "I won't tell."
"But you must promise not to be afraid," said Missy. "Do you promise—even though it'll be dark? It won't be like last night," she warned as Hannah shook her head. "We'll be walking a lot farther—and it'll get a lot darker. You sure you won't get scared?"
Hannah shook her head vigorously, basking in the sun's brightness against the windows.
"Then we'll leave soon as it gets dark," said Missy. "Be sure to dress warm, and Hannie—" she leaned back, staring fixedly into Hannah's eyes "—you're never to tell!" she whispered strongly.
"I won't."
"Not ever!"
"Not ever!"
Evening came. And after a supper of bread and cheese and cold meat, Missy tied a dark bandanna around her hair and, gathering jackets and boots and bundling some other things together, they dressed and went outside. The bluebells rustled with a sudden breeze. Tightening her bundle more securely beneath her sweater, Missy took Hannah's hand and, checking the lamplit windows, hurriedly retraced her steps from the night before down over the backyard, through the gate and onto the path leading through the thicket. They spoke little, for there is a silence in the forest at night, no different from that of a darkened bedroom; and unlike the night before when Missy had been full of assurances and content to dawdle along the pathways and visit the little brook, tonight she stole like a thief through the dark-covered path, skirting the brook and keeping out of the way of the full moon as she half-crept, half-slid down the side of the embankment, Hannah tight to her heels. The moon tucked behind cloud and the dark was smouldering as they began their trek alongside the river.
"Careful," Missy cautioned as Hannah tripped on something, nearly slipping into the river, "and, Hannie, we can't talk now, not till we're out on the beach on the other side of the wharf, because there's always people out and about—that's why we're going down the gorge to the shore; nobody walks down here much at night. Careful," she urged as Hannah tripped again in the tangled grass hedging the path, and then again and again as she hurried to keep step with her aunt. Twice they crouched amongst the bushes as voices no more than twenty feet away rang through the night, and once they shrieked with fright as a weasel or a lynx darted across their path, slipping into the river. When finally they came onto the beach, their step brightened once more by the glorious full moon and the sea lapping softly upon shore, Hannah almost sobbed with relief. But holding tight to her pounding heart and her earlier pledge not to be scared, she kept her quiet and watched as her aunt checked carefully up over the road, then beckoned her to follow as she darted across the wharf, ducking down its other side. Crouching for a moment in its shadow, and neither seeing nor hearing anything, she rose, gathering her bundle more securely to her side and started down the shore. The lights from the houses quickly receded behind the growing hills, making brighter the moon lighting the beach and turning greyish white the pieces of driftwood vomited up by the sea, reminding Hannah of the ribs of her father's ancient boats.
"Would that I was a fish," Missy sighed once they were clear of the houses, and a school of mackerel fluttered to the top of the water, the tips of their fins and tails flicking silver in the moonlight.
"That's what Daddy says."
"Yup—a caplin. Moseying by hisself and not running aground like when they swims in schools."
"Sounds like I'd like your daddy," said Missy, checking over her shoulder.
"How come you never comes visit, then?"
"Ohh, I don't know."
"Because you're mad at Mommy?"
"Is that what she says?"
"No."
"Who says, then?"
Hannah shrugged. "I says."
Missy laughed her old fun laugh, wrapping an arm around Hannah's shoulder, hugging her as they walked. "It's the little marm, you are," she said, "and I'm glad Clair sent you, no matter what; it's been lonely all by myself, and I haven't been much fun, have I?"
"Yes you have."
"No I haven't. But tomorrow I'll be really good fun, and perhaps tomorrow evening we can scout through the thicket, hunting fairy butter; you want to do that?"
"Uh-huh."
"That's good, then," said Missy. "Not scared, are you?"
"Nope."
"It's nice here on the beach, don't you think?"
"Not too dark."
"I'll warn you now—it's dark in the cavern," said Missy.
"The cavern?"
"Not a real cavern. It's just a rock wall, shaped like a horseshoe, but it sinks in a bit like a cave, and the walls are smooth right down into the water, so it feels like a cave—and it's called Copy-Cat Cove. It's—it's spooky in there, but only till you comes around the other side, and then we're right at my secret spot. It's just a little shack that must've belonged to an old fisher or somebody once, but nobody goes there no more. It's out of sight behind a bunch of trees—nobody in the world knows it's there." Her voice trailed off.
"How come you found it?"
"I remembered it from when I was young—I found it with a bunch of others. It's a good place to go sometimes. I stays inside so much during the day that I'd die if I didn't get out at night, Hannie. And I likes it, really, being by myself, walking on the beach. And I can sleep there."
"You sleeps there?"
"Sometimes. That's what makes the uncle so worried. But I always wakes up and gets home before the fishers go out—so's they won't see me and have more to talk about."
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