And it wasn't till now, eight years following the deed, did she falter in her step, staring unseeingly at the cold, grey Atlantic heaving itself ashore, pausing to consider that day. Small wonder her sister clung to the uncle's hand instead of hers. Small wonder her daughter forsook the safety of her home for that of another.
Had she been a hard mother, too? No. No—not a hard mother. Not a fun mother, is all. Not a fun mother. And turning from the sea, she began running again the way her daughter had gone; her step heavy, yet fuelled with the urgency of wanting more; of taking back all that she had laid on those she held most dear, and freeing them—freeing herself—for it wasn't her father she'd found in the cabin at Cat Arm, but herself, nailed to a cross that she'd thought had been his all these years. And now she had to find them; find Hannah, find Missy, and love them as fiercely in her arms as she had in her heart. A child's mitt caught her eye. Hannah's mitt. And it was bloodied. She'd fallen. She'd hurt herself. Grasping the wool mitt, she searched the ground, finding only more blood and sat down, struggling for breath. How? How had she been hurt? There was a stick across the path. Fresh ground to one end. She'd tripped, that's all. Tripped and fell. And cut herself—on a rock. The blood was fresh. She wasn't far ahead, not far at all.
"Hannah!" Bolting to her feet, she called out again and again, cupping her ear from the wind as she ran. The rocks grew larger, and shoving the mitt into her pocket, she began leapfrogging, then slowed as more and more boulders took up the beach. Nosebleed is what, she assured herself, breathing heavily as she clambered around one boulder after another. Nosebleed. She'd seen enough of those, Hannah had. And Prude had told her enough times what to do—hold back her head and nip her nose. That's why her mitt was bloodied. She'd held back her head and nipped her nose. Then thrown away her mitt.
What was this, then? She'd come to the cliff protruding into the sea, cutting off the beach. She turned wildly. But no—no she wouldn't have to tried to walk around the cliff. She was smart, her Hannah was. She wouldn't walk into icy cold water, soaking herself in a easterly wind. "Common sense," Luke said often enough as she sat fretting about Hannah's wandering away whilst he paid more attention to fishing than his daughter's rambling. "Credit the girl with common sense. She's not going to trample through the bush and lose herself when she can follow the river home."
A cry. Clair turned towards the hills. The light was falling and she scarcely saw the glimmer of a path leading up through the trees. There, she heard it again—faint and far away. "Hannah!" she screamed, and scarcely listening for a reply, tore at the bushes, dragging herself up over the path, her breathing ragged, her heart pounding. Twice her foot slipped and she fell flat to her face, and thrice a snapping alder near blinded her as it struck across her face. And whilst she cursed herself for the first time upon leaving home for not taking somebody with her, she faltered not a step in her determination to get to wherever it was this path was taking her. "Hannah!" she yelled whilst staggering to her feet as the hill levelled off, then bolted ahead, only to have her footing give way in front of her and she tumbled helplessly down the steep incline buried beneath the canopy of bushes.
Coming to her feet, she stared at the darkening stretch of beach before her, her heart sinking. Copy-Cat Cove already. She'd hoped to have overtaken her daughter by now. The cove would be flooded with the water this high. Staving off further thought, she hoisted her skirt and started running. A light. There was a light—shining through the trees. A cabin—was there a cabin? The light disappeared and she skirted the treeline, ploughing at the brambles, searching for an opening. Finding one, she plunged through and found herself before a half-opened door, and through it, Hannah's voice, and that of Missy's.
Ohh, Lord. Closing her eyes, she repeated her silent prayer of gratitude, then snapped them open. Missy was shrieking—in pain. She shoved open the door and stared wordlessly at the muddied, bloodied face of her daughter, and her fear-stricken eyes as she crouched besides a makeshift bed and Missy, lying upon it, her breathing coming hard and rapid.
"Mommy!!" Breaking into sobs, Hannah flung herself at her mother as Missy twisted and a moan escaped her lips. "Mommy, what's wrong with her, what's wrong with her?"
Wrapping her arms around her daughter, Clair kissed her repeatedly whilst stumbling with her to Missy's bedside. "Shoo, now, it's the baby coming; Aunt Missy's baby is coming," she said, striving to quieten her voice despite her own growing fear as Missy's moan turned to a cry of pain. "It's going to be fine," she soothed, grabbing hold of Missy's hand as she looked around the shack. A lit flashlight propping onto the window was giving off the only light, and although she could tell from the mess of ashes around the front of the stove that a fire had been lit, the shack was getting cold.
"Gideon!" gasped Missy, falling back, her eyes rolling with fatigue. "Gideon."
"Gideon?"
"He's up the woods, Mommy, in his bough-whiffen."
"He—he can born babies," whispered Missy.
"Then go—sing out—sing out hard," said Clair, kissing Hannah's face urgently. "Hurry, now—hurry!" And as Hannah bolted out the door, tearing through the brambles, screaming, "Giidddeeoonnnn!!!! Giidddeeooonnnnn!!!" Clair leaned over her sister. "How long, Missy—how long have the pains been coming—oh, Lord, you're almost there," she whispered in both fear and surprise as her sister's breathing deepened. As Clair folded back the blankets, her surprise gave wholly to fear as the glistening crown of the baby's head appeared between her sister's legs. "It's—I can see it—don't push, Missy—don't push—"
"I can't stop," gasped Missy, "I've been holding back, Clair—now it just does it—" and her words gave way as her breathing tightened and her body tensed. Curling back her lips, she squeezed shut her eyes and uttered a low moan, drawing her knees up to her stomach. Clair fumbled helplessly, reaching for the baby's head that was slowly easing itself outside of Missy. "It's—it's coming—oh my Lord—Shut the door! Shut the door!" she shouted as Hannah bolted back inside with a gust of wind.
"He didn't answer, Mommy."
"Bide there, child!" Clair cried out, and positioned herself closer as Missy let out a long, low moan. The bluish, bloodied head slipped out between her sister's loins—and then the rest of the infant, no bigger than the doll of her dreams, eons ago. "Mercy," she whispered, unsure of how to touch the now mewling infant.
"Clair!" cried out Missy.
"Shh, it's all right," said Clair. "It's—it's born. Ooh! Oh, Lord, it's so small!" She raised her eyes, searching frantically around the shack.
"Is it—is it all right?" cried Missy.
"Yes—yes, I think so. Hannah, go sing out agin, louder this time, louder!" But her daughter was staring transfixed at the muddle of flesh and blood between her aunt's legs.
"Hannah!" said Clair strongly, but the infant's mewling claimed her attention. The cord. She had to do something with the cord. Lifting it gingerly between her two fingers, then more firmly as it slipped from her, she then tugged on it, easily at first, then harder, harder, till another piece of Missy gushed out from within her, glistening and brown like a piece of moose liver.
"Clair!"
"That's all right, it's fine. It's fine," whispered Clair, meeting her sister's anxious eyes. But things weren't fine; they weren't fine at all—she scarcely knew what to do now, and this baby was small, really small, and the shack was cold and getting colder—"Hannah, go call!" she ordered almost angrily.
"But—he's not there, Mommy," whispered Hannah, and Clair turned, the fear in her heart resounding in her daughter's voice. She was still standing by the door, her eyes darkened further by the greyish evening light, her face wan beneath its layer of mud and blood and her eyes frozen onto the mewling creature as though it were a changeling planted by a no-good banshee who had come and gone in her wake. Along with the panic in Missy's eyes and the mewlings now growing fainter from the infant, it was this need upon her daughter's face to fashion the sickness before her into something of solace that str
uck Clair. She glanced around the room, her eyes quick, seeing nothing, then focused, not for the first time, on the rawhide string around Hannah's neck.
"Give me that," she commanded quietly, "and you get the fire going, Hannah. Maybe there's matches—or a spark—hurry now," she urged as her daughter pulled off the rawhide and passed it to her.
"Let—let me see," said Missy, raising her head, trying to get a glimpse of her child.
"Keep still, Missy—I've got to fix her first."
"Her?"
"Her—yes, her; it's a girl." Clair sat back, drawing a deep breath. "She's tiny," she said more calmly, "scarcely eight months. We've got to keep her warm—hurry, Hannah; that's a good girl," she coaxed, as Hannah lit a match, her tone softening and her words babbling on their own accord, easing her own nerves as well as her sister's and her daughter's. Slipping the medallion off the rawhide, she cast it aside and began wrapping the rawhide once, twice, thrice around the umbilical cord. "But she's perfect, Missy—a perfect little girl. Born a wee bit too early is all, and that's why she's blue and funny looking and not fat and pink like Brother," she added more loudly as Hannah chanced another glance over her shoulder. "There, that's the girl," she went on as a sudden flare of light burst from Hannah's fire. "A fire is the most important thing right now." Knotting the rawhide as tight as she could, she leaned over the infant, placing her mouth over its nose and mouth and sucked hard. Gagging, she turned aside and spat. A more lusty cry replaced the baby's mewling and she turned to it with as much wonder as relief.
"There you go," she said softly, lifting the baby onto Missy's belly and covering it with a blanket.
"Lord," gasped Missy, her eyes widening in fright.
"That's how they look at first," said Clair. "She'll be all pretty and pink in no time. We can leave the cord—I've nothing to cut it with—as long as it's tied tight. But you've got to start breastfeeding her—it keeps you from hemorrhaging."
"Am I hemorrhaging?"
"No, but you could start. Don't ask me how, but you must breastfeed so's it don't start. Here." Fumbling with her sister's clothing, she lifted the baby closer to her breast. "Help me, Missy."
"How?"
"Poke at her mouth—with your nipple. Just poke it—there you go," she exclaimed softly as the infant's mouth, no bigger than a freckle, opened, groping blindly. "There—it's in—is she sucking?"
"I—I think so."
"Can you feel it?"
"Yes, I can feel it. Lord, she's so small—"
"Like one of your fairies. Hannah, come see," said Clair, noting her daughter's stalled movements before the stove door. "Come," she urged as Hannah dragged her step, casting a reluctant glance at the baby. "Ooh, come here." Reaching for her daughter, Clair pulled her into her lap, cradling her head onto her shoulder, rocking her. They were quiet for some time, Clair, calming her breathing through the tangled mess of Hannah's hair, and Missy, lines of fatigue drawing her face as she gazed from the baby suckling her breast to Hannah to Clair.
"They'll find us, Clair."
Clair raised her chin to the top of Hannah's head, still rocking her. "Of course they will," she whispered. "And till they do, we're fine—as long as we keeps warm. At least we've all found each other. I swear I've died a thousand times this night," she sighed, kissing the top of Hannah's head. "Why'd you run off like that, Hannah? Why didn't you tell somebody?" urged Clair as Hannah burrowed deeper into her shoulder.
"I promised I wouldn't tell," said Hannah.
"Ooh, Hannie," sighed Missy. "It's my fault, Clair; I should never have made her promise."
"We should never have left you this morning," Clair whispered into her daughter's ear. "But I'm glad we did now, for you saved Missy's baby, you did." Cupping Hannah's chin, Clair tipped her face back and stared into the pair of dark, murky eyes. "You're a strong, wonderful girl," she whispered.
"And a cousin," said Missy, reaching out a hand and jiggling Hannah's foot. "Come on, Hannie," she coaxed as Hannah gave a sideways glance at the splotch of red no bigger than an apple suckling her breast. And when her girl grinned, her face brightening onto Missy, Clair dropped a kiss on her nose.
"There, sit besides Aunt Missy whilst I checks the fire," said Clair, shifting Hannah off her lap onto the bed. "I might have to get more wood, Missy—Hannah will stay with you—" Clair paused, bending over the stove, her eye quickening onto the door at what sounded like someone pushing through the brambles. Just as quickly Missy half rose from her pillow.
"Gideon," she cried out, and Clair drew back in alarm as the door slowly opened and a grizzled head appeared, a scarf covering his right eye and partially concealing a scarred cheek. A wild look marked the eye that took in the sight of Hannah's bloodied face and Clair's startled eyes and the babe suckling at Missy's breast. Gideon. Gid. Immediately she knew. And saw, too, the excitement tinting Missy's cheeks as she pulled the blankets off the infant for Gideon to see, and the gentleness with which he stroked a finger across Hannah's cheek as she babbled, "I found her—I found Aunt Missy first, and then Mommy found us and she borned the baby."
"I was to the other side of the cove when my water broke," said Missy. "I come back but you were gone. I—I was frightened, but I lit a fire and waited—and prayed—but then—"
"Your sister came," finished Gideon as Missy turned to Clair, her smile growing more feeble as her bout of excitement faded.
"But first it was Hannah," said Clair, kneeling back down, cradling Hannah against her. Yet it was onto Gideon her eyes were fastened. And the look of awe he cast upon the infant as he felt along the umbilical cord with a doctor's fingers, was akin to that of Luke's the first time he had knelt besides her, gazing at Hannah, and then at Brother, telling himself that he was a father, he was a father. Murmuring words of comfort to the fretting infant, he fished into his pocket, pulling out a pocket knife. He struck a match, and drew the blade slowly and easily across the flame, his eye warming with fire, gazing onto Hannah.
"I thought I heard you sing out, but then I thought I was dreaming. But I kept waking up, puzzling whether it was a dream or not." Slicing the cord beyond the rawhide knot on the baby's belly, he said, "No doubt you've earned your namesake, and that's a far greater gift than a piece of rawhide." Wrapping the baby, he patted Missy's hand, then rose, looking to Clair. "I'll take the woods road to the Basin before it gets too dark. You'll see that the fire keeps burning. They need to be warm—real warm."
"Find Luke," said Clair, following him to the door. "He's up the Basin somewhere with his boat."
Gideon paused, then with a slight nod, stepped off the stoop and disappeared through the brambles.
"Hannah," said Clair, and giving her daughter a quick hug, she ushered her towards the door. "Go gather as much driftwood as you can—hurry now, before it's too dark. The sea's rough and it might be a while before anyone can reach us. Just gather a pile, and I'll come help bring it in," she called, leaning off the stoop as Hannah ducked through the brambles. Fixing the door in place, she turned back to Missy. There was a calmness around her sister since Gideon had come and gone, and despite her wearied look, her eyes were still bright.
"He seems nice," she said, shoving more wood into the oil drum.
"He's not the father."
"I'm not prying."
"A silly boy is the father. I never think of him. Do you think me bad, Clair?"
"Bad?" Clair heaved a sigh, staring into the fire. "I was wrong to say those things I said at the grandmother's funeral, Missy. You've never been bad." She gave a short laugh. "What's that anyway, and who's to say what bad is? Only youngsters can say what bad is. We become too guilty as we leave off them days to judge what bad is—or even what good is, for that matter."
"I've always felt bad, Clair. From the moment Daddy left, I felt bad; that it was my fault—because of my dreams."
"Ooh, Missy, you were a little girl."
"She turned from us."
"Our mother? But she was sick."
; "She turned from us. She was our mother and she turned from us."
"She didn't mean to hurt you."
Missy smiled sadly. "Not just me, Clair. She left you, too."
Clair became quiet, looking at her younger sister. Closing the door to the drum, she rose, sitting besides her bedside.
"I always remember how Daddy found her," she said softly, "fallen down on a wet plank and crying from the cut in her knee. He saved her, he did, and she built everything around him. And when he left, she was just a scared little girl agin. That's how I sees it, Missy. I can't bear it any other way."
"I was scared, too. I was always scared—more so when he come back. It was only because you weren't scared of him, that you liked to sit next him and read and stuff, that I was able to come home at all. And then when you left—even with him dead—I was still scared; scared of waking at night and hearing him scream—and there's times I thought I did. And I could never go in the kitchen by myself at night to—to get a glass of water, or something; and one night I even wet the bed because I was too scared to get up in the dark."
This last was spoken in such anguish that Clair simply hung her head. "I should never have left you."
"It was Mommy who left. Not you. Not even him. I know," she added tiredly as Clair opened her mouth in protest. "I know it was because she couldn't get over him. Nor could you," she whispered, touching Clair's hand.
Clair spoke tonelessly. "I was scared, too. Scared he wouldn't come home, and that Mommy would just get sicker. And then when he did come home..." She paused.
"It must've been hard for you," Missy whispered, "seeing him like that. You always loved him more."
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