Twilight's Burning

by Diane Guest

  "You don't need to threaten me, Sylvanus." She turned to go and then stopped. "By the way, if it wouldn't inconvenience you, I'd like to take the carriage to Green Bay tomorrow. I'd like to go shopping."

  "I can't see why you ask, Caroline. You'll go if you please."

  "Not if you object."

  "Why should I object?"

  Her face was set. "Because you love me and don't want me to come to harm after all I've been through."

  Sylvanus looked for a sign of humor in her face but found none. "You know I don't love you, Caroline. Dear God, far from it."

  The hint of something unpleasant flashed across her face, but only for an instant. Then it was gone. "Someday, Sylvanus, you'll be sorry that you weren't more sensitive to my needs. You used to be."

  "I don't know what fairy tale you live in, Caroline. I was never sensitive to your needs and you know it. I only did what I had to do. I had no choice." He stopped. "I'm not in the mood to go over it all again. You know the truth as well as I do, and I'll be damned if I know what pleasure you get in going through it all endlessly when you know the way I feel about you. Probably because you know that talking about it makes me sick."

  The tiny smile appeared again. "You misjudge me, Sylvanus," she said, and walked to the door. "Perhaps some day I'll be able to show you the true measure of my gratitude and my affection."

  Sylvanus didn't bother to answer. Spare me that, he thought. The shock would surely kill me.

  John Meade closed the kitchen door behind him and paused before going to the kitchen to find Susannah. There was no question about it. Edwin Snell was behaving strangely, even for a man who had suffered a traumatic injury. He hadn't been awake for long. Only seconds, really, but in that short time, John had been stricken by the cunning, almost malevolent glint behind his half-opened eyelids. Edwin had motioned toward the door. "Where is she? Did she warn you not to tell me?"

  "Tell you what?" John found Edwin's pulse weak but steady.

  Edwin eyed him suspiciously. "She told you not to tell me, so you're not going to, are you? Faithless friend.".

  "You've had a bad accident, Edwin. I want you to stay as quiet as you possibly can." John could see that every word Edwin spoke was a visible effort.

  "Did she tell you it was an accident?" He laughed. "She's a fool. She can't hide it. They all know and they'll be coming soon. Begging." His voice drifted off, and John stood, wishing he knew more about the illness they were dealing with.

  Susannah was waiting for him in the front hall. They had planned to make the trip out to Sugar Bush as soon as John had checked in on Edwin. "I'm ready to go. The sooner we get Mame Keefe here, the better I'll feel," she said.

  He took her by the arm, and together they walked out into the hazy noon air. The sky had turned a sickly yellow-green.

  "I wish it would rain." Susannah spoke her thought aloud.

  "It will." John was not really aware of what she had said. He was still thinking about Edwin Snell. He clicked to the horse and he broke into a fast trot, each footfall creating a miniature dust storm.

  "Matthew Shepherd had an awful experience yes." Susannah wasn't prepared yet to ask about her husband.

  "Oh?" John's mind was still with Edward.

  "He ran into a real blaze out on the north byroad. Frightened him very badly. He's been at my house ever since."

  "That's a bad situation he lives with."

  Of all the people in Penobscot Landing, Susannah Snell and John Meade were probably the two who knew most acutely the kind of hell Matthew Shepherd lived with—Susannah because she was his teacher and saw the evidence every day, and John because he was a doctor and had been eyewitness to the scarring effects of the atrocities that had been inflicted upon the child.

  "I wish someone would take Jake Shepherd out and beat him until the skin falls off his bones," Susannah said. "Come to think of it, whipping would be too good for him. For what he's done to that child, he should be buried in sand up to his neck and left for the ants to eat him alive." In her mind she began to conjure all the possibilities for a long, excruciatingly painful death, none of which seemed quite awful or tortuous enough for Jake Shepherd.

  As they wound their way toward the Sugar Bush, they were both struck by the number of small fires smoldering on both sides of the road. "I don't remember ever seeing anything quite like this before, do you?" John asked.

  In spots, their view of the fires was obscured by smoke so thick that the horse faltered, unable to see the way ahead. In some areas, the plank road itself was smoldering. "Maybe we'd better go back," she said, holding her handkerchief over her nose.

  An almost imperceptible breeze lifted the pall of smoke for a minute and gave them a small preview of what might happen if a steadier, stronger wind began to blow. The tiny breeze gave breath to a dozen dozing blazes, fanning them into living tongues of flame that spread when touched by the wind to the very edges of the road. As the trees around them erupted, Susannah could see John's face flash flame-red, then fade again as the breeze died down and the fires with it. "This is unbelievable," she said.

  Before John could reply, the frightened horse took advantage of the improved visibility and broke into a gallop. Within minutes they were out of the woods and into the clearing that circled the Keefe farm. John slowed the horse to a trot, and as they approached the house they both took note of the small pile of belongings neatly stacked in the middle of the potato patch.

  The widow called from the porch. "I surely am glad to see you, John. I was beginning to wonder if I was the last soul alive in these woods."

  She was a big, homely woman who had the solid look of someone neither young nor old, just comfortably middling. She had a ruddy complexion and huge, rough hands that bespoke a lifetime of clearing and planting and harvesting.

  "What are all your things doing out there, Mame? Expecting something?" John pointed back toward the open field.

  "Just a little precaution." She came down off the porch to meet them. "Don't like the way these fires are creeping around. One minute you can't see 'em, the next thing you know there's not a spot around that isn't alive with 'em. With the mister gone, I don't expect I'd have much chance to save the house if things really get hot. But at least my long underwear'll be safe. Ain't likely to burn clear into the middle of my potato patch."

  For the first time she noticed that John was not alone. "Why, Susannah Snell," she said, surprised. "What brings you way out here?"

  Before Susannah could answer, John jumped down and came around the side of the buckboard. "Tell you what, Mame," he said, reaching up to help Susannah down. "You make us up a pot of cinnamon cider, and we'll tell you all about it."

  It took a lot to convince Mame that the sensible thing to do was to leave her farm and come into the Landing. She belonged to a breed that did not give up easily. When you work so hard for so long just to call something your own—when you still remember what it's like to own nothing—you don't allow a little thing like a fire to frighten you away. "After all," she said to John, "the only thing I'm risking by staying here is my life. There are some things that count for a heap more than that."

  "I don't blame you for not wanting to leave this place," Susannah said. "No one should leave something they love the way you love this farm." And as much as she wanted Mame to come, she couldn't bring herself to encourage her. I guess I'll just have to handle you myself, Edwin, she thought, taking a deep breath.

  But in the end, it was Susannah's quiet understanding of Mame's decision to stay that convinced the older woman to come with them. "You've got your hands full," she said to Susannah. "Any fool can see that. But you're no whiner. I don't expect I could work for a whiner, nor live with one neither. Besides, I expect it's my Christian duty to come and help." She stood up. "But after the rain comes," she said finally, "I'll come home."

  "You get what things you need, Mame," John said, "and we'll stop and pick up what's already outside."

  Mame glanced around the room at
the few plain serviceable furnishings. There was little evidence here of prosperity. She crossed to the mantle and took down a single pewter candlestick and an old blue willow plate. "Not much, is it?" she said to Susannah. "But we worked hard for it, Ben and me." She put the things down on the table and wiped her hands on her apron. "Well, enough of this dilly-dallying. I'd best get myself together while the gettin's good." She walked briskly into the other room and returned momentarily, carrying an old weathered carpetbag. "I guess we're ready," she said. "The two old bags, me and my friend here. And Cat." She bent over and scooped up a huge yellow tabby that had been sleeping under a chair. She glanced quickly at Susannah. "You don't have no objections to Cat, do you?"

  "Absolutely none," Susannah said. In the back of her mind she was delighted because if there were any animals that Edwin Snell detested above all the others—he didn't like any, really—cats would have taken first place. All these years, she thought and smiled, you wouldn't let me have a cat, and now you're going to have one in the house whether you like it or not.

  I wish there were some other way to cook, Susannah thought irritably, passing her arm across her forehead to wipe away the beads of sweat. This heat is unbearable enough without this blasted stove adding to it.

  She lifted the cover of the pot and a small mushroom cloud of steam escaped into the sultry air, causing her to back away. Goddamn it, she cursed to herself. And these blasted dresses. She pulled her sticking bodice away from her skin. Why can't we just walk around naked, like God intended us to. "Jenny? Hester?" Her voice was tight, impatient. Where is everyone? she wondered. Must I do everything around here?

  The door banged. "Mother, is Matthew going to eat here with us?"

  "Good heavens, child. Hasn't anyone ever taught you the proper way to enter a room?"

  Oh, oh, Ethan thought. His mother never called him "child" unless she was in a bad mood. He turned away as quietly as he could but she stopped him, her tone softening.

  "I 'm sorry, Ethan. It's just so hot, isn't it? What is it you want?"

  He answered as quietly as he could. "May Matthew eat here with us?" He remembered to say "may."

  Susannah had forgotten all about Matthew in her desire to get Mame settled into the household as quickly as possible. "Of course he may," she said. "Now go and see if you can find Jenny or Hester for me, will you?"

  Ethan nodded. "Sure, Mother. ".I better warn them first, he thought, that she's in a mood. She didn't often get that way, but when she did the Snell children knew that the safest course of action was to do their chores quietly, quickly, and then to stay out of sight.

  Ethan left the kitchen and Susannah picked up the milking pail and crossed to the door. Once outside she began to feel better. "Ah, my babies," she said as her goats began their familiar bleating in response to the sound of her voice. "My precious babies," she said, and they nuzzled against her skirt. "I'm happy to see you."

  When her children were little she had always talked to them in her loneliness. Now she talked to her goats, even took them with her when she went gathering berries or apples, sometimes even just for a walk. "You silly old things," she would say. "What kind of respectable pets are you, anyway?" Still, she loved them.

  When she had first come with Edwin to this hard, insensitive land, her first babies had been two little pigs. My poor darlings, she thought. What an awful thing they did to you. They had been so soft and pink and she had been frantic to make them eat.' "They'll eat when they get good and hungry," the farmer had told her when she asked how they would survive since they were not yet weaned. So cruel.

  She remembered getting up in the middle of the night and stumbling out to the stable, to the little cubbyhole she had made for them, to make sure they were still alive. What an innocent she had been, what a fool. She felt a rush of sadness for the vulnerable young girl she had been, making those two little creatures her pets, pouring out her love to them, only to have their throats cut before her very eyes.

  "You oughter git yerself a dog," the grizzled old butcher man had said when he had seen her tears. "Or a proper pet that don't have to git killed."

  But Edwin would have none of that. The waste involved in feeding a pet was unspeakable, not to menthe time one might spend caring for it. Sometimes Susannah suspected that he felt the same about their children.

  She held out her hand and felt the little goat's soft mouth as it snuffled up the grains of corn. "Come over here, little sweetheart," she said as she pulled the milking stool over. "You know, if only people were as tender as you two, wouldn't this world be a lovely place?"

  She began to milk and suddenly she thought about Sylvanus Morgan. For no reason. Something brought her mind around to him as clearly as if he had appeared before her. Curious. There was something about the straight line of his mouth, the stillness of his eyes. What has happened to him, she wondered, to make him so cold, so aloof? "Maybe there isn't any mystery about him at all," she said to the goat. "Maybe he's just a miserably arrogant self." All the same, she wondered. Then she chided herself for being so curious. After all, he was no concern of hers.

  The presence of Mame Keefe and Matthew Shepherd at the dinner table lightened everyone's spirits considerably and the prospect of a good night's sleep helped to erase the frown that Susannah had worn for the best part of the afternoon. As far back as she could remember, she had dreaded being wakened at night. It was the only part of child-raising that she had hated—the interruption of sleep.

  Now, with Mame here, she and Abby would be spared for most of the deep night hours. Susannah was not looking forward to sitting with Edwin at all, but somehow the night made things so much worse. Cowards creep in when the sun goes down, she thought.

  "Mother?" Aaron's voice broke into her thoughts.

  "What is it, Aaron?" Susannah hadn't heard any of the conversation.

  "He just asked you what you're going to do about the horse. Matthew's horse," said Hester.

  "Oh." She smiled. "I guess I was away visiting the King and Queen of England. I didn't hear you."

  "What do you think, Mother?" Ethan asked.

  Susannah looked carefully at the three young boys before she answered. "Do you know whose colt it is?" she said to Matthew.

  "No, ma'am." He looked down at his hands.

  "Where did you find him?"

  Aaron broke in. "Up near the north byroad. But we figure he's a stray Indian pony. Don't you think so?"

  Susannah knew full well that the colt was no Indian pony. In fact, she had a strong suspicion that it could belong to only one person hereabouts. Sylvanus Morgan. His was the only stable around that could have produced such a highly bred animal.

  "Well, I can't say for sure, Aaron," she said. "He certainly is a handsome little horse though, wouldn't you agree?"

  "Oh, he's perfect, Miz Snell," Matthew said. "Boy's the smartest horse in the whole state, I bet. Don't you think so, Ethan?" He turned back to her. "You should see the tricks he can do."

  Susannah nodded, masking her amusement with an expression of rapt attention. "Oh, I can imagine," she said. "Those Indians surely do know how to train their ponies. If he really is an Indian pony, that is."

  Had she suspected that the colt belonged to anyone other than Sylvanus Morgan, she would have put a quick end to Matthew's silver-lined cloud. But the last thing Mr. Morgan needed was another horse, and she was determined to do all she could to see that Matthew got to keep it. Besides, it was plain that Sylvanus Morgan didn't like her anyway, so she might just as well give him good reason.

  In the back of her head, she could feel holy Edwin frowning at her. He wouldn't approve one bit if she let Matthew keep the colt.

  "What are you going to do, Mother?" This time it was Hester who asked.

  "I don't think this is something we should rush into, do you?" Susannah said, watching general relief spread around the table. "This calls for some careful investigation on our part. After all, we don't want Boy to fall into the wrong hands, do we? Especi
ally if he is an Indian pony."

  The full voltage of Matthew's look caught her unaware. In that one instant, he silently pledged to her all the love he was capable of feeling. Susannah knew that he probably had never trusted anyone in his life before, and she felt a sudden fear that she might not be able to measure up, that somehow she might fail him. Oh God, she prayed, if You were ever moved to help one of Your own, help this child. And in the next instant she vowed that, even if God did nothing, she would die before she would let Matthew Shepherd be hurt again.

  She didn't want to sit with Edwin but she knew she had to. She opened the door a crack and swept the room with a glance. Edwin lay sleeping. What are you looking for, Susannah? she asked herself. The boogeyman? The room was stifling, but she could see that all the windows were open wide.

  She crossed the room in the semidarkness and struck a match, holding it to the wick of the lamp. She adjusted the sooty chimney, making a mental note to see that it got a good cleaning the next day. When she turned, her breath caught in her throat. Edwin was lying back on the pillow, eyes open in a slit, watching her.

  She felt turned to stone, though for what reasons she was at a loss to know. It was not until the match burned its way down to her finger that she moved. She stuck the burnt finger in her mouth and took a few steps forward. "Can I get you something, Edwin? How are you feeling?"

  No answer.

  "Can I get you some water?" she asked in her brightest tone. She poured a cup from the pitcher on the washstand. He said nothing, but allowed her to hold it to his lips to drink. "Are you comfortable? Have you any pain?"

  His eyes never left her face, but he didn't answer. She stood uncertain for a moment, a few feet from the bed. His face was gray and void of all expression except for the burning in his eyes. And then he said "Bitch." Softly, with loathing.

  Susannah felt her hands and legs grow weak and stifled an overwhelming impulse to run out of the room and hide herself under the covers in her own bed. Instead, she put the cup back and, ignoring Edwin, moved away to the chair by the window. She hugged herself tightly. No, you don't, Edwin. You aren't going to frighten me. She turned her attention to the awe-some, fiery glow that illuminated the sky to the south and west. I 'm glad you can't see this, she said silently to her husband. If anything would convince you that the end of the world is at hand, this would.