by Sheree Fitch
“Want me to walk you over?” Max asked. “I can’t stay, of course.”
“Of course.”
The limo passed us. The chauffeur did his usual salute thing.
“What if I said I was going to Elbow Island?”
“How?”
“The boat.”
“It’s dangerous, and your grandmother—”
“I know. I’ve decided my grandmother doesn’t need to know … And you’d be with me.”
“At night?” I nodded.
“I dunno,” he said, but his voice cracked. His whole body, not just his face, started twitching. “But why?”
So I told him my plan. I had already taken the money Stubby had given me and spent some of it for materials to make an oversized dummy.
“What I want to do is use her as a decoy, you see,” I explained. “Plant her out there on Elbow Island with a sign saying Save the Grave!”
“And then?”
“I’ll call the coast guard and say someone’s stranded out there. Then the media. Imagine the attention it will get if the media gets all fired up about it!”
“I’m pretty sure that would be illegal. You could get in all kinds of trouble.”
“They won’t have to know who did it. Are you in?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Please!”
“No … it just wouldn’t be right, like the boy who cried wolf.”
“But it would work! Don’t you care about the grave?”
He looked off towards the ocean. Then he sighed. “Okay. When do you want to go?”
By the time we arrived at the fairgrounds, the whole place was hopping. And when I turned around to say bye, Max was gone!
Folks were already sitting in front of the stage in foldout lawn chairs and on blankets. Kids were running around with painted faces. I stopped and watched for a while at the booth. A woman with a crew cut of white hair and a wide smile painted everything from rainbows to kitten whiskers on kids’ cheeks. She looked like she was having a ball and talked to each child softly as she painted. Her silver heart-shaped earrings sparkled in the sun. She was an older version of my mother. Maybe it was the paint connection. She spotted me at the fringe of the crowd.
“You’re never too old to have your face painted,” she said. I smiled. “So what’s your fancy?”
“A heart,” I said. “On my forehead.”
“Well, I have to say I like hearts myself.”
“I collect heart-shaped rocks,” I told her. “They’re all crooked ones, but it’s cool looking for the perfect one.”
“Maybe the crooked ones are perfect too,” said the woman through pursed lips.
Slowly she drew the outline of a heart in the centre of my forehead.
“You want red?”
I shook my head. “How about that blue?”
She hesitated. “A blue heart means a sad heart,” she whispered.
I pointed back to the blue. She held my eyes with hers.
“Okay,” she said and began to fill in the paint with feathery strokes. It tickled. “Maybe it will change to white soon,” she said. “A pure heart, dear girl, I think that’s more you.” I could have hugged her. If only she knew.
I paid her and set off towards the stage area.
The musicians were now going non-stop. I found a place nice and close to the front and settled on the grass. Two young women with flowing hair and velvety gowns began to play harp. It was magical. Next up was a three-man band.
“They sound good enough, but really, what’s with the hair and those outfits?”
Nana stood behind me, arms folded. She smelled like onions. Guess she was still chopping and cutting.
“Here’s a bit of money for a snack,” she said, holding out a five-dollar bill.
“Thanks, Nana,” I said. “I’ve got money.”
“I know that. It’s a gift. Can you take it, for heaven’s sake?”
“Thanks,” I said. I knew it was a lot of money for her.
Harv walked towards us, towering above the crowd.
“Stay here, Ida, for a sec,” he said. “I know the next singer. She’s a friend of my Molly’s.”
“That right?”
“Got her own CD and everything. Born and bred right here in Nova Scotia.”
The woman’s guitar was slung over her shoulder, suspended by a bright woven strap—happy colours, I thought. Someone adjusted her microphone as she tuned her guitar.
“Test, test,” she said. “How you all doing today?” There were probably a good five hundred of us by this time.
“Great!” everyone shouted back at her.
“My name’s Laura Smith and I’m glad to be here and right off I’m starting with a special request. Is Ida Hennigar here?”
“Lord God save my soul!” exclaimed Nana.
“Here!” I shouted and stood up, pointing at Nana.
Everyone stared. I sat down fast.
“Ida, hello!” said the singer.
My grandmother was the colour of a raspberry and she smiled feebly, giving a little wave towards the stage.
“This one’s for you ’cause I understand it’s one of your favourites. Sent to you with love by that big strapping good-looking fella beside you. It’s your birthday tomorrow, right?”
I’d forgotten! Dad had even pencilled it in my calendar.
“So first, before we get to the song, what do we need to do?”
Five hundred voices sang “Happy Birthday” to Nana. And clapped.
“Yes,” said Laura Smith, “my note here tells me you’ll be forty-five! You look too young for forty-five!”
Nana swiped Harv playfully on the arm and everyone roared.
“Anyhow, Ida, now here’s your gift. I hope you like the way I sing it, ma’am.”
And she started. “My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean.” Never in my life have I heard it sung like that. Not a person so much as coughed. I can’t describe this woman’s voice. There was just so much inside it—like every sad and happy thought I ever thought. If I could bottle those up and pour them out like some golden liquid sound, that would be her voice. Soft and strong. Love and loss. Pain and joy. “Bring back, bring back, bring back my bonny to me,” she crooned.
As she did, I swear I saw John Hindley. He mingled in the crowd, looking over the tops of people’s heads, those laser-beam eyes of his zapping right into mine. Bring them back, he seemed to be saying, bring them back to me. A woman stood up and blocked my view. When she sat down again, he was gone. O.I.! O.I.!
Harv had his arm around Nana by the time the song was through. I turned to give her a smile and had to look away.
Her shoulders were heaving and she was choking back tears something fierce. Don’t know why, but never once before had I imagined my Nana had tears inside her.
There was a silence when the song was over and then thunderous clapping, whistles, shouts. In that silence before it started, I felt how a whole crowd of people could feel like one. That’s what Laura Smith did to us.
“Ida,” she continued, “I also understand you like a good jig. So, folks, all of you up, and here’s something a little more upbeat. Dance, everyone, come on!”
There we were tapping, swinging, clapping. Even me. After that, Harv and Nana went back to their meal preparations, and the woman who painted faces got up and sang. Some folks have so many talents. I felt her singing right to me.
In line at supper, I ran into the Cackleberries. Two of them were covered head to toe with poison ivy rashes. I turned away so I wouldn’t laugh in their faces.
“What’s this dish?” one of them asked Nana.
“Why that, it’s jellyfish cream salad,” Nana beamed. The poor woman turned white.
It was past midnight when we got home. Nana let me make her some mint tea. I couldn’t believe she actually let me touch her herbs! But she was fast asleep on the sofa when I brought it to her. I covered her with a quilt and turned off the light. I went to my bedroom and changed into my pyjamas
, but I couldn’t sleep. I polished the baby’s skull. I liked to make it warm.
I got out my journal. “Good Day. Good music. Good people.”
For a brief second at the picnic, after hearing the music, I did what Stubby told me to do. For a second there, I believed in belief.
I think that’s what Coach Rigby was getting at with all his Rigbyism and creative visualization exercises. If you believed it enough, you could do it. Maybe that’s what Corporal Ray was doing too. If he believed my mother would get better, she would. If I believed in saving the gravesite, then maybe … I could. I mean we could. Max and I. Max and Minn. Our names linked together made me sigh. Made me brave enough to face any old ghost or spirit head on.
Or was it head off?
— MISSION TO ELBOW ISLAND —
There is something about the blackness of a country sky that makes me think the entire world has ducked its head underneath a blanket. The night we set out for Elbow Island it was a plush velvet sky, a shawl, maybe, studded with rhinestone stars. I thought of my mother’s favourite party dress, the one she’s worn at every Christmas dinner for as long as I can remember. My folks were both on my mind as I crept out the back door at Nana’s. What I was doing was wrong. I knew this and I was doing it anyhow.
The dummy was still underneath the veranda where I’d stashed her in three green garbage bags.
“C’mon, Missy Long Johns, you’ve got work to do,” I said to my creation. The plan was simple. I rehearsed it once again. Plant a dummy on the island with a sign that said Save the Grave! Phone the coast guard. Alert the media. Cause a stir.
It was getting out there that worried me. If someone had seen me lugging her up the road, they might have thought a murderer was on the loose, with the victim in a body bag.
This dummy was larger and more sophisticated than the one I’d made when I was eight and thrown off the balcony. She was more scarecrow than puppet. I’d stuffed her with lots of straw I’d found in the old barn, and I’d dressed her all in red, using long johns I’d bought at Harv’s. That was awkward.
“What you need long johns for?” he’d asked. “It’s hot as Hades these past few days.”
“It’s a surprise for Nana,” I’d replied without blinking.
That was partly true, but I crossed my fingers anyhow. I didn’t want him alerting her.
As planned, I signalled Max three times with my flashlight. He was waiting, as he’d promised, by a small dock around the corner from the government wharf. My feet echoed like a giant’s as I walked towards him. He had on an orange windbreaker. Bright like neon. Some spy.
His voice was hoarse. “This way, hurry up before some dog wakes up.”
We untied the rowboat and put Missy Long Johns in between us. I paddled for what seemed like forever. “It’s about ten minutes until we stop,” I said.
“You hope,” he said. He never even offered to help row.
The distant clang of the buoys was a lonesome sound. Clang clang clang. Like a warning bell …
“Are you sure we should do this?” Max said.
I nodded. “Too late to turn back now!” I scanned my flashlight across the waves in front of us, a funnel of light leading only into more blackness.
The waves were choppy. The boat rocked as if it were frantic with panic. I rowed steadily until I spotted the grey hump of Elbow Island just ahead.
The rocks were giant spikes, the jagged canine teeth of some prehistoric creature. Expertly, I eased the boat into the dip we’d seen on the map. I thought Max would be impressed by that, but then we bumped up against a rock for a crash landing.
“Make sure you tie the boat tight,” I said, draping Missy Long Johns around my neck and sloshing through seaweed and eelgrass until I finally reached drier land. I dumped her down at my feet and shone my flashlight around and up, trying to find a way to get over the mounds of rocks to the field beyond. Once there, I could figure out where to dump the dummy.
Yes! It was a well-worn path. Rocks almost like stair steps led out to a ledge. Easy, I thought—until I stepped on one. The rocks were slimy with algae and seaweed. Slow but steady, that was the only way to proceed. I picked up Missy Long Johns and draped her around my shoulders again. She was heavy for a scarecrow.
“Help me here, would you?” I yelled back to Max. I was high up by then and could see the field below me. “Max? Come on!”
There was no answer.
“Max?” I looked back. And saw the rowboat floating empty away from shore. “Maaaaaax!”
My own voice echoed back. Frantic, I looked ahead into the field that suddenly was like one deep black hole. Crazily, I thought maybe he had got ahead of me. But the field was empty except for clusters of scrub brush that looked like giant porcupines guarding the forest beyond. Boulders perched lopsided, ghoulish heads were sprouting from the earth, cocked to one side, taunting. Here and there, vapours spiralled up from the ground like small geysers. Swamp gas, I told myself, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say they were vibrating. As if curled inside them something lived.
“Max!” I screamed. Had he fallen? “Max! Stop teasing!”
“Hey, you there!” came a reply. Not Max. A deep growl of a voice behind me.
— CHASE AND RESCUE —
“Please don’t be afraid.” Right.
I heard the footsteps. He was closing in.
“Turn around,” he said. His voice warbled, gurgling like bubbles under water. Turn around? Not on your life.
“It’s only me.” Closer, closer, he was almost beside me. “John Hindley.”
I ran faster than the speed of light. I shouted for Max again and again. My pleas were lost in the wind, blown out to sea, drowned by the clangs of the buoys. By this time, the sound was not just a lonesome sound but a haunting, chilling warning.
An angry wind started up. A few splats of rain hit my face.
“Max?” I whimpered. But I knew he wasn’t around. The footsteps behind me were gaining.
Once the race has started, never ever look behind you. It’s a waste of valuable seconds.
The Rigbyism came out of nowhere.
“Stop!” he was shouting. “Hold on!”
I was holding on, all right. To my life. Out of his reach.
There were no clouds in the sky. No stars for guidance or light. In fact, it was like there was no sky either. I was in the midst of a mist so low to the ground, it was as if I was in the clouds. I was forced to slow down. I listened.
I’d lost him. At last. I finally threw Missy Long Johns down. And that’s when the voices started. That screaming Stubby had talked about. It wasn’t the wind, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was voices. Crying. There was no thunder. No lightning. But the rain! Like waterfalls cascading over me. I gasped for breath.
I ripped a garbage bag off Missy Long Johns and made a rain poncho for myself. The red lipstick mouth I’d been so careful with was smeared like blood all over her face. Even she looked evil.
Then, a movement in the dark. He was stalking me! I ran like I never did in my life. I was ready to break the sound barrier.
Down into the field, trying to get away from the voices and the rain and—a ghost—a killer.
There was nowhere to hide in the field. I had to get to the forest. I tore past the twisted-faced rocks, got snagged on spindly scrub and kept right on running. Finally I reached the woods. But his footsteps crackling through the underbrush followed.
I was in the haunted forest of my childhood nightmares. Shadows of branches like the claws of animals and the fingers of witches surrounded me. I tripped and went flying into a swampy-smelling patch of bog. I closed my eyes, expecting him to pounce. One second, two seconds, three seconds went by—like whole lifetimes.
I lifted my head, and there was a flicker of light, like a match struck and quickly blown out. He was going away. In the other direction. I lay there for five whole minutes, holding my breath as best I could. The voices were still screaming.
I stood up
, staying in a crouch, and picked my way, inch by inch, along a tangled path.
Then? Well, I’d swear up and down on my own grave that I saw a woman holding a lantern. She beckoned with her arm. Steady as a beam from a lighthouse, she guided me directly to the cabin. Don’t ask me how, but I knew it was the Clancy cabin. The voices started to lower as I got nearer. By the time I walked up to the front stoop, they had stopped. The stillness was worse. A deathly quiet. I stepped in as softly as I could.
“My fiancé married and had many children,” she said. “He lived a happy life. I’ve watched now and then.”
Maryanna Rayborn? It was as if she was continuing a conversation we’d started before.
“There’s this this—man,” I gasped. “Out there …”
She laughed a tinkly laugh. “There’s more than one, I’m afraid. You’re a sorry-looking sight.” She smiled. She really was dazzling.
“And you needn’t be looking so terrified. I know you’ve talked to spirits before. And I have to say, Miss Minn, we are all very grateful for what you are doing to save the grave. My own bones are still safely there but wouldn’t have been much longer had you not taken action.”
She drifted when she walked, sort of like Miss Armstrong-Blanchett, only more graceful.
“Still,” she said, “before you get to saving us, there’s something you need to say, is that right? There’s a shadow weighing you down. I can see it plain as day all about you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Stubby told you about me. You’ve come here because you can whisper your darkest secret to me. I have the power to take away your shadow, your dark cloud, if you do.”
“I came to save the grave.”
“But you have a sad heart, am I right?”
I nodded. Gulped. Tried to swallow. There was a big something. I sat down. My lips moved. I began to whisper. Something like this …