Fire Along the Sky
Page 11
“Get yourselves up to Lake in the Clouds,” she said, putting one hand on Jennet's shoulder and one on Hannah's. “Get settled in, have a look around and meet the rest of the folks. Then chase everybody on down here. I expect it'll be two hours at least afore we're ready to start dishing up any food.” She cast a glance across the field. “I'd tell you to take Luke and that Simon fellow with you but it look to me like Gabriel already got just about everybody who can hold a stick in the bagattaway game.”
A group of men and boys had stripped to the waist and divided themselves into teams. Daniel and Gabriel and Luke stood together, the two older brothers with their heads bent down toward Gabriel in a protective posture that made Hannah's breath catch on memories too sweet and tender to deny, for once. She could feel Strikes-the-Sky and the boy both at her back, the solid warmth of them and their absence both.
“Ooh,” said Jennet, craning her neck. “I've been wanting to watch—”
Curiosity gave her another gentle push. “No fear, Miss Jennet, that game won't be over soon. You can come back in plenty of time to watch them stomping on each other. Get on with you now.”
They went on horseback, Hannah taking Luke's big gelding and leading the way. Now and then Jennet would ask a question, but for the most part she seemed so intent on taking in the details of the village and then the mountain trail that she fell silent. Hannah was glad of the time to think, though the thoughts that raced through her head were so many and quick that she could fix on none of them for very long, except this: her brother had come home and brought Jennet with him, and for no reason she could understand, Hannah felt as if she had just woken from a long and unnatural sleep.
Chapter 2
As soon as Luke's letter arrived with the news that Hannah was on her way home, Elizabeth had set about making one of the four chambers over for her; it was that, she told Nathaniel, or lose her mind with the wait and worry.
In a matter of days every fine thing in the house had found its way to the chamber: the best blankets, an embroidered pillow slip normally folded away in tissue, a heavy china washbasin and matching water jug sent all the way from England. A new standing desk had been placed between the windows and a worktable in the center of the room. A bright rag rug covered the plank floor and on a long shelf above the bed a dozen books stood between blocks of cherry wood sanded and polished to gleaming.
Everyone had come to leave some gift, large or small, for Hannah; clothing and soap and candles, a beaver pelt for the foot of the bed, a pretty rock. A panther skull, scrubbed clean, held down a pile of newspapers from Albany and Manhattan.
Daniel and Lily had argued for days about the right gift and finally decided on a bottle of ink, a dozen finely sharpened quills, and a new journal sewn from the best paper they could afford. Because, they reminded each other, Hannah always kept careful records of the patients she saw. In the old days her fingers had always been stained with ink.
In the week between the news of Hannah's coming and her arrival, Lily had imagined the hours she would spend in this room with her sister, but she had found instead that the door was always closed. Now she stood in the middle of Hannah's chamber, and Lily saw what she had only suspected: since she had come home Hannah had not written a word; the quills and ink and paper were untouched. Nor was there any sign of her old journals, the ones she had taken west with her or the ones she must have written over the years. Whether they had been lost or stolen or destroyed only Hannah knew.
This was another kind of loss, one that Lily had not imagined, and it made her catch her breath and understand finally and clearly what she had been afraid to admit, even to herself: the sister she had missed so fiercely was not home and would never come home, because she did not exist anymore.
“Space will be very dear,” Lily's mother said behind her. “I cannot put Luke and Simon Ballentyne in the same room with Daniel and Gabriel, and so I must make room for all the young women here. I trust you will not mind sharing with your sister and cousin. No doubt they will keep you awake all night with their talk.”
Even an hour ago Lily would have been thrilled at this turn of events, but she was suddenly overcome with shame for her own selfishness. Her mother, occupied with the linen in her arms, seemed not to take any note at all.
Hannah's chamber had windows hung with white muslin curtains on two walls: one provided a view of the orchard and beyond that the cliffs; the other looked out over the whole glen and the mountains. Jennet Scott Huntar thought she had never seen a view so beautiful. Mountain upon mountain, fading away into a blue haze on the horizon where the sun made its way toward the other side of the world. The endless forests. Jennet had never been able to grasp the idea until she saw it for herself: a world overwhelmed with trees, and every one of them glowing in the sun and casting shadows like reaching hands.
“Hannah Bonner,” she said finally. “I waited far too long to come. This is Paradise indeed.”
“Yes, well,” Hannah said, “it is not without its faults, this Paradise. But I'm glad you're here.”
She sat on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap, her expression calm and almost happy in the late afternoon light. They had been girls the last time they saw each other and they were women now. Both with tragedies behind them, or losses that were meant to be tragedies. Sometimes Jennet said it out loud: I am a widow. But it sounded strange and even silly to her own ears. Her widowhood seemed a plaything, of no real substance, while Hannah's losses had dug themselves deep into the bone.
A group of men and boys had stripped to the waist and divided themselves into teams. Daniel and Gabriel and Luke stood together, the two older brothers with their heads bent down toward Gabriel in a protective posture that made Hannah's breath catch on memories too sweet and tender to deny, for once. She could feel Strikes-the-Sky and the boy both at her back, the solid warmth of them and their absence both.
“Ooh,” said Jennet, craning her neck. “I've been wanting to watch—”
Curiosity gave her another gentle push. “No fear, Miss Jennet, that game won't be over soon. You can come back in plenty of time to watch them stomping on each other. Get on with you now.”
They went on horseback, Hannah taking Luke's big gelding and leading the way. Now and then Jennet would ask a question, but for the most part she seemed so intent on taking in the details of the village and then the mountain trail that she fell silent. Hannah was glad of the time to think, though the thoughts that raced through her head were so many and quick that she could fix on none of them for very long, except this: her brother had come home and brought Jennet with him, and for no reason she could understand, Hannah felt as if she had just woken from a long and unnatural sleep.
Chapter 2
As soon as Luke's letter arrived with the news that Hannah was on her way home, Elizabeth had set about making one of the four chambers over for her; it was that, she told Nathaniel, or lose her mind with the wait and worry.
In a matter of days every fine thing in the house had found its way to the chamber: the best blankets, an embroidered pillow slip normally folded away in tissue, a heavy china washbasin and matching water jug sent all the way from England. A new standing desk had been placed between the windows and a worktable in the center of the room. A bright rag rug covered the plank floor and on a long shelf above the bed a dozen books stood between blocks of cherry wood sanded and polished to gleaming.
Everyone had come to leave some gift, large or small, for Hannah; clothing and soap and candles, a beaver pelt for the foot of the bed, a pretty rock. A panther skull, scrubbed clean, held down a pile of newspapers from Albany and Manhattan.
Daniel and Lily had argued for days about the right gift and finally decided on a bottle of ink, a dozen finely sharpened quills, and a new journal sewn from the best paper they could afford. Because, they reminded each other, Hannah always kept careful records of the patients she saw. In the old days her fingers had always been stained with ink.
In the week between the news of Hannah's coming and her arrival, Lily had imagined the hours she would spend in this room with her sister, but she had found instead that the door was always closed. Now she stood in the middle of Hannah's chamber, and Lily saw what she had only suspected: since she had come home Hannah had not written a word; the quills and ink and paper were untouched. Nor was there any sign of her old journals, the ones she had taken west with her or the ones she must have written over the years. Whether they had been lost or stolen or destroyed only Hannah knew.
This was another kind of loss, one that Lily had not imagined, and it made her catch her breath and understand finally and clearly what she had been afraid to admit, even to herself: the sister she had missed so fiercely was not home and would never come home, because she did not exist anymore.
“Space will be very dear,” Lily's mother said behind her. “I cannot put Luke and Simon Ballentyne in the same room with Daniel and Gabriel, and so I must make room for all the young women here. I trust you will not mind sharing with your sister and cousin. No doubt they will keep you awake all night with their talk.”
Even an hour ago Lily would have been thrilled at this turn of events, but she was suddenly overcome with shame for her own selfishness. Her mother, occupied with the linen in her arms, seemed not to take any note at all.
Hannah's chamber had windows hung with white muslin curtains on two walls: one provided a view of the orchard and beyond that the cliffs; the other looked out over the whole glen and the mountains. Jennet Scott Huntar thought she had never seen a view so beautiful. Mountain upon mountain, fading away into a blue haze on the horizon where the sun made its way toward the other side of the world. The endless forests. Jennet had never been able to grasp the idea until she saw it for herself: a world overwhelmed with trees, and every one of them glowing in the sun and casting shadows like reaching hands.
“Hannah Bonner,” she said finally. “I waited far too long to come. This is Paradise indeed.”
“Yes, well,” Hannah said, “it is not without its faults, this Paradise. But I'm glad you're here.”
She sat on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap, her expression calm and almost happy in the late afternoon light. They had been girls the last time they saw each other and they were women now. Both with tragedies behind them, or losses that were meant to be tragedies. Sometimes Jennet said it out loud: I am a widow. But it sounded strange and even silly to her own ears. Her widowhood seemed a plaything, of no real substance, while Hannah's losses had dug themselves deep into the bone.
