Downhill Chance (43 page)

Hannah heard no more, for her mother had laid her head on her lap and was sobbing brokenly. Her father turned, his own face streaked with tears as he reached for Clair. Only then did he see Hannah, and a small groan escaped him as he pulled himself to his feet, then her mother and then Hannah. Nora and Beth had appeared on the bank, along with Lynn and the other youngsters who had gathered out of the dark, staring hard at the commotion taking place, and Roddy was ushering them home, whilst Marty kept soothing the old vet to say no more, no more, as Luke was leading Clair and Hannah up over the bank and towards their door. They spilled inside and Hannah watched in silence as her mother collapsed into her rocker, chewing on her fists to cease her sobbing, and her father on a chair besides her, pulling Hannah onto his lap, jiggling his foot, rocking her as he would the baby.

“How much did she hear, Luke?” cried Clair, her eyes falling onto Hannah.

“Not much, I don’t think,” he said, rocking her harder. “And you’re not to pay attention, Hannah, you’re not to pay attention, for it’s a sickness that makes the old vet say things like he did. A sickening of his mind by the shine that he drinks. And you never mind what Lynn or anybody says about your grandfather Job after this. It’s what your uncle Joey wrote that says the most, and he said Grandfather Job saved his life so many times he was starting to bow every time he seen him coming towards him. That’s what you remembers about Grandfather Job, all right, my lovey?”

“Take her to bed, Luke,” said Clair, her gaze falling onto her daughter. And putting her arms around her, she kissed her on the cheek, her lips cold, dry, scarcely moving. “You won’t have bad dreams, will you?” she whispered as Hannah kissed her in return.

“No, Mommy.”

“That’s good,” she said quietly. “Aunt Missy used to have bad dreams.”

“Clair,” said Luke, “Nory, Beth, they’ll be sitting over there—waiting for us.”

She looked to him with eyes too fatigued. “I can’t talk, Luke. I can’t even feel. I don’t know how you can either—it was your brother that Daddy—”

“Shh,” said Luke, and she bit off her words as another flood of tears swamped her eyes. “I already told you, lovey. Joey walked them foreign soils with courage, and he fought as brave as any of them. It matters nothing to me whose bullets tore at him—it was an act of war. He died with courage, that’s what brings me peace. And it was Job Gale that helped him find that courage. Nothing said tonight changes that. Now I’m putting Hannah and you to bed and I’m going to go have a word with Nory and Beth. Pray Jesus the old woman slept through it. Come morning I’ll take you for a boat ride. It’ll give you some time. Perhaps—” He hesitated. “Clair, I told you once we ought to go to Cat Arm—” He broke off as she looked to him.

“Perhaps,” she murmured. “Perhaps.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A
S IN TIMES OF LOSS
, her aunts made salads instead of the usual cooked Sunday dinner, and everyone gathered at Prude’s to eat, their forks clicking on their plates as they commented quietly about the southerlies dying down, and for sure the wind would be up eastern before the day was done, bringing with it the fog, no doubt, and drizzle. And as if awaiting the boat bearing the coffin, Roddy kept looking out the window towards Cat Arm, saying what everyone must’ve been wondering—was Clair and Luke on their way back yet, and for sure, they must be by now, getting late as it was, and no, Prude, it’s not a wind, but a breeze coming off the water, and Luke would be home before the wind hit.

As in most times of adult needs, Hannah and the younger ones went unnoticed, freed really, to roam farther afield, to brave more with one another, to curse, knowing they were paid less heed. Thus scant attention was paid to Hannah’s moping around their stoops, or sitting long-faced on the bank, staring out towards Cat Arm. And even when upon traipsing into her aunt Nora’s and opting to sit and rock Brother for a spell, the most she received was a caution not to drop him.

It was nearing evening when the telegram came. Luke and Clair still hadn’t returned, and Hannah was lugging the baby around the patch behind Nora as she unpinned her pudding bags off the line.

“More bad news, I’m sorry to say,” sighed Willamena, coming out on her stoop, holding aloft the orange-trimmed piece of paper.

“What is it now?” cried Nora.

“It’s for Clair, maid, and I can’t say I haven’t been expecting this—but young Missy’s disappeared.”

“Oh my Lord,” exclaimed Nora.

“What’s it say?” shouted Beth, poking her head out around her door.

“Missy’s disappeared,” said Nora.

“Last seen standing on the wharf yesterday evening,” read Willamena.

“Oh my Lord, they don’t think—” Her words trailed off as she dropped the pudding bag and ran out onto the bank.

Hannah stood there for a minute, digesting this latest. Surely they didn’t think Missy jumped into the water—and drowned!

No—I bet I knows where she is, she wanted to yell, running after her aunt, but Brother was beginning to wriggle in her arms, pressing the medallion hard against her chest, and with a sudden remembrance of Missy’s warnings to say nothing ever, ever, about the shack and the stranger, she slowed her step, biting down on her tongue. Immediately she was struck by another thought: Missy would never spend all night and day at the shack. She’d be home before the fishers went out, so’s they wouldn’t talk. Unless she hadn’t come home from the night before. Why hadn’t she, then? She’d never leave the uncle on his own this long—especially if he was sick—no, she’d never do that. Where was she, then?

Nora’s voice cut through her thoughts, singing out, “Calve, Calve,” as she ran down on the beach towards where Roddy was helping Calve put his motor back together, “for God’s sakes, get ready and go get Clair—we just got a message her sister is lost.”

“My, my, oh my,” cried Prude, hurrying onto the bank, “the wind, the wind is coming in; ye can’t go to Chouse with the wind coming in.”

“We’ll take Nate’s motorboat,” said Calve, and he hurried with Roddy towards the boat tied on to the stagehead.

“Here, you get back here, Roddy, you get back,” called out Prude, “we needs someone left behind; he might come back, the old vet might come back.”

“Never mind that, Mother,” said Nora, taking her mother’s arm as the men were climbing aboard. “We can take care of him if he comes back.”

“She’s drowned; the poor thing’s drowned,” cried Prude, and a trickle of fear crept coldly into Hannah’s stomach.

“For God’s sake, Mother, don’t go going on like that in front of Clair,” warned Nora. “That’s all she needs to hear— young Missy’s gone off and drowned herself. Come on in the house; bring in Brother, Hannah—it’s time for his feeding.”

Hannah traipsed behind her, the cold in her belly creeping up her spine as she thought of her aunt lying in the water somewhere, crying—and yes, that was it! She’d be crying, not dead, for she could no more imagine Missy dead than she could imagine summer without sunshine. In the cavern most likely, having slipped on the kelp and broken her leg on her way home that morning—and suffering, she would be, like her uncle Calve the time he was stung so bad by hornets and he had crawled, swollen and crying, out of the woods, near dead. And now something had happened to Missy.

Turning the baby over to Nora, she walked with a quickness in her step towards home.

“Where you going?” Nora called after her.

“To find Lynn,” she called back. But her path veered from Lynn’s house. Absently grasping the medallion beneath her shirt, she found comfort in its round fit into her hand, and the warmth that it held against the cold sweat of her palm lent a strengthening to her step as she darted across the path, checking to make sure no one was watching, before ducking inside her house. The morning’s languor had lifted, making room for work that had to be done, delighting her heart at the prospect of easing some of the grief befalling her mother by rescuing Missy from her sufferings within the cavern, for it were no longer a possibility now, that her aunt sat alone with a broken leg, awaiting rescue, but a thing of reason. And what she would do once she found her there, she never gave thought. Enough to figure the journey that would take her to her aunt.

Digging into the closet, she pulled out her warmest fall jacket, for despite the blue of the summer’s sky outside, and the warmth of the breeze, she knew the cold accompanying the easterlies, and judging by the ridge of dark creasing the distant skyline, she wouldn’t be long into her walk before they hit. Snatching a pair of mittens out of a cardboard box her mother had stored beneath a shelf for winter, she stuffed them into the pocket of her red-plaid coat, feeling rather proud of her thoughtfulness. Her father always said there was no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. Peering out the door to ensure no one was about, she darted out onto the bank and, leaping down over, qualled down and ran up along the shore.

A couple of minutes and she was around the curve of shoreline and out of sight of the houses, but still she kept running, leapfrogging over a couple of brooks, running across the beach and hugging the treeline whenever the beach became too narrow. The thought that she’d never been this far up the shore by herself crossed her mind, bringing with it a tinge of unease, but she pushed back silliness, for even with the wind almost at her back now, and a fogbank soon to follow, no doubt, it was still early evening, with the sun sparkling upon the water, and it was difficult to conjure up darkness on a shoreline softened with babbling brooks and sparkling seawater.

According to talk it was a two-hour trek up to the Basin, and with Copy-Cat Cove being an half-hour to this side, that would shorten the walk to an hour and a half—and she was already well on her way. Everything would be fine, and she was almost glad, she was, for this chance to undo some of her mother’s sadness, for her mother would be proud that she had found Missy and helped her to safety. And Missy would be proud too that she hadn’t told anyone of her secret place, or the stranger. Remembering the stranger, she felt a tingle of excitement as the medallion slid coolly across her chest, for it added to her adventure, this foreign object around her neck, and how nice to have something else occupying her mind aside from fairies and stuff.

Thinking about fairies caused her to glance quickly at the woods crowding the hills, but no, they didn’t hold the same curiosity somehow, the fairies didn’t, not after meeting the stranger with the scarred face who looked more odd than any fairy she could imagine—except for size. Fairies were no bigger than your little finger, except for banshees who were supposed to be the size of women.

Pick a healthy stride, her father had said more than once as she trekked behind him down at Chouse, and lean into it like you might a good wind; that way you covers a fair distance without getting winded from all them baby steps and meandering about. And keep to the small rocks, not the big ones, when you’re walking on the beach, so’s you won’t roll on one and twist your ankle.

She was walking close on half an hour, she figured, when the wind hit. Riding a dark blue on the face of the sea, it curled the waves forward, raising dust and twigs and anything else of like that was strewn around the beach, and tumbling it along as easy as it might a ball of duck’s down. Pulling on her jacket, she quickly buttoned it, abandoning the pebbly shoreline for the larger, more cumbersome rocks nearer the woods, and seeking what shelter the trees might afford from the wind. A bit of ground patched with grass extended along the treeline, making for a sort of path, allowing her to steer clear of the cumbersome larger rocks and keep the healthy stride she had started out with. And despite the sudden chill, the wind was more help than hindrance as it lifted her step, buoying her along. Surely she would be there more quickly than the hour and a half she had allotted, and won’t Aunt Missy be happy, she thought, when she looks up and sees her coming. And her mother too, when she got home and found her missing, and they all come looking for her and found her walking down the shore with Missy leaning on her—for that would be the best thing—for Missy to come down to Rocky Head, finally, and sit with her mother, and meet her father and brother and Grammy Prude. Course, it would be hard for Missy to walk with a broken leg, but they’d manage somehow, for the first part of the walk anyway, till she got tired; but by then, her mother would have seen them from the boat, because she would sure to be in the boat watching the shoreline as some of the uncles walked. And then they’d all climb aboard the boat and her father would carry Missy into the house, because her father was strong and it would be easy for him to carry Missy; she’d seen him carry her mother up over the stairs more than once when he’d been teasing her and she was trying her best to feed Brother or do some housework and he was wont to leave her alone. She smiled, thinking back on her mother and her father. It was always hard to tell if they were playing at first, because her mother would never smile or act silly like her father, and she’d always try to get around him whenever he blocked her way coming out of her room, or down the stairs, or in the kitchen, even; but she had learned that her mother seldom smiled anyway, and when she was having none of her father’s silly ways, she had her own means of jousting him out of the house.

She had travelled perhaps another twenty minutes when her step began to lag. Stopping for a breather, she looked back to see how far she had come and was startled to recognize nothing behind her—even the brooks had fallen behind a point of land. How dreary everything now looked with the fog drifting in over the water, gathering the grey of the evening into its folds as it banked the sun, swiping the colour from the land around her. Well, she’d tramped around in overcast skies before, and looking up towards the Basin was heartened to see a few dots of light, like far-off stars, twinkling. Another ten minutes or so and the lay of the land would conceal those twinkling lights from the Basin, but the fogbank beat even that, and within minutes, the little lights vanished in shrouds of grey, along with the path before her. But it was more over the water the fog hung, and she was still able to see a good distance ahead and behind her.