Fog Magic (4 page)

“Yes, Father,” she said. “It was very thick today.”

“I thought so,” he answered and went back to his paper.

THE WEATHER was clear until the close of school in June. Only once or twice, and then during the evening, could the people of Little Valley hear the foghorn down in the Passage blowing its steady warning to vessels at sea.

During the last week of school, their teacher asked the children to vote on the place for their school picnic. Greta was as surprised as anyone to hear herself suggesting T. R.'s beach, “because they could swim there.” T. R.'s beach lay on their own side of the mountain and Hazen turned around with astonished eyes.

“I never knew
you
to want to go anywhere but to Blue Cove,” he whispered.

“Oh,
no!
Blue Cove! Blue Cove!” two or three others shouted before she could answer. “It's too cold for swimming, anyhow, and at Blue Cove we can play games in the clearing.”

Mrs. Collins rapped on her desk. “We'll vote by raising our hands,” she said. “Now, for T. R.'s beach?”

Greta, with Hazen loyally supporting her, raised her hand.

“Two. And now, for Blue Cove?” Every other hand in the room shot up. So it was settled; the picnic would be at Blue Cove. Greta could only hope for sunshine. “What if there's fog?” she thought. “Will I have to share the village with them? or won't it ever be there again—even for me—if we all go?” She needn't have worried. It was a clear day. There was no mystery, no strangeness, and when they trooped back over the mountain, Greta for the moment almost forgot that Blue Cove still had a secret life of its own.

The clear weather lasted well into July, and then one morning she woke to the steady sound of the Tollerton foghorn. The fog had swept in, blanketing everything. Even before she opened her eyes, Greta was conscious of the strange feeling of excitement that was beginning to mean fog to her. She hurried into her clothes, helped with the morning work, and then: “Mind if I go for a walk, Mother?” she asked casually.

“Go along,” her mother said. “I've been expecting you'd want to.” She set the kettle down hard in her irritation. “You'd best take a sandwich,” she added. “The fresh bread will taste good with some of the sweet butter and jam.”

“I think I won't bother with lunch, Mother.” Greta was pulling on her beret.

“Why not?” There was suspicion in Gertrude's voice. “It only wants an hour and a half 'til dinner. You'll never be back by then.”

Greta went into the buttery and cut two generous slices of the soft brown oat bread. She couldn't explain how sure she was that Mrs. Morrill would ask her to dinner.

At the fork Greta stopped and peered into the spruces. Good! She could just make out the dim outlines of a house. She hurried on over the rough stones, across the high pasture and into the woods, sure and confident. Suddenly she realized that Tollerton was silent and she almost laughed out loud. She had crossed the line, as invisible as the equator, to another world.

Retha sat waiting for her, perched high on one of the Sentinel Rocks. “I was afraid you wouldn't be able to come so soon again,” she began.

“But it's been
weeks!”
Greta replied.

“I know,” Retha interrupted. “It's seemed like weeks to me, too, since yesterday. But that's just because I like you so much. And I guess because I've wanted someone my own age for so long. Sometimes I think it would be fun to live in a bigger village than ours. Here the boys go fishing or off in the vessels as soon as they're as old as I am. And all the girls are older than I am, or just babies. But now that you're here it will be easier to wait!”

“To wait for what?”

“Why, for Father, and the other men, to come home. There's a vessel aground. Didn't you know? I thought everybody on the Neck would have heard.”

Greta shook her head. “We hadn't heard where I live,” she said. “Where is she? Off shore here?”

“No, she's down off the Islands. She went aground yesterday on a ledge with a hole stove in her. Father's been gone since last night. Some of the men have come home to unload and gone back again.”

“And the people on her? Are they safe?”

Retha nodded. “She's been given up for lost and they've taken off the crew and passengers, so now anyone who wants to, can go aboard her and take things. That's why Father's gone.”

They had reached Retha's house. Mrs. Morrill stood in the doorway peering out into the fog. She looked worried, but smiled as she welcomed Greta.

“You'll find us all upset today, I expect,” she said. “I hate salvage, myself, even if it is honest to take for yourselves what would only go to the bottom of the sea if you didn't. But run down to the shore, Retha, and take Greta. I thought I heard a boat come in. It may be your father.”

At the foot of the steep road there was nothing as Greta knew it. A general store stood at the end of the road, with two little shops across from it. Below the cliff the wide beach was teeming with life. Fish houses and drying racks crowded each other for space under the bank; sheds and warehouses lined both sides of a road that led along the beach to a cluster of wharves. Oxen drawing a two-wheeled cart plodded up from the wharf. Through an open door Greta caught sight of a forge, with flames leaping in the dark and shadows creeping up the walls. But Retha gave her no time to watch. She led the way out onto the wharf and threw herself down flat to look over the edge. The tide was low and the small boat that had just come in was at the end of the slip.

“It isn't Father,” Retha said in disappointment. “It's Reg Frosst's boat. But like as not he'll know something about Father. What do you suppose they've got?”

The men below were lifting out bundles tied in blankets. Some they had tossed onto the ways; others they set down with the greatest care.

“What
can
that long box be, Retha? It's as long as a coffin but it's too narrow.”

“I don't know,” Retha answered. “Maybe it's just a case that something's packed in.” At that moment there was a br-r-r, and slow measured tones came from the box —one, two, three, up to twelve. A shout went up from the men.

“Never missed a beat, not even for a shipwreck,” one said.

“Here's a sea-going clock for you, Reg,” laughed another. “Seems a pity, now, she should have to end her days ashore.”

“Her life
began
ashore, in some old captain's front hall, I'll be bound. So she may as well end it ashore,” said the man named Reg. “But some day maybe I'll have a vessel of my own with a cabin big enough for her. And if I do, I'll take her to sea again. But easy there, Sid, I aim to show her to Martha in one piece.”

As they started up the sloping ways, Retha called down to Reg, “Have you seen my father? Has he started back?”

“He started when we did, Retha,” Reg told her, “but he put in at Gull Cove with a set of instruments for old Doc Ingraham. The doctor that left 'em behind must a been mighty rattled, because they were as bright and shiny as a well-trimmed lamp.”

Retha and Greta watched the slow procession up the wharf. Helpers had appeared from all directions. The smith came running, small boys slid dangerously underfoot on the long ways, green with the seaweed that the low tide exposed. With good-natured joking the long case was carried up to the beach and out of sight along the road to the houses above. A sharp cry floated down from the cliff followed by the reassuring laughter of the men. Some woman had run out of her house and caught a glimpse of the long dark case that looked so like a stretcher.

The girls turned to the open sea again. The dense wall of fog hung like a curtain just beyond the edge of the wharf, but through it came the muffled sound of a boat. A moment later another small boat nosed cautiously into the slip.

“Father! It's Father!” Retha pulled Greta to her feet. They ran back along the wharf to the top of the ways and started down the wet planking. Near the bottom Greta lost her footing and shot helplessly toward the water. Eldred Morrill caught her belt, swung her to her feet and steadied her.

“It's Greta, Father. I told you about her. She's from over the mountain.”

The tall man looked at her long and seriously. The other men in the boat stared curiously, too.

“So you're Greta from over the mountain,” he said at last. “Retha and my wife could talk of nothing else last night. Come often, child. We're glad to have you. But be careful while you're here. If anything happened to you—” there was a long pause, “—we wouldn't have any way of explaining to your folks,” he finished at last. And then: “Can you girls carry some bundles? I've brought your mother some blankets. She can always use more.”

He loaded light bundles into their arms and watched until they were safely on solid ground. Then he and his companions sorted their salvage and followed.

Mrs. Morrill was waiting for them at the gate. At other gates along the single street, other women, whose husbands and sons had not returned, stood peering into the fog. For some of them Mr. Morrill had a word or a message. The others turned away in disappointment. Inside, Mrs. Morrill hurried about getting some food onto the table, and called Retha to help.

“Oh, come, Laura,” said Mr. Morrill. “Don't you even want to see what I brought you? I found something very special for my girls—and something
small.
Retha always likes a
small
package best.”

Mrs. Morrill came, wiping her hands on her apron, and Retha strangled her father with a hug. From an inner pocket he pulled out two little silver egg cups, two tiny silver egg spoons and two still smaller spoons.

“Oh, Father, what
darling
little things!” Retha cried. “And real silver. Why, this littlest spoon must belong to a doll's set. Father, I
love
them, they're so little.”

“Well, they may not be
real
silver,” Eldred Morrill told her. “Even a grand packet like this wouldn't have real silver—unless they belonged to the captain's mess. And I doubt that there were any dolls aboard. The little spoons are salt spoons, I reckon.”

“I don't care if they are. My doll is going to have mine for her porridge.”

Mrs. Morrill was smiling down at the tiny spoons that Father had laid in her hand. “I'm glad you brought me blankets,” she said. “They are so much lighter to sleep under than quilts. And Greta shall have my egg cup and the little spoons to remember this day by.” She held them out to her. Greta took them, hardly able to stammer her thanks.

“Oh, Mother, how nice!” said Retha. “Now when I'm eating my egg I'll know that Greta is using an egg cup just like it.”

Greta thought of the strawberry pie and she looked up hastily, a question in her eyes, in time to see Mr. and Mrs. Morrill exchange a look. There was silence for a minute. Even Princess stopped washing herself and looked up. Mrs. Morrill spoke very quietly at last.

“They'll always be
yours,
Greta, to remember a beautiful ship by that went down at sea. But we hope you'll be coming over the mountain often. Couldn't you enjoy them just as much if you left them here? And used them whenever you came? I'll cook an egg right now for each of you,” she finished more briskly.

“I guess maybe that would be better, Mrs. Morrill, and thank you,” said Greta.

“Goody,” said Retha, “then I'll know you are always coming back. And, Mother, may we keep them here in the very center of the corner cupboard? See, Greta, this can be the place of honor, here in front of this dinner plate. This is awfully precious, too. It came up once in Grandfather Tidd's net without a chip out of it. But I'll never use mine unless you are here too.”

“Wash them now, girls,” Laura Morrill said. “Your eggs are ready to come out. It's a queer dinner that begins with an egg. But it's a queer meal, anyway, at this time of day.”

At dinner they heard more of the wreck. The vessel was gone. It had slipped clean off the ledge when the tide turned.

“We had almost no warning,” Eldred Morrill said. “Luckily, there were only a few boats moored to her at the time. Yesterday there were dozens. If she had gone then there isn't a house on the Neck today that wouldn't be grieving for at least one man. She would have taken them all with her to the bottom. But the men near by, who'd got there first, were well-nigh worn out lugging their salvage ashore. And most of them were sleeping. Only a few of us from up the Neck were aboard. I don't know what it was—exactly—that warned me; a whisper of wind, maybe, or a quiver or something. But all at once I knew I wanted to go—and to go quick. I picked up the blankets and rushed to port. Howe and Don and Earl all came hurrying. Nobody spoke. We climbed down into the dories, and the others came swarming over the rail. Some of them even cut their lines instead of untying them. Every one of us was as sure he'd had a warning as if he'd felt the hand of the Lord Himself on his shoulder. We pulled off as fast as we could go, but we slowed down where we could just see her through the fog and waited. It wasn't long. There was another little breath of wind, like a sigh, almost. The fog opened up a mite and we could see her plain for a minute. And then she slipped out of sight. I never saw anything like it—except a lazy whale turning over, maybe. Even the backwash was different than usual—just one great slow wave. Howe had pulled off his hat, and the rest of us did, too. It's hard to see a good vessel go down even if she doesn't take anyone with her.”

“Anyhow we'll always remember her,” Greta broke the silence by saying. “I'm glad her name is on the egg cup and even on the littlest spoons.”