Solsbury Hill A Novel (6 page)

Now she found herself on flat land, a stretch of flat meadow that extended far into the distance—meadow and rolling gray-green hills all the way to where the sky met the earth—and there she saw what she was sure was the same young woman running. Eleanor headed toward her as quickly as she could, but the ground in this part was covered with heavy white stones. Yet the young woman seemed to stride across them without concern.

Eleanor wanted to reach her, to meet her and speak to her,
so she hurried, but as she hurried she stumbled a bit and tripped, and it was almost impossible to keep her eye fixed on the woman running. Eleanor gained a better footing on the flat white rocks, but there were crevices between them, so Eleanor had to keep looking down at the rocks, while the woman ran effortlessly; she appeared then disappeared only to reappear in a slightly different place, much farther along and running, running from boulder to boulder and turning her head about as if she were talking to someone; and then a deep laugh resonated from somewhere else on the hill, and Eleanor turned and slipped. Her ankle twisted, her foot caught between two rocks. Bruised, she felt tired and lay back on her jacket, rested there, and watched the fast clouds move by. She laughed at her sweet sorry self.

“Can’t lie down and let yourself die out here . . .”

Between her face and the sky was the face of a man. He had dark curly hair and before her eyes could focus on him, he’d squatted beside her, taken hold of her foot, slipped off her boot, and simply released it from where it was caught between the boulders. “There,” he said. “That’s better.” He reached for her hand and helped her sit up. “Are you lost?”

She shook her head back and forth with three fast jerks.

“Well, you’re about as far as you can go without falling off the edge.”

“There was a woman out here. I was trying to catch up with her.”

“A friend of yours?”

She shook her head again.

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t be following strange women on the moors? May I?” He turned her bare ankle in gentle circles.

“Ouch.”

From his pocket he removed a small blue jar, opened it, and rubbed some balm into the sprain. “This will be better.” He rubbed and looked toward the crest of the hill. His hands moved firmly and his palms were soft despite calluses. He had tanned skin and strong muscles in his forearms. When he was done, he slipped her boot back on and offered his hand to help her onto her feet.

She dusted off her backside and tucked her pants into her boots again.

“Thank you. I’ll walk more carefully,” she said politely.

“Ought not be following them about, without considering. She might be a ghost, you know.” His eyes smiled but not his mouth. “Good day to you.” He wandered off and Eleanor looked around trying to orient herself. She had goose bumps and a chill ran through her. She kept her eyes on him for a while before moving on, to make sure he wasn’t a ghost himself, that he didn’t disappear in midair. She smiled and headed away from him down the hill toward a tree she was sure she’d passed on her way from the house. It was a memorable tree with writhed branches and orange bark on the crest of the hill.

There were thousands of rocks carpeting this edge of the heath and the trees that rose up through the ground between the rocks were gnarled and bent by the strength of the wind. One rock she came upon was as large as her own body and had a perfect hole in the center of it, like a modern sculpture by Arp, shaped by a constant current over centuries.

Everything smelled fresh of decay and damp with a perfume of heather and gorse and grasses at the top. There were spots, as Eleanor trod along, where something sweet rose up and hit her in the back of the throat, something so sweet she didn’t want to swallow.

The landscape changed as she walked. The sun cut through the clouds and made a pattern that looked like the fingers of God. Like a companion, the force of the wind pressed against her and the grass stirred around her. She felt not at all alone, was stronger with every step, and liked the way her heart pounded against the boisterous wind that seemed determined to knock her down. She trudged her way along through the grays and greens.

She heard laughter and saw that tied to the branch of a tree was a wooden swing. The branch reached sideways and looked like the arm of a crooked old woman stooped to let the kids play, there with the ropes tied to her bony elbow and wrist.

A dark-haired little boy of eight or nine pushed a little girl from behind until she got so high he couldn’t reach her. She giggled as she leaned back, looked like she might slide backward off the seat.

“Cannot catch me.” A pure sound, a resonant chant of sound carried on the wind.

Eleanor kept the kids in her sight and walked toward them. Now she had ghosts on her mind. Now she remembered the moors and stories of ghosts and was relieved when faraway and down in a valley she saw a village, a line of trees that suggested a river, a church steeple, and smoke from chimneys. Maybe the children lived there, and not only the children but the young woman as well.

The girl propelled herself off the swing, bent in half with her hands on her knees, and dodged back and forth. She shrieked a girl’s giggling fear while the little boy darted this way, then that, to catch her, called out a threat to throw her to the ground when he caught up with her. “Wicked thing,” he said as he tackled her and they tumbled down, over and down the other side of the hill.

Eleanor hurried to find them. The hill was steep and on the other side there was no sign of the children. A deer darted into a copse and she followed it through the trees, where there was a waterfall and the deer was drinking from a pond.

The trees kept out the wind, so it was quiet. In the air were
the scents of fir, wet stone, moss, and something like floral honey. The deer lifted its head every time Eleanor moved, watched her as she settled on a ledge of stone above the waterfall. Eleanor pulled her feet beneath her, wrapped her arms around her knees, and made herself into a snug, warm ball.

What a world, she thought, that can hold this soft falling water, this crazy wind, and birds that screech more piercingly than Manhattan’s ambulance sirens. She stretched her sweater over her knees.

She saw the young boy first, then heard a happy scream in the middle of thuds and leaves crunched as the little girl tumbled through shrubs and rolled down a hill. The boy had seen Eleanor. Their eyes made contact, but he didn’t say anything or draw the girl’s attention to her. He loaded and flung a wad of moss that hit a tree and sent the little girl running. At the waterfall, they stripped down to underclothes and leapt in.

Amused by their courage, but worried about the cold, Eleanor leaned forward to make sure they would come up.

They tried to drown each other. He pushed her head. She pushed his head. He was the stronger. The little girl’s lips turned blue then almost purple before she scrambled along the banks of the pond to get out, shivering and fumbling to get back into her clothes. Her chest heaved and as she straightened to standing, she saw Eleanor and held her gaze for a long moment. She didn’t shift her eyes away, even as she stepped into her woolen stockings and pulled them up,
stepped into her dress, and reached around to try to button up the back.

“We’ve got to go, Annie,” the boy said and gestured with a sweep of his arm.

Eleanor looked at the little girl who had the same name as her mother. She looked carefully at the little girl’s face, then shook her head at the ridiculousness of imagining ghosts everywhere.

It was like twilight inside the lush gathering of trees around the pond.

“A merlin!” the girl screeched. She pointed to the sky and moved slowly, gestured to the boy to come closer. She put her finger to her lips to say, “Quiet,” and Eleanor saw the white belly of a falcon in the sky. “Look, Gare,” the girl whispered to the boy, “it’s the same one.” They watched the blue-gray raptor land at the top of a tree nearby.

“It is the same one,” he said. “He’s walking with us.”

Even after the children disappeared in the brush, Eleanor could still hear the little girl chattering about the lives of red squirrels and swallows, dippers and foxes.

Eleanor headed back in a direction she hoped would bring her to the house, through a field scattered with small flowers.

A
s Eleanor crossed the courtyard, Gwen came through the gate of the kitchen garden, her hair bound up in a scarf, a bloody apron protecting her dress.

She put her hand on Eleanor’s back and ushered her into the kitchen. “I was starting to fret about you, but you’ve found your way home. Tilda’s making Alice’s favorite pudding.”

“It smells great,” said Eleanor.

“Molasses and burnt sugar,” said Tilda.

“As you see, I’ve been laying waste to chickens.” Gwen untied her apron, balled it up, and tossed it on a chair. “Fresh from a local farmer. Let’s go on up.”

They came to the landing halfway up the stairs, and there was a hall to the right. At the end of the hall was a pair of carved wood doors left slightly ajar. There was a pool of light in the hall and Eleanor realized Alice was inside the room. “I’m scared,” she said without thinking.

Gwen put a warm arm around her, pressed her head against Eleanor’s head, and whispered, “There’s no reason to be scared. She’s the most lovely woman.”

“I’m scared of myself, honestly. I’m scared of how I’ll feel.”

“Don’t worry. You’re quite safe here.”

It was a kind thing to say. Eleanor untied the jacket from around her waist and dropped it in the hallway, pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it on top of the jacket, so she wore just a heathered oatmeal crew-neck T-shirt tucked into her jeans with a simple brown leather belt. She wrapped her hair in a bun and knotted it there, tucked stray hairs behind her ears. She might have been a girl from the ’70s. Gwen’s eyes approved and she led her to the open doors.

Alice’s pretty, gray hair was in a smooth French knot that
sat low on the back of her head. It was all Eleanor could see of her when she came into the room, because Alice was sitting in a bay window with her back to her, but as soon as Alice heard them come in, she turned her wheelchair. She took hold of the right wheel and spun the chair to its left. She wore a pale blue sheer blouse with full sleeves rolled up, exposing lean forearms with creamy skin. The collar sat open and the blouse was unbuttoned to just above her breasts. Eleanor noticed the youth in her chest and neck as she walked toward her. She was striking not because her features were simple or even, but because her eyes sparkled and she radiated appreciation.

Alice smiled and instantly Eleanor recognized the smile. Though her mother’s face had been less luminous, less hopeful, as she recalled, Eleanor remembered this smile, as if it were part of her everyday life, it was so familiar.

It was only when Alice lifted her two arms, to extend her open hands to Eleanor, that she saw the weakness in Alice’s body. It seemed an effort just to lift those near-weightless arms.

Eleanor crossed the room to her, knelt beside the chair. Alice put her hands on either side of Eleanor’s face and said, “My God, you’re so pretty. Isn’t she pretty, Gwen? I bet you’re happy. I can see you’ve taken good care of yourself. Are you happy?”