The Tale of Halcyon Crane (35 page)

My skin went cold. “
Your
children?”

“Oh,
chérie
, you are so naïve. Of course they were part of me. I gave them to her. They were as much my children as they were hers. But when I saw what she did to the girls—my three babies—I had to step in before she could hurt the others who would come later.”

I shook my head. “What do you mean, step in?”

“I mean just that. I stepped in. I had been planning to leave the island. I had had enough of these wealthy people who would scorn me outwardly, only to come creeping to my back door when they needed something. But then I saw how incapable Hannah was of raising children—the girls died because of her!—and I knew the herbs I gave her would allow her to conceive again and again. Something had to be done. Someone had to protect future children. So when poor Iris went over the cliff—”

“Iris died?”

“No, Hallie.” Martine shook her head. “She went over the cliff, just as her cousin did. But I saved her. I knew I could use her to live within the house and watch over my children and grandchildren, so I put her body around mine like a cloak. Just as I said:
I stepped in
.”

“How—” I started, my eyes growing wide.

Martine laughed and shook her head back and forth, her long hair blowing in the breeze. “I’m the Witch of Summer Glen. A little thing like that isn’t so difficult.”

I sat down, hard, on the cold ground next to the grave, not quite knowing how to formulate coherent thoughts out of the muddle that was my mind. Finally, I said, “So you were Iris, all those years?”

She nodded. “I had to look after them: Charles, Maddie, even the girls, such as they were. I had brought them all into the world, so to speak. I had a responsibility.”

An undefined anger was bubbling up in my throat. “You certainly didn’t do much to protect
me
.”

“You?” Martine laughed again. “You didn’t need my protection. You were stronger than all of them combined. So
like me. That’s why you were able to rid the house of those naughty triplets. Soon after you left with your father, I left as well. Look at the gravestone, my dear.”

I shuddered, thinking I was going to see my own name there. Instead, I noticed a small stone.
IRIS MALONE
.
Faithful daughter, servant, and friend. 1905–1976.

“Wait. Iris died? But—”

Martine shrugged. “My work was done. And I was so tired of that horrible black dress.”

“So—” I couldn’t quite grasp what she was saying to me.

“When I learned you were coming back to the island
, I decided to put on that dress once again. You didn’t know anything about your family—my family. I had to tell you,
ma chère
, to make sure you kept their memories and mine alive. You needed to know the truth, about them and about yourself. And there was only one person who could tell you. Me.”

With that, my eyes popped open and I was sitting up in bed, Will breathing low and shallow next to me. The room was dark except for a shaft of moonlight shining in through the window.

“What’s the matter?” Will murmured groggily.

“It was just a dream,” I whispered. “A crazy dream.”

“Curl back in.” He held out his hand to me. And so I did, slipping down under the covers, snuggling next to the man I loved.

I grew up in a family of storytellers. Some of my earliest memories involve sitting at the kitchen table, listening to my parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles tell tales about the people and places in their pasts, so it’s no wonder I should grow up to tell stories for a living. My first acknowledg ment, then, goes to my family. To my mom and dad, Joan and Toby Webb; my brothers, Jack and Randy Webb; and Gram, Elma Maki. I know how proud you are to see me fulfill my lifelong dream. Your confidence in me is what got me here. And to everyone else who has ever sat around my parents’ kitchen table and
raconteured
, thank you for a lifetime of inspiration.

To my wonderful, funny, fabulous agent, Jennifer Weltz. The gratitude I feel for your belief in me, your hard work on my behalf, and your friendship is boundless. I wouldn’t be here without you. Writers—you may have written the next best seller, but without a great agent all you’ve got is a ream of paper. Thanks to everyone at the Jean Naggar Agency for your unwavering support.

To my talented editor, Helen Atsma. Thank you for
believing in a first-time novelist, for loving this story as much as I do, and for your wise, insightful, and careful editing. Your skill has made this book infinitely better, and working with you to hone this tale was an absolute joy.

To my long-suffering friends who have endured the process of me doing something so audacious as writing a novel and trying to get it published, Sarah Fister Gale, Kathi Wright, Mary Gallegos, Bobbi Voss, and Barb Smith Lobin. I fully expect you each to buy a case of these books and give them out as gifts. (Just kidding, though it’s not a bad idea.) Really, what I want to say is, thank you for your encouragement and for making me laugh every day. And to my sounding board, plot untangler, and kindred literary spirit, Randy Johnson. Thank you for being so happy to see my dream come true. Next it will be your turn.

Finally, to my spouse, Steve Burmeister, and my son, Ben. I know living with a writer, especially this writer, isn’t always easy. Your love means everything to me. I’m so happy to be walking through the world with you two, creating the tales we will tell others around our kitchen table.

One last word about the story itself. Although it was modeled after Mackinac Island, Grand Manitou Island is a figment of my imagination and, now, yours. This novel is a work of fiction, save one thing: the 1913 storm that killed the Hill triplets. That was very real and remains the worst storm in the history of the Great Lakes.

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About Wendy Webb

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About
The Tale of Halcyon Crane

. . . and more

Wendy Webb
grew up in Minneapolis and has been a journalist there for nearly two decades, writing for most of the major publications in the region. Currently, she lives in the gorgeous Lake Superior port city of Duluth with her spouse, photographer Steve Burmeister; her son, Ben; and their enormous Alaskan malamute, Tundra. She is at work on her next novel. Please visit her website at
www.wendykwebb.com
.

Although you are making your fiction-writing debut with
The Tale of Halcyon Crane
, you’ve worked as a journalist for more than twenty years. Was it difficult to make the switch from nonfiction to fiction? What were some of the challenges?

It was difficult at first. I didn’t realize how different the two styles of writing actually are. One of the cardinal rules of fiction writing is “Show, don’t tell.” But as a journalist, you “tell” a story, and as I’d been writing that way for so long, it was second nature to me. It took a while before I even understood the difference between showing and telling well enough to break that habit. Also, plotting and pacing a novel was a completely new experience for me because it’s something you never have to do when writing a magazine article. The timing of when to let a bit more of the story unfold is an art unto itself. And consistency—you never even think about it as a journalist, but I found myself constantly going back to make sure Halcyon was wearing the same outfit she left the house in fifty pages earlier.

Loving, lively animals play a role in
The Tale of Halcyon Crane
—from the animals that Hallie’s veterinarian grandfather cared for to the boisterous dogs Hallie inherits from her mother. Do you have pets?

We have a 130-pound giant Alaskan malamute named Tundra. Readers will notice Madlyn’s dogs are also mals, Tundra and Tika. Tika was our husky-samoyed cross; she passed away about five years ago. I believe there’s a special connection between people and their pets that fits very well with the magical realism I like to convey in my writing. Pets sense our fears and our sadness, and want only to help. There’s something enormously comforting about that. I also love the unqualified joy my dog experiences in the moment—going for a walk, chewing on a bone, giving me a hero’s welcome when I walk in the door after a long day.

The Great Lakes clearly occupy a special place in your heart. Have you spent a lot of time on or around the lakes?

I grew up in Minnesota and have a great love for Lake Superior, where I now live. It’s a spiritual, mystical place filled with ancient lore and legend. Many local residents actually do have a vague sense that the lake itself is a living thing, which is how the native peoples in this area viewed it. Here’s an example: A few years back, a man set out to swim across all the Great Lakes. But he couldn’t make it across Superior despite many attempts. In the press, he had been “trash talking” the lake, saying its reputation for being dangerous was a myth. People here thought the lake simply wasn’t letting him pass because of it. I think all of the Great Lakes hold that kind of fascination for residents and visitors.

I like to row and kayak on Lake Superior, and we’ve got a cabin in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness that separates Minnesota from Canada, where we spend a lot of time. It’s a gorgeous area that offers the best of both worlds—unspoiled wilderness and beautiful lodges with great restaurants.

My friends joke that my two major vices are expensive wine and lots of new books, and I love nothing better than a morning of kayaking or rowing followed by an afternoon sitting with a glass of wine on the deck of my cabin overlooking our lake, reading a great book with my dog at my side. And it doesn’t hurt if my son and husband are there, either.