Dreams of Fire (Maple Hill Chronicles Book 1) (27 page)

Chapter 22

It began to rain late in the day. She made one foray out to the co-op and Dream Time, the new age store on Main Street, looking for the short list of things Sarah had given her. After that she slowly straightened up her house, pushing boxes against the wall in the living room and trying to tidy up. Towards evening, Marianne began to get keyed up again. She’d found the little stones Sarah had given her lying on the windowsill. Trusting that they’d absorbed all the sun they needed yesterday, she laid them on the floor around her bed and slipped the sachet of herbs under her pillow. Unsure of their actual efficacy, Marianne shrugged mentally. Every little bit helps.

Sarah arrived after 5:30, holding a small, squat cast iron pot in her arms. She still wore her work attire of crisp navy blue linen suit and white silk blouse though raindrops beaded her glasses. “Hey, how are you feeling?” She asked sympathetically.

“Come in out of the rain. I’m better but still sore.”

Marianne let her in and followed her to the kitchen where the small bag of things she’d gotten sat on the counter. The dark metal bowl looked like it was nearly half an inch thick and blackened on the inside. Outside it was textured with a pattern of facets like it had been beaten with a hammer while still soft.
 

Sarah wiped her lenses down with a soft cloth from her pocket and settled them back on her face before placing in the bowl a bundle of white sage leaves tied with a bit of cotton string followed by a couple of reddish brown incense cones. Their faint dry fragrance drifted up.

 
“Alright, we need to invite Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford to join us. Where do you think they would be the most comfortable?” Marianne looked quizzically at her. Sarah clarified, “Think of the Rutherfords as the people they used to be when they were alive. For some reason they are stuck here, and we are trying to convince them to move on. Where do you think they would be most comfortable talking to us?”

Marianne limped into the living room and gestured to the piano, its bench, and a nearby armchair. “Anne was a pianist, and George was very proud of her talent. She did a lot of concerts in here for their friends.”

“Perfect.” Sarah followed her with the bowl and a pair of hot mitts which she set on the coffee table.

“Okay. That’s ready. Now we have to ground ourselves.”

“What, like electricity?” Marianne looked confused.

“Kind of,” Sarah said patiently. “Have you ever done meditation? Yoga? Tai chi?”

“I did a little yoga a couple of years ago but never seriously,” Marianne said doubtfully.

“Well, grounding yourself is so you don’t get lost. So your own spirit is firmly attached to your body, and you feel strong and confident. I always do this even for the little stuff because it’s good practice and because you never know what you’ll run into.”

“Okay. How do I do it?”

Sarah slipped her low-heeled pumps off and stood barefoot on the hardwood floor, and Marianne slid her own sandals off and did the same. Taking Marianne’s hand in her soft, warm one, Sarah closed her eyes and stood relaxed. Marianne closed her eyes and did her best to imitate the other woman.

Sarah’s voice spoke calmly. “Imagine you are a tree. Your head and arms are your branches, your torso is the trunk and your legs and feet are roots.” Her voice reminded Marianne of her old yoga instructor’s calm, centered tone.

“Any particular kind of tree?”

“Nope. One you are familiar with, maybe a tree you know, if you like. If a tree doesn’t work for you, try something else. Kelly always imagines herself as a mountain.”

Marianne opened her eyes. “Kelly does this with you? She said she wasn’t able to hear or feel anything to do with spirits.”

“Maybe not but she’s one of the most grounded, solid people I know, and she works with me sometimes when I need that.”

“Oh.” Marianne shut her eyes again, but her thoughts kept wandering back to what kind of work Sarah did that needed a mountain to ground her. She turned her attention back to being a tree, and she remembered her yoga breathing. She imagined each breath entering through her feet, swirling through her middle and up into her head, then coursing back down through her feet. Picturing herself as a tree taking up water and nutrients and growing down into the ground and up to the sky, she breathed in and out. She was elaborating on the kind of leaves she would have when the sharp sulfur of a kitchen match scented the air as Sarah lit the cedar cones. They smoldered, setting the dried sage alight and making a bright, pungent smoke that began trailing into the air.

Oscar materialized from somewhere and sauntered over to the couch, jumping up and sitting between them with his crooked tail wrapped around his feet. They sat on the cushions facing the empty piano bench and chair as if waiting for guests to arrive. Sarah spoke loudly and clearly, “Anne Elizabeth Eddy Rutherford and George William Rutherford, we ask you to join us here. We invite you to join us under the protection of sage and cedar. We know you are unhappy and ask you to come and tell us what is bothering you. If we can help you, we will. “

They sat in silence for a few minutes while the sharp smells slowly permeated the room. Marianne’s thoughts drifted to memories of cooking and of the desert of the Southwest she’d once visited. She wondered if Anne would manifest herself or not and whether George would come at the same time. She gazed at the empty piano bench and chair, waiting for something to happen, feeling more anxious as the minutes passed. After a bit she stole a glance sideways at Sarah and saw she had her eyes closed, head slightly cocked as if she was listening hard for a very faint noise.
 

At last Sarah opened her eyes and smiled in the direction of the piano. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Rutherford,” she said cordially, as if welcoming a living person.

Marianne turned quickly, half expecting to see a physical person and saw nothing but an empty piano bench. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled eerily, but Oscar sat quietly, staring at the piano bench, his crooked tail gently bobbing up and down.

“I am Sarah, and this is my friend Marianne who lives here now. You’ve been trying to tell her something since she moved in, and I think you tried to tell the previous occupants something as well. We know you are unhappy and frightened. Yesterday was the anniversary of the terrible fire that took your brother’s life. Please tell us what else is bothering you. We’d like to help you move on. Your family is waiting for you and wants you to join them.”

Sarah gestured to Marianne to continue. Marianne closed her eyes briefly and imagined Anne Rutherford the way she’d sometimes pictured her. She could see a slender middle-aged woman with an anxious face, wearing dark, classically tailored clothes, radiating unhappiness. When she opened her eyes, the unoccupied seat across the room was jarring. So she closed her eyes again and rebuilt the image in her mind.

“Hi, Anne,” Marianne began, pretending she was talking to a living, breathing woman who was just sitting quietly across the room.
 
“I am an historian for a living, so I went to the library and found some newspaper articles about you.
 

 
“You used to live in a nearby town, Schukill, with your mother, father, and little brother, Samuel, when you were five. One summer, when your parents were away, something terrible happened.” Marianne began to feel anxious and tense, but she pressed on with her story. “You were at home with the hired girl, Abigail, and your little brother. She was doing the ironing in the kitchen on the table and trying to look after you two as well. Somehow I think you and Sam were rambunctious children, Anne!” Marianne said with an understanding smile.
 

Suddenly, Marianne could clearly picture a sweaty, tired, and cross fourteen-year-old stuck inside on a stuffy, humid day with the family ironing next to a hot metal stove, a fire blazing within. What was worse, she also had to look after a couple of bored, restless children at the same time. Marianne wondered briefly if this was her own imagination or whether Anne was remembering and somehow beaming it across the space to her, and she plunged on regardless.

 
“It was so hot outside, and the kitchen, heated by the fire in the stove, was even hotter. You and your brother were playing. You both ran down into the basement where it was cool and were playing games down there, right? Maybe hide and seek?”

She remembered a fragment of the dream she’d had where a little girl had run down the hall laughing and holding a little toy or doll in her hand. “Did one of you have a little doll? Maybe you guys were teasing each other with it? Was the toy Samuel’s?” The little kids she’d babysat had certainly teased each other. She began to feel more certain that had been the case. She lifted her head in the direction of the piano bench and thought she saw the dark haired woman nod her head slightly.

“It
was
his, wasn’t it? You grabbed it and ran up the stairs, but he just stayed down there crying. You thought he’d run after you, but he didn’t. When you ran through the kitchen, Abigail finally lost her temper with you and put down her hot iron and chased you outside. She only meant to put it down for a second, really. But she put it down on the laundry not the stove, didn’t she?” The scene presented itself like a movie playing in her head, or like a memory of events that had transpired more than one hundred years ago. Having been in those shoes herself, Marianne could absolutely picture the irate fourteen-year-old chasing a five-year-old brat around the yard until her longer legs caught up with the little stinker. She’d grabbed her by the arm and swatted her behind with the flat of her hand until Anne cried. “Stay out of the way and stop teasing your brother! Play nicely!” Abigail had said angrily.

When she’d turned back to the house, there was a billow of smoke coming out of the back door. Marianne could sense Anne’s desperation. “You both ran back to the house, but the dry laundry was on fire already, blocking the path between the back door and the cellar door. You looked for Samuel outside, but he hadn’t come out. The fire blocked his path. You could hear him screaming and crying in the basement. Abigail panicked. She was only fourteen. She didn’t have the presence of mind to throw the burning things out the door into the yard. The fire was too big, too fast.

“You both screamed until the neighbors came. They did their best to put out the fire. You told them your little brother was still trapped down in the basement. It was too hot for you to go inside and get him yourself. You were so scared,” Marianne whispered.
 

She cleared her throat and resumed her narrative. “There was a man, a Mr. Kenny.” Marianne saw him clearly in her mind’s eye, wearing an old fashioned, collarless, button up shirt, denim overalls and heavy boots and with a handlebar mustache. Somehow in her mind’s eye he resembled Ruari.

“He put a wet bandana over his nose and mouth and bravely made his way into the smoke and fire. Maybe he went through an outside trapdoor into the basement, so he didn’t have to go through the burning house? After a few tense minutes while people did their best to put out the fire with buckets of water from the well in the yard, the man emerged covered in soot with burns in his shirt and pants, holding the small limp body of Samuel in his arms.”

Tears running down her face, Marianne saw the memory through Anne’s eyes. It was like watching a train wreck; she couldn’t look away. The woman on the bench across the room twisted her hands silently. Marianne did the only thing she could and continued telling the story aloud. “Someone ran for the doctor to try and revive him, but he was too small to survive without today’s technology to get clean air in his lungs and help him live. Mama and Papa came but they were too late, and Samuel died.” She could picture Mrs. Eddy running up in a long linen skirt and shirtwaist, Mr. Eddy right behind her. Mrs. Eddy threw herself on the ground, clasping the little boy to her chest and cried and cried. Mr. Eddy held Anne to him.
 

“Anne,” Marianne whispered, “I saw where they buried him in the cemetery by the road. I think you carried that day with you your whole life. You felt responsible that your baby brother died. I think you imagined over and over how Samuel must have felt as he was trapped in the basement until it became your own memory.

“But, Anne, you were only five. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t Abigail’s fault. You didn’t make the fire start on purpose. It was an accident. You did everything in your power to get your brother rescued. Sometimes bad things just happen, and they aren’t your fault.” Anne sat rigidly, hands clenched in her lap, tears running down her cheeks. Marianne opened her eyes, wiped her own wet cheeks, and sniffed her runny nose.

Sarah spoke soothingly in the miserable silence. Her voice was a balm. “Anne, we understand what happened. And it was a long time ago. It is time to let it go. It wasn’t your fault. You need to forgive yourself. Your family, your mother, father and little brother are all waiting for you on the other side. They love you and forgive you and want you to be with them. Forgive yourself. It is time to move on. You don’t need to stay any more.”

Anne’s spirit sat transfixed by her words. Sarah nodded encouragingly at Marianne as if this were all completely normal instead of completely bizarre. So, Marianne took a deep breath, closed her eyes again, and continued.
 

“Anne, the newspaper also said you’d gone to Julliard Music School when you were young. You must have been an amazing musician! I think you got married to George and gave up a career in performance to come back to Maple Hill to teach music. I got the feeling that you were a really good teacher, and your students loved you. I loved hearing you play the ‘Pachelbel Canon.’ Thank you for playing that night when I could hear it.”

Marianne was on a roll as she continued, “George also was very proud of your talent as a musician. I heard that you played many times for your friends and his. But I also saw in a dream that he made you play when you were sick and didn’t feel like playing. I know that he locked you in the basement if you stood up to him and refused. I think he knew you were afraid of the cellar because of what happened to little Sam, and he used that against you. That was vindictive of him. Husbands are supposed to be protectors of their wives not inflictors of punishment on them.