The Door in the Forest (6 page)

“That’s good. I’d feel silly talking to myself.” He smiled, the black gap showing where the tooth was missing. “Not
that I’m not good company. But no,” he said, turning serious. “Those front rooms downstairs will work very well, I think. And the parlor. Several men can park themselves there.” He gave a brief nod to Emily, who was still crouched on the floor. “Emily, is it? Nice seeing you again. I’m sure we’ll get to be great friends.”

The door closed, leaving her alone with the cat.

Dinner that night was not easy. At her grandmother’s direction, Emily had rummaged in the storage room to find leaves to extend the dining table. So instead of a cozy dinner for two plus the cats, there was a raucous party of nine, and all the cats were in hiding. There was one nice-looking soldier, a young, sandy-haired private named Martin, who winked at Emily and made her blush; but the others disgusted her. Soldiers who’d never been taught to keep their feet, much less their elbows, off the table took large portions of everything, leaving little for anyone else.

As for washing dishes, they never thought about that, and just as well, considering the willowware cup that one of them had dropped, and the wine glass that another, at the height of an argument, had hurled into the fireplace.

As soon as she could, Emily retreated to her room at the top of the house. Laughter and bumping furniture could be heard below, punctuated by the slamming of doors, but it felt safe here. Safe enough to take out the necklace her grandmother had given her when she’d arrived: a string of strange-looking pearls—not round, but wobbly in shape. They were freshwater pearls (Bridey had explained) from a
place with unusual mineral properties. Bridey claimed they were good for purifying water—said she’d used them several times to make cloudy water drinkable. Emily didn’t care about that. All she knew was that they had once belonged to her mother. The necklace, in fact, felt warm, as if Miranda had just unclasped it and laid it in Emily’s hands.

The girl formed it in an oval on top of the bureau, beside her book of mythical animals. That, too, was a precious object, the only book Emily had brought with her from the city. Her father had given it to her, two years ago Christmas Eve, the night before he disappeared. Who arrests a man on Christmas? She heard later that he’d been an organizer in the resistance movement, but he never mentioned politics to her. He just told her stories at bedtime about nonexistent animals. She knew he was making the stories up, but she half believed those marvelous creatures were real.

Holding the book now, she felt only nervousness. That was because of what her mother had thrust inside it the night of her arrest.

“Don’t let them find this!” she’d said.

A moment later, the door had burst open and three soldiers had entered, demanded that Miranda identify herself, and pulled her from the room before she could so much as glance back at her daughter. With her heart gonging in her chest, Emily had watched from an upstairs window as her mother was led outside into the rain-slicked street. There she was questioned by another man, a captain by the look of him, with a pencil mustache. He poked an accusatory finger in Miranda’s shoulder whenever he didn’t get a satisfactory answer.

It was Emily’s first sight of John Sloper.

As for the paper Miranda had stuck in the book, Emily couldn’t make sense of it—it was a hand-drawn map on a folded sheet of heavy paper.

She looked around. The deadbolt on her door looked sturdy enough. She carried the book to the bed and climbed up.

She leafed past full-page illustrations of the Hydra, the unicorn, the Gorgon, and varieties of dragons till she came to the intrusively rough document of her mother’s. Before opening it, she glanced, as if for permission, at the silver-framed photo on the bookshelf. It was a wonderful picture, taken years before Emily was born, showing her mother as a teenager, squinting happily into the camera while her hand rested on a horse’s mane. It steadied Emily to see it.

“Mama,” she whispered. “Was that you calling me the other night?”

No answer but a smile.

That and a soft knock on the door. “Emily?”

Her heart gave a jump, but then she realized who it was and hurried to let her grandmother in.

“Mind if I visit?” Still breathing hard from the climb, Bridey Byrdsong hauled herself to the rocking chair and plumped herself down. “I don’t expect they’ll be here very long,” she said.

Emily nodded.

“Until then we’ll have to be good little hostesses.” She looked at the oaken wardrobe. “Have you had a chance to try on any more of Miranda’s things?”

Emily cleared her throat. It hadn’t been used much for speaking. “Not yet,” she said.

“Not yet! So, you’ve found your voice!”

“I never lost it.”

Her grandmother compressed her lips in a smile. “I didn’t think you had. It might be just as well, though, if the others didn’t know it.”

“That’s what I think, too.”

“Does anybody else know?”

Emily hesitated. “Just that boy.”

“Daniel? That’s all right. You can trust him.”

“He doesn’t seem very smart.”

Grandma Byrdsong laughed. “Why do you say that?”

The girl shrugged.

“I think,” said the old woman, “you’ll find he’s plenty bright enough.”

“I’m afraid if somebody asks him, he’ll just blurt it out.”

“Ah. Something to do with his nerves, they say. He can’t seem to lie.”

“Strange.”

“We all have our shortcomings.”

They lapsed into silence.

“Grandma? Can I show you something?” She pulled out the crinkly map.

Bridey scanned it. “She gave you this?”

“ ‘Don’t let them find it.’ That’s what she said.”

“Good advice.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“I ought to. I gave it to her.”

Emily stared. “I didn’t know you could draw maps.”

“I didn’t say I drew it.” Bridey tucked back a lock of gray hair. “It’s something I was given when I was young. I passed it on to her. Now it looks like she’s passing it on to you.”

“But what is it? What do I do with it?”

“Did your mother tell you anything?”

“About what?”

Bridey nodded slowly, as if deciding something. “I suppose you should know.”

Emily looked worried. “Is it very bad?”

“Not bad at all. It’s a privilege being a Byrdsong. But there are responsibilities. The map is one of them. It’s been passed down, generation to generation.”

“Is it that old?”

“Oh, it’s old. Not as old as the island itself, of course.”

The girl looked confused.

“The island back in the woods here. The map shows how to get to it.”

Emily felt her heart beating. “What is it about that place? Why do you need a map? It’s right in plain sight.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it? But you can’t get there without the map. I call it the impossible island.”

“Well,” she said, “I know it wouldn’t be easy, with all those thorns and everything, but …”

“It’s not the thorns. The island is protected.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t it? You saw the stream.”

“Of course.”

“Did you see the snakes?”

“Yes.”

Grandma Byrdsong nodded, rocking. “They’re almost the only things that can live there. The water is highly acidic. Did you see their heads?”

Emily flinched.

“That’s what’s left of folks who tried to get there the
wrong way, for the wrong reasons. They say some of them have been circling that island for a hundred years.”

“That’s crazy.” Emily didn’t know why she was getting irritated. After all, she’d seen the snakes herself.

“You may be right.” The old woman rocked more slowly. “I know they’ve been there all my life, and I’m no spring chicken.”

“Can’t anybody get past them? I mean, without this?” She laid her hand on the map.

“Maybe. Why? You thinking of hopping over there?”

“No,” the girl said slowly. “It’s just …”

The rocker stopped. “What are you saying? What have you seen?”

“Nothing. Well, the other night I almost thought …”

“Almost thought what?” Grandma Byrdsong leaned forward.

The girl shook her head.

“Emily, I’m your grandmother.”

“I know it’s crazy, but for a minute I thought … Well, I thought I heard a voice calling me. Coming from the island.”

“Whose voice, child?”

“But I was wrong.”

“
Whose voice
?”

“My mother’s.”

Bridey stared at the girl. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “Not Miranda.” She hoisted herself out of the chair and made for the door. “No, no,” she murmured to herself. She left without another word.

The old Byrdsong manse, though the largest in town, was not the only place where soldiers stayed. A dozen men set up cots in the schoolhouse. A sergeant and two privates stayed with the town pharmacist. Mr. Fish had to put up with an old artillery man and his dog. Even the Olsens, in their trim, recently renovated house off the main street, took in several. Daniel wondered how Melinda Olsen, the class beauty, felt about giving up her pink bedroom to soldiers.

Captain Sloper, with members of his staff, stayed at the Crowleys’, taking over the upstairs and sending Daniel and Wesley to sleep in the barn.

The art of conversation died in Everwood that day. No one felt safe to utter an opinion on anything more provocative than the price of soybeans, and even that had its controversial side. But there was plenty of whispering in back rooms and grumbling in barns about what the occupation was really about and where it would lead.

And that was before possessions started disappearing.
Food, of course, but then a farmer’s favorite pipe, the pharmacist’s supply of painkillers, Mayor Fench’s carved mahogany chess set. No one dared complain. There had been, over the years, too many rumors about the behavior of government troops.

That’s what made Captain Sloper’s show of friendliness so unsettling. He had particularly warmed to Daniel Crowley, starting that first night at dinner. The captain had been sipping liberally from his hip flask of calvados and was in an expansive mood, going on about how beautiful the countryside was and how stupid the inhabitants—“present company excepted.” It was amusing, he told Daniel’s father, to watch them attempt to mislead him. Even the mayor was hopeless at it. “I asked him where he kept his best bottles of wine and he almost gagged! I’m sure that you, Mr. Crowley, wouldn’t hesitate to tell me where you keep yours.”

“Your men are drinking it.”

“Really!” He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Well, let me know when you do.” He took a swig of calvados and glanced around the table. “That goes for those two fine boys of yours.” He smiled amiably at Daniel. “You wouldn’t lie, would you?”

Wesley stifled a laugh.

“Oh?” said Sloper. “What are you laughing at, young squire?”

Wesley sobered up quickly.

“You’re laughing at your brother. Is that because he tells so many lies?”

Again the boy snuffled with tamped hilarity.

“Come, now,” Sloper coaxed. “What’s funny?”

“He can’t!”

“Wesley,” said Mr. Crowley, “why don’t you help your mother bring in the dinner?”

“No, no,” said the captain. “This is interesting.” He gazed benignly at the boy. “He can’t what?”

“Lie!”

“Wesley,” said his father sternly, “that’s enough!”

“Let him go on.”

But Wesley, suspecting he’d gone too far, was quiet. The captain turned to Daniel.

“Is this true? How do you know you can’t lie?”

Daniel gave his brother a dirty look. “Headaches,” he said, finally.

“Headaches.”

Daniel nodded. “And sweating. Can’t catch my breath.”

“Nonsense. All boys lie.”

Neither brother spoke.

“A boy who doesn’t lie is like a dog that doesn’t bark,” said Sloper. “Let’s test it out. Tell me, Daniel, where does your family keep their best wine?”

“Your men are drinking it.”

“Bad question. All right, where does your mother keep her best jewelry?”

The boy sighed. “There’s a hidden shelf behind the bathroom mirror.”