The Winter People (14 page)

She is the only one who might know what to say to me now, who might be able to offer true comfort. And I know, I just know, she would laugh when I told her I spat in the reverend’s face!

She’d throw back her head and laugh.

R
everend Ayers says there is only one God,” I told Auntie once. It was only a few weeks after I’d seen Hester Jameson out in the woods and asked Auntie about sleepers. “And that it is wrong to pray to anyone or anything else.”

Auntie laughed, then spat brown tobacco juice onto the ground. We were bumping along in her old wagon, all loaded with animal pelts, for a trip to a dealer in St. Johnsbury. She made the trip four times a year, and he always gave her a fair price for the skins. This was the first time Father had consented to let me make the overnight trip with her. Before leaving, Auntie had sprinkled some tobacco on the ground around the wagon and said a safe-journey prayer to the spirits and the four directions.

“Young Reverend Ayers looks at a lake and sees only his own reflection in it; that is what God is to him. He does not see the creatures that live down deep, the dragonflies that hover, the frog on the lily pad.” Auntie’s face was full of pity and scorn as she shook her head and spat tobacco juice again. “His heart and mind are closed to the true beauty of the lake, the place where all its magic lies.”

Auntie held the reins, guided the horse to pull us along the narrow dirt road that was full of ruts from wagon wheels. Sometimes I doubted Auntie needed the reins at all; it seemed she could get the horse to do just what she wanted by talking to it. She had the amazing ability to communicate with almost any animal; she could call birds to her, bring fish closer to her net. Once, I saw her coax a lynx out of hiding and right into her snare.

We bumped along slowly. The air was warm and sweet and full of birdsong. We were several miles east of town now, surrounded by rolling green hills dotted with cream-colored sheep that bleated contentedly as they ate their fill of fresh spring greens.

“But he’s a clever man,” I said. “He has studied for years. He reads the Bible every day.”

“There are different kinds of cleverness, Sara.”

I nodded, understanding just what she meant. Auntie was the cleverest person I knew; people came to her little cabin in the woods from all over town to buy remedies and cures, spells for love and good crops. But no one talked about it or admitted that they’d paid Auntie for a syrup to cure a child’s cough, or a charm to wear to attract their heart’s desire.

“Reverend Ayers says when we die our souls go on to Heaven, to be with God.”

“Is that what you believe?” Auntie asked, her eyes fixed on the rough road ahead.

“It’s not what you have taught me,” I answered.

“And what is it I have taught you?” She turned toward me, raised her eyebrows.

Auntie was often giving me these little tests, and I knew I had to choose my words carefully—if I answered wrong, she might ignore me for hours, pretend I wasn’t there; she might even go so far as not to give me my share of lunch or dinner. I had learned at a young age that disappointing Auntie always meant paying a price, and it was something I worked very hard to avoid.

“You always say that death is not an ending, but a beginning. That the dead cross over to the world of the spirits and are surrounding us still.”

Auntie nodded, waiting for more.

“I like that idea,” I told her. “That they’re all around us, watching.”

Auntie smiled at me.

On our left was a narrow stream, and as it was a clear day, we could see Camel’s Hump off in the distance. On our right was a neat row of apple trees in bloom, the scent heady and sweet. Bees buzzed from flower to flower, flying drunkenly, weighted down with pollen.

I moved closer to Auntie there in the cart; her hands on the reins were the strongest hands I’d ever known. I felt safe and thrilled, and as if I was right where I belonged.

Later that night, after we’d sold the furs to the merchant in St. Johnsbury, we camped by the river in a grassy clearing under
a willow tree. Auntie had made us a little bed in the back of the wagon, out of a bearskin and blankets. She had a fire blazing, and when it died down, we cooked the trout she’d just caught on sticks, turning them gently over the glowing coals. She’d brought out an enameled pot and used it to brew a sweet tea full of herbs and roots, which we drank from tin mugs. After dinner, after the fire had been rekindled, Auntie sucked on the fish bones until she had removed every morsel of meat. She ate nearly every part of the fish, even the eyeballs. The innards she threw to Buckshot, who’d wandered off from camp and come back with his own dinner, a woodchuck that had been too slow to get back into its den.

The moon was not up, and the night was inky black. We couldn’t see anything beyond the circle of light that the fire cast. The world beyond had turned to nothing but noises: the babble of the river, which had seemed soothing in daylight and now carried strange eerie-sounding murmurs; the occasional croak of a bullfrog; the far-off hoot of an owl.

“Tell my future,” I begged as I plucked at the long, soft grass that grew around me.

Auntie smiled, stretched like a cat. “Not tonight. The moon is not right for such things.”

“Please,” I pleaded, tugging at her coat as I had when I was a much younger child. I loved that coat. The colorful painted flowers along the bottom, the beads and porcupine quills stitched in neat patterns over the shoulders and down the front.

“Very well,” she said, throwing the fish bones into the fire and wiping her greasy hands on her skirt. She reached into the pouch she carried tucked into her belt and withdrew a small amount of finely ground powder.

“What is that?”

“Shh,” Auntie said. Then she mumbled something I did not hear—another prayer, I supposed. A wish. An incantation.

She tossed the powder into the fire. It crackled and hissed, made the fire sparkle with shades of blue and green. The drooping branches of the willow above us seemed to catch the light and glow, and they swayed like tiny arms, reaching for us. Out on the water, there was the splash of a bird landing, a duck or heron.

Auntie stared into the flames, searching.

Then—did I imagine it?—Auntie seemed to flinch and look away. There was a sharp intake of breath, as if the fire had dealt her a blow.

“What is it?” I asked, leaning toward her. “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Auntie said, looking away from me, but I knew her well enough to tell that she was lying. Auntie had seen something terrible in my future, something dark enough to make her turn away.

“Tell me,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. “Please.”

She shook my hand off as if I were a pesky insect. “There is nothing to tell,” Auntie snapped.

“Please,” I repeated, grabbing her arm again, my hand touching the soft deerskin coat. “I know you saw something.”

Her eyes turned dark, and she reached down and gave the back of my hand a hard pinch. I jerked my hand away and drew back.

“As I said, the moon is not right for such things. Maybe next time you will listen.”

Auntie gazed back into the fire, which was dying back down, all the bright colors gone. I moved even farther away, wrapped my arms around my knees, and slid closer to the heat. My hand stung where she had pinched it, and I wondered if she had broken the skin, but knew better than to look. Best to ignore the pain, to pretend it hadn’t happened.

After a few moments of uneasy silence, she looked my way.

“What I can tell you is this: you are special, Sara Harrison, but you already know this. You have something inside you that makes you different from others.” She looked at me with such seriousness that my chest felt heavy. “Something that shines bright, gives you the same gifts I have. The gifts of sight, of magic. It makes you stronger than you know. And, oh, little Sara, let me tell you this.” She smiled, rocking forward, throwing another stick onto the fire. It crackled and popped as it caught. “If you ever grow up and have a girl child, the gift will be passed down double to her. That girl will walk between the worlds. She will be as powerful as I am, maybe more. I have seen it in the fire.”

H
ow I wish Auntie were here now, how I ache for her. There are a thousand questions I would ask. But first I would tell her she was right that night long ago when she stared into the fire—my Gertie was special. She’d seen things others hadn’t. Things like the blue dog and the winter people. She’d walked between the worlds.

I am in bed now. A short while ago, Lucius came up to give me my nightly cup of rum. He also delivered a box of ribbon candy.

“This is from Abe Cushing,” Lucius said. I nodded, watched him put the candy on my bedside table. Abe runs the general store. He is a man of few words, but he loved Gertie—was always sneaking her lemon drops and toffee when we went in to pick up sugar and flour, or cloth and thread for a new dress.

Lucius looked down at me. His eyes were bright and clear; his shirt was unwrinkled, impeccably white. How did he manage always to look so tidy?

“Where’s Amelia?” I asked.

“Downstairs,” he said. “I thought I’d come check on you tonight.” He laid a hand on my forehead, then placed two fingers on my wrist, feeling for my pulse. “How are you feeling?”

I did not answer. What did he expect me to say?

“Martin is very worried about you,” he said. “Your outburst today with Reverend Ayers was inexcusable.”

I bit my lip, said nothing.

“Sara,” he said, bending over so that his face was right in front of mine. “I understand that you are grieving. We all are. But I’m asking you to make more of an effort.”

“An effort?” I asked, puzzled.

“Gertie is gone,” he said. “But you and Martin, you’ve got to go on living.”

Then he left me alone with my rum, which I drank in two long swallows as I settled back into the pillows, the weight of the quilt on top of me feeling impossibly heavy.

Gertie is gone
, Lucius told me.

But then I hear Amelia’s voice in my head:
The dead never really leave us
.

And I think of what Auntie taught me long ago: that death is not an ending, but a beginning. The dead cross over to the world of the spirits and are surrounding us still.

“Gertie,” I say aloud. “If you’re here, please give me a sign.” Then I wait. I lie under the covers and I wait until I ache. I wait for a whisper, the feeling of soft fingers writing letters into my palm, even a few raps on a table, as Amelia described.

But there is nothing.

I am alone.

Visitors from the Other Side The Secret Diary of Sara Harrison Shea

January 23, 1908

We buried Gertie six days ago. The day before, Martin was out from sunup through sundown, feeding a blazing fire to thaw the soil enough so he could dig the hole for her small coffin. I watched the fire through the kitchen window, the way it lit up Martin’s face, the ashes it threw on his clothes and hair. It was a terrible thing, that fire. Like a beacon letting me know that the end had come and there was nothing I could do to stop it: Gertie was dead and we were going to bury her in the ground. Martin looked like a devil, face glowing red and orange as he stood there, feeding it. He was unshaven, his face thin and hollow. I wanted to look away, but could not. I stood by the window all day, watching it burn, watching it consume any shred of hope or happiness I had left.

Most of the town came to see us bury our little girl the next day. Reverend Ayers put on quite a show for them, talking about God’s little lambs and the beautiful glory of his Kingdom, but I was only half listening. I wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Instead, I stared down at the simple pine box they’d laid my Gertie out in. It was a miserably cold afternoon. I couldn’t stop shivering. Martin put his arm around me, but I pushed it off. I took off my coat and used it to cover the coffin, thinking poor Gertie must be terribly cold in there.

I have been despondent ever since. Bedridden. The truth was, I saw no point in going on. If I’d had the strength to rise up from my bed, I would have gone downstairs, found my husband’s rifle,
and pulled the trigger with my teeth around the barrel. I saw myself doing just that. I visualized it. Dreamed it. Felt myself floating down those steps, reaching for the rifle, tasting the gunpowder.