Where The Heart Lives

By Marjorie M. Liu

When Miss Lindsay finally
departed for the world beyond the wood, it meant that Lucy and Barnabus were
the only people left to care for her house and land, as well as the fine
cemetery she had kept for nearly twenty years outside the little town of Cuzco,
Indiana. It was an important job, not just for Lucy and Barnabus, but for
others, as well, who for years after would come and go, for rest or sanctuary. Bodies
needed homes, after all—whether dead or living.

Lucy was only seventeen, and
had come to the cemetery in the spring, not one month before Miss Lindsay went
away. The girl’s father was a cutter at the limestone quarry. Her brothers
drove the team that hauled the stones to the masons. The men had no use for a
sister, or any reminder of the fairer sex; their mother had run away that
previous summer with a gypsy fortune-teller, though Lucy’s father insisted his
absent wife was off visiting relatives and would return. Eventually.

When word reached the old
cutter that a woman named Miss Lindsay needed a girl to tend house, he made his
daughter pack a bag with lunch, her comb, and one good dress from her mother’s
closet—then set her on the first wagon heading toward Cuzco. No good-byes, no
messages sent ahead. Just chancing on fate that the woman would want his
daughter.

Lucy remembered that wagon
ride. Mr. Wiseman, the driver, had been hauling turnips that day, the bulbous
roots covered beneath a burlap sheet to keep off the light drizzle: a cool
morning, with a sweet breeze. No one on the road except them, and later, one
other: an old man who stood at the side of the dirt track outside Cuzco,
dressed in threadbare brown clothes, with a thin coat and his white hair
slicked down from the rain. Pale eyes. Lost eyes. Staring at the green budding
hills as though the woods were where his heart lived.

In his right hand, he held a
round silver mirror. A discordant sight, flashing and bright; Lucy thought she
heard voices in her head when she saw the reflecting glass: whispers like
birdsong, teasing and sweet.

Mr. Wiseman did not wave at the
man, but Lucy did, out of politeness and concern. She received no response; as
though she were some invisible spirit, or the breeze.

“Is he sick?” Lucy whispered to
Mr. Wiseman.

“Sick and married,” said the
spindly man, in a voice so loud, she winced. He tugged his hat down over his
eyes. “Married, with no idea how to let go of the dead.”

 “His wife is gone?” Lucy
thought of her mother.

“Gone, dead. That was Henry
Lindsay you saw. Man’s been like that for almost twenty years. Might as well be
dead himself.”

Which answered almost nothing,
in Lucy’s mind. “What happened to her?”

A sly smile touched Mr.
Wiseman’s mouth, and he glanced sideways. “Don’t know, quite. But she up and
died on their wedding night. I heard he hardly had a chance to touch her.”

“That’s
awful
,” Lucy said, not much caring for the
look in Mr. Wiseman’s eye, as though there was something funny about the idea. She
did not like, either, the other way he suddenly seemed to look at her; as
though she could be another fine story, for him.

She edged sideways on the wagon
seat. Mr. Wiseman looked away. “People die, Miss Lucy. But it’s a shame it
happened so fast. I even heard said they were going to run away, all fancy. A
honeymoon, like they do out East in the cities.”

Lucy said nothing. She did not
know much about such things. In her experience, there was little to celebrate
about being husband and wife. Just hard times, and loss, and anger. A little
bit of laughter, if you were lucky. But not often.

She twisted around, looking
back. Henry still stood at the bend in the road, his feet lost in deep grass,
soaked and pale and staring at the woods, those smoky green hills rising and
falling like the back of some long fat snake. Her heart ached for him, just a
little, though she did not know why. His loss was a contagious thing.

Honeymoon
,
she thought, tasting the word and finding it pretty, even though she did not
fully appreciate its meaning. And then another word entered her mind, familiar,
and she murmured, “Lindsay.”

Lindsay. The same name as the
woman she was going to see. Lucy looked inquiringly at Mr. Wiseman.

“His sister,” he replied
shortly, and smiled. “His very pretty sister, even if she’s getting on in
years.” He stopped the wagon and pointed at a narrow dirt path that curled into
the woods. “There. Follow that to her house.”

Lucy hesitated. “Are you
certain?”

“There isn’t a man, woman, or
child in this area who doesn’t know where Miss Lindsay lives.” He reached
behind him, and pulled out a bulging cloth sack. “Here, give this to her. Say
it was from Wilbur.”

Lucy clutched the sack to her
stomach. It felt like turnips. She slid off the wagon, feeling lost, but before
she could say anything, Mr. Wiseman gave her that same sly smile and said,
“Stay on the path, Miss Lucy. Watch for ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” she echoed, alarmed,
but he shook the reins, tipped his hat, and his wagon rattled into motion. No
good-byes. Lucy watched him go, almost ready to shout his name, to ask that he
wait for her. She stayed silent, though, and looked back the way they had come.
Home, to her father and brothers.

Then she turned and stared down
the narrow track leading into the woods. It was afternoon, but with the clouds
and misting drizzle it could have been twilight before her, a forest of night. Birdsong
rattled; again, Lucy thought she heard whispers. Voices airy as the wind.

Ghosts
.
Or nothing. Just her imagination. Lucy swallowed hard, and walked into shadow,
the wet gloom: dense and thick and wild.

She thought of her mother as
she walked. Wondered if she had been this frightened of leaving home, or if it
had been too much a relief to unburden herself of husband and children. Then
Lucy thought of the old man, Henry Lindsay, and his lost eyes and lost wife and
lost wedding night, and wondered if it was the same, except worse—worse,
because her mother had chosen to go, worse because her father did not have eyes
like that man, or that sorrow. Just anger. So much bitter anger.

The path curled. Lucy walked
fast, stepping light over rocks and vines. In the undergrowth, she heard
movement: a blue bird broke loose from the canopy, streaking toward the narrow
trail of gray sky; to see it felt like she was watching some desperate escape,
as though the leaves on either side of the track were walls, strong as stone
and insurmountable. She half expected a hand to reach from the trees and snatch
the bird back.

A chill settled between her
shoulders. Lucy heard a whisper, wordless but human. A hush, heart-stopping. She
paused in mid-step and turned. There was no one behind her.

Lucy heard it again, and terror
squeezed her. Ghostly, yes; a voice like the wind, high and cool. She caught
movement out the corner of her eye—cried out, turning—and saw a face peering
from the shadows of the underbrush.

A woman. A woman in the wood,
pale and fair, with eyes as blue as cornflowers. Lucy stared, trying to make
sense of it—unable to speak or move as she met that terrible gaze, which was
lost and so utterly lonely, Lucy felt her heart squeeze again, but softer, with
a pang.

“Help me,” whispered the woman.
“Please, help me.”

Lucy tried to speak, and
choked. Around her, other voices seemed to seep free of the wood; whispers and
hoarse cries and birds screaming into the cool wet air, a rising wind that
blasted Lucy with a bone-chill to her heart, swelling like her insides were
growing on the hum of the wood, engorged on sound.

She heard a shout—a man—but she
could not turn to see. Her voice felt far away, lost, and the woman cried, “
She’s coming.”

Something broke inside Lucy: she
could move again. She tried to run—heard another shout, desperate, and turned
in time to see a brown flailing blur, a streak of silver, a shock of white
hair.

Arms caught Lucy from behind. She
cried out as she was lifted into the air, screaming as the sky and trees spun
into a blur, so sickening she closed her eyes. She heard the woman sobbing, a
man crying a name—
Mary, Mary
—and
then nothing except a heartbeat beneath her ear, sure and steady as a hammer
falling.

Her heart hurt. Lucy opened her
eyes and found the world changed.

She was no longer caught on the
path in the woods. A meadow surrounded her, small and green and lush with grass
and wild daisies, scattered with heavy oaks; somewhere near, a creek burbled
and goats bleated. Lucy saw a small white house behind a grove of lilac trees,
and beyond that, the rising forest; only gentler, without the dense shadows
that seemed to live and breathe. No women lost in the leaves.

There were arms around her
body, and movement on her left. Lucy struggled, managing to pull away until she
could dance backward, staring.

Two men stood before her, one
young, the other older. The elder man was Henry Lindsay. Lucy remembered his
face. Up close, however, he did not look quite so aged. His body was straight
and hard and lean; he had few wrinkles and his eyes were bright, startling, the
color of gold. His white hair was the only symptom of age, but that seemed a
trivial thing compared with the fire in his gaze, which was so alive, she
thought she must have imagined the man who had stood at the side of the road,
with a face as slack and dead as a corpse.

The young man with him had
quieter eyes, but just as bold. He wore a soft blue cotton shirt that had been
patched with bits and pieces of rags, the stitches neat, made with thick red
thread, a complement to his color: blue eyes, skin brown from the sun, hair
dark and wild like a scarecrow. He glanced at Henry, just before the older man
lurched toward Lucy: a half step, the edge of a full run, stopping before he
reached her as though pulled back by strings. His hands clenched into fists. The
silver mirror jutted from his coat pocket.

“She spoke to you,” said Henry,
his voice deceptively controlled: quiet, easy—frightening, because Lucy could
tell it was a lie. She said nothing, uncertain how to answer him. In her head
she could see the woman in the wood, her pale face and lost eyes: a mirror to
how this man had looked while standing on the road.

Henry said it again, louder: “She
spoke. Tell me what she said.”

Lucy stared, bewildered, and he
rocked toward her with a low cry, hand outstretched. She staggered back,
holding up her arms, but the young man stepped between them and caught Henry
before he could touch her, holding him back with his size and easy strength. Lucy
readied herself to run.

“Stop this,” said a new voice. “
Henry
.”

Lucy turned. She had to steady
herself—all of this was too much—but she dug her nails into her palm and gazed
at the newcomer: a woman who stood a stone’s throw distant, her mature face a
reflection of Henry Lindsay, who quieted and stilled until the young man let
him go.

Black hair, threaded with
white; golden eyes and an unlined face; a small narrow body dressed in a simple
dark red dress, finely mended. The woman stood barefoot in the grass, hair loose
and wild; proud, confident, utterly at ease. Lucy felt drab as a titmouse
compared to her. In the trees, crows shrieked, raucous and loud.

“Miss Lindsay,” she whispered,
following her intuition. “Ma’am.”

The woman tilted her head. “I
don’t know you.”

“My father heard you were
looking for a girl,” she replied, hoarse.

Henry swayed. Lucy forced
herself to stay strong, to look him in the eye as her father had always said to
do, that eyes were important when dealing with strangers, especially men.

He said, “She spoke to Mary. She
spoke to Mary in the woods.”

“Did she now?” said Miss
Lindsay slowly, her gaze sharpening. She moved close, hips swaying gracefully. “Did
you speak to someone in the woods, child?”

“No,” Lucy said softly. “But
the woman…the woman in the trees spoke to me. And I heard…”