May felt a nausea seize hold of her. Her legs turned weak. Something was very wrong with Hepzibah.
Somewhere above them a seagull screeched and wheeled through the sky.
May had done her chores. That chick had not starved to death. Its neck was broken.
Ever since the seal and her pup had come to Avalonia’s cave and told her the garbled story about the mer creature who had saved the seal pup’s life, Avalonia had been tormented. Although she had tried to understand it as best she could, the story came out in such a disjointed, confused muddle there was no way she could unscramble any of the details. She could not figure out where they had come from. Was it from the north, the Shetlands, through the Caledonia passage to the North Sea, or the south or the west? But surely a mother and pup would not have come all that way from the west, across the Atlantic. Unless, of course, they had caught the current that mer folk knew about that was embedded deep in the Gulf Stream. But that was only for mer folk. No other creatures traveled it. Would the mer creature who helped them have told them about the Avalaur current? It was the current for which she and her sister had been named, and it began in and looped back to the gyre of Corry.
The story the seal told her became splinters of glass digging at the old fears and memories she had so neatly tucked away. For days on end Avalonia could not sleep. Her dreams were fractured with shards of old nightmares. It had been so long since Laurentia had died — died in her own arms on that deserted beach. But Avalonia had promised to search for the babes. And she had for days until it became too dangerous. First she had been sighted by a boat from the Marine Revenue Service and then been chased by a trawler. The trawl nets hung from the booms, ready to drop and sweep her up. She had only the fog to thank for her escape. She had quickly turned her tail on the continent and raced back to Barra Head.
But now, after sleep-torn nights, Ava was so distraught that she decided she must swim to the gyre of Corry. She rarely went at this time of year. Late autumn was the time of her usual visit. It was an old mer ritual to take the white plaid to the sea cauldron and wash it, then spread it on the rocks of Hag’s Head to dry on All Hallows’ Eve. But a visit to the boiling, swirling waters of the gyre often soothed her mind. Had not her own mother sent her and Laurentia there when they were young stubborn girls — “Go to Corry and give yourself to the gyre, then set yourself on the Hag’s Head for a good think. That’ll put some sense in you!”
Well, it was time to go to Corry, set herself on the head of the Hag, and come back with some sense.
At the precise moment that Avalonia decided to swim to Corry, on the other side of the ocean Hepzibah Plum walked down to the beach for the first time in perhaps five years and flung the dead chick into the surf. Two women separated by three thousand miles of water on opposite shores, one human, one not quite.
24
A DECISION
THE NIGHTS HAD BEEN CLEAR, so May and Hugh had seen each other almost every evening for the better part of a week. On this particular night May leaned back and watched Hugh as he adjusted the scope. There was nothing she didn’t love about him, from his eyes, to the way he twisted the telescope rings, to that soft exhalation of breath, the sigh that always accompanied the discovery of a new gift of the night in the changing heavens. “Say that poem by that fellow—not Shakespeare,” May asked on this windless night as they drifted idly about the cove.
“What other fellow? There are several poets, you know.”
“Yes, you know—the one about the fair-haired angel.”
“Oh, William Blake’s ‘To the Evening Star.'”
“Yes, that one.”
“Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then, the wolf rages wide,
And then the lion glares through the dun forest:
The fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence!”
When Hugh recited poetry there was something in his voice, in the rhythm, that evoked within her feelings similar to the ones she experienced when she swam. She could never tell him this, and it made her sad. For May, swimming was a kind of poetry. Within the currents, within the depths of the sea, the water had its rhythms and cadences that, once found, suffused her being with a quiet glory.
May picked up a piece of her hair and held it out. “I’m still not sure if red is considered fair hair.”
“You’re being awfully literal, May! A little poetic license can be used here.” He paused. “And of course you fit the angel part, no quibbles there.”
She smiled into the darkness. She liked being compared to an angel. An angel had wings, not a tail! An angel, in May’s mind, was more than human. An angel was a spirit of the invisible world.
Since the dance, Hugh and May met not only for star watching but spent long hours together in the library, where May continued her study of trigonometry and together they pondered the Maury book. Their conversations about the influence of the stars on the currents transported May to another world. She forgot about Zeeba. Even her worries about finding her sisters faded away. But sometimes they veered too close to forbidden subjects. Just the previous afternoon she was suddenly struck by the oddity of Maury’s phrase “the visible and the invisible ocean.” She blurted out, “Don’t you think it’s odd, Hugh, that Maury calls the ocean, the real ocean, the visible one when there is so much we never see?”
“Like that lovely scallop comb you sometimes wear in your hair.” He touched it. “Never seen a scallop like that…. What’s wrong, May?”
Her face had turned pale, and her lower lip began to tremble. “Nothing! Nothing at all!”
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No! No. I’m fine. Really.” She changed the subject. “Why don’t you take me sometime to the top of Abenaki so I can see the stars from there—the highest point.” She wanted to distance herself as far as possible from the ocean.
“Would you really like that? Would your parents let you go?”
“Oh, yes.” May shrugged. “My father has to take Zeeba to get new teeth down to Ellsworth.”
“Zeeba? Zeeba’s your mother, right?”
May was about to say no, she wasn’t, but caught herself. It would only bring her dangerously close again to a subject she was determined to avoid. “Yes, yes, she is,” she replied firmly.
“Why do you call her Zeeba and not Mother?”
“Just do.” She gave another shrug.
“Well, to get the best view of the stars we’d have to leave in the early evening and start to climb. It’s not a hard climb. Nice path all the way, just some time involved.”
They planned to go the following week, on the Tuesday that Gar was to take Hepzibah to Ellsworth.
Within that same week at least four other people came up to May and told her about the new serving girl over at Gladrock who was her spitting image. May could not help but wonder about this girl now. She was fearful. They might look alike but were they alike? Was the other girl less than human, too? And then again May wondered anxiously that if Hugh met the other girl he might like her better. What would it mean for May? She need not ask the question—the answer was all too clear. It would mean I am truly a freak—a freak who is completely alone in this world.
It was this anxiety that drove May to make a decision. She simply had to see this Hannah for herself. Perhaps a glimpse would be enough to know if in fact she had kin in this world. She would n
ot, however, go right up to her. She would devise a way to see her but not be seen.
25
THE DEEP YEARNING
“WHOOO — EEE! IT’S COLD THIS MORNING!” the little girl shrieked as she waded into the water. “Oh, I forgot my swimming booties. Oh, well. Now, you count to three, Hannah, and then I’ll plunge in.”
May stood behind the thick fringe of the spruce trees that edged the cove of Gladrock. What struck her about the girl called Hannah, who was evidently taking care of the Hawleys’ young child, was the fierce yearning she contained. It was something about the way Hannah stood at the very edge of the beach and seemed to strain forward as she looked out of the cove toward the open sea. May recognized the posture. It was exactly the way she had stood perched on the east side of Egg Rock, looking out to sea, ever since she could remember. There was an almost palpable longing, a longing that May had felt herself before she had crossed that border from one world into the other. A deep thrill coursed through her. She wanted to run toward the beach and embrace the girl, and yet instinctively she knew that she must not reveal herself. Although this girl was undoubtedly her sister, May knew she must avoid her until she, too, had crossed over. May thought of the words from the Bible, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die.”
This was not Hannah’s season, at least not yet. But how long would May have to wait?
May retreated into the deeper shadows of the woods. She would be patient.
A quarter of an hour later May was getting into the skiff at the dock when Rudd came up to her. Oh, no, she thought. If she had only been a little quicker, she would have been in the water already.
“Want me to cast you off?” he asked, taking the painter, which had been looped around the post, in his hand. May had the uneasy feeling that he had been watching her, waiting for this moment.
“Thank you, that would be nice,” May answered, as politely as possible.
He undid the loop but kept it in his hand and crouched down.
“Well, are you or aren’t you going to let me go?” she asked.
Rudd smiled and squinted one eye as if he were thinking about it. He wrapped a length of rope around his hand and pulled the skiff closer to the dock. This is his game, May thought. He likes being in control. But she vowed she would stay cool.
“Still mad at me?” he asked.
“I suppose so, until you apologize for your behavior.”
“Behavior!” He pulled his head back and turned down the corners of his mouth in an expression of mock surprise. “Haven’t had anybody talk about my behavior since I was in kindergarten. You think I’m a bad boy?”
“I think you’re a rude man,” May said. “Now, please let go of the rope.”
He stood up and lazily twirled the painter in his hand. “Still seeing that Harvard boy?”
“It’s not your business,” May replied evenly, though she was almost gritting her teeth.
“Well, maybe only a strange fellow from away would fancy your kind.”
My kind? May felt something jerk inside her.
Rudd simply threw the rope he was holding into the water, not bothering to coil it and drop it neatly onto the bow. May would have to walk forward and retrieve it, an awkward task when she was the only person on the boat, but she was trembling. My kind? What does he mean? What does he know?
“Hey, May,” he called out. “They say there’s a scullery girl up at Gladrock that’s your spitting image but prettier. Think I’ll ask her to the next dance.”
May felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She couldn’t catch her breath. It was not anger that flooded through her, but fear. Fear for the girl named Hannah. Fear for herself, for May realized that with Rudd, one was either predator or prey. Both she and Hannah would be vulnerable to the lurking brutality she had glimpsed in that vacant space behind his eyes.
26
A STAR-SPIKED NIGHT
THE TRAIL UP MOUNT ABENAKI was a steep one. The trees had begun to thin out as May and Hugh neared the summit, and the air cooled as the sun slipped swiftly toward the horizon.
“My goodness, May, every time I look back you’re right on my heels. You don’t tire, do you? You’re not even panting! I’ve never met such a girl.”
May felt the blood drain from her face.
“May, something wrong? You suddenly look awfully pale.”
This was her chance to redeem herself. To hike like a normal girl. “Perhaps I took that last uphill a bit fast. I’ll sit for a second.”
“It’s just a few more minutes to the peak. No need to rush.”
She had actually been holding herself back so she would not pass Hugh on the mountain trail. Perhaps it was her swimming, but she realized that she rarely ran out of breath hiking or when she was underwater. She could swim for extended periods of time without surfacing. She even had more endurance than the two dolphins who sought her out to play.
She and Hugh had been hiking for almost two hours up Mount Abenaki. The stars were just rising, and silvery moths fluttered through the night. She had packed a picnic for when they got there.
“A moonlight picnic,” Hugh had exclaimed. “Except no moonlight tonight. That’s why it will be so spectacular for star watching.”
They spread the cloth on a mossy rock ledge, and May began to unpack the deviled eggs and the sandwiches. There were also berries, cookies, and a jug of lemonade.
“Oh, dear!” May said. “Most of the berries fell out of the container and got squashed.”
Hugh came over and looked into the basket. He picked up one raspberry. “Well, we’ll just have to share what’s left!” He put the berry between his lips and leaned toward May. She giggled and then pressed her mouth against his.
“Ummm!” Hugh sighed, then pulled himself back. “I think we’ll have to try that again. I don’t mean to suggest that you’re greedy, May Plum, but you got the lion’s share of that one. Let’s be a little more fair next time.”
“Halfsies?” she replied.
“Yes, that will take a lot of precision work dividing a raspberry exactly in half. Much practice needed.”
He reached into the basket and retrieved another berry.
Thirty minutes later May peered into Hugh’s berry-stained face. “We haven’t eaten the deviled eggs yet.”
“Who needs deviled eggs when there’s May with raspberry sauce? You should see your face.”
“You should see yours!” May replied. “Aren’t we supposed to be watching the stars?”
He brought his face close to hers and looked into her eyes. “Yes. When you tip your head up I can see them reflected in your eyes.”
“No, you can’t!” May laughed.
“Yes, I can.” He pressed himself closer to her. “I can see Vega and Altair and I can almost see …” He pulled back. May was somewhat relieved. She wanted him close, so close, but she was never sure when to stop. And did she really want him to stop? She broke from his embrace and quickly walked a few paces away. He came up behind her. “Are you cold?”
She was about to say she seldom got cold, but in fact she realized that she was a bit. The air felt colder to her than the water. “A little.”
“Here, take my jacket.” He wrapped it around her.
“I have to get back soon to tend the light. I mean, the clockworks are wound, but I set the light on a bit early, before it was dark, when we left. We really aren’t supposed to burn the lamp during the day. Too much kerosene, you know. The lighthouse service makes us keep an exact accounting. I’ll just have to say I spilled some by accident.” She was not sure why she was rattling on so.
“Look up there! Now. Come on over to where I set the scope up. You’ll see some great beauties.” She looked straight up and saw the Milky Way stretched like a cobweb across the great black bowl of the sky.
“Look, there is Albireo,” Hugh said. “See that point of very white light? Now come over to the telescope and look at
the same point, and you’ll see even more.”
May was getting better at looking through the scope. It was a lot easier on solid ground instead of from the boat.
“See it?” he asked.
“I see something, but it doesn’t look at all the same. It’s like two—two —”
“Exactly—two suns. A double jewel. Many times more luminous than our own sun.”
Our own sun; the words struck her oddly. It was as if she and Hugh owned the sky. And yet it seemed if anything the reverse. The stars owned the universe. She picked out some more of the familiar summer constellations she had learned about from Hugh, then took a step back and turned toward him.
“Matthew Fontaine Maury should not have called the sky the invisible ocean.”
“What should he have called it, May?” Hugh asked. His lovely gray eyes had a deep solemnity to them.
“The silent world.” She gave a shiver and thought of the sea and the symphony of watery sounds.
“Does it disturb you?”
“If it did, I doubt there is much I could do about it.” May laughed, but her laughter sounded slightly anxious. “It’s just …” She hesitated. “I’m not sure how to explain it, and who knows—perhaps there are galaxies beyond our own. But these stars and constellations have been turning and turning in this sublime silence and yet …”
“… and yet they are indifferent.” Hugh completed her thought.
“Yes, exactly! You understand. They are hugely indifferent toward us. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? As if I am expecting attention from something a million miles away.”
“Maybe it’s why God made humans—to love in the colossal silence and star-spiked indifference of the universe.”
That word again—human. Would her world of the sea seem as distant and silent to Hugh as these stars turning in the invisible ocean of air and sky seemed to her? Her secret life was more unknowable than the light of the most distant stars. Would he love her if he knew who she really was?