Mrs. Somersby began to speak in her commanding voice about, of all things, the weather. “Class, I do not need to tell you that the dreadful weather this winter has brought this part of the country to its knees. Many of the public bus routes are out of use, and several school buses have been cancelled. Parents have been keeping their children home several days each week, or driving them in the most hazardous conditions. The council, the school committee, and the child welfare organization for our region have sought other means of enabling children from remote parts to attend school.”
Mrs. Somersby held up a piece of green paper. “This sheet is to be taken home by students who live outside the town limits. It explains that a program is being set up to allow these children to live in town during the week and, in some cases, for the remainder of the winter. All other students should take home the pink sheet, which explains the aims of the program in the hope that parents in town will consider offering space in their homes to rural students. The forms on the bottom of both notes should be returned tomorrow. I know it is short notice, but the situation is grave. If there are any questions, your parents or guardians”—her eyes touched on Rage and her mouth twitched in distaste—“can call me using the number at the bottom of the sheet. I will be home this evening and tomorrow morning, and there will be a parents’ meeting before the weekend.”
Mrs. Somersby nodded to Mrs. Gosford, who began to distribute green and pink sheets. As Rage ran her eyes over her own green sheet, she could feel Mrs. Somersby’s eyes boring into her. Of course, there was no way that she would show the notice to her uncle, because he might be glad of the chance to hand responsibility for her over to someone else.
After everything that had happened in English, Mrs. Marren’s news that Anabel was staying in town that night was such a relief that Rage had to fight not to smile as she climbed into the car. It meant a peaceful trip home and again the next morning. Or as peaceful as a trip could be with the twins at one another’s throats.
Only when she was inside did she see that Mrs. Johnson was in the front seat. The old woman greeted Rage fondly and explained that Mrs. Marren was giving her a lift home to save Mr. Johnson the trip down to town when he was feeling poorly. Rage was delighted. Not only would Mrs. Marren be too busy gossiping to ask her usual questions, but she would be bound to take them right up to the top of the hill road.
Tuning out the bickering of the twins, Rage gazed out the window. Her ears pricked up when Mrs. Marren said that if the roads got any worse, she would keep the twins home the next day. Rage hoped the weather would be bad because Uncle Samuel would surely let her stay home if Mrs. Marren was keeping the twins home. She liked school usually, but the thought of not having to see Anabel, Mrs. Marren, the twins, or Logan Ryder and curling up all day by the fire reading, cuddled up with Billy, made her hope for a blizzard. Then she thought that if the weather really turned worse, she and her uncle might be unable to see Mam on the weekend. Rage crossed her fingers hastily to cancel out the previous wish and substituted one for clear, perfect weather for the next four days.
Rage helped Mrs. Johnson from the car when they arrived. She thanked Mrs. Marren, hoping that she would offer to come up to the top of the road in the morning, but Mrs. Marren merely reminded Rage to make sure she was down in time. “I’ll call your uncle if the weather is too bad to go in,” she added.
The wind had dropped, and on their way up the Johnsons’ path, Mrs. Johnson said, “I visited your mam this morning, Rage. Poor thing looks so weak even after all this time.” The wind gave a shriek as they came onto the verandah, and Mrs. Johnson shuddered. “It fair chills my blood to hear the wind moan like that. Sometimes you could swear it was something alive.”
She opened the door and held it ajar for Rage, who was carrying Mrs. Johnson’s overnight case and grocery bags as well as her own schoolbag. Entering the familiar, dim-lit hallway with its faded cherry carpet and striped wallpaper, Rage was startled how small and shabby it looked. Nevertheless, she had a strong impulse to turn up the hall and go into the little bedroom she had stayed in when Mam had first been in hospital. Instead, she set down the case and her schoolbag and took the shopping bag into the kitchen, where she began automatically to unpack it.
“No need to do that, dear,” Mrs. Johnson said, looking pleased and plugging in the teakettle. “Oh well, you do that for me, and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea and butter some scones. I don’t suppose your house will be warm with your poor uncle out mending the fences. Mr. Johnson said on the phone that he went out this morning, even though the weather was so bad.”
“He puts the oil heater in my bedroom on, and the fire will be ready to light,” Rage assured her.
“Oh, I know your uncle takes fine care of you, no matter what anybody says to the contrary. But I just want to remind you that you are welcome here any time. Truth to tell, I missed you something awful when you left, though you only went back next door. The house felt a mite emptier. Even Mr. Johnson said so.”
Rage was touched by the thought that the bad-tempered old farmer might have missed her. On the other hand, his missing her could just as easily be something that Mrs. Johnson had dreamed up. Smiling a little, Rage put the milk in the fridge and the apples in a bowl, just as she had done in the past. Then she sat down and gladly wrapped her cold hands around a mug of tea as Mrs. Johnson carried a tray to Mr. Johnson, who was sick in bed.
Left alone, Rage dug into her pocket and took out Mrs. Somersby’s green form. If she didn’t take it back tomorrow, signed by Uncle Samuel, Mrs. Somersby would telephone. That was the sort of woman she was. If Rage signed it for her uncle, saying they were not interested, there was still a possibility that Mrs. Somersby would ring to argue. Uncle Samuel almost never answered the telephone, but if he was in the kitchen when the call came, it might be awkward saying he wasn’t around.
Her head began to ache as it always did when her thoughts went in circles for too long. She was glad to have them interrupted by Mrs. Johnson returning and preparing a plate of scones and jam. “It just came to me, Rage, dear. Why don’t you stay for dinner tonight if your uncle is out? I have a nice pie from the bakery in town, and it will be more than enough since poor Henry says he doesn’t feel up to more than broth.”
Rage hesitated, then shook her head. “I had better not tonight, Mrs. Johnson. I have a lot of homework to do, and Uncle Samuel said he would leave something out for me.”
“You are a good girl, Rage,” Mrs. Johnson said, passing the scones. “So mature and considerate of other people. You’ve grown up such a lot since you stayed with us. Of course, kiddies do grow up fast when they have to cope with such awful things as you have had to bear, and you were very young for your age.” She blinked and dabbed at the corner of her eyes with her apron. “Let me wrap up some of those scones for your uncle, then. Skin and bone is all he is and that’s a shame in a man. Of course, he would be better fed with a wife, but I suppose he didn’t meet many likely young ladies in the jungle?”
Rage smiled at Mrs. Johnson’s old-fashioned ideas about men and women and shrugged.
“You’ll be going down to see poor Mary this weekend as usual?” Mrs. Johnson asked.
Mary was Mam’s name, and Rage had to swallow a hard lump before she could speak. “It will depend on the weather.”
“How terrible to have to deal with this winter on top of all of your troubles, my dear!” Mrs. Johnson crooned. “I really thought that poor Mary would heal once she woke from that coma, but they do say these things take time.”
Rage rose to go home, thanking the older woman for her hospitality. She pulled on her thin coat and collected her bag before slipping out into a cold, dark night. It was swirling with wind and wet snow, but Rage was too busy thinking about Mrs. Johnson’s observation that she had grown up a lot to notice.
Rage opened the door of Winnoway homestead to find Billy waiting inside the door. She knelt and put her arms around him, hugging him for a long moment and nuzzling her cold
face into his silky fur. Then she stood and flicked on the hall light. Billy followed closely when she padded along to the door leading to the kitchen and sitting room. It was freezing cold in the kitchen, but the fire was set up and it caught at once when she put a match to it. She watched the flame lick along the edges of the crumpled newspapers as she sank to the floor and pulled an old shawl of Grandmother Reny’s around her shoulders. Billy came and sat beside her, radiating his usual warmth. She thought of Anabel Marren and Logan Ryder and wondered what it was about her that so provoked them. Mrs. Somersby seemed to dislike her, too. Was she really so weird?
A picture came into her mind of Mam, who had never fitted anyone’s idea of a mother. Very slight, and younger than most of the other mothers, she had seemed more like an older sister. She wore her glossy black hair short and spiky, and she dressed in dark clothes and flat shoes. People could never imagine that Rage was her daughter because Rage was so blond. The only thing they had in common was their amber-colored eyes. Winnoway eyes—the same color as Uncle Samuel’s eyes and the wizard’s.
Billy licked her, dragging her out of her memories. Then he trotted to the door and gave her a meaningful look over his shoulder. She laughed shakily, remembering that he needed to go out after being locked inside for half the day. Once she opened the back door and Billy trotted out, Rage went back to the kitchen. Her uncle had left a casserole out on the sideboard. One prod at it told her that it was still more than half frozen. Shrugging, she put the casserole into the oven on a low temperature. Then she switched on the radio and set about ironing her shirt for school the next day.
The wind was howling again, and snow flew hard against the window glass by the time she sat down to eat. Despite the delicious smell, she found that she had little hunger. In the end, she scraped most of the food into Billy’s dish. She switched the radio off while she did math homework, and then on again as she washed the dishes. Rage barely heard what was being said until someone began to speak about the death of an expensive stud mare on a farm in the next valley.
“…Initial reports suggest a wolf pack is responsible, but there are some inconsistencies…police are investigating a number of…” The voice crackled into gibberish and Rage threw down the tea towel and hurried to adjust the antenna. “…the weather conditions…,” an older man said suddenly. An expert, Rage supposed. A long crackle of static smothered his voice, and then another man’s voice came on, slow and uncertain. A farmer, Rage thought. “…telling you them things I saw warn’t no wolves…never seen no wolf with…have you, mister?”
The announcer came back. “That was Mr. Edmund Brewster from Brewster Fresh Eggs, who claims that…” Again the crackle drowned his voice, and then the radio fell silent. Seconds later the phone rang. Rage answered, one hand pressed against her chest to feel her heart knocking against her ribs. It was Mrs. Marren ringing to confirm that she would be driving in the morning, as she had just heard that the weather would clear the next day. Rage thanked her and rang off. She had barely replaced the receiver when it rang again.
“Mrs. Marren?” she asked.
The voice that answered was a male voice. “Can I speak to Rebecca Jane Winnoway?”
“I’m Rebecca Jane,” Rage said, mystified. “Who is this?”
“Ah’m Rebeccah-jay-ne?” A voice echoed her words and puzzled tone, but the mockery underneath was familiar.
“Logan?” Rage asked incredulously.
“Ah well, that would be telling. But let me give you a warning. Watch your back.” She almost laughed, hearing such stupid gangster movie dialogue in Logan Ryder’s voice, except there was nothing funny about being hated.
“What is the matter with you?” she whispered.
“Me?” Logan snarled, going back to his own voice. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m normal. You’re the one! Never talking to anyone and reading Shakespeare in your prissy little voice. What a suck! Making that stupid fat cow of an English teacher clap. Making me look like an idiot. You think you’re so special!”
Rage was astounded both by the viciousness in his voice and upon hearing again that she thought herself better than other people. “I don’t—” she began, but the phone on the other end of the line slammed down. As she replaced the receiver, she noticed that her hands were shaking. “I don’t think I’m special!” she said aloud.
But the words of the witch Mother floated through her mind. “There is one here among us…. Child you are, Rage Winnoway, and more than that, too…I did not speak idly before when I said that upon you rests our only hope.”
Rage frowned and wondered if that was it. What had happened in Valley had made her feel different from other people; how could it not? And maybe it was her awareness of being different that Logan and Anabel saw as pride and conceit. Neither of them had paid any attention to her before she had gone to Valley. But knowing the reason for a problem, and solving it, were not the same thing.
Rage felt tired and lonely and close to tears again.
She had tried so hard not to lose herself in memories of Valley, but not thinking about it was like constantly holding something in one hand and trying to do everything with the other. And it was all the harder because the sicker Mam became, the more Rage’s thoughts escaped there. Going to Valley hadn’t saved Mam before. But so many important things had happened there to change Rage, and turn her into the person who had been able to wake Mam, that part of her insisted that if she could only go back, maybe she would figure out another way to help Mam. But the wizard had closed the gate as he had promised to do.
“You can’t go back,” she told herself aloud.
Rage was standing by the dam, only now it was winter, and snow was flying. She half expected to dream of the firecat, but instead, she heard the sound of howling in the high, distant hills.
“That doesn’t sound like a wolf,” she murmured.
“It doesn’t smell like one, either,” Billy said, and Rage whirled to find him standing beside her in his human form, frowning and staring up at the hills.
“Billy!” she cried, hurling herself at him.
He gave a laugh and his arms went around her as they stumbled backward and went sprawling in the snow. Rage hugged him and kissed him, delirious with joy. She noticed with a little shock that he looked older—more young man than boy now, but was that possible when less than a year had passed?
Suddenly shy, she pulled away from him and got up, brushing off her clothes.
But as they stood up, a wave of joy flowed through her again and she caught his hands in hers. “Oh, Billy, you can’t imagine how glad I am to be able to talk with you again!”
“I have tried to come to you in this form, but you would never let me come except as a dog.”
Rage gaped at him. “What do you mean I wouldn’t let you come? Isn’t this a dream?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Billy said easily. “Dreams are dreams, and you can’t mistake them for anything else.”
“But then what do you mean by saying I wouldn’t let you come?”
Billy didn’t answer. He was looking around at the frozen hills under their snowy pelt and at the dam. He lifted his chin and gave the air a serious sniff. “The cold smells wrong,” he murmured.
“Wrong?” Rage echoed stupidly.
“You couldn’t smell it. Humans can’t smell wrongness,” Billy said.
Rage woke.
As soon as Rage stepped out the front door, it began snowing heavily, as if it had been waiting for her. The snow fell more and more thickly as she walked, so that by the time she reached the front gate of Winnoway, she could see nothing in front of her. The flashlight she carried almost made it worse, but she couldn’t bring herself to stumble along in the darkness and snow. She trudged down to the main road, telling herself that snow was a lot better than ice. It was deathly quiet except for the loud sound of her breathing and her boots crunching into the snow crust. If there were wolves howling now, she would not have heard them, but no animal would be out h
unting in such a snowfall. Only humans tried to go against nature.
Rage was relieved to see the Marrens’ Range Rover loom out of the whiteness just as she reached the road. She could hear the twins screaming at one another even before she opened the door. She climbed into the noisy warmth with gratitude, barely hearing Mrs. Marren complaining bitterly about the unreliability of weather forecasters.
It turned out to be a strange sort of day at school. A lot of kids from outlying farms had not come in, and many other children were absent as well. A lot of teachers were away, too, so year-levels were combined under the watchful eye of substitute teachers, or of teachers of other classes. Most students were instructed to read texts for the next term in whatever subject they would normally be in, or do homework based on old test questions for that subject.
At the end of fourth period, Rage made her way to her homeroom. There was a note on the board saying that afternoon classes were suspended. All students except those with specific permission to be elsewhere were directed to the central hall after lunch, where a movie would be shown. Since this could be anything from one she would like to see to a movie on dental hygiene, Rage didn’t know whether to be glad or not. She wouldn’t mind seeing a real movie. She noticed a smaller note on the board announcing that pink and green forms for the new program were to be left in a tray on the reception desk in the main office. Her hand crept to the pocket where she still had the form. She was trying to decide whether to sign it in her uncle’s name and turn it in, when lunchtime was announced. The bell sounded eerily loud in the white and silent day. Relieved, Rage decided to decide after lunch.
Snow had ceased to fall at some point in the morning, and teachers shooed students outside for what they called “a gasp of fresh air.” Rage noted that none of the teachers felt the need of fresh air. The strangeness was even more pronounced outside because everyone was so subdued and well-behaved. Instead of the rowdy school ground full of laughter and shrieks, there was silence as unnatural as the winter. Rage sat on a seat under a little stand of pine trees that offered a view from the rooftops of the school buildings to the hills clumped at the edge of town.