Secret Summers. Glynda Shaw

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СКАЧАТЬ ”Monique!” I recognized Claire’s voice and with a guilty feeling turned toward the direction of the summons. Monique caught my elbow.

      “Listen. When you get back home, you’d better hide that box. I always get a real strange feeling about it.”

      “So you have seen it before?” I asked again, though she’d severally denied it.

      “I knew about it,” she admitted, “but I never tried to open it or anything. I was too scared.” We turned back along the beach, veering inland as the tide began to roll in, as if chasing us homeward.

      The salt air was full of the smell of things sizzling and smoking. I realized with a pang that dinnertime had come and gone without me realizing I was hungry. Laina’s yard was full of people, including children, both boys and girls, most of them younger than Monique and I. Though I noted an absence of men, I guess I didn’t think about it much. Mom’s friends were mostly women too. Monique drew us toward the barbecue grill where plump sausages just now were spitting, along with foil packets of something smelling especially good. These turned out to be asparagus, mushroom, and red onion cooking together on the charcoal in their little envelopes. There were also potatoes with about twenty different things to put on them. I usually didn’t have much of an appetite in those days, but with the air, the exercise, and the excitement of the day, I realized a frisky emptiness inside.

      Monique drew us toward the gathering around the broiler, and we snagged bratwursts on forks, repairing then to the picnic table for buns, mustard, catsup, and paper cups of limeade. We moved toward the edge of the crowd, for crowd it was by now, the yard seeming to be full of every female neighbor for miles and their kids.

      Somewhere a guitar strummed, and a high, clear sound, a flute like the one my sister had sent me, trilled above the hubbub.

      “Here we are!” Aunt Claire came wading through the sea of blue jeans and peasant dresses. ”I need to introduce everyone to my summer housemate!” she announced. Taking me by the arm, the one connected to the hand which held the limeade, she pulled me into the crowd, somehow finding empty space as Monique, sticking close, followed us from group to group. People were greeting all of us: Monique whom they knew, Claire, of course, and me, I was sure, out of respect for my aunt. Laughter, welcomes, blessed be’s trailed us through the yard as we smiled, mustard-faced and I agreed that, yes, I was very happy to be there and was having a wonderful summer.

      Somehow Monique and I managed to work our way through the various food offerings until we were full. We tried to slip off again, but Laina crooked a finger at us, and when we came to her, she said, “Stick close, girls. There’ll be a divining Circle in a little while. I don’t want you two lost somewhere!” Monique nodded, and I accepted the directive since some of Mom’s friends, sometimes Mom herself, did things like that too. Going as far toward the edge of the yard as we dared, we settled on a perimeter log that divided yard grass from sand more or less where we sat, swinging our feet and staring toward the water.

      “Who’s that?” Monique demanded suddenly.

      I looked where she pointed. A way down the beach, far enough not to be taken as part of the party, but yet close enough that his presence didn’t seem casual, was a tall figure in the shadow of a huge boulder. He was clad in what may have been an overcoat of some sort, dark and out of character for the day. A casual glance might have indicated a general interest in the surroundings or even a sense of searching his way, but for an instant I felt his eyes lock with mine.

      “How should I know?” I said with much more bravado than I felt. The sunny day had suddenly gone cold.

      “Let’s go sit with Mom and Aunt Claire,” Monique suggested and slid off the log, brushing sand from her dress.

      Lawn chairs had been drawn up near the house. The remainder of the food and several varieties of drink were laid out on the picnic table, and two folding affairs had been pressed into service for the occasion.

      “What’s wrong, Honey?” Laina inquired of Monique. ”You look as if you’d seen …” Laina’s voice trailed off. ”Something that’s upset you,” she rallied. Aunt Claire said nothing and held her face devoid of any expression.

      “The wind brewed up suddenly,” Monique said, “and we got cold. We’d been talking about tsunamis and stuff.” Her mother nodded.

      “Well,” she said, “that hasn’t happened for a very long time.” She knew as well as we did that nothing unusual had occurred wind- or water-wise, but the chilling look the shrouded man had given us still made me shiver.

      “A nice cup of tea,” my aunt suggested. ”That should warm the two of you.” While Monique’s mom went for china cups, Aunt Claire fetched a primrose teapot from one of the adjoining tables. A light brownish decoction with a flowery bouquet was poured into ancient-looking, shamrock-patterned china cups. I learned much later this was a slightly caffeinated mixture of rose hips and several other special herbs useful in women’s magic. Both of us accepted honey and were each taking care in our movements because we sensed this was much more than an effort to warm us up inside.

      A gray-shawled lady, perhaps forty years older than my aunt, had been standing by, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. Now she came to join us.

      “This is Mother Morland,” my aunt informed. ”She’s our herbalist, among many other things.” I bowed slightly and Monique looked a little frightened. The old lady nodded to us without speaking, accepted a cup of tea, and sat opposite Monique and me.

      We sipped almost in synchrony, looking each from one to the other, but none of us found anything to say. The tea was slightly minty, somewhat deeper than tea, rather more like coffee, a little fruity, a little grassy, with the hint of a peppery aftertaste, but smooth not bitter. It warmed through the recently acquired chill that the now fogging evening was imparting and soothed somewhat that other chill that had nothing to do with the passing of the sun.

      “You have not visited us before, child?” Mother Morland said suddenly. Her voice was thin and rather shrill but sounded determined.

      “No, Ma’am,” I answered, now a bit nervous myself. ”I haven’t.” She looked at me sharply as if testing the truthfulness of my reply but said nothing more. In time, my tea was drained to the last few swallows, and I saw there were the remnants of leaves, brown and muddy, at the bottom of my cup. Aunt Claire reached out, taking my cup, then Monique’s. She spun Monique’s cup first, three times clockwise, then sat peering into the murkiness at the bottom. Mother Morland leant to inspect as well and nodded satisfaction.

      Now Claire took up my cup and spun it once, twice, thrice. She set it back on the table between herself and Mother, and both women bent their heads over the results. I caught only a glimpse of Aunt Claire’s face, just the briefest revelation, but even at ten years of age, I had an artist’s eye. Before she masked the emotion, I caught the terror that whatever she’d seen had caused. Mother Morland continued to look impassive, but very seldom during the time I knew her, did I see her looking otherwise.

      “The Mother has you in Her care,” Claire said, including Monique, then inclining her head a little skyward. ”Keep Her protection around you, and you shall be safe.” Laina then busied herself with seeing to the remaining guests, refilling teacups, distributing zucchini cookies, pieces of carrot cake, and slices of sweet potato pie. Monique found us a couple of Cokes since neither of us were much accustomed yet to sipping herbal tea throughout an evening. We sat for a time listening to the stories of the elder women, some of them exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke, others quaffing from glasses of something deep red and potent smelling, some doing both, some neither. In the background a guitar struck up again with СКАЧАТЬ