5
In the seventh year that I lived with Wysteria Barrows, my isolation came to an end. For that spring, as the forsythia bloomed on the cliffs and the sea grass took root, I met the boy named Farley.
There are certain people who glide so swiftly and immediately into your life that their entrance is almost invisible. I cannot say whether it was morning or afternoon when I first spotted Farley, with his distinctive red wool cap, wandering the shoreline, only that it was spring, as that is the season I most associate with him. Spring and the smell of lilacs.
That year, spring followed a long, hard winter, and the nets Wysteria brought home for me were in desperate shape, having been torn on the ice and snagged by driftwood. It was rare that I had a day to leave them or to be away from Wysteria, as she had a tendency to hover when there was little money and much work to be done, which was the case that year. As well, the bitter winter had left her with a lingering cough, rendering her thin and weak and more in need of me than usual. I had taken over the upkeep of the accounts while she recovered, and was painfully aware of the little we had left.
“One hundred nets this week, Miranda, and not one less. The cupboards are in a pitiful state.” My fingers ached at the prospect.
The winter supply of wheat and oats Wysteria and I had stored away in October was almost gone. There was no sugar or butter, and the salt cod we often took as payment for our work was running low. We resisted combing the beach to uncover mussels so early in the season, but we often resorted to pulling long, slimy ropes of kelp from the bay and boiling them into a soup. It was full of sand and tasted of rotten fish, but it filled our stomachs while we waited.
“Why must it always come down to the wire?” Wysteria complained one morning as we ate the last bit of bread in the pantry the day before Captain Stewart made payment.
It did seem that no matter how much work we took in, the month of April was always lean. “Time to clean out the blood,” Wysteria generally offered in response to our yearly dilemma and the grim condition of the pantry. “Fast hard and true before the bounty of summer takes hold.” But her tone was not as staunch that year. A sound bowl of meat broth would have done us both good.
Through the blizzards and frozen nights of late February and early March, we’d had enough to eat, and the furnace had blown out its share of warmth. We’d closed off most of the Manor and kept company in the great room on the first floor in front of the massive stone fireplace. We’d even slept there on occasion, bundled in quilts and woolen blankets, our hats pulled down over our ears. On milder days, when I wasn’t keeping track of the Hounds, I spent my time in the captain’s study repairing the kites, replacing ragged tails with new ones and gingerly pasting the fine paper panels around their slender frames where they had broken free.
With the good weather now upon us, I longed to escape from Wysteria’s presence and the damp and gloom of the Manor. If I had waited for her to leave the fireside, I might well have waited into the summer, so I took the chance of stealing away to the walk one afternoon while she napped.
The breeze that day was warm and mild, and I did not bother to tie myself to the railing but instead slipped on my heavy boots and launched the Red Dragon.
The wind took it easily up and out past the elm to the dunes at the far end of the beach. It was a glorious sight. Its rich color was set off by the deep blue of the sky. It had better balance now with the new tail I had made for it, an array of thin silk ribbons that raced playfully behind, giving the Dragon a whimsical appearance.
When it had reached a height of more than twenty feet, I tied it off on the railing and bent down to adjust the laces of my boots. They were long laces, forever breaking free of the stays that held them in place, and had to be retied countless times in the course of a day. The shoemaker’s design lacked one important feature: a button to string the laces around at the top. I had tried sewing buttons on myself, but none of the needles in Wysteria’s mending basket were stout enough to pierce leather. Through the years, I had found that wrapping the laces firmly about my ankle several times and knotting them twice could keep them in place.
I carefully tucked the remaining cordage inside the top of each boot to keep it from straying and stood up slowly, instinctively reaching for the tether of the Dragon, but it was not there. It had loosened itself and wandered to the far side of the rail. I made a futile lunge for the end of the line, sure that I could retrieve it and pull it back in, but it eluded my grasp and drifted away. I was stunned. I had never lost hold of a kite. I was always steadfast in my duty of keeping them within range and could not believe my eyes as the tether disappeared over the railing’s edge. All I could do was watch as the Dragon rose, then dipped dramatically to the east, its exotic tail fluttering behind.
Unaccustomed to its freedom, it wandered, at first high above the bay and then scouring along the sand. If I had not been so afraid of losing it forever, I would have appreciated the beauty of its dance. Nothing holding it back, it soared in a way not possible when attached to a harness, rising and dipping and finally disappearing around the cliff’s edge. I did not see it reappear and so determined that it must have caught itself on a rock or crashed in the sand just beyond the cliffs. It would have been a walk of no more than ten minutes to find and retrieve the Dragon from its snare, but I could not simply stroll out the front door and rescue it as an ordinary person might. Wysteria was at home and would know if I left. She would hear the click of the latch on the front door, a sound I had not made since the day of the storm almost one year before.
I had on that particular morning left the Manor to walk unaccompanied to the shore to collect seaweed. I’d laced on my boots and taken one of the heavy mesh sacks that hung by the door. The Hounds had stayed behind, occupied with a ball of rough twine they had uncovered in the brush. I’d become bold, wandering farther and farther from the Manor, safe in the knowledge that the steel plates in my boots would keep me anchored to the earth. Wysteria had allowed this outing, as I was more help to her if I could fetch and carry, though she would never send me all the way into town on my own.
Whether it was the result of the storm beginning to blow in off the lake or of my desire to walk close to the cliff’s edge that afternoon, I cannot say, but on my return, my sack heavy with wet kelp, I was thrust suddenly and violently off the cliff and onto the beach below. As though a giant’s hand had smacked me to the earth, I was pinned with my face pressed hard into the sand. No sooner had I recovered than I was lifted and hurled into a hawthorn bush, where Wysteria later found me.
After that day, and several tedious and futile attempts to create heavier and safer boots, I was forbidden ever to leave the Manor without Wysteria by my side.
“You are, as I have always surmised, overly susceptible to the wind, Miranda, and I cannot afford to have you flying off from me or injuring yourself beyond repair. From now on, it is the safety of the fireside for you.”
In the months that followed, I often asked to go outside on my own, if only for brief excursions, but my requests were adamantly denied. Wysteria had not forgotten my narrow escape, nor would she ever forget, and she reminded me resolutely that I could not control myself when it came to the weather and therefore must be protected for my own good.
“One day, Miranda, when you have attained your full weight and stature, you may perhaps once again venture forth into the world unaccompanied, but not until then” was the only consolation Wysteria offered me.
I followed her mandate, not only because there was no other choice, but also because I had begun to fear the wind as she did. Fear is a strange thing. It can creep quite unnoticed into your mind, seize hold of your reason and take root. Gradually, I grew accustomed to Wysteria’s distinct brand of fear, taking it upon myself like an extra layer of wool. Until the day the Dragon broke free, I had forgotten that it was possible to live any other way.
As I stood on the walk, watching for any sign of the kite, my eyes caught hold of a small dot moving rapidly along the beach. There were times when an otter from the creek would lose its way and head along the shore. I had watched several amble about in search of food and familiar smells, avoiding the seabirds. The gulls ruled that piece of sand and had a tendency to dive at any creature that did not belong. This dot, however, was no otter, unless otters could stand and run on two legs. I wished that I had had the captain’s spyglass with me to see in more detail, but I had only my own eyes. With considerable squinting, I made out the figure of a boy in a red cap. I could tell he was a boy not because of the length of his hair, for it was wild and unkempt and curled from under his cap like an ocean’s wave, but because of the exuberance with which he ran. In town, the boys ran farther and faster and wilder than any girl ever did. They never seemed to care whether their clothes got soiled or their pants torn. I envied them this and had secretly decided that if I had any say in the matter, I would like to come back in my next life as a boy and spend my days at sea.
From the widow’s walk, all sounds were merely echoes by the time they reached my ears. I could never have heard him, even if the wind had been blowing to the east, but I could tell that he was yelling something as he ran in the direction of the downed kite. He vanished around the bend and quickly reappeared, holding it triumphantly over his head so that I could see. I waved at him, excited that the Dragon, except for the loss of its tail, looked intact.
So thrilled was I at its rescue that the sound of the bell was almost inaudible. Wysteria had taken to keeping a bell at her side to summon me from my room, where she assumed I spent my time. At the sound of the bell, I was to drop whatever I was doing and make her tea, or fetch another blanket for her lap, or commence some tedious chore she had devised for me. I waved to the boy and sadly left the walk, sliding swiftly down the ladder.
All during lunch—for that was the reason Wysteria had called me—I wondered about the boy, where he’d come from and what he intended to do with the Dragon. If he was a typical boy, like the ones in the village, with their slingshots and marbles, he would no doubt run home with it, not knowing what he carried in his hands. He would take it apart to see how it worked and put it back together again, forgetting some important piece. He’d fly it until it was broken and full of holes and no longer of use to anyone and then abandon it to the garbage heap. If I hadn’t been so careless, I would still have had the kite in my possession.
“Miranda, this soup is too salty. Whatever have you put into it?”
“Nothing, Wysteria. It is the same as always.”
At that moment, the Hounds suddenly stood up and began to growl and I returned to the kitchen to try the soup myself. It was no saltier than any other soup I had made, but I added another cup of water just the same.
“I will do better next time,” I said, bringing out a new bowl and placing it on the table beside her.
“Never mind,” she sighed. “It will have to do.” The Hounds continued growling.
“Get ahold of yourselves!” Wysteria scolded them. They whimpered, standing rigid with attention, their noses pointing toward the front entrance. There was a faint scuffling sound outside, followed by a firm knock. The Hounds went wild, baying and running about in circles. I noticed a shadow descend over Wysteria’s ashen face. I started toward the door, but she snapped her fingers at me.
“I will answer it.” She stood slowly, wrapping her shawl about her thin shoulders, and, with considerable effort, walked toward the giant oaken door, grasped the handle and pulled it open. The Hounds made a dash for freedom. They were not guard dogs by nature, and after running around the visitor a few times, realizing that he did not fear them and had not come bearing food, they lost interest and bounded off.
On the threshold stood the boy with the red cap, holding the Dragon at his side. He was thin and wiry, with a splash of freckles across his nose, and wild, curly black hair. From his stance and apparent lack of trepidation at the sight of Wysteria and the Hounds, I could tell that he knew nothing about us.
He swept off his cap. “Good afternoon, mum,” he said, a slight accent gracing his speech.
“I found this on the beach.” He proudly held up the Dragon in one hand and its tail in the other.
“That is fortunate for you, young man, but I fail to see how that has anything to do with me.” Wysteria’s tone was sharp, and I flinched as I always did at the acidity of her words, but the boy did not hesitate.
“Not you,” he said. “The girl. The pretty one, with the long, dark hair.” I peered out from behind Wysteria. “Her,” he said, pointing to me. “The kite is for her.”
“Miranda?” Wysteria turned to me. Her eyes narrowed. She seemed perturbed, not only by the boy’s intrusion, but also by the reference to my hair and my being pretty, for of course we never spoke of such things. Fortunately, I could see that she had no interest in kites or knowledge of her husband’s creation.
“I know nothing of it,” I said calmly, surprising even myself. She turned back to the boy and I smiled widely and gave him a nod.
“There, you see, young man. We know nothing about the owner of your kite. We are very busy here and must get on with our work. Please do not intrude upon our solitude again.”
“Oh,” the boy said, clearly puzzled. “ ’Tis a grand kite.” His voice rose in admiration at the end of the sentence, and I knew that he must be from far away, perhaps another country entirely, though, never having been anywhere, I had no idea where that could be. “I’ll return it to its owner when I find her,” he said, putting his cap back on and tipping it at me.
Wysteria closed the door abruptly, without bidding him good day. “Bothersome,” she mumbled, coughing into her handkerchief. “How dare he walk up here with no warning, no introduction! Doesn’t he know who we are?”
“Apparently not, or he wouldn’t have come,” I said, only meaning to state the obvious, but Wysteria took it as impertinence and glared at me.
“Why do you think he came here, Miranda?”
“I have no idea. Perhaps it is because we are the only house along this stretch of beach.”
“Perhaps,” Wysteria said, though she seemed to doubt that possibility and began pacing the floor. She was upset by the intrusion. No stranger ever came knocking on the door of Bourne Manor. Never. But if any ever did, they would venture cautiously and address Wysteria with a certain degree of apprehension and deference.
“Perhaps you should not spend so much time in your room and instead concern yourself with your work. There is plenty to keep you occupied, is there not?”
“Yes, Wysteria.”
She eyed me curiously. “Hold out your hands,” she demanded. I held them out to her. She examined them thoroughly, turning them over and checking for calluses. “Why will they not callus over?” she asked aloud. “They only blister and then crack. What a terrible nuisance.” Still, after several minutes, she nodded, clearly appeased by my cracked and dried skin.
“There will be a new delivery of nets tomorrow,” she said with satisfaction. “Sixty in all.”
“Yes, Wysteria,” I replied, but I did not feel the same oppression that normally accompanied such an exchange, for in my mind I could see clearly the boy’s cap tipping in my direction, and I knew that regardless of Wysteria’s dislike of intrusions, I would see him again.