The Winter People

“Young Reverend Ayers looks at a lake and sees only his own reflection in it; that is what God is to him. He does not see the creatures that live down deep, the dragonflies that hover, the frog on the lily pad.” Auntie’s face was full of pity and scorn as she shook her head and spat tobacco juice again. “His heart and mind are closed to the true beauty of the lake, the place where all its magic lies.”

 

 

Auntie held the reins, guided the horse to pull us along the narrow dirt road that was full of ruts from wagon wheels. Sometimes I doubted Auntie needed the reins at all; it seemed she could get the horse to do just what she wanted by talking to it. She had the amazing ability to communicate with almost any animal; she could call birds to her, bring fish closer to her net. Once, I saw her coax a lynx out of hiding and right into her snare.

 

We bumped along slowly. The air was warm and sweet and full of birdsong. We were several miles east of town now, surrounded by rolling green hills dotted with cream-colored sheep that bleated contentedly as they ate their fill of fresh spring greens.

 

“But he’s a clever man,” I said. “He has studied for years. He reads the Bible every day.”

 

“There are different kinds of cleverness, Sara.”

 

I nodded, understanding just what she meant. Auntie was the cleverest person I knew; people came to her little cabin in the woods from all over town to buy remedies and cures, spells for love and good crops. But no one talked about it or admitted that they’d paid Auntie for a syrup to cure a child’s cough, or a charm to wear to attract their heart’s desire.

 

“Reverend Ayers says when we die our souls go on to Heaven, to be with God.”

 

“Is that what you believe?” Auntie asked, her eyes fixed on the rough road ahead.

 

“It’s not what you have taught me,” I answered.

 

“And what is it I have taught you?” She turned toward me, raised her eyebrows.

 

Auntie was often giving me these little tests, and I knew I had to choose my words carefully—if I answered wrong, she might ignore me for hours, pretend I wasn’t there; she might even go so far as not to give me my share of lunch or dinner. I had learned at a young age that disappointing Auntie always meant paying a price, and it was something I worked very hard to avoid.

 

“You always say that death is not an ending, but a beginning. That the dead cross over to the world of the spirits and are surrounding us still.”

 

Auntie nodded, waiting for more.

 

“I like that idea,” I told her. “That they’re all around us, watching.”

 

Auntie smiled at me.

 

On our left was a narrow stream, and as it was a clear day, we could see Camel’s Hump off in the distance. On our right was a neat row of apple trees in bloom, the scent heady and sweet. Bees buzzed from flower to flower, flying drunkenly, weighted down with pollen.

 

I moved closer to Auntie there in the cart; her hands on the reins were the strongest hands I’d ever known. I felt safe and thrilled, and as if I was right where I belonged.

 

Later that night, after we’d sold the furs to the merchant in St. Johnsbury, we camped by the river in a grassy clearing under a willow tree. Auntie had made us a little bed in the back of the wagon, out of a bearskin and blankets. She had a fire blazing, and when it died down, we cooked the trout she’d just caught on sticks, turning them gently over the glowing coals. She’d brought out an enameled pot and used it to brew a sweet tea full of herbs and roots, which we drank from tin mugs. After dinner, after the fire had been rekindled, Auntie sucked on the fish bones until she had removed every morsel of meat. She ate nearly every part of the fish, even the eyeballs. The innards she threw to Buckshot, who’d wandered off from camp and come back with his own dinner, a woodchuck that had been too slow to get back into its den.

 

The moon was not up, and the night was inky black. We couldn’t see anything beyond the circle of light that the fire cast. The world beyond had turned to nothing but noises: the babble of the river, which had seemed soothing in daylight and now carried strange eerie-sounding murmurs; the occasional croak of a bullfrog; the far-off hoot of an owl.

 

“Tell my future,” I begged as I plucked at the long, soft grass that grew around me.

 

Auntie smiled, stretched like a cat. “Not tonight. The moon is not right for such things.”

 

“Please,” I pleaded, tugging at her coat as I had when I was a much younger child. I loved that coat. The colorful painted flowers along the bottom, the beads and porcupine quills stitched in neat patterns over the shoulders and down the front.

 

“Very well,” she said, throwing the fish bones into the fire and wiping her greasy hands on her skirt. She reached into the pouch she carried tucked into her belt and withdrew a small amount of finely ground powder.

 

“What is that?”

 

“Shh,” Auntie said. Then she mumbled something I did not hear—another prayer, I supposed. A wish. An incantation.

 

She tossed the powder into the fire. It crackled and hissed, made the fire sparkle with shades of blue and green. The drooping branches of the willow above us seemed to catch the light and glow, and they swayed like tiny arms, reaching for us. Out on the water, there was the splash of a bird landing, a duck or heron.