Ширли Мерфи - The Grass Tower

Aunt Bett had shown real fear, and a deep concern for Bethany. “Something much stronger than you was at work, child. You have no idea what it is capable of, and you must not tempt it again.” Maybe she was right; that was what it had felt like, some terrible power that no one would want to get involved with. And yet underneath that, something else, something she could not define had touched her for a moment, something gentler—or at least she thought it had been gentle, a quick flash gone almost at once.

Aunt Bett had been curiously unemotional about the whole thing. She must have been very upset to hold herself so tightly; as if, if she really let go, she might do irreparable damage to Bethany on the shaky ground where she stood. This alone made Bethany know the gravity with which she viewed yesterday’s incident.

“When you were small,” Aunt Bett had said at last, “do you remember that you came to me once with something Jack had done?”

Bethany had blanched and nodded.

“How did you know that, Bethany? I never wanted to ask. I simply pretended to myself it had not happened. How did you know?”

“Sometimes—sometimes I just know, Aunt Bett. I don’t know how.”

“Do you do this often?”

Bethany had lied without compunction. “No, Aunt Bett,” she said quietly, “Not any more.” and she had felt Aunt Bett’s relief clearly. Then for a moment she had had a flashing sense of something more from Aunt Bett, something—but it was gone too suddenly, she could make nothing of it.

She was late to the stables, uncommunicative and preoccupied. She got to work at once, almost frantically, trying to drive out her thoughts. Neither Reid nor Mr. Grady said much, and Bethany wondered if Mr. Grady knew about yesterday. If he did, he would have considered it not his business to mention it, though he would have disapproved heartily, Bethany felt sure. Late in the morning, as she was raking the alleyway, Reid took the rake gently from her. “Do you know that’s the second time you’ve raked it? Do the tack, will you?”

She tried to pull herself together and pay attention to what she was about, but the rhythm of rubbing soap into the leather, like the rhythm of raking, only increased her preoccupation. Her thoughts kept returning to Selma’s insistent voice, and to the dark figure forming there before her—then to the ruins, and the bedroom where she had awakened—puzzling at it all, trying to find some clue that would help her unravel the mystery. When Reid put a horse in the alleyway and began to clean its feet, she was glad for his company. But she couldn’t bring herself to say anything; she knew if she started to talk she would tell him about the dream, and she didn’t want to. He too was silent for so long that her thoughts turned again to the red room, moving about in it, trying to make sense of why it seemed familiar; then she thought of Selma’s terrible gall this morning, and her anger rose again unbidden.

“You’re pretty quiet this morning,” Reid said at last as he picked up the chestnut’s hind leg. “Are you sorry we talked last night?” His gray eyes, in the dim stable light, took on the color of the rusty chestnut gelding. A lock of hair was down over his forehead, and the tail of his shirt was half out.

“Oh no. No I’m not; it helped me. I felt nice afterward. But then Aunt Bett was waiting; she knew all about it. She was pretty grim. What she said made me think, though. Reid, I had such strange dreams last night. Then this morning Colin was all excited about the—Zagdesha. He—oh, I don’t know, he’s so eager about it. But the dream I had— I don’t think it was a dream, it was like I was really there.” She was beginning to feel shaken again, to be out of control. Her voice shook, but she steadied it. “Then Aunt Selma drove up this morning when I was coming to work and wanted— She wanted me to do another seance. Just like that!” Tears sprung maddeningly. “Why can’t she leave me alone!” She turned, wiped her face with her soapy hand, and fled into the tack room.

Chapter 5

Bethany, I’ve asked you three times, pass the strawberry jam.” Aunt Bett frowned and bit her lip. Bethany stared at the tablecloth and passed the jam with hardly a glance upward. Keep everything out, draw in tight and keep everything out! She felt twisted and cramped with it. For the dream had continued to haunt her, coming again and again for four nights in a row, so that she had been sleepy and cross in school, all her attention turned inward toward the dreams. She had not heard the teachers, she had missed assignments, and she had been impossible at home, too, she supposed. And the most frightening part of the dreams was that each time, when she left the red bedroom, she had searched in a different place. She was moving about in a world that was— That was what? That was not real? That was on another plane, the plane of the Zagdesha? And each time, she had felt the strong presence of emotions that could not be her own.

“Bethany, the salt,” Uncle Jimmie said gently. “Could I have the salt?” His eyes searched hers. She looked down and felt his gaze on her, wanting to understand, wanting to help.

“Daydreaming,” Marylou said. “It’s that boy at the stables, that Reid Young.” Bethany scowled at her, and Marylou grinned maliciously. “Don’t be so touchy. Maybe it’s not a boy at all, maybe the Zagdesha’s got your tongue.” Bethany’s face grew hot. She wished she were away from the table. She wished Marylou would be sick.

“Stop it, Marylou. Your mother’s had enough of this Zagdesha business,” Uncle Jimmie said crossly. “Maybe,” he said to Aunt Bett, “maybe when Justin comes she can talk some sense into Selma. Or maybe Zebulon can.”

“Justin won’t be bothered,” Aunt Bett said shortly. “She—and Zebulon wouldn’t.” She gave Uncle Jimmie a look.

Once when Bethany was small, and Justin and Zebulon had come to stay with them, Bethany and Papa had slept on couches before the fire, and Zebulon had had her room; she had heard him snoring through the wall. “Aunt Justin and Great-Uncle Zebulon,” Aunt Bett had said emphatically. “He’s a famous man, and you are to respect him.” But famous men could go barefoot on the shore just as well as anyone else, Bethany had found. Leathery brown and lean, Zebulon McAllister swam with her at daybreak and returned to the cottage salty and sandy and ravenous with Bethany balanced on his shoulders. She could remember him kneeling before an infinitesimal crab in the sand, picking it up and showing her how delicate and finely made it was.

There was something about Uncle Zebulon, a quality —a kind of rightness, a kind of—well, the way she felt on the dunes, that was the way she thought of him. Justin had it too, but in a different way; Justin who was so like Mama in the way she moved, light and easy and small boned. Bethany had a fellow feeling for Justin. They would ride together when Justin came, they always did. That would be nice; she needed someone to talk to. Someone— Reid was almost too matter-of-fact sometimes. But I can’t tell Justin! I can’t tell her anything! I don’t want Justin and Zebulon to know. What exactly did Aunt Bett mean, that Justin and Zebulon wouldn’t be bothered with talk about the Zagdesha, with talking to Aunt Selma?

“They haven’t bought the Tabor place! That’s a tourist cabin!” Marylou cried indignantly.

Aunt Bett sighed. You could tell she thought it a strange thing to do. “They’re coming here to settle, to finish the last volume of Zebulon’s history. They’ve had enough of Europe, I suppose. Maybe the Tabor place is only temporary until they can find something— I wish Selma had never started this Zagdesha business!”

“There’s a lot of talk in the village,” Uncle Jimmie said, carefully not looking at Bethany. “Some people are saying the priest and Reverends Thomas and Blake ought to close the place down and run Claybelle out of town. They don’t say Selma too, but you can tell what they mean.”