M. Wren: A Gift Upon the Shore

At supper I sense a different pitch in the tension that makes all but the most necessary or banal conversation impossible. Stephen is distracted and quiet, his gaze seldom lifted above his plate. He hasn’t had a word for me, but neither has he spoken, except when questioned, to anyone else, and the questions haven’t gone beyond whether he wants another helping of chicken. No one has asked about our truncated lesson this afternoon; no one seems interested in that small change in schedule. We’ve all withdrawn into ourselves, and I can almost hear the hum of thought, but none of it is expressed aloud.

And Miriam watches me, the cold fire in her eyes glowing perceptibly brighter this evening.

After supper, the skim of high, curdled altocumulus clouds in the west colors splendidly, but I enjoy that display alone. The family is at evening service. I wonder what text Jerry has chosen for his sermon tonight. Before the cock crows, thou shalt deny me thrice ?

When the color fades from the sky, I go to my room and undress, put on my nightgown and robe, then take a book and my magnifying glass to the living room. I sit in the big armchair at the south end of the couch, ostensibly for the light from the oil lamp on the side table between the couch and the chair. But from this position, I have only to lean a little to the right to see the far corner of the dining room. The basement door is on the south wall of that corner, the backdoor on the east wall.

When the family comes in from evening service, they aren’t surprised to find me here. I often read here by the fire and often stay up after the others have gone to sleep. Bernadette brings me my nightly cup of willow bark tea and sits down long enough to drink a cup of comfrey tea herself. She is never talkative, and tonight her terse conversation centers on Deborah, her apprentice. “Well, you were right, Mary. She does have a way with plants. Asks too many questions, though.” But when she rises to leave, she adds: “Maybe I’ll take her with me next time I go out for wild herbs.”

When at last everyone has gone to bed, I stoke up the fire and settle down with Shadow sharing my chair, Diamond lying at my feet, the two black cats, Dante and Beatrice, curled on the couch. I’m reading Alice in Wonderland . My excuse is that I plan to use it in school. The ironies will be lost on the children, but they’ll enjoy the fantasy.

My reading late isn’t unusual, but I seldom stay at it past ten o’clock. Tonight I remain at my post, rising occasionally to revive the fire, to let a cat or dog in or out, or simply to limber my stiff limbs, until long after the Seth Thomas clangs out midnight. I am relishing the courtroom scene in Alice when Shadow, who is again nestled beside me in the big chair, raises her head, ears tilting after a sound. A soft tread on the basement steps, no doubt. A moment later the door opens.

Little light from the lamp reaches the basement door, yet Miriam’s white nightgown augments the light, makes a ghost of her. But ghosts aren’t pictured wearing moccasin boots. I watch her as she reaches for the knob of the outside door, then hesitates, turns toward me.

She remains motionless, and I am for a time—it seems a long time—paralyzed with fear.

Will she kill me now ?

No, of course not. So says my rational mind as she slowly approaches me. Shadow growls, white, curved canines glinting. I rest my hand at the back of her neck, and the growling ceases.

Miriam stops perhaps two yards away, the golden light caught in her bright hair, lighting her blue eyes where the banked fire glows.

She says softly, “You’re up late tonight, Mary.”

“Am I? Well, I don’t feel sleepy.”

She smiles, only the lifting of the corners of her mouth. Then she walks back to the basement door, pauses there, speaks to me out of the shadows. “You’ll get sleepy, Mary. Sooner or later you’ll get sleepy.” She opens the door and disappears beyond it. The door closes quietly.

My breath comes out in a tremulous sigh, and my heart is beating too fast.

Yes, Miriam, I will get sleepy, probably sooner than later. I can’t keep up a vigil every night indefinitely. Miriam will be patient now. She will wait, and that’s all I can hope for.

I stay at my post through the night until the clock strikes five, when I go out on the deck, see the gibbous moon hanging like a worn piece of ivory filmed with rose mist. The sky is deep blue; birds are already singing. Jerry will wake soon. His inner clock is amazingly attuned to the sun and always sounds an alarm in his head about half an hour before sunrise. Miriam knows that as well as I do, and that means I can safely leave my post now. I go to my room to sleep for an hour. I’m already feeling the lack of sleep.

And this is only the first night.

The day is much like the last three, although the pervading tension seems to have eased to some small degree, as if everyone decided that since nothing disastrous has happened thus far, they could relax, if only slightly. There is, of course, no relaxation of the tension that exists between Miriam and me.

Nor between Stephen and me.

Throughout the three hours of school, he is silent, and sometimes I find him looking at me with a questioning gaze I find hard to meet. The other children sense that strain, especially Isaac, who is bewildered at the strange silence of the surrogate brother he loves as much as his true brother. And I am tired and irritable, and it slips out, despite my efforts to control it.

After midday meal, while I’m clearing the table, I hear Stephen volunteer to help Jonathan rake out the barn and pigpens. Jonathan looks at me, startled, and he is about to ask why Stephen isn’t having his lesson with me. I shake my head slightly, and Jonathan takes his cue and says to Stephen, “I’d never turn down help shoveling manure. Come on.” And he leads the way out the backdoor. Stephen follows without once looking at me.

Enid and Esther have come into the dining room in time to hear that exchange. They stare at me, ready to ask the same question Jonathan almost did. I tell them flatly, “Stephen and I aren’t having a lesson today,” then retreat to my room before they can say a word.

A short while later I’m following Shadow down the path to the beach. Again, I walk south, loop back to the trail to the tree, and finally reach that haven of green solitude. There I devote the next two hours to reinforcing Shadow’s training so that she’ll not only come when she hears the whistle, but bark as well, and today I begin the next step. I’ve brought Topaz’s collar from my souvenir drawer and a rope to serve as a leash, and Shadow, after some initial balkiness, accepts them. I walk her a short distance down the path, tie her to a moss-sleeved branch, then return to the bench and sound the whistle. I hear her barking long after I stop blowing. I go to her, praise her generously, then repeat the exercise again and again, each time moving her a little farther away. She is an apt pupil, and she doesn’t question my sanity.

Perhaps she should.

That night I stay up again to read. Before the family retires, Esther and Bernadette express concern about my health, but are satisfied with my explanation that I’m simply not sleepy yet. No one else inquires, and Miriam watches me with that chill, knowing smile.

I don’t actually see her during this night’s vigil, but about midnight the basement door opens slightly, and I know she’s behind it, looking out to see if I’m here. At three the door opens again. Closes again. She knows I’ll be here, and she wants me to know that she’s still waiting.

You’ll get sleepy, Mary. Sooner or later, you’ll get sleepy .

I’m already sleepy, exhausted, and I can’t read. My eyes won’t stay focused. I doze off occasionally, but I never let myself lapse into sleep except when Shadow is beside me, under my hand. She’ll wake to the opening of the door, and her stiffening, her growl, will wake me.