“It’s cold back here,” Greg said. “Must have dropped ten degrees in the last two minutes.”
His voice was as insignificant as a fly buzzing around Elaine’s head. She pushed dead brush to one side and stepped further into the circle of trees.
“Dark, too. The stars have gone out all of a sudden. We should turn back, Elaine. At least to get a flashlight. I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
A chill wind curled around the foot of the boarded-up cabin, lifting decaying leaves off the forest floor and tossing them in the cold air to rise above the ground in a dance gone mad. Old planks and aging shutters groaned as they shifted under the force of the wind. The scent of cheap toilet water was all around her, filling her nostrils, soaking her clothes.
Elaine swallowed repeatedly, trying not to gag.
The air and the dancing leaves swirled, struggling to form substance out of nothing, to pull light out of black darkness.
“Shit,” Greg swore furiously as a dead branch struck him full in the chest. Rotten wood cracked, breaking against his weight.
Elaine stopped and stood still, rooted to the ground as thoroughly as one of the old white pines, transfixed by the sight before her. The darkness shifted form and consistency under the force of the cold wind, but slowly it assumed a shape, transparent and illusive but still a force present and visible. It didn’t utter a sound and made no further attempt to move, except to undulate rhythmically where it had stopped. Elaine stood and faced it. In the far recesses of her mind she was aware of Greg all around her, banging into stumps and tripping over logs, swearing a blue streak and calling out her name, in tones of rising, but still contained panic. Like one would hear the inconsequential noise of a TV in the other room, while preparing dinner or washing up the dishes. Her eyes fixed on the shape moving before her. It was there, but yet not. She could look right through it, see the outline of the dark cabin and the row of trees behind it. A mouse dashed across the forest floor, straight through the bottom of the shape to disappear into a minuscule crack under the cabin steps.
Elaine watched, saying nothing, not moving, as ethereal fingers reached into her mind. She was not afraid, but a black cloud settled over her heart. She was not afraid, but suddenly she knew that she had to move.
Moira!
She whirled around. Knowing now that she had nothing to fear, she turned her back on it, whatever it might be. “Moira. Something’s wrong.” She thought she called to Greg, but couldn’t be sure if the words were actually passing her caked, dry lips, or echoing around and around inside her head.
“Elaine, stop! I can’t see a blasted thing. You’re going to fall. Wait for me.”
They crashed through the trees, breaking out onto the remains of the wildflower bed that curved along the waterfront. The bare, broken stems and crushed leaves, dying in the cold of autumn nights, were gone, replaced by a riot of color, movement, light, and scent. A Monarch butterfly settled softly on one perfect purple petal. Girlish giggles broke out from the dock, and a motorboat roared as it went past. The boys piloting it were dressed in white flannels. They waved enthusiastically. A maid, managing to look beautiful in a severe black dress that must be almost unbearable in the heat, cap and apron starched until they could stand up on their own, passed in front of Elaine. She carried a silver tray, polished until it reflected sunlight, bearing a glass pitcher filled to the brim with lemonade and dancing ice cubes. There were also neatly cut sandwiches and slices of pale sponge cake. Elaine jogged in place. It was so hot. The lemonade looked so refreshing. The cubes of clear ice melted as she watched. One glass and she would continue on her way.
“Not for you, not for you,” the maid hissed. Her tongue darted out of a generous red mouth. It was pink and forked, like a snake. “Not for the help. Not for the likes of you. Don’t you have something better to do?” Her voice was soft, tinged with the faintest touch of distant Ireland. A second-hand accent perhaps, learned from a mother or father with a thick brogue.
Don’t want lemonade anyway. Sweet and watery. Hideous stuff. Ug.
Moira. Moira.
Elaine snapped back to the present. The maid was gone, the young men in flannels, the sunlight and the butterfly. All gone.
Only the urgent whispering in her mind remained.
Moira. Moira.
She ran blindly, heedless of the ornamental rocks, empty flowerpots, and autumn debris. Greg followed, but she didn’t know if she ran from him or if she led him. While they were in the copse a bright moon had risen and illuminated the path in front of them as if Alan had turned on floodlights.
She took the stairs to the deck three at a time and crashed into the door as it failed to open. Locked. She pounded on the door with her fists, screaming for someone to let her in. The dogs had been put outside. Their ferocious senses caught the strong waves of her terror, and they pounded up the stairs to join her.
Elaine fell into the hallway as Alan jerked the door open. Over his shoulder she could see a blur of startled white faces. She pushed him out of the way and ran up the steps.
“Hurry, lass.” It was as if Augustus himself whispered to her as she fled up the staircase, Hamlet and Ophelia hard on her heels.
The door to Moira’s bedroom, always firmly shut to keep the wandering dogs out, stood wide open. Moonlight flooded the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows and sheer curtains. The shape in the middle of the huge bed was so thin and tiny that for a moment Elaine thought there was nothing there. Maybe this was only the traditional movie trick—pillows piled up to represent the sleeping form as the hero (or villain) crept out of bed under cover of the night. She couldn’t see Moira, could see naught but bedclothes. Then the duvet twitched. A low moan as Elaine crossed the room in a rush and pulled the pillow from Moira’s face. The old woman looked up at her, brown eyes blinking with confusion. She gasped for air. Elaine helped her to a sitting position.
“What on Earth is going on in here?” Alan was the first into the room. The family followed, speaking at once. It was a large room, but it filled up very quickly. Greg pushed his way through. The right knee was torn out of his trousers, an ugly scratch was beginning to rise immediately above his left eyebrow, and he’d managed to lose one shoe. He looked at Elaine, then at Moira, and sank wordlessly into a chair.
Once Moira had taken in enough air, she settled back against Elaine’s arms with a sigh. Ruth burst into the room, clad in her nightclothes. She pushed Elaine aside and tenderly persuaded Moira to collapse back against the pillows.
“A dream, a terrible dream,” Moira moaned. Her face was as white as death, the bones beneath the pale skin as sharp as those of a skeleton.
“There, there,” Ruth murmured. “Everything’s all right. No need to fuss.”
“Much ado about nothing,” Megan huffed. “The household all in an uproar over a bad dream.” Her words were harsh, but her face was almost as pale as her sister’s, and she twisted her hands together, over and over.
“Too much wine again, eh, Moira?” Charles interjected a note of false joviality. “Better we all get off and let you get back to sleep. Come along everyone, let Moira have her rest.” He herded the family and visitors out of the room. Greg took his mother’s arm. Soon only Moira, Megan, Ruth, and Elaine remained. Lizzie arrived bearing a silver tray with one bone china cup and a practical sturdy brown teapot.
“Terrible dream.” Moira’s hand shook as she touched the cup that Ruth, one arm supporting her back, held carefully under her chin.
“I’ll see to Miss Madison,” Ruth said. She fixed them all with an iron stare. “Thank you for your concern.” She picked a pillow up off the floor and tucked it under Moira’s gray head.
They tiptoed out of the room, Lizzie bringing the tea tray.
An old deacon’s bench faced the bottom of the main staircase. Years of damp swimming towels and sodden bathing-suited bottoms, of dogs’ excited claws and recklessly tossed skates had marked the dark wood unmercifully. Greg sat there, waiting for Elaine. The cut on his forehead leaked bright red blood: he’d not bothered to attend to it.
She sat down heavily beside him.
“What was all that about?”
“Guess I got a fright,” she said, forcing a laugh. “It’s spooky in those woods.”
“Damn dangerous, if you ask me.”
“Did you, uh, see anything—unusual—out there?” She found an unused tissue in her pocket and handed it to him, pointing at the cut over his eye.
“See what?” He dabbed at the cut. “There’s nothing to see. It’s so damned dark out there, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, much less anything else.”
His voice rose in anger. “What were you playing at anyway, Elaine? I called you, why didn’t you answer? And why the frantic rush back to the cottage? I thought you’d lost your mind. Going to tell everyone I attacked you, or some stupid thing.”
She rubbed her eyes deeply—God, they hurt—and rose to her feet. It was such an effort. She couldn’t remember when she had ever been so tired. “Hardly. But thanks for your concern, anyway.”
“Elaine, wait. That didn’t sound so good. I’m sorry.” He reached out one hand to stop her, but she slipped aside.
“Gregory, there you are. We’re ready to go.” Desmond and Olive Josepheson had their coats and hats on.
“Coming,” Greg said, not looking at Elaine.
She watched them leave. Megan went upstairs to bed, Charles returned to the drawing room. Only then did Elaine give in to her exhaustion and drag her aching body up the stairs, her hands gripping the banister to pull her weight up.
Alan came out of the drawing room. He carried a tray heavy with dirty ashtrays, used glasses, and an empty brandy bottle. His face creased into lines of worry as he watched every tired step.
“Do you ever go out to the old boarded up cabin in the woods?” Elaine asked Lizzie, trying to keep her voice light and casual as she sipped her coffee.
“What cabin?”
“Through the woods, past the end of the trail, behind the boathouses?”
“Nope. Never been off the path. The day she hired me, Moira said that it wasn’t safe out there, and even if she hadn’t, I’m not one for wandering around in the woods.” Lizzie’s attention returned to her work and she poured thick, creamy batter into muffin tins.
A quick knock and the kitchen door swung open. Without invitation Rachel, Kyle, and Willow burst in. Kyle carried a plastic bucket full of water and they were all grinning broadly.
“We got fish.” Willow was almost bursting with excitement. “Lots and lots of fish. So we brought some for you, Lizzie. And for Moira, too.”
“How nice.”
“Kyle and I caught so many fish this morning,” Rachel said, as Lizzie peered into the bucket. “More than we could eat and we didn’t want them to go to waste.”
“So we thought that Moira’d like them for her breakfast,” Willow said.
“What a nice thought,” Lizzie said. “I’m sure she will. If you prepare them for me, Kyle, I’ll cook them up right now.”
“There’s enough for you and Moira,” Rachel said, pouring a cup of coffee. “And some for Elaine too, of course.” She held the cup up to Kyle. He nodded; she passed it over, and poured another.
Kyle knew his way around a kitchen. He collected a cutting board and a sharp knife and carried everything out of Lizzie’s way. Willow followed eagerly, one stubby finger rubbing the sticky insides of the muffin bowl, which the cook had handed her.
Rachel settled herself at the table. “Fish for breakfast, Elaine?”
“Not for me, thank you.”
“Your loss,” Kyle chucked.
“You seem disturbed this morning,” Rachel said. “May I ask why?”
“Nothing.” Elaine tried to force a grin.
“The forest was unstable last night. Something was seriously wrong. You can tell me about it, if you want to.”
Elaine looked up from the depths of her coffee mug for the first time. Rachel’s beautiful green eyes were watching her, oceans of calm and understanding.
Another rattle of the wooden door, and Alan came in. For once Hamlet and Ophelia were not at his heels. His cheeks were flushed from the morning chill, the curls damp with dew. “Morning all. Nice fish you got there, young Willow. Catch them all by yourself did you?” he said to appreciative giggles.
“Elaine was upset about some nonsense to do with an old cabin in the woods,” Lizzie said, adding a smidgen of oil to a cast iron frying pan and placing it onto the stove. “It’s all supposedly terribly mysterious. No one goes there, under pain of death; the children like to pretend that it’s haunted. I rather think someone was telling Elaine wild stories in the night. And I can guess who.” She winked at Rachel. “An after dinner stroll in the evening woods with a certain attractive neighbor.”
“What are you talking about?” The smile disappeared from Alan’s face.
“Elaine was out walking with a certain someone and came running in all flushed and breathing heavily,” Lizzie giggled. The oil in the pan spat and hissed.
“Christ, have you got nothing better to do than gossip all day?” Alan headed back out the door. “Well, I do. I’ll be back when breakfast is ready.”
A bewildered Lizzie looked at the door, shuddering in its old frame where it had slammed shut.
“Why’s Alan mad?” Willow asked.
“Because men are strange, that’s why. Is that fish ready yet, Kyle? The pan is. As soon as the muffins are out of the oven, I’ll be taking Moira her breakfast.”
Rachel and Elaine sat in their own world, paying no attention to the hubbub around them. So preoccupied was Elaine that she had scarcely even noticed Alan leaving.
She forced a laugh. “I saw a deer, or a bear or something and it scared me. I guess I’m not quite the toughie I pretend to be, eh?”
“Don’t disparage yourself, Elaine. Many people think that they have to do that. Whenever anything meaningful, spiritual, beyond their understanding happens to them, they are compelled to demean the experience, and themselves along with it. I hate that.” Rachel’s soft voice had fallen to a near whisper. She leaned across the table. The hot fat hissed as the filleted fish hit the pan. “If you want to tell me what happened, I want to listen.”
“Nothing happened,” Elaine said, her voice equally low and intense. “I had a fright, some silly premonition. I thought Moira was in danger. She wasn’t.”
The green eyes opened wide. “Moira was involved? What happened?”
“Nothing, I told you. I made a fool of myself in front of the family and I wish you’d drop it.”
“But something did happen in the woods last night. I could feel it. I was reading to Willow, around the fire, before she went to bed. Then we walked down to the lake. To say goodnight to the stars. She likes to look out at the stars last thing before bed and you can see them best from the beach. And over here, by the cottage, the forest was alive with emotions.”
“Emotions aren’t living beings, Rachel.” Elaine laughed. “I guess I’m not the only one imagining things.”
“The woods behind the boathouse have an aura. I saw it the day we arrived. I didn’t want to stay, tried to talk the others into leaving. But they didn’t understand. Moira was so kind to us, the island so perfect, I couldn’t convince them to leave. And maybe I was wrong, because I’ve felt no anger, or intended harm, from those woods. Only a calm benevolence. Until you came.” She reached out and grabbed Elaine’s hand in one of her own.
Rachel’s hand was tiny but her grip so strong. Elaine wanted to pull away. Wanted to, but couldn’t. “Then it changed,” Rachel continued. “Talk to me, Elaine. Something is moving out there, I know it is. And you know it too.”
“Shit. Oh, that hurts.” Lizzie leapt back from the frying pan and ran to the sink. She held her hand under the tap and ran cold water over it. “Hot fat. What a bugger. Grab that pan, Kyle and pull it off the heat. Not you, Willow! Stay away.”
The spell broken, Elaine rushed to Lizzie’s side, guiltily grateful for the accident.
“Are you okay?”
“A splash of oil. Occupational hazard.” Lizzie shrugged, inspecting the damage. The skin on her hands looked clear excepting one small spot, less than the size of a dime, already turning red.
“You should put something on that.”
“Later.” The cook turned off the water and dried her hands on a tea towel. “Breakfast first. I’m going to take Moira her meal now. Willow, why don’t you come with me? She loves to see you. You can put an extra muffin on that plate, in case Moira offers you one.”
The girl rushed to obey.
“No breakfast for me, thanks, Lizzie,” said Elaine. “I’d better get back to work. Phoebe’s no doubt already head first into the boxes.”
Rachel’s deep green eyes followed her as she fled.
Phoebe, of course, was nowhere to be seen. She was keen but she was also young and indulged and her day didn’t start this early. Elaine gathered up the pile of letters she’d left yesterday and flicked through them. Her eyes moved rapidly but her mind registered not a word. She’d slept badly the night before, hardly at all. Tormented by thoughts of how totally she had disgraced herself. Running full tilt out of the woods and away from the extremely pleasant company of an eligible man (handsome, rich, so kind to his dotty mother, and an Internet guru to boot) only to wake up the family matriarch, who needed what bit of sleep she could still snatch out of the long night.
She’d risen early and gone for an intense run. It was always so much easier to make decisions when she was running. What’s done is done, she decided, sweat streaming from her brow and down the back of her neck. She would put the hideous night behind and not think of it again (at least not too much).
And she would stay out of the woods, above all else.
Then along comes Rachel with the green eyes, the fabulous lashes, the earth-mother persona, and her new-age senses.
Elaine tossed the unread letter aside with a groan and struggled to her feet. Moira’s study was next door to the library. Elaine rapped at the closed door and pushed it open without waiting to be admitted.
Moira was alone and reading, her glasses pushed up high on her nose. Breakfast dishes were cleared away, only a single coffee cup left behind.
“Elaine, welcome.” Moira lowered her book and beamed at the sight of her. “I have enjoyed the most wonderful breakfast. Fresh fish caught straight out of the lake this morning. Perfectly delightful. I thought you were going to go through Mother’s papers this morning. Have you changed your mind?”
“In a way. Moira, what do you know about the boarded-up cabin in the woods? Behind the boathouse. It used to be servants’ accommodation, I understand.”
Moira peered over the rim of her glasses. “Why do you ask, dear?”
Elaine set herself in a chair, recently upholstered in soft damask with light shades of alternating gray. She caressed the beautiful fabric, hoping to gather strength. “I was told when I first arrived here that no one ever talked about it. So I decided not to talk about it either. There is more than enough in this fabulous home and the beauty of its surroundings to occupy my spare time.”
“Obviously something changed your mind.”
“Something did.” She stopped stroking the fabric and leapt to her feet. “For heaven’s sake, Moira. Everyone talks about mysterious goings-on in the woods, children are frightened, visitors see strange auras, but no one will address the matter.”
“All true, my dear. There are some things best not spoken of.” The old woman smiled, a huge, genuine smile full of warmth and affection and stained teeth. “When you get to be my age, should you be so lucky, you will no doubt agree.”
Elaine walked to the big bay window and pushed the curtains aside. She could see Amber returning to the boathouse, dressed only in a pair of cut-off denims and a T-shirt, carefully carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, two glasses of orange juice, and two plates of muffins and fruit. A bit excessive for one thin young woman.
“I’m well aware that Amber is sleeping with the unpleasant Dave, if you’re thinking of telling me something shocking,” Moira said.
Elaine looked at her. “Do you think I would try?”
“No.”
“Alan thinks that Dave has charmed you into ignoring his faults. Apparently not.”
Moira shrugged. “For Rachel and Willow and the others, I keep my opinions of Dave to myself.”
“You’re changing the subject, Moira. You’re very good at that.”
“But not good enough, it would seem.”
“This goes beyond your memoirs, Moira. If you don’t want to talk about certain things, that’s fine. I won’t try to force it out of you. But I’m wondering if you always sleep with a pillow over your face?”
When Elaine had first walked into the study, Moira had a flush of red in her creased cheeks and lips, enough to break the dreadful pallor of the night before. At Elaine’s words, every hint of color fled, leaving the old face pale, shrunken in upon itself.
“What are you saying?”
“Figure it out, Moira. You’re bright. I suspect that you’re a great deal smarter than I am.”
“I had a dream, a dream of my past. Something both wonderful and dreadful all mixed up in one, as it was in life. I’ll probably tell you about it one day, if I am ever strong enough. As to how the pillow came to be over my face, I don’t know. But thank you for removing it.” Moira picked up her book and flicked to the page saved with an old-fashioned, elaborately embroidered bookmark. She was reading P.D. James.
Elaine sighed. Nothing more to be gained here. “I’ll come back after lunch. Perhaps we can pick up where we left off.”
“Sit down, dear.” Once a decision was reached, the old voice was strong and firm. “I know a story, a very sad story, and one that is, unfortunately, probably not at all unique. But it is not my story to tell. Sadly, there is no one left alive to whom the tale belongs. Megan and Maeve were here, of course, fluttering around like the mindless butterflies they so resembled. But in those days little penetrated their veil of self-absorption.” She snorted. “Of course, now that I come to think of it, little penetrates their veil of self-absorption these days either. Although Maeve is no longer entirely at fault. Poor dear.”
She settled back into her chair and closed her eyes. “I will not betray a confidence told to me by someone in his darkest hour. Of the person who, if the story is true, I would not hesitate to expose to the world, I know only hearsay. I cannot present hearsay as fact. Merely to tell it would be to give it validity.”
She focused her sharp brown eyes on Elaine. “Do you recall what Hamlet said to Horatio?”
“Hamlet said a great many things to Horatio.”
“That he did. But most memorably: ‘I knew him, Horatio.’ And then: ‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ So let us leave stranger things to greater minds than ours, Elaine. I’m tired. Can you call Ruth, please?”
“Of course.”
***
Elaine found Ruth in the kitchen, cradling a cup of tea and staring off into space, lost in memories. “Any more tea in that pot?”
“Make your own.”
“Well, pardon me! I just asked.”
“I just told you.”
“Is anything wrong?”
Ruth turned on her, her face twisting out of shape. “Is anything wrong? You interfering fool. Rather you should ask, is anything right?”
Elaine recoiled, feeling as if she had been struck. “I’m only looking for a cup of tea. I don’t mean you any harm, Ruth.”
“Oh, I’m so sure you don’t. Miss Biographer. Precious Miss Historian. Leave me alone.”
Elaine considered turning on her heels and leaving the bitter woman to stew in her hostility. Instead she asked, “Can we talk, Ruth? I don’t know why you…dislike me so much.”
Ruth’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. “You dance in here with your PhD and your old books. I tried to read them. Too boring to finish. They’re rubbish. But you know that, don’t you? If anyone wanted to read anything you wrote, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”