The Mirk and Midnight Hour (24 page)

“We can hide them here,” Seeley said. “Look, there’s a little shelf a ways up the chimney that no one can see unless they stand right in here like I’m doing.”

His shoulders and head were out of sight.

“Well, it’s unlikely the VanZeldts will do that,” I said, and handed Seeley the bags. “What about keeping out candles, Lieutenant? You saw we brought some.”

He seemed torn. “I would love a candle, but I don’t dare risk it shining through the windows. Someone might see. Thank you, though, for bringing me light.”

I bustled about, once again scattering dust over our footprints. “Seeley, say farewell to the toads and toss them out.”

When we were about to leave, I stood in the doorway, looking at Lieutenant Lynd, wondering about everything. A smile flickered at his mouth but didn’t reach his eyes.

“We
will
come back,” I said. “We can’t come every day, though.”

He nodded, but he looked abandoned.

Seeley and I rushed out into the deluge, the drops striking our faces like pellets. Sparrow was long gone. I grabbed the boy’s hand because it would be too easy to lose him in this downpour.

We put our heads low and surged on, slipping and squelching. The droplets that blinked in my eyelashes, along with interlaced light and shadows, played tricks with my vision. Out of the corner of my eye I kept thinking I saw dark figures slipping between tree trunks.

Even though it meant a longer hike, we avoided the clearing with the fire pit. We weren’t far from it, though, when, blending in with the pounding of rain came another, deeper sound.

The beating of drums.

A throbbing rose up and swelled around us, as if it emanated from everywhere and nowhere. The very earth beneath my feet pulsated. All I could do was clutch Seeley’s hand tighter and pray we wouldn’t run into People Things banging on drums in the middle of a rainstorm in the middle of the forest.

There we were in our enchanted circle in a green-lit, vine-shrouded ruin. It lay in the middle of a dense forest inhabited by dark, threatening fairies. Day after day, in this charmed sphere, we were safe and secure and each of us shone in a way that I, at least, never did in the real world.

Or perhaps the glow was from the sweat on our faces. The Lodge was sweltering in June.

“You’re looking awfully robust,” I told Thomas one day. He was filling out and able to move more easily now, to sit up and shift himself on his pallet. His body was finely and strongly built. His face was still lean but had a returning vitality. And he was more handsome than ever in spite of the beard and general dishevelment. I had never trusted handsome men, but I trusted Thomas. I had despised Yankees, but not Thomas. “I’m surprised the VanZeldts haven’t noticed.” A wave of fear swept over me, and my smile fled. “You don’t think they have, do you?”

“No. I suck in my cheeks and close my eyes and lie limp when they’re around.”

“Like the fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel.”

“The gingerbread house.”

“Yes. The part where Hansel’s in a cage being fattened for eating. He has a chicken bone he pokes out so when the blind old witch touches it to see how plump he’s gotten, she feels the bone instead of Hansel’s finger. Too bad the VanZeldts aren’t blind, because here’s a perfectly skinny chicken bone.”

“I hated that story.”

“Me too.”

“When I was eight years old, our teacher, Mr. Meaty, threw chalk at us if we displeased him.” Thomas shook his head at the memory. “Yes, his name really was Meaty.”

“There’s a new French novel I’m going to bring to read with you next time. It’s called
Les Misérables
. My cousin Dorian lent it to me. You’ll have to excuse me, though, because I can’t help weeping openly over Fantine and Cosette and Jean Valjean.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing it. And weeping openly.”

We called him Thomas now, and he called me Violet. Seeley and I had come to the Lodge several times in the past couple of weeks. I would hurry through my work, and if the rest of the day was free, we spent honey-gold, honey-sweet hours there. The time was deep and full of meaning, but very narrow—never enough.

Nobody at Scuppernong noticed how often we were gone or acted curious about where we went so long as we did our chores and I kept Seeley out from underfoot. Laney and Michael had their family and their own work, Miss Elsa inhabited her dreamland, and Dorian and Sunny were absorbed in each other, continually laughing without telling anyone else what was funny, squabbling and making up, snuggling. This would have been irritating normally, but it was convenient now. Both Seeley and I hugged our clandestine world to ourselves. Sometimes we would catch each other’s eye and grin over our sweet secret.

Of course, many days were not free, and if a while went by between visits, Thomas never asked why. He never tried to keep us longer when it was time to go. But when we entered the room, a brightness came over him.

The conversations between Thomas and me were spiced and enlivened by the feeling of mind leaping to meet mind, by the keen awareness of the other’s every movement and word and look. I could open up to Thomas as I never had to anyone else. Maybe not even to Rush and Laney.

We had rambled on about the war, literature, religion—nearly everything except the details of our everyday lives. Somehow I was afraid of bringing up the real, current world—as if it would break the spell of this place—and perhaps Thomas felt the same. He told us he had been a teacher and that he wrote the Heath Blackstock books while still in college. Other than that, I knew little about his life before he joined the army. However, from our hours together, I understood him in more important ways. Usually he was calm and
clear-sighted, but he could suddenly turn awkward and hesitating. I believed this change was due to the vulnerability of his position. What never changed were his clear insights, his intelligence, his creativity, and how good he was to Seeley.

Patiently he was teaching my little cousin simultaneously to whittle and to play chess. During the hours when they carved the rough chessmen from ivy root, Thomas explained moves and strategies. I liked the smell of the wood shavings, but the slice-slice-slice of the knives made me anxious. I had to avert my eyes.

We brought a checkerboard from home, and they’d begun playing, even though some of the irregular pieces were barely recognizable. They would set up the board on a stump between them and lay out the chessmen. The tip of Seeley’s tongue would poke out of the corner of his mouth, as it did whenever he was in deep concentration, and he always took ages to make each move. Thomas studied his own strategy as well, as deeply absorbed as if Seeley were a formidable opponent.

One mid-June day, I brought along my dulcimer.

“What is this?” Thomas asked as I unwrapped it from its shawl.

“A dulcimer,” I said. “I thought you might like some music.”

“I made her bring it,” Seeley said. “Because when I told you Violet played the harp, you were sad that you couldn’t hear her.”

“I’ve never seen such an instrument,” Thomas said. “This will be exciting—to listen to songs other than the birds’.”

I settled myself on the stump near his pallet and started out with “Oft in the Stilly Night.” As I plucked the beautiful, thin, haunting melody, I peeked up at Thomas. His head was cocked
to one side and a smile lingered about his lips. My heartstrings strummed along.

Next I moved on to foot-stamping, hand-clapping tunes of my own creation, as well as popular favorites. I played “Camptown Races” and “Blue Tail Fly.” Thomas and Seeley both sang at the top of their voices. The Lodge’s walls reverberated with sound. As always, I soon lost myself in the music. We were enthusiastically singing “Listen to the Mockingbird” when a clear, high little voice joined in from outside. Seeley leaped up and shouted, “Sparrow!”

She entered, smiling and shining-eyed. She sidled up close to me, and we finished the song together.

“How are you?” I said. “I’m so glad you came again.”

“Is Coon Baby gone to his own kin now?” Seeley asked.

Sparrow nodded and blinked, then snatched my sleeve. “Play it again. I need to sing it again.”

I did as she asked.

“Do you know ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’?” she said when I finished. “Memaw sings that tune and I dance to it, round and round.”

“Hum it,” I said, “and I’ll follow along.”

Once I got the chords down, Sparrow jumped up and grabbed Seeley’s hands. They promenaded wildly around the room. I played faster and faster until Seeley was practically flinging wispy Sparrow about. They fell down laughing. For a moment my eyes blurred, and it was Rush and Laney there on the floor.

“Will you play ‘The Minstrel Boy’?” Seeley asked after he’d recovered. “I like how it makes my stomach feel.”

I nodded. “It’s beautiful. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get through
it, though. It’s so … timely. The way it tells of falling in war … and of … slavery.”

“We’ll help,” Thomas said.

I managed the first verse but choked up too much on the second. Thomas and Seeley continued alone.

“
The Minstrel fell! But the foeman’s chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he lov’d ne’er spoke again
,

For he tore its chords asunder;

And said, ‘No chains shall sully thee
,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free
,

They shall never sound in slavery!
’ ”

I thought of Rush. I thought of Michael, Laney, and even little Sparrow, who had been bought out of bondage by her grandmother. The verse exposed so many facets of pain and guilt in me that I laid down the instrument. “Excuse me,” I said, and went outside until my tears would stop.

Seeley came out a few minutes later. “Thomas told me to check on you. Are you all right?”

I sniffed and gave my eyes and cheeks a final swipe with my handkerchief. “Yes. Let’s go back in.”

He grabbed my hand and held it tightly as he led me inside.

Thomas looked up, full of compassion. I gave him a wobbly smile.

Sparrow was reverently holding the dulcimer. She strummed it gently. I showed her how to grasp it properly and where to place her
fingers on the fret board in order to play some chords. She listened intently. Then, amazingly, she played a few bars of “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”

“Someday, if you wish, I’ll teach you to really play it,” I told her, wondering where on earth I could come by another instrument for her. From her expression, it was something she needed to have.

“I wish,” she said. “When?”

“During the winter, when there’s less work to be done, come to Scuppernong and I’ll show you how.”

My heart swelled at the sight of her glowing face. Sometimes my awareness of the terrible, troubled world outside the Lodge only intensified the beauty of the things that happened inside it.

“Hey,” Seeley said, “do you want to go outside and do something, Sparrow?”

She nodded and the two of them left Thomas and me alone.

“How did you learn to play your music?” Thomas asked.

“This belonged to my mother,” I said as I carefully wrapped the dulcimer in the shawl. “So did the harp, but I never remember her playing either of them. I never dared touch them when I was little, even though I longed to. My mother had been dying slowly ever since I could remember, and we were taught to tiptoe around and never disturb her; that’s why we children spent so much time outside.” I glanced at Thomas on his pine straw pallet and pictured my mother—huddled bones beneath a sheet. “One day, though, she got my father to pull the harp up close to the sofa. She had me sit in front of her. She wrapped her arms around me and showed me where to place my fingers and how to pluck. She only helped a little, and I taught myself the rest, but that one time is the only memory I have of her doing something with me. It makes me think now that
maybe, rather than being unaware of us, she had actually been our angel silently keeping watch. When I’m playing my music, I believe she’s still watching.”

“Of course she is” was all Thomas said. His response was simple, but it was nice to hear my hope stated as a conviction in his deep voice.

My eyes were welling once again. Thomas reached out his hand. I took it for a moment, and his warmth spread to me. I released it, suddenly shy. “What do you think Seeley and Sparrow are doing?”

“Maybe we should go and see,” Thomas said, stretching. “The fact that my legs were itching to dance when those two were prancing around must mean something. How about this is the day I try to get up and go outside?”

The idea of Thomas walking left me excited for him, but also a bit dismayed. It would mean that he must leave soon. “Are you sure? Hadn’t you better wait a while longer?”

“I don’t think so. It’s time. Suddenly I don’t know if I can stand another hour without the sun on my face.”

“Very well,” I said, standing. “If we’re going to get you outside before I have to go, we’d better do it now. Seeley and I’ve got to leave early; I have a bazaar to attend later on.”