The Edge Of The World Part 17

He shook me. "What if she left something else? She'll be expecting you."

He kept at it until his conviction that she might be waiting for me or have left some other object fully entered my mind and began to nag at me. I sat up and pushed my bare feet into my shoes.

"All right," I said, stumbling around the room. "I should bring her something. A gift in exchange for the pendant. What do you think she'd like?" I thought of some of the loose items on the table in the parlor. A steel crochet hook? A thimble? A pen? What did I have that she might desire? I pulled a clean lace-trimmed handkerchief from my pocket. It was pretty, and she would have none like it.

Oskar s.n.a.t.c.hed it from my hand. "No! Trudy! You mustn't corrupt her! If she uses our things, how will she be different from us?"

It was remarkable that I didn't fall down the mountain, as Oskar had done, so unsteady was I on my feet. At the bottom, I kicked off my shoes and splashed into the freezing water, which, together with the stiff wind, braced me for a time. Soon I was barely plodding, nearly unconscious, hypnotized by the regular wash of the surf, too tired to turn back. More than once, I nearly lay down on the sand.

At last I reached my tide pool and saw that the stone where the pendant had been was bare. I circled the pool gamely, grabbing up a crooked stick of driftwood and a shattered sh.e.l.l. The first had obviously been tossed up by the sea or washed down by the rains; the second, dropped by a pa.s.sing gull. There was nothing human in them. Disheartened, I lay on the sun-soaked rock to rest awhile before plodding back.

CHAPTER 29.

I WAS AWAKEN THIS time by the slight sting of pebbles, like hail, striking my hand, my foot, my cheek. Abruptly, I sat up.

She was standing beside a large rock, and she was wearing a corset, my corset (although she hadn't tied the laces), over a dress of gray and green rags. She held a slingshot before her face, c.o.c.ked in my direction.

A pebble hit my neck.

"Ow!" I covered my throat with my hand.

I was afraid. Having heard her story-at least as much of it as Euphemia and the children could tell-and having seen her home, with its strange but obvious domesticity, and having received her gift, I'd had no thought that she might harm me. But I realized now that I was entirely at her mercy.

She lowered the slingshot. She was smiling, her face, with its sharp nose and cheekbones, an echo of the jagged copper-brown mountains to the east. She bent to lift something off the ground, then held whatever it was behind her back as she began to move slowly toward me. I sat motionless, almost without breathing, as though she weren't a woman but a wild animal approaching. It occurred to me that the object she was hiding might be the spear the children had told me about.

When she'd come within a few feet, I perceived that the gray-green rags were seaweed, dried and somehow woven or knitted together. Around her neck was a whole loop of abalone sh.e.l.ls, or pieces of sh.e.l.ls, at any rate, like the string Mrs. Crawley had taken from Jane on our first night at the lighthouse. Around her waist on a cord was a kitchen knife precisely like the one in the drawer beside my sink.

I was startled to discover that it was I who wished to reach out my fingers. I wanted to feel the blackness that was her hair, hanging in long shanks over her shoulders, so that it looked like a hooded cape. I wanted to feel the lacy tangle that was her dress. I refrained, of course.

She brought her hand forward, revealing her surprise: my shoes. She held them out to me, and I took them. The leather was stiff, twisted, and rimed with salt from its tumble in the sea.

She moved her lips, and a voice emerged, rough and oddly inflected. Her expectant look, more than the syllables themselves, made me realize in a second or two that she'd said, "How do?"

"Very well," I answered at last, aware that this mundane dialogue was strange, almost ludicrous, in this context. But how else should we proceed? "And how do you do?"

"Good."

Or at least that's what I a.s.sumed she said.

She sat down beside me, the woven weed dress bending to accommodate her movements. I was struck by what was obviously an offer of friendship and wished to offer something in return. Thanks to Oskar, I'd brought nothing.

I held out the boots that lay heavy in my lap. "Would you like to keep these?"

She took one from me and frowned with concentration as she set herself what must have been the unfamiliar task of opening the top and pulling forward the tongue. She bent to push her toes into it, as far as they would go, which was hardly any distance at all. The skin on her feet was rough, thick, and grayed, like the bark of a tree. The feet themselves were remarkably wide at the toes, nearly as wide as they were long, and so resembled . . . well . . . flippers. She waggled the shoe on the end of those toes and laughed, a rusty but mirthful sound that caused me to laugh, too, and then she took off the shoe and handed it back to me with a little toss of her raven head. My gift was useless to her.

She reached one hand toward me, her expression serious. Her face was weathered and her teeth yellow and worn to stubs. Her fingernails were sharp and ragged. A few nails were long, those on the littlest fingers especially, like the nails of the opium eaters I'd seen in Chinatown. Like claws. They scratched my neck. I began to lift my own hand, ready to push hers away with all the strength I could muster.

Gently, she lifted the coral necklace a few inches off my throat and bent, squinting, toward it. I saw grains of sand in the part of her hair. She smelled of smoke and grease and the green odor of the sea.

I believed she wanted the necklace, but I had so little left of the old life that I couldn't give it up. I stayed still and waited, allowing her to examine it with her eyes and fingers, until she sat back on her heels.

She folded her forearms together under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and moved them gently from side to side, as if rocking a baby. Was she rocking a baby? Was this a universal sign?

I shook my head. "No," I said. "I don't have a baby."

She held her hand palm down at about her waist and then moved it up, marking three more imaginary spots. Then she raked her fingers through the air toward her, like Jane imitating an eagle.

The children. She wanted me to bring the children. A burst of alarm traveled from my crown to my toes.

I scrambled to my feet, and she jumped at my quick movement, a wild animal again. Now that I was standing, I could see the water had already come up very far; I'd stayed too long. I pointed at the ocean. "I have to go."

"Go," she repeated. Or perhaps commanded. It was impossible to say which.

She disappeared more quickly than I, somehow absorbed by the landscape. I was reduced to sliding and scrabbling as before, my misshapen shoes clutched awkwardly to my chest. I'd grown more agile with practice. My toes understood how to grip the stone, and I knew which routes would be free of treacherous slime and dead ends. Still, by the time I reached the final stretch through the water that would take me back to the safety of the beach, the waves were swelling as high as my chest. I a.s.sumed I would have to abandon my ruined shoes again, so I could use my hands to keep my balance or perhaps to swim. In the end, I held them easily over my head as I pushed through the water. My elation at having at last encountered the woman in the rocks seemed to be all I needed to carry me through.

As I strode toward our mountain far in the distance, I congratulated myself on drawing the elusive mermaid from her hiding place. I had discovered the ultimate treasure of this natural world, a human being who was as comfortable living among the stones as a crab. Still more exciting, I had enticed for myself a friend, someone who was in at least one essential way like me; she'd been separated from her people and was having to make her life as best she could at the edge of the earth. It was not until I had walked the whole of the beach and begun to climb the morro that I was struck by another thought: had I lured her or she me?

Oskar took copious notes on all that I reported about the woman's appearance and gestures. He'd not been happy when I'd produced my shoes.

"It's no good her giving you your own things back. What can we learn from that?"

"She knows who I am. She's been watching me. That must be important."

"That's just personal," he said. "Don't you realize how much bigger she is than that? This woman is the remnant of a lost culture. You saw how it was from the train; people like us have spread all over this country like dandelions, choking out those who've lived here for tens of centuries. She may be all that's left. The only evidence of a former, more primitive phase of humanity that can never be experienced again."

He asked me to sketch her from memory. After his reaction to the shoes, I decided to omit the corset.

"I think she wants me to bring the children to her." I said this tentatively, keeping my eyes on my sketch. I hoped his reaction might help me decide how to respond to this notion.

"I'm not sure if that's a good idea. We don't want them influencing her, teaching her to behave like little Crawleys. On the other hand, it might be enlightening to see what she does with them."

"What she does with them!" This sounded alarmingly like Archie.

He shook his head, impatient with my fright. "I'm not suggesting she's going to cook and eat them. I mean observing her with them will help us discover aspects of her. Is she childlike-does she want to play with them? Or does she mean to teach them some skill? Does she plan to give something to them, some token of herself, or is there something they have that she wants? Those are just some possibilities."

I thought of the way her fingers had worked through the air in the gesture of beckoning. Although I knew she possessed no real powers, there was something of the sorceress in her wild costume and her cape of hair, in her very existence. I imagined that somehow the children could feel the tug of her. I certainly could.

CHAPTER 30.

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Oskar resumed his shift at the light. Now that he could walk more than a few feet at a time, he began pestering me to take him into the rocks. I was to guide him first to the tide pool where I'd found the amulet (the place I considered "our" tide pool, meaning Helen's and mine) and then to her cave. I was to bring a logbook as well, so I could make a complete record in words and pictures of everything we observed. This would be important work, he explained, that we could do together.

"And we have to go early. I can't move fast, so we must have plenty of time. Tell Euphemia you're canceling school because you need to get on with your catalog."

I remained uncertain about exposing the cave to Oskar. I did want to share this wonder with him. I could imagine no one appreciating it more. After all, he'd been eager to share with me all the wonders he'd observed. But my connection to Helen relied on stillness and waiting; I didn't think Oskar was capable of that.

Nevertheless, he would go. I couldn't hope that he would break another leg. If he were to go crashing around the rocks, better that I be with him.

We used the steam donkey to get down the morro; that was simple enough. As usual, I removed my shoes and stockings at the bottom. Oskar stood beside me, waiting, repeatedly plunging a walking stick he'd made from a piece of driftwood into the sand to mark his impatience.

"It's easier to walk here with bare feet," I explained.

"Maybe for you, who've been doing it for months, but my feet aren't accustomed to it."

The going was tedious. The uneven, dry sand was a labor to cross even for a person with two good legs, so Oskar had to plant his stick deep with every step. By the time we reached the packed sand, his face was twisted with the effort of coaxing his injured limb to rise and fall through the soft stuff and to bear his weight, and his forehead was slick with sweat. Even on the harder surface, his leg was obviously paining him.

"Maybe we should wait another week or so," I suggested.

He shook his head without taking his eyes off the distant rocks that were our goal, and kept doggedly on.

It was difficult to slow my pace to match his. I couldn't skim along as I usually did but frequently had to catch myself and wait, dragging rainbows in the sand with my toes to relieve my taut muscles. Physically trying as the experience was, I welcomed the delay, hoping that our window of tide might close before we reached it. Helen would be safe from his fierce scrutiny, at least for some time longer.

But the water was shallow, and once we'd stumbled through it and reached the rough and uneven rocks beyond, Oskar became surprisingly agile, using his hands to climb like a monkey. In some areas, he could move faster than I. To save the soles of my feet, I had to skirt the cl.u.s.ters of mussels and colonies of periwinkles with their sharp little peaks, but he walked right over them in his heavy shoes.

"Be careful!" I called as he started over a rock packed with the pursed mouths of closed anemones. "You'll crush the animals." He was far enough ahead to pretend he hadn't heard me.

At the purple pool, I searched the surrounding shadows diligently, but Helen was nowhere near, or she was keeping herself well hidden, wary of Oskar. He couldn't stay ahead of me for long, because he had no idea where he was going, at least until we entered the narrow channel that led directly to the cave. There, we started out together; as the pa.s.sage between the rocks steadily narrowed, we brushed against each other, knocking first shoulders, then hips. At last the pa.s.sage became so tight that we couldn't walk abreast. Though I ought to have been the one to step into the lead, he pushed forward, not roughly but with an insistence that I couldn't challenge without becoming ridiculous. He went ahead into the funnel while I fell back farther and farther, as every few steps I stopped to scan the rocks. There was no sign of her.

When I caught up with him, he was standing at the entrance to the cave, peering into that dim s.p.a.ce. I could see he was overwhelmed at the scene that was now familiar to me. The tools she'd fashioned of stone and bone and the sh.e.l.l bowls filled with acorns and seaweeds were arranged in their places along the base of the walls. Strings of abalone and mussel sh.e.l.ls were looped, as always, over bits of protruding rock. The sealskins stretched, impossibly rich, over the floor.

"This is marvelous," Oskar breathed. "She is a real Indian."

"Of course she is."

"I wasn't sure. What do you and the Crawleys know of Indians?"

I wanted to retort that I doubted he knew any more than I, but I couldn't bring myself to speak as arrogantly as he. "We had Indians in Wisconsin."

"Not wild ones."

"Helen's not exactly wild, either." I used her name, reminding him that I knew her better.

"That's not really her name," he said.

Standing there with Oskar, staring at the accoutrements of her life, felt all at once like an intrusion, and I stepped back. "I'm not sure-" I began. "Oskar! Stop!"

He'd walked into the cave.

I was sincerely shocked. Although the place had no real door, even the children had known to hang back. How dare he breach her walls? Instinctively, I looked over my shoulders, right and then left. Was she watching him? Us?

"Oskar, come out!"

"Just a moment." His boots trampled the sealskin.

"You shouldn't be in there."

"Why not?"

"It's her home. You're trespa.s.sing."

"I'm not hurting anything."

But he was fingering everything. Not only fingering but palming. I saw him slip something into his pocket.

"You can't take that!" I plunged into the cave myself, the sealskin on the soles of my bare feet as soft as my mother's blue velvet drapes. Already he'd lifted another item, a string of rocks, green like Chinese jade. I grabbed his wrist, and he turned on me.

"These are important artifacts," he said.

"No! These are hers!"

He didn't answer, but he must have heard the shrill horror in my voice, because he looked startled, as if I'd woken him from a dream. "You're right. Of course you're right. We shouldn't disturb her things." He let me take his arm and lead him back through the entrance until we were standing outside again. He looked about uncertainly, chastened by what he'd done but unwilling to leave the spot. "I tell you what we'll do. We'll just sit here outside the door, and you draw everything you can see. A sketch of the whole and then studies of some of the more detailed items. That would be all right, wouldn't it? Look at those baskets, for instance. See how fine the weave is?" He pointed to a large round one near the entrance. "This jagged pattern-I bet it's unique to her tribe. I wonder if it's meant to symbolize water."

Although I was still angry with Oskar, I felt more comfortable now that we were outside the cave, and I didn't see how sketching was any different from staring, which I'd indulged in often enough. I began the project grudgingly, grumbling at the hardness of my rocky seat, the inadequacy of the light, and the difficulty of the angle, but once I began to sketch, the hours became among the best I had ever spent with Oskar. We reveled in the spectacle before us and felt transported by it, as if we were again viewing the panorama of Athens. As my drawing grew, Oskar studied it in relation to the scene, praising my use of perspective and pointing out details he thought should be emphasized-the texture of the baskets, the arrangement of what appeared to be fishhooks in a length of leather on the wall. He guided me to look so closely and methodically that I noticed details I'd overlooked on my own. While most of the baskets, for instance, had a dark design worked on a light background, on a few this pattern was reversed, as if she'd been trying an experiment or, as Oskar suggested, sometimes had access to different materials. He encouraged me to include every facet of every object, but he stopped me when I began to pencil in the pyramid of canned goods.

"Leave those out," he said. "They shouldn't be there."

"But they are there," I insisted stubbornly.

I could tell she treasured the cans and had arranged them with care. I had a notion that they, along with the neatly folded Lighthouse Service blanket, might be as important to her as the blue velvet drapes were to my mother and the wooden teeth were to Euphemia. It felt wrong to eliminate them.

"They're imposed on her," Oskar said. "They're not authentic."

I obeyed his wishes-after all, the drawing had been his idea-though I marked the placement of these objects in my mind, planning to do another copy for myself.

From time to time, Oskar moved around, studying the evidence of Helen's life outside the cave. He pressed his fingertips against the fish scales that dusted the rocks, and when he held up his hand, his skin glittered as if covered in sequins.