Perdita (4 page)

“I can't imagine how you've managed to stay single for so long,” I
ventured.

“I've sometimes wondered the same of you,” she said abruptly, picking up her wineglass. “You at least got very close—” Then she caught herself and flushed. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. You must
think—”

“I only think it's wonderful to see you after all these
years.”

Just then a moth hit the screen with a loud thud, and Mars sprang to his feet, snarling fiercely. Clare grabbed his collar, and then, crouching down, she began to growl loudly in his
ear.

“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, taken
aback.

“Showing him I'm the
alpha
dog. It's a new way—you know, a new technique to get your dog to obey
you.”

I had to laugh. Her slender wrists and hands seemed no match for the dog's
power.

“I felt a little silly at first,” she explained, “but Douglas says that I'm to keep at it. Dad, of course, thinks it's all
ridiculous.”

Mars hesitated, submitting to the “new technique” for half a second, but he was clearly in the throes of a forceful
instinct.

“Do you mind if I try the old-fashioned way?” Clare looked at me doubtfully. “Stay,” I commanded sternly. Mars froze, but remained on his feet. “Stay.” This time I said it in a quieter tone, but still
firmly.

Mars immediately sat
down.

Clare looked at me, tilting her head to one side and smiling whimsically. “You know, Douglas is paying all this money to some trainer who's teaching him how to growl properly. I can't wait to tell him about
this!”

“I was merely protecting my property,” I protested. “Mars looks like he could take that screen out in a single
bound.”

We both took a few sips of wine. I could tell that she was growing a little edgy—but was she eager to get back to her cottage or reluctant to leave? She wandered over to my desk, her hands lightly touching my
chair.

I stood up and offered to help her open up the
cottage.

“Are you sure?” She flashed me a grateful smile. “I hope you don't think I'm rude. I'd like to stay and chat, but I'm anxious to get organized. I feel bad imposing on you like
this.”

I walked over to my desk and carefully picked up Marged Brice's diaries. I felt her eyes following me as I locked them in a
drawer.

“I'm not keeping you from something, am
I?”

I assured her that it would keep until
tomorrow.

“Those looked like very old books,” she said as we walked down the
steps.

I nodded and then smiled—remembering how she'd always wanted to know what Doug and I were up to. He'd teased her mercilessly about
it.

“Do you mind me asking what they are?” She paused at the bottom
step.

“They're diaries.” I kept my expression noncommittal. “They belong to a woman who claims to be one hundred and thirty-four years old, and she's asked me to read
them.”

Clare looked at me closely, then she slowly grinned, her eyes sparkling. “I'm not quite as gullible as I used to be, Professor Hellyer. At least that's one thing that's
changed.”

“I'm sorry, it's all
I have. I've still got to get groceries: thank goodness Mum made me a care package! I dearly hope it's not a false rumor that you like
this.”

Clare was taking one of her mother's chicken potpies out of the
oven.

“Did she make it for me?” I was
surprised.

“Well, yes,” Clare said slowly. “I mean, Mum said
if
you were up, I was to give it to you. You do like it, don't
you?”

I said I was a very willing recipient of anything Donna might cook
up.

“Besides, it's the least I can do,” Clare continued briskly. “You spent all day helping me. I wouldn't have running water if it weren't for you. Dad and Douglas always dealt with that pump. I should have paid more
attention.”

I took the plates from her while she fetched two glasses. “Let's eat out on the deck,” she suggested. “It's such a glorious
evening.”

Clare barely touched her food, but watched me swallow several mouthfuls. “So you weren't pulling my leg yesterday,” she began, “when you said Miss Brice is one hundred and thirty-four years
old.”

“She claims she's one hundred and thirty-four,” I corrected. “But she's probably in her
nineties.”

“Why would she lie?” Clare looked at me doubtfully. “I thought women always fibbed the other way around—about being younger than they really
are.”

“I'm sure it's just a mix-up. It's probably someone else's birth
certificate.”

“Why are you so
certain?”

“Well, for one thing, it's extremely unlikely anyone could live that
long.”

“Is there a maximum age that we can live to, then?”

I explained that our genes tended to give up on us after we reached eighty, largely because we were pretty much irrelevant to survival of the species by that point. Then I told her the oldest person on record was a French woman who'd lived to be 122 years
old.

“One hundred and twenty-two!”

I smiled at her puzzled expression. She had placed her elbows on the table and was resting her chin in her hands as she looked out across the Bay. “Do you think there's a secret to longevity?” she asked. “Maybe it's your diet—or stress levels, or something like
that.”

“The best advice for longevity I ever heard was from Li Ching-Yuen.”

“Who?”

“He was a Chinese herbalist. Rumor has it that he was born in 1736, but others placed his birth at 1677. He died in 1933, so he was either one hundred and ninety-seven or two hundred and fifty-six years
old.”

“You're
joking!”

I shook my head. “No. Of course his age was never
verified.”

“Did he ever share his secret formula for longevity? No doubt it involved
ginseng.”

“No ginseng, but Li Ching said that a person must do three things.” I waited for a few seconds, swallowing a mouthful of
pie.

“Well?”

I cleared my throat and assumed a solemn expression. “He said we should sit like a tortoise, walk sprightly like a pigeon, and sleep like a
dog.”

Clare burst out laughing. “Garth Hellyer! I am totally inured to Douglas's teasing, but
you—”

“I kid you not. That's exactly what he
said.”

She pushed her plate aside, still grinning. “It's probably very good advice, then. Don't some animals grow to be very old, too? I seem to remember something about a whale that was two hundred years
old.”

I nodded. “That's right, a bowhead whale. They found harpoons from the 1860s in the carcass, and then tissue tests showed it was even
older.”

“I wonder if your Miss Brice swallowed a button or something like that when she was little?” she mused. “You know, a distinctly late nineteenth-century button. Or a coin with the date stamped on it. Then maybe you could x-ray
her.”

I smiled, saying that she'd make an excellent longevity
sleuth.

“At least you have her diaries,” she said, shooing Mars away from the table. “Surely they'll help you clear up who she
is.”

“I don't think the diaries are actually hers.” I watched her fill up my water glass. “But I've agreed to read them. And since she seems a bit anxious about it, I'll probably start
tonight.”

Then I thought of something. “Clare, you were an English major, weren't you? When I spoke with her, Miss Brice kept mentioning a name. Perdita.”

“Perdita. That's from Shakespeare's
The
Winter's
Tale.”

“Do you remember it?” I took another mouthful of the pie, determined that she send Donna a good report. “Even the bare bones of the plot might help
me.”

“Oh, I know the story quite well. It's a rather complicated plot, but the story begins with a jealous king: King Leontes of Sicilia. He accuses his beautiful and virtuous wife of having an affair with another king—Polixenes—who happens to be visiting. Queen Hermione is innocent, but the king doesn't believe
her.”

I slipped Mars a piece of crust and surreptitiously dropped a wedge of chicken for Farley by my
foot.

“The jealous king unsuccessfully tries to poison his suspected rival,” Clare continued, “and he throws poor Queen Hermione into prison. He then sends emissaries to the Oracle of Delphi to verify his suspicions. In the meantime, Hermione has a baby in prison, and her maid, Paulina, brings it to the king, hoping that he will soften at the sight of the
baby.”

“And does
he?”

“That would make things much too easy! King Leontes is furious, convinced it's not his child, and sends the baby off with his servant, Antigonus—ordering him to get rid of
it.”

“I'm assuming the baby
survives?”

“Yes. Antigonus leaves the infant on the coast of Bohemia—with a nice, big bag of gold—and she is rescued by a kindhearted shepherd and given the name Perdita. Her name means the ‘lost
one.'”

“Don't tell me this all has a happy
ending.”

“Oh, Shakespeare was pretty skilled at reconciling the impossible threads of an impossible
plot!”

“Go on,” I said, intrigued by the idea of a “lost” child.

“Well, much to the king's consternation, the Oracle confirms that the queen and Polixenes are innocent. Then Paulina tells him that his wife has died in prison. The king is heartbroken and terribly remorseful. He also learns his son has just died and now he will have no heir unless the daughter he has just abandoned is found. It gets even more complicated
but—”

“Maybe you should just tell me what happens to
Perdita.”

“Perdita grows up to be a beautiful young woman. Her true identity as a princess is eventually revealed, and she's reunited with her
parents.”

“Reunited? With a father who wanted to get rid of her? And I thought her mother was
dead.”

“Oh, His Royal Highness is very, very sorry for all his
misdeeds…”

“Ah, the remorse of
tyrants!”

“…and as for the Queen, she was never
really
dead, but hidden away by her faithful maid. Perdita eventually marries a handsome prince, Florizel, who also happens to be the son of
Polixenes—”

“Good grief!” I interrupted. “What a
plot!”

Clare laughed and began gathering up the plates. “It's actually a wonderful play. I was in two productions of it at college. I played Perdita as a frosh and then Hermione in my senior
year.”

“Two leading roles!” I was impressed. “Which did you like
better?”

“I don't know,” she said, suddenly stopping. “You know, I've never asked myself that question before.” She looked past me, frowning. “There's a truly wonderful scene at the very end; in the garden of Paulina's house. Queen Hermione appears as a statue, and at the sight of her, King Leontes falls to his knees, wildly distraught and deeply repentant. But much to his joy, she comes to life…” She
hesitated.

“And forgives him,” I finished for
her.

Clare shrugged her shoulders. “That, however, is only Shakespeare's Perdita.” She smiled archly. “Of course you
must
remember Pongo and
Perdita.”

“Who?”

“Perdita from
101 Dalmatians
, Pongo's mate.” Clare looked at me impishly. “Don't you remember her? Really, Shakespeare is one thing, but not knowing your Disney! Now, that's
inexcusable.”

I got up to hold the screen door open for
her.

“I should let you get to those journals,” she said over her shoulder. “Otherwise I'm going to feel guilty about keeping you from
them.”

“Those sound like marching
orders.”

“Not at all. And thank you so much for your help today. At least that pie will fortify you for the task ahead. I can take some comfort in
that.”

We both walked back out to the deck and she looked up at me, holding my gaze for a few seconds. “Her eyes aren't as piercingly blue as Marged's,” I thought, but I liked their softness
better.

“I think I'll leave the rest of my unpacking until tomorrow,” she said, stifling a yawn. “My plan is to add to my longevity by sleeping like a dog tonight, but I suppose you'll be sitting like a tortoise with those
diaries.”

“Yes, I'll be up for a few hours—but only after a sprightly-as-a-pigeon walk with
Farley.”

Mars followed me down the steps, and I played a quick game of fetch with him on the beach while Farley watched. After several minutes of ordering Farley to “come” and then scolding him for refusing to obey, I finally picked him up and carried him over the rocks, telling myself that at least I had discovered one of Farley's secrets for extending
his
longevity.

I thought longingly of bed, but I knew that I had to get to Marged Brice's
journals.

I poured myself a glass of scotch and sat down at my
desk.

Cape Prius—1897

April 16

At last our supplies have
arrived!

I ran to get Father as soon as I saw the boat. Uncle Gil came, too, when he heard my cries for Tad. Both of them were so relieved, and Auntie Alis almost started to cry as we unpacked the crates. I had not been aware that our stores were so very low. She said this has been the worst year yet because the road was impassable, even to Mr. Brown's farm. I do not think it likely that we will ever try to winter here
again.

Tonight we had some of the bacon, and it was lovely not to have the aftertaste of vinegar in my mouth. I did not notice just how awful it was until today when we partook of our fresh provisions. Even Mother seemed to smile a little. I am sure that when she closed her eyes, it was not so much a savoring of its wonderful flavor, but more that she was giving a prayer of thanksgiving for our
deliverance.

I am so glad that winter is finally ending. There are still bits of ice in the Bay, and it still looks very cold. But the long stretches of silence are gone. That long, deep, frozen silence that the winter brings and now the water is moving again and making so much
noise.

Indeed, I am grateful to hear the water roaring again. For days it has been only the wind, dry and bitterly cold, moving about us as if the world were a great hollow place. The wind becomes such a rogue in the winter—or perhaps I am too harsh. Perhaps it is only lonely, left behind in restless, unending motion while the others sleep, oblivious to the dreary, bitter months of
cold.

April 17

After supper I took the path down through the forest and out to the Basin to watch the lights on the boats. There are four anchored there tonight, each with a lantern fore and aft. They are setting up their camps on the shore, and then the men will be up early in the morning and off out into the Bay
fishing.

In the darkness, I sometimes feel like an animal observing them, hidden from their view and my obscurity gives me a certain sense of…powerful invisibility, though I surprise myself in expressing it thus. The boats seem so safe in the Basin, like children nestled cozily in bed while the wind roars beyond the channel and howls at its own impotence to reach them. Indeed, I could hear the surf pounding beyond the Point; it seems just a stone's throw from the boats and their tranquillity. How fragile does their peaceful repose look from my
vantage!

It is still bitter cold in the evenings, and I borrowed Auntie Alis's gray shawl to keep me warm. I love the sound of my skirts swishing through the dry grasses—as if I grow here, too, and am a part of this place, its flesh and blood. They were having a bonfire on the shore, near the Lodge, but I could not hear any voices. Sometimes it is so still I can hear a single whisper, but that won't be until later in the summer. Now everything is thawing and stirring and returning to life in a grand cacophony of
whispers.

I cut Father's hair today—a sure sign that the summer season is coming. His hands are dreadful, filthy from the paraffin, and they smell dreadful, too. They will be like that for the next seven months. He and Uncle Gil have been cleaning and cleaning and getting the Light ready. I helped them with the glass, but honestly I know they came and polished again after me. Uncle Gil handed me an enormous pile of rags to be washed, and I have hidden half of them from Auntie A. She will begin her complaining, and then we will have seven months of that, too!

I begged Tad to let me trim his mustache. I can hardly see his mouth. But of course he will not let me. Tad is very particular about his mustache, and no one will ever be able to persuade him to grow a beard. Mother does not like them. That's what he told me, and I am somehow pleased that he should still think of her wishes. He is always so kind to her—especially since her seizure—so gentle and
attentive.

I love my Tad's face. He ever seems to be smiling, and his eyes twinkle so. Maybe Tad's mustache hides his sadness, but to us he is always bright and safe and sturdy. This winter we almost ran out of food, but he never once betrayed any anxiety. I only knew of his worry when the supply ship came yesterday and I saw him bent over the table, his shoulders twitching slightly. The ice was so terrible this year! I don't know how the men came through it, but Tad was grateful and they knew it, though they would not let him show his gratitude and they joked about the five skeletons they expected to find. Men are very fine sometimes—and sometimes very terrible, too.

Now Tad will be up all night—and Uncle Gil, as well. I shall have to be quiet in the mornings when he is asleep. I shall make Auntie walk with me and keep her from making noise, for she has grown a little clumsy with age—though I should never dare to even suggest such a thing. We will go to her little Luke's grave, and we shall make it tidy, and I think while she is praying I will make up a story for him, just as if he were a living boy. Auntie A. will like to go—it comforts her. And of course we can leave Mother quiet—she always is restful in the
mornings.

But I—I am so restless with all these familiar things! I will be nineteen this year. Will I spend all of my days here? Living through the seasons like a blade of grass or one of the rocks down below? I feel as if I am waiting for something to happen and all the world around is poised, expectant—and yet it is only the spring coming. And the boats, and the boaters from the city, and the fishermen… They all come year after year. And yet, why do I feel this expectancy—for something! For
someone?

April 24

Everyone is in such a foul temper today. The mantle would not light properly and Tad and Uncle G. have been growling at each other like two old dogs. Tad says Uncle Gil got the oil hot too quickly and Uncle G. is so sullen under criticism. Oh, they are like this every
spring!

The problem with everyone is that they get so…so preoccupied with that Light. It is such an exacting master. Or a spoiled child, I cannot decide. Tad wouldn't walk out with me to see the boats, and I so wanted him to see them. No doubt I shall have to spend all my evenings in the company of trees now that the Light must be tended, but of this I can hardly complain. I am sure the trees see and know everything. They will tell my thoughts to the wind, who will carry them to the Bay, and then they are taken everywhere, as far as the waves will travel. Sometimes I recite snippets of poems to them, and then I know it goes around the entire world, and every tree that is will hear it. And I think that perhaps they send their poems back to me…as if their swaying and stirring were a recitation. I like to think that this might be
so.

Am I too fanciful? I wonder if George would understand me? He might. Perhaps it is because he is a painter and I have seen his pictures of the trees and they are beautiful—though Auntie Alis says they don't look very much like trees at all and she can't imagine who in his right mind would pay good money for such things. She makes me laugh. Thank goodness for her! I sometimes think I would drift off up into the clouds and out to the stars if it weren't for her good sense. And she is so attached to Mother. She is never rough with her body. I caught a glimpse of them this morning, and she bathes her like a child, kind and yet no-nonsense either. Mother is ever docile in her hands. It has been almost two years since her seizure, and yet surely we must not lose hope, surely its effects are not permanent. If only she might speak
again!

Tad and I went over to Dr. Clowes to pick up our mail, and there was a letter for Mother from Montreal, from Aunt Louise, as it looked to be her handwriting. Flore had to pull us through a veritable bog, poor creature; the road is still almost impassible. The wagon swung about wildly, and Tad broke off some branches that got in our way. I put my hand on his arm to stop him; it just seems cruel to me, though he does not mean it so. Tad is a good
man.

It is just that the saplings are always curious to see us—that's why they get in the way. I am sure that when I was little, I must have bothered Mother countless times by hanging on to her skirts; it was such a habit of mine. But she has ever been so gentle with me. I can't imagine Auntie Alis putting up with such nonsense. But I do think that sometimes the wind pushes the branches in front of me, just to cause mischief and make me feel that they do not want me to be here among them. Oh, the wind can be difficult. It is the one I understand the least. At times it truly hates me—I feel it so. Sometimes I put out my arms to catch it, just to say that I am not like those cruel men, but it won't let
me.

April 28

I went out to the Point today—unaccountable occurrence! At first the wind was gentle, as if it were pleased to see me. But then, suddenly, it stopped and there was a strange stillness, as if there were some awkwardness between myself and the Bay. I grew constrained and anxious, and then without any warning, the wind came back but with such force it knocked me
down.

It swept up my skirts and pushed back my hair—so vehement did it rush at me that I began to scramble toward the trees. But then I stopped and turned, asking it why it was so rough with me. It seemed almost ashamed and quieted
instantly.

I sat there for some time, eyeing the Bay—somehow we are changed to each other this year. Perhaps it is just me that is changing, or perhaps I have become a little altered to it. I cannot explain it. But I felt it there, in our contemplation of each other. As if I am no longer a
child…

I do not wish to remain a child, and yet my heart cried out to it that I was not changed, that I loved it still and could never bear to part with
it!

May 1

More boats were supposed to come today, and Mr. Samuels was here from town. He brought Tad his usual supply of tobacco, and after a very long inspection and much frowning, Auntie A. agreed to purchase a new kettle. Then Mr. Samuels teased Tad and said that he had better not fall asleep but keep the Light going these next few nights because he heard at Owen Sound that Mr. Clarkson has become president of the Lake Carriers Association and will send out his boats no matter what the weather bodes. Indeed, Tad would never fall asleep and leave the Light unattended! Besides, he and Uncle Gilbert share the shifts, and even Auntie Alis and I are ever thinking of it. Living here as we do, not one of us can escape the Light, not for an instant. Sometimes it oppresses me. Last night I watched its revolutions flickering in my mirror until I fell asleep. I fancied that it was the piece of coal that Prometheus stole and that Zeus will see it and remember the theft afresh—and send us terrible, vengeful storms this
summer.

I am glad that we have our own cottage and that Auntie A. and Uncle Gil are in the lighthouse. It seems like a great, towering beast to me sometimes, and I do not like to go into it—as if it swallows us alive. And then the chains and the rasping of the crank as Tad mounts the weights—it sounds like grating teeth and cracking
jaws!

Mr. Samuels stayed for supper and told us of many accidents and fires because of boat collisions down at the docks. He said that last week the wind broke the moorings of the
Beverley
when the crew was still on board and that the tug had a hard time pulling her back, but the men were rescued from certain death. He says lots of boats have been drifting because of the strong currents. Mr. S. doesn't approve of the private yachts—he says that they should be prohibited from the commercial docks because they are such a menace. The Stewarts' boat is the
Coup
de
Grâce
; it hasn't arrived yet. I am relieved. The waters are still too
dangerous.

Mr. Samuels thinks the Three Sisters are in a fearsome mood, having fought with one another all winter under the ice, and that there will be more than one terrible storm this summer. That's what the men call the huge waves that sometimes sink their boats, but I think they must be thinking of the Erinyes—the three Furies that came of Gaia and the blood of Ouranos. I am sure they must be the same. The men here think that it is their story, but I know that it belonged to the Greeks long ago. When I was little, one of the fishermen told me the Three Sisters are filled with a jealous hatred of each other, and that as one sister comes crashing down upon a boat, the others follow, coveting the vessel. But the other two come so fast behind the first that it gives the boat no time to steady itself—each sister trying to outdo the other in force and
damage.

But it strikes me that perhaps I am wrong; perhaps they are the three Graiae sharing only one eye. Then it would be blindness and frustration, jealousy of the one who has the eye, and not the inexorable punishment of the Furies, that drive the sister waves to act thus. And yet, as such, still they are to be
feared.

I think I have felt them—when I am swimming out farther than I should, out to where the waves get rough and then mistake me for a sea creature because no human should dare to swim out so far into the
Bay.

Sometimes I imagine the Three Sisters, tied to each other as if cursed to do so long ago, and doomed eternally to stay bound together. Three temperaments, each nursing a great jealousy, and then the other two must follow the first's fury, adding her own. And always, not one, but three occasions for rage. No wonder there are so many storms in this Bay—my wonderful, dangerous
Bay.

But this means that the boats are not likely to come today. Nor tomorrow perhaps. I wonder if he has changed since the fall. I am sorely aware that my imagination has created a form where only an outline was. His absence has prompted me to give him characteristics that perhaps are of my own
making.

Sometimes I am appalled by how foolish I can
be.

May 5

I am so provoked! Auntie Alis should stop her teasing. She says that I speak too freely and that a woman must bide her words around men, and that sometimes it is best to let a man find his own words without a woman interfering. Tad said nothing! I cannot believe it! Besides, those men are such great fools; Donald Brown is the worst of all of them, and I am sickened that Auntie should urge me to favor
him.