The Secret of Sentinel Rock (4 page)

Suddenly remembering her encounter with Emma from the day before, Emily threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. Crawling onto the broad window ledge, she peered across the meadow towards the outcropping of rocks. She couldn’t see any sign of the other girl, but then realized she probably wouldn’t from here. She’d have to go to the rock and somehow find a way to slip into the past again. The idea half scared, half excited her, spurring her into a frenzy of activity. Would she be able to find Emma today? Or had she just imagined everything the day ­before?

Emily yanked on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt she’d left draped over the trunk at the foot of her bed. Then she raced downstairs into the kitchen where her mother was busy buttering ­toast.

When Emily detected only the faint lingering aroma of coffee, she knew her mother had been up for ages. Her dark hair, flecked with grey, was tied back, although little wisps had escaped, and she was wearing her ­“let’s-­get-­the-­job-­done-­right-­now” sweatsuit. The kitchen was glistening and ­tidy.

Kate looked up and smiled as Emily slid onto a chair at the table. “My, you got down here quick this morning,” she said, setting the plate of toast in front of her daughter. “Did you have a good sleep, Em?”

Emily nodded. She could hardly wait to finish eating and head outdoors. Then she decided perhaps it would be best to act casual. She knew if she seemed overanxious to leave the house her mother would become suspicious and it would take too long to explain everything. Besides, her mother wouldn’t believe her story ­anyway.

“You certainly needed a good rest. These past couple of weeks have been tough for you, haven’t they?”

A pang of sadness clutched at Emily’s middle. Shifting the crumbs around on her plate with her fingers, she thought again of her grandmother’s funeral the day before. Suddenly the toast seemed dry, and Emily found it hard to ­swallow.

“Your dad said to say ­good-­bye. You were still sleeping when he left at six,” Kate said, pouring Emily a glass of ­milk.

Emily washed the lumps of toast down, and nodded in ­response.

“This morning we have to run into Glenavon and get some boxes. We have to start packing away your grandmother’s things,” her mother said. “Gerald Ferguson should be here soon to pick us up.”

“Aw, Mom. Do we have to do it today?” Emily couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It would take ages before she could look for Emma. And wasn’t her mother rushing things a little? “Couldn’t we leave it for a few days? It doesn’t seem right somehow going through all of Grandma’s things so soon.”

“The sooner the better, Em. I just want to get it over with.” Kate wiped smudges off the door of the fridge. “Besides, we have to get back to the city. You have school next week and I have an advertising business to run, remember? And we’ll both have a lot of catching up to do.”

Emily tried another tactic. “Mom, could I stay here while you go into town?”

“Certainly not, Emily. It’ll go quicker if you help.” Kate picked up Emily’s plate and glass and rinsed them under the tap. “Your father will be back this weekend to take us home, so we need to get as much done as we can.” She began loading the dishwasher. “Your aunt Liz can only help for a couple of days. She’ll be back this afternoon. The time will pass fast enough until the auction this summer.”

“Auction?” Emily looked in surprise at her ­mother.

Kate straightened up and turned to Emily. “Yes, of course, we have to have an auction. We can’t just leave everything here when we sell the place.”

“What do you mean? Aren’t you keeping the farm?”

“Certainly not. Who would run it?” her mother asked in surprise. “Your uncle Andrew is too old. And his sons all have farms of their own – too far away from here to make it worth their while.”

Emily was stunned. She had never dreamed the farm would be sold. She knew, of course, that her parents and most of her aunts and uncles were either retired or had jobs in various cities, but how could they give up the farm where they’d grown ­up?

“What about Uncle Ian?” Emily blurted out with sudden inspiration. He was ­semi-­retired, but not too old to ­farm.

Kate snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Em. He’s never been interested in farming in his life.”

“Couldn’t we just keep renting the land to Mr. Ferguson and visit here once in awhile?”

“No, Emily,” her mother said in exasperation. “The decision has already been made.”

“Why can’t we keep the farm?” Emily whined, hating herself for doing so, but unable to stop. She knew how much it irritated her ­mother.

“We’re selling the farm. End of discussion.” Kate polished the table with ­vigour.

Emily stood stiffly across the room, noting that her mother wouldn’t even look at her. She felt hot tears forming and quickly grabbed a tea towel off the hook by the stove to wipe her eyes. They just couldn’t sell the farm! She loved it ­here.

Her mother’s voice broke through her misery. “Let’s get a move on. Gerald will be here any moment.”

Just then she heard the crunch of gravel and the squeal of brakes as a vehicle slowed for the turn into their farmyard. Emily ran to wash her face, struggling to compose ­herself.

Plans for finding Emma had been pushed from Emily’s mind completely during the last agonizing minutes of the conversation with her mother, but they returned in full force as she slammed the door after getting into Gerald Ferguson’s truck. Emily stared across the pasture. She was still determined to get to the rock sometime today. If Emma was there, well and good. If not, she had plenty to think about at her favourite ­spot.

•••

In fact,
it was late afternoon
before Emily managed to escape the clutches of her mother and Aunt Liz. They were forever finding something for her to do. They’d decided to start by sorting through things in the end bedroom on the second floor. Their plan was to work their way back towards the stairwell and then do the ­attic.

Mechanically, Emily followed their instructions, her mind elsewhere. She was trying to come to terms with everything that had been going on in her life lately. Never seeing Grandmother Renfrew again was devastating enough. Now the added blow of being unable to come to the farm once it was sold was awful. When she added the strange events of the day before to her already spinning thoughts, she felt totally overwhelmed. Somehow she managed to carry out her mother and aunt’s ­directions.

“Put these into the hallway please, Emily.” Her mother pointed to two huge garbage bags piled in one corner of the ­room.

Her mind still in a fog, Emily crossed the room. She groaned as she lifted the bags. “These are heavy. What’s in them anyway?”

“Material scraps – for quilting.”

“Quilting? All this?”

“Yes. Your grandmother never threw anything away,” said Aunt Liz, with a wry smile. “She was one of the best quilters around this area too.”

Emily knew this was true. Grandmother Renfrew had repeatedly won first prizes for her quilting at the country fairs in the district. Her garden produce and wild berry preserves often brought home ribbons, ­too.

Emily half dragged, half carried the bags through the doorway. When she returned, her mother had opened the closet door and was handing down quilts and blankets from the top ­shelf.

“Oh, look, Em,” said her mother, unwrapping a quilt from its clear plastic bag. “Here’s what’s left of your grandmother’s first patchwork quilt. She made it when she was ten years old.”

Emily looked at it in amazement. She felt her throat tighten as she gently fingered the worn fabric. “Look at the tiny stitches – and all the different materials she used.”

“These are all swatches from her family’s clothing. She called it her ‘crazy family quilt,’” said Aunt Liz from the other side of the room. “Considering all the relatives, I’d say that was an apt name.”

Kate chuckled in agreement, refolding the coverlet gently and returning it to the bag. Emily headed towards the doorway, planning to get ­away.

“My goodness, I don’t think Mom has had these rooms housecleaned for years,” said Aunt Liz, patting her permed ­grey-­blonde hair while surveying the mess scattered around the ­room.

“There’s more to do than I figured,” Emily’s mother agreed, eyeing the stack of cartons crammed inside the closet. “I think it’ll take longer than we expected to get ready for the auction.”

Emily stopped short. “You’re not going to get rid of all of Grandma’s stuff are you?”

Her mother and Aunt Liz exchanged glances. “Well, not everything,” Kate said. “We’ll give some to the family. But once the farm’s sold there won’t be anywhere to keep most of it.”

“You can’t – you just can’t sell Grandma’s farm.” Her protest came out a little louder than she ­expected.

“We’ve already been over this, Emily,” Kate said ­quietly.

“I’m afraid we have to, sweetie,” said Aunt Liz in her soft, sure ­voice.

Emily stood in the doorway, fighting back tears. How would she stand not being able to come and visit the farm? All the memories of her grandmother were here. As far back as she could remember, Emily had gone wandering over the land with her. She sagged against the door ­frame.

Through a film of tears Emily watched her mother and Aunt Liz drag a bulky box into the centre of the room. They sneezed as they wiped a layer of dust off the ­top.

“Be a dear, and run downstairs and bring up the dusting rag, please, Emily,” her mother requested, without turning around. They opened the box and started laying old purses and scarves out on the bed. “Oh, and bring the broom and dustpan too.”

Emily turned and plodded ­robot-­fashion the length of the hallway, using her sleeves to wipe her eyes. There had to be a way to keep the farm. Clumping down the stairs, Emily could hear the two women chattering to one another. She stopped on the landing and looked out the narrow window. Brilliant sunlight flooded the ­meadow.

All Emily could think about was being able to spend as much time as possible out there. Somehow she had to convince her mother not to sell. She needed time to think everything through. Maybe if she hurried, they’d let her go. And maybe Emma would even be there. Although by now, Emily was having serious doubts about what she remembered of ­yesterday.

She ran downstairs, grabbed the cleaning tools, and scurried back up again, hoping to be excused. But her mother had other plans. Emily continued to trot up and down the stairs most of the afternoon, feeling more and more ­miserable.

When at last they released her, Emily’s head ached and she was exhausted, but as she hurried across the greening pasture she felt a spurt of energy push her forward. The sun slanted low in the pallid sky, illuminating tiny flowers brightening among the tufts of grass. An occasional bird flitted overhead, but Emily hardly took note. She felt numb from the emotions of the day, and weary from her mother and aunt’s constant commands. Regardless, she was still determined to see if she could find Emma. She scanned the rocks ahead. No sign of her, but then Emily didn’t really expect to see Emma yet. Maybe she wouldn’t be there. Or maybe she’d never ­existed.

Emily was almost out of breath by the time she scrambled up the last few feet of the incline to the huge rock. Circling around the back, she again found the familiar toeholds and ledges. She could feel the soreness in her leg muscles as she climbed. Cautiously she ascended and swung herself over the top ledge. But Emma wasn’t there. And the landscape hadn’t changed. She was still in the ­present.

She grimaced. How foolish could she be? Did she really think she’d made friends with a pioneer girl yesterday? It must have been some trick of her overtired mind. She chuckled softly to herself, but the humour of her situation quickly faded, turning to helplessness and then despair. Emily began to weep. She felt shattered, like a fragile crystal that had crashed to the floor. Everything she loved and cared for was being stripped ­away.

Spent at last, her body limp, Emily settled herself on her stomach overlooking the edge of the rock and scanned the coulee. She perched her chin in her hands with her elbows propped on the rock. Through puffy eyes she could see a green mist of buds veiling the branches of the willow bluff to her right. And she was sure there were more crocuses blooming than the day before. A couple of gophers ran in and out of their holes, and she thought she detected the scent of early mint in the air. She breathed deeply, and the fresh air, like a healing balm, calmed ­her.

As the afternoon sun warmed her back, Emily rested her head on her folded arms. In the distance she watched ­cotton-­ball tufts of clouds floating in the pale ­spring-­blue sky. The images shifted ever so slightly; a sleeping cat dissolved into a sailboat drifting, drifting, drifting…. Emily’s eyelids felt so heavy. Perhaps she’d close them for a while. She found herself drifting too with the soft
come here and ­stay-­a-­little-­while
song of the meadowlark somewhere close ­by.

•••

She stirred and struggled to a sitting position, squinting at the bright sunlight overhead. The sun seemed to be higher than when she’d first arrived. Through bleary eyes Emily could see Emma standing across from her on the rock. She was wearing the same long dress and white pinafore from yesterday. Emily smiled and caught her breath. “You did come! I wasn’t sure if you were real yesterday.”

“I couldn’t get away until now,” said Emma, “but I thought you might be here. And yes, I’m real.” Emma looked Emily up and down, and then started giggling. “You look really funny wearing pants.”