quillwork, an awful thing happened.”
Grey Rabbit keeps her head down and her eyes on the spruce bough. Already her legs are hot and itching from the fire’s heat.
Three Winds describes how she was jealous of Bullhead’s superior skill, and the clean pattern she accomplished. And then, when everyone was asleep, how she laid it in the fire and watched it burn. She told of Bullhead’s misery over its disappearance, and of her own, which she concluded was much worse because she never told anyone.
Grey Rabbit turns the story over in her mind, wondering at its telling and what in it was meant for her. She wonders what Three Winds has heard. She must speak with Bullhead soon. The longer she keeps silent, the harder speaking becomes. In the morning, then. After the pour. She balances the dripping spruce bough on the edge of the vat, bends down and squints as she rolls a smoky log.
1902
Berit stands on the point and scans the horizon. “Enough,” she tries to hush a red squirrel that natters from a thin spruce. The sun has passed its high point by a hand, and she hasn’t seen any sign of Gunnar. Arms crossed, she sits on the bench, but she can’t keep her leg from jiggling. Maybe he rowed up to see Hans, or all the way down to Torgeson’s to borrow something, though she can’t think of what he’d need. She’d heard tell that Torgeson keeps a regular bottle. If Gunnar rowed down and didn’t inform her he was going, he’ll hear about it for some time.
Berit forces the tip of the shovel with her foot, lifts and turns the winter-packed soil. Lift and turn. Lift and turn. The sun angles back toward the ridge, where a hawk glides silently above the green spires. When she gets to the end of the row, she’ll allow herself to look out to the lake. She forces the shovel in, lifts and turns, scrapes caked dirt from the sole of her boot. Four more shovels-full and she’ll turn to see him. Three. Two. One.
The water and the sky form an unbroken line.
The sun has slid behind the ridge, leaving the cove in shadow but the lake still in sunlight. Berit paces in her long coat, back and forth along the length of the point. There’s a gnawing sensation in her stomach. “Oh,” she scoffs. “Oh, if ever . . .” Her face clamps tight, and she blinks back hot tears.
The light is draining from the birch-covered slope and the lake has turned soft pastel blue. It’s hardly rolling at all anymore, just rising and falling peacefully. Berit sits on the bench and listens as the lake rises over the stone beach, then slides back to itself with a long hush. She tries to match her breathing with the sound, and to keep the worst thoughts from getting in. Something happened, he’s hurt and unable to row. The waves, though not strong, would push him in, deposit him somewhere along the shore. He could be walking home through the woods at this very moment. If he’d been down to Torgeson’s all this time, he’d be headed back now while there’s enough light to navigate. The lake glubs in a hollow beneath her.
Berit pulls the blanket tight around her shoulders and legs, her feet drawn up on the wooden bench. The brightest stars are already out, and she feels as if she is in a horrible dream. She rocks herself, a short pulsing back and forth, going over the day in her mind. Just this morning they’d lain in bed, the familiar weight of his arm across her waist. Just this morning the cabin was full of pink light. How did she get to this awful place, and what can she do to turn things back.
“Good God.” She launches herself off the bench. He’ll get his comeuppance when he gets home.
It’s dark. There’s no denying it anymore. It’s dark enough that she should have brought a lantern. A lantern. Lord, how could she be so daft? She rushes up the path toward the cabin. She’ll light every lantern she can find. If he’s out there the light will help guide him in.
It’s black on black, the sky dizzy with
Grey Rabbit keeps her head down and her eyes on the spruce bough. Already her legs are hot and itching from the fire’s heat.
Three Winds describes how she was jealous of Bullhead’s superior skill, and the clean pattern she accomplished. And then, when everyone was asleep, how she laid it in the fire and watched it burn. She told of Bullhead’s misery over its disappearance, and of her own, which she concluded was much worse because she never told anyone.
Grey Rabbit turns the story over in her mind, wondering at its telling and what in it was meant for her. She wonders what Three Winds has heard. She must speak with Bullhead soon. The longer she keeps silent, the harder speaking becomes. In the morning, then. After the pour. She balances the dripping spruce bough on the edge of the vat, bends down and squints as she rolls a smoky log.
1902
Berit stands on the point and scans the horizon. “Enough,” she tries to hush a red squirrel that natters from a thin spruce. The sun has passed its high point by a hand, and she hasn’t seen any sign of Gunnar. Arms crossed, she sits on the bench, but she can’t keep her leg from jiggling. Maybe he rowed up to see Hans, or all the way down to Torgeson’s to borrow something, though she can’t think of what he’d need. She’d heard tell that Torgeson keeps a regular bottle. If Gunnar rowed down and didn’t inform her he was going, he’ll hear about it for some time.
Berit forces the tip of the shovel with her foot, lifts and turns the winter-packed soil. Lift and turn. Lift and turn. The sun angles back toward the ridge, where a hawk glides silently above the green spires. When she gets to the end of the row, she’ll allow herself to look out to the lake. She forces the shovel in, lifts and turns, scrapes caked dirt from the sole of her boot. Four more shovels-full and she’ll turn to see him. Three. Two. One.
The water and the sky form an unbroken line.
The sun has slid behind the ridge, leaving the cove in shadow but the lake still in sunlight. Berit paces in her long coat, back and forth along the length of the point. There’s a gnawing sensation in her stomach. “Oh,” she scoffs. “Oh, if ever . . .” Her face clamps tight, and she blinks back hot tears.
The light is draining from the birch-covered slope and the lake has turned soft pastel blue. It’s hardly rolling at all anymore, just rising and falling peacefully. Berit sits on the bench and listens as the lake rises over the stone beach, then slides back to itself with a long hush. She tries to match her breathing with the sound, and to keep the worst thoughts from getting in. Something happened, he’s hurt and unable to row. The waves, though not strong, would push him in, deposit him somewhere along the shore. He could be walking home through the woods at this very moment. If he’d been down to Torgeson’s all this time, he’d be headed back now while there’s enough light to navigate. The lake glubs in a hollow beneath her.
Berit pulls the blanket tight around her shoulders and legs, her feet drawn up on the wooden bench. The brightest stars are already out, and she feels as if she is in a horrible dream. She rocks herself, a short pulsing back and forth, going over the day in her mind. Just this morning they’d lain in bed, the familiar weight of his arm across her waist. Just this morning the cabin was full of pink light. How did she get to this awful place, and what can she do to turn things back.
“Good God.” She launches herself off the bench. He’ll get his comeuppance when he gets home.
It’s dark. There’s no denying it anymore. It’s dark enough that she should have brought a lantern. A lantern. Lord, how could she be so daft? She rushes up the path toward the cabin. She’ll light every lantern she can find. If he’s out there the light will help guide him in.
It’s black on black, the sky dizzy with
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