sky led night’s march, and I made a wish on the first star. I refused to waste it on Karla, so I wished for support from my dissertation committee. If I could focus on my work, I’d leave the Concord area before March.
There wasn’t a sign of life around the replica of Henry David Thoreau’s cabin. The child had obviously gone home. It was time for me to do the same. I’d tarried too long at Walden.
A giggle caught me off-guard. I spun in all directions. Was it the little girl? It wasn’t Karla. The sound had been too young, too filled with mischief.
“Will you play with me?”
The question stopped me cold. I pivoted to find the child standing by the corner of the cabin.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“Aine Cahill.” My name was no secret.
“You can call me … Mary or Martha or Mattie or Mabus.”
I knew the odd name but couldn’t place it. “What are you doing in the woods alone?”
“Playing. I like to play here in the quiet. It’s where the best things are. Secrets.”
She stood at the edge of the trees. The lack of light blurred her features. Blond hair, carefully brushed and curled, cascaded down her chest. She was no older than ten. “Where do you live?” I asked.
“It’s a secret.” She giggled as if she’d told a joke.
“Come over where I can see you.”
“Do you like dolls?” she asked.
“I did, when I was your age.” It was a lie. I’d never cared for dolls. “Did you leave the doll for me?”
“Someone did. Someone watches you. Someone not nice.”
The total creepiness of this conversation made me anxious. “Did you see who left the doll?” The child was peculiar. More than peculiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what or how.
“Someone left a doll for you. Someone did,” she answered in a sing-song voice.
“I need to head home. Will you come with me?” I couldn’t just leave her alone in the woods with night dropping over us by the second.
“You live in the cabin at the inn.”
This child knew all about me, yet I couldn’t even clearly see her. The hood shaded her face. “That’s true. Come with me.”
“No.”
“You can’t stay here. Night is falling.”
She shrugged. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“I’ll take you home. Where do you live?”
“You’re silly.” With that she ran behind the cabin.
By the time I jogged there, I found only emptiness. I circled the cabin. Nothing. It was time to go back to the inn. At least now I had another puzzle to chew on, something to keep my mind off the fact that Joe had never even come to check on me.
14
I awoke the next morning with renewed determination to pursue my work. I headed into town, enjoying the fall day.
Concord prides itself on being the first inland community settled in Massachusetts and the location where “the shot heard ’round the world”—the beginning of the Revolutionary War—was fired. Each street I traveled echoed with the footfalls of war heroes, learned men, Native Americans, and women far ahead of their time, such as my aunt Bonnie and Louisa May Alcott.
I meant to employ my research skills to find a link between Aunt Bonnie and the novelist who penned Little Women . At the time Bonnie lived with Thoreau, Louisa May would have been thirteen or so. While she was schooled by her father, her world views differed from the Transcendentalists. An activist in women’s rights, she chose to be a nurse in a Washington, D.C. hospital during the Civil War, confronting the battleground horrors in the most brutal way.
Her beloved novels brought the duties and joys of family life to millions of young readers. Fiction and free-thinking sustained Louisa May. If I could prove that Bonnie Cahill, flouter of social conventions and seeker of love, had known the novelist, possibly even influenced her, I would conquer another academic peak.
On a more realistic level, if I could find a mention of Bonnie in Louisa May’s work, I’d score a
There wasn’t a sign of life around the replica of Henry David Thoreau’s cabin. The child had obviously gone home. It was time for me to do the same. I’d tarried too long at Walden.
A giggle caught me off-guard. I spun in all directions. Was it the little girl? It wasn’t Karla. The sound had been too young, too filled with mischief.
“Will you play with me?”
The question stopped me cold. I pivoted to find the child standing by the corner of the cabin.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“Aine Cahill.” My name was no secret.
“You can call me … Mary or Martha or Mattie or Mabus.”
I knew the odd name but couldn’t place it. “What are you doing in the woods alone?”
“Playing. I like to play here in the quiet. It’s where the best things are. Secrets.”
She stood at the edge of the trees. The lack of light blurred her features. Blond hair, carefully brushed and curled, cascaded down her chest. She was no older than ten. “Where do you live?” I asked.
“It’s a secret.” She giggled as if she’d told a joke.
“Come over where I can see you.”
“Do you like dolls?” she asked.
“I did, when I was your age.” It was a lie. I’d never cared for dolls. “Did you leave the doll for me?”
“Someone did. Someone watches you. Someone not nice.”
The total creepiness of this conversation made me anxious. “Did you see who left the doll?” The child was peculiar. More than peculiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what or how.
“Someone left a doll for you. Someone did,” she answered in a sing-song voice.
“I need to head home. Will you come with me?” I couldn’t just leave her alone in the woods with night dropping over us by the second.
“You live in the cabin at the inn.”
This child knew all about me, yet I couldn’t even clearly see her. The hood shaded her face. “That’s true. Come with me.”
“No.”
“You can’t stay here. Night is falling.”
She shrugged. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“I’ll take you home. Where do you live?”
“You’re silly.” With that she ran behind the cabin.
By the time I jogged there, I found only emptiness. I circled the cabin. Nothing. It was time to go back to the inn. At least now I had another puzzle to chew on, something to keep my mind off the fact that Joe had never even come to check on me.
14
I awoke the next morning with renewed determination to pursue my work. I headed into town, enjoying the fall day.
Concord prides itself on being the first inland community settled in Massachusetts and the location where “the shot heard ’round the world”—the beginning of the Revolutionary War—was fired. Each street I traveled echoed with the footfalls of war heroes, learned men, Native Americans, and women far ahead of their time, such as my aunt Bonnie and Louisa May Alcott.
I meant to employ my research skills to find a link between Aunt Bonnie and the novelist who penned Little Women . At the time Bonnie lived with Thoreau, Louisa May would have been thirteen or so. While she was schooled by her father, her world views differed from the Transcendentalists. An activist in women’s rights, she chose to be a nurse in a Washington, D.C. hospital during the Civil War, confronting the battleground horrors in the most brutal way.
Her beloved novels brought the duties and joys of family life to millions of young readers. Fiction and free-thinking sustained Louisa May. If I could prove that Bonnie Cahill, flouter of social conventions and seeker of love, had known the novelist, possibly even influenced her, I would conquer another academic peak.
On a more realistic level, if I could find a mention of Bonnie in Louisa May’s work, I’d score a
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