The Vanishing Point by Mary Sharratt Page A

fall apart into nothingness. She would be lost.
    A break in the trees afforded her a view of a harvested maize field. Rotting tree stumps rose like warts among the brittle wasted stalks. Beyond this lay a fallow tobacco field, thick with weeds. The forest closed around the land like a living thing with a will of its own. Left to its own devices, the wilderness would soon reclaim the cleared land. Deer would eat next summer's corn. Snakes would make their home in the old tobacco barn. The plantation house would collapse into a pile of rotting wood. How quickly a home could disappear.
    They neared the house. A porch ran down the side, and under its roof, animal skins were pegged to the outside walls. Her eyes rested on one enormous pelt of thick black fur. With a shiver, she remembered the bear she had seen that morning. It was only eight hours ago or so, yet it seemed like days and weeks had passed since the morning boat ride, when she had been full of happy anticipation, thinking her sister still lived.
    Gabriel hefted the trunk over the threshold. "Come in," he said.
    Kneeling at the hearth, he added fuel to the dying fire until the flames leapt high, casting an unsteady glow. Hannah made out the sparse furnishings in the dim room. Two backless benches, one carved chair, a trestle table, a dresser, and a chest of drawers. Two curtained beds were pushed against the far wall. A ladder led to a trapdoor in the ceiling, and a door beside the hearth indicated there was another ground-floor room. Heaped in one corner lay a pile of animal skins. On the trestle table lay a gutted fish.
    "I was cleaning the fish when you came." He gestured toward one of the benches. "Sit down."
    She watched him rise, an iron skillet in his hand. A jar on the table contained some kind of fat with which he greased the pan. In went the fish. He rested the skillet on a grate in the hearth. The fat snapped and crackled, and soon the smell of frying fish filled the room. Outside, his dogs whined and scratched at the door, but he ignored them. Hannah turned to the only window, facing west and stained with sunset. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was back home with Joan.
    He hung another pot on a hook over the fire. It began to simmer with the homey scent of cabbage and onions. Hannah coughed from the smoke, which brought tears to her eyes. She began to weep again, just couldn't seem to stop. How kind he was, treating her as though she were a dignified guest and not some bawling stranger who had fallen in a fit, thrashing around like a madwoman.
    Once it had been May who knelt at the hearth and prepared the food. Hannah pressed her kerchief to her mouth and stifled a sob. Father's death, at least, she had been able to prepare for, but this was so unjust. How could her beautiful sister be dead?
    "Hannah." How curious her name sounded when he spoke it. "You grieve sorely, I know it. Grieving was nearly the end of me, too. First my father, then the baby, then her."
    Hannah lifted her head. "Was it a boy or a girl?"
    He was silent for a moment. "A girlchild. She only lived a few days. Your sister named her Hannah."
    She covered her face.
    "You mustn't," he said. "You'll drive yourself mad." His voice broke. "Come now. You must eat."
    She shook her head. "I don't think I could."
    "You are thin as a starveling."
    She thought of May's rich and abundant body, her curves. What would May say if she saw her sniveling like this?
    "Here, Hannah." He placed a wooden trencher in her lap and handed her a spoon carved of horn and a dull knife.
    The fish was golden brown. Heaped around it was a thick stew of carrots, cabbage, and onions—the last vegetables from the autumn garden. He gave her a piece of dry cornbread and hovered near her until she cut a piece of the flaky white fish, speared it on her knife. The fish was tender in her mouth. This meal was better than the venison in Anne Arundel Town, better than the feast of pheasant, sweetmeats, and oysters