Bird Page 7

  I laughed again. “And where would I find wings?”

  Farley pointed up to the sky at the Red Dragon and the Blue Devil, as he had named it. “There, miss,” he said. “There are your wings.”

  11

  I dreamt of wings. All through the night. Wings of birds and dragons and even the tiny wings of fireflies. All beating at a constant rhythm. All open to the wind. I woke with the feeling of them about me, fluttering above my head, pulling at my shoulders, as if I too possessed appendages for flight.

  I did not notice the day outside or even stop for breakfast but gathered as quickly as I could all the kites from the walk and those still remaining in the attic. Farley had proposed the idea that the kites might, if arranged properly, make a pair of wings. I could not imagine it but agreed to bring as many as I could. They were light but awkward, and I had to be careful not to trip on their strings and tear their delicate coverings as I descended the stairs to the main floor.

  I let the Hounds out with me, holding on to their leashes for security, and hurried down to the lake.

  It was a beautiful day, the sky clear and the breeze strong and warm. Farley was there, involved in some pressing concern in the sand.

  “Come look at what I’ve made,” he shouted. I let the Hounds loose and laid the kites on the sand, placing a heavy rock on them so they wouldn’t fly away. Farley stood and stepped aside. He had crafted a house out of sand, an exact replica of the Manor, which towered above us.

  “It’s magnificent,” I said.

  “Why, thank you, miss.” He took a bow.

  “However did you make it?”

  “You wet the sand and pack it down. It’s best if you have a tin, like this,” he said, pulling an empty square tobacco tin from his pocket. “And a bucket.” He proudly displayed a rusty bucket he said he had found tangled in the driftwood.

  “We’ll make another one. One that’s not so sad. This house . . . that house,” he said, pointing up at the Manor, “it’s sad.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is sad.” It’s more than sad, I wanted to say. It was full of something I didn’t understand, something that drew me and at times made me want to run from it and never return.

  “Farley?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “If you owned a dwelling such as the Manor, what would you do with it?”

  “What do you mean, miss?”

  “Would you live in it?”

  “No, miss. I don’t think it likes me.”

  “Would you sell it, then?”

  “I think that would be the only thing to do.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I think the captain, Wysteria’s husband, wanted to sell it, too. At least, that is what the doctor said.”

  “But what of your mistress?”

  “She would never have left it.” Suddenly, I understood the captain’s desire to be free of everything that had to do with the Manor, the curses and the rumors of madness and the ill-gotten fortune. And I also understood that Wysteria never would have allowed it. She would have stopped him any way she could.

  “We’ll wreck it.”

  “Oh, no. You’ve worked so hard.”

  “It’s fun to wreck them. Then you can start over. Watch.” Farley took the bucket from beside him, walked down to the water’s edge and filled it to the brim. He poured the first bucket and I poured the second. After three bucketsful, the Manor had melted back into the beach, and I felt a surprising relief and joy at its demise.

  “Now,” he said. “Let’s build a different sort of house.”

  “What sort?”

  “Your dream house.”

  “I don’t have a dream house.”

  “Every girl has a house of her dreams.”

  “A cottage,” I said, remembering a tiny stone cottage I’d seen a long time ago in a storybook.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Perfect. A neat white cottage with a cozy fire.”

  “And flowers in boxes beneath the windows.”

  “Just big enough for wee folk.”

  “Just big enough for me.”

  “Indeed.”

  We built a perfect little cottage out of sand with the help of Farley’s tin and the rusting bucket, and some lichen we peeled from rocks for window-box flowers. We left it there all day, and when the tide came up, the waves refused to disturb it, only lapping away at the foundation enough to cement it more firmly to the beach.

  The morning we spent with the kites, arranging them in different combinations and attempting to lace them to each other, but they were unwieldy, and as the wind was strong, we spent most of our time trying to keep them from flying off. By late morning, Farley had managed to arrange several of the paper kites into something that resembled a wing, for these were the ones sturdy enough to bear weight and had the appropriate clasps attached to them.

  “The paper,” Farley commented, “is like something I’ve seen before. It is strong in weave yet made so fine. Tough enough to endure the ravages of the wind, but light enough to ride upon it.” I explained that the captain must have made his own paper with the screens in the attic, for the kites and all his maps were of the same grade and texture.

  When we stopped for lunch, Farley suggested we store the kites inside a small enclosure that backed up to the cliffs. To call it a cave would have been extravagant, but there was enough of an opening that we could wedge the kites and the wing inside, where the wind could not find them.

  Farley had brought a large loaf of bread, which was his ration for the week, and a few sardines wrapped in a plain cloth. I’d brought a canister of dried currants from the pantry. Wysteria saved currants for special occasions, which never came, as she did not celebrate any, not even Christmas. She doled them out in minute amounts to be sanctimoniously consumed on the first of May, when the captains made their spring payments, and late in the summer, once all the fleet owners had signed her on again for the coming year. When she returned to the Manor, she would undoubtedly search for them, and I would have to find a reason for their absence, for I planned that Farley and I would feast on them until the jar was empty and take whatever punishment was due me at a later date.

  “Are you sure you can spare these?” Farley asked.

  “Yes. It’s a special occasion. That’s what they’re for.” He smiled and poured out a handful. In a playful and distinctly boyish manner, he lay back, popping the currants into the air and catching them in his mouth.

  “What will you do when you grow up?” I inquired.

  Farley laughed. “Why, miss, I’m already grown up enough to work. But I don’t want to be at sea forever, that’s for certain.”

  “I thought you liked sailing?”

  “I like the boats, miss. I like the clean, fresh smell of the open water. But I don’t like to pull up more fish than I need, or to obey the orders of another man.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  “Maybe I’ll build kites and sell them to people all over the world.”

  “Will you go back to Ireland to build them?”

  He shook his head firmly. “I’ll never go back. Me family is all but gone now, and the prospects of work are slim.”

  “Will you stay here?”

  “I’ll stay only as long as there’s work.” He opened his eyes wide and sat up. “I’m afraid to say, miss,” he said, looking suddenly sad, “that on our last trip we also purchased a new canal boat. It’s in harbor in Burlington, still. We’ll be taking it through the locks to the Hudson.” He paused and gazed down at his hands. “Leaving in a few days’ time. There’s no saying when I’ll be back.” I was stunned at his words, and could not find my way to a proper reply. Farley’s visits were unpredictable, but I had begun to rely on him. He was the one person I really knew. The only one who knew me.

  “I’m sorry, miss. I am, truly. I would have liked to stay.” We sat for a long time before he spoke again.

  “And what about yourself, miss? What do you wish for? To be a grand lady with a palace and land to spare
?”

  “Maybe.” I couldn’t imagine myself staying at the Manor without the prospect of Farley’s visits.

  “Cheer up, miss. Let’s enjoy the time we have. Let’s see a smile on your face.” But I could not muster a smile.

  “Come, now. What do you see for yourself ?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’d just like to go outside one day and not fear the wind.”

  He smiled. “Then today is your day.” He stood and picked up the old ball of twine the Hounds had dragged with them and abandoned. Then he took off his leather belt and folded the waist of his pants over twice to keep them up. He unwound the twine, measuring it against the length of his forearm. When he had the right length, he took out his pocket knife and cut it.

  “The Hounds won’t like it.”

  “Blast the Hounds. They’ll never know. Come here, then, miss.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, now. No fear.” I stood up, shook the sand from my clothes and walked over to him.

  “Now, put the belt around your waist.” I did as he instructed. He took the twine and double- and triple-knotted it around the belt’s buckle, not a weaver’s knot, but the hard, fast knot of a fisherman.

  “Now take off your boots.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I do, I might get picked up.”

  “That’s the point, miss.”

  “Oh, no. Please, Farley. You don’t understand. It’s frightening being picked up.”

  “But to be a great lady, you can’t fear the wind. What if you have to go out to survey your lands and check to make sure the peasants are well fed? Will you be forever holed up in your palace?” I laughed. “Besides, it’ll be different this time. You won’t get taken. I’m here and I’ll hold firm. Do you trust that I’ll hold you?”

  “Yes. I do trust you, of course.” And I meant it. Farley was the person I trusted the most, though I had known him such a short time. He didn’t think me strange for my size or tease me for my fear. He understood something about me that not even I understood.

  “Well then?” I looked down at my heavy boots and Farley’s bare feet and I longed to feel the sand against my soles. “You’ll have to leave them behind.”

  “Yes, but I cannot promise what will happen, even whether I’ll be taken. The wind is unpredictable.”

  I bent down and began unlacing my boots. When they were free, I tossed them onto the beach and dug my toes into the sand, the way any other person might. Perhaps I had once, as a small child, felt this sensation, but I could not remember. For me, it was entirely new, like tasting a sweet fruit for the very first time. The sand’s warm grains caressed the bottoms of my feet. I longed to stand in it forever, but Farley was impatient.

  “Come on now,” he urged. “The wind is picking up. Take off your coat.” I slid out of my coat and dropped it on the blanket. I took Wysteria’s key ring and placed it beside the coat, feeling lighter than I had in a long time.

  “What should I do?”

  “Run. Run like we do with the kites. Make believe you’re the Dragon and I’m holding your line.” The line was long enough for me to run ten or twelve yards down the beach away from him. I’m sure it must have looked ridiculous, Farley holding on to me with a ball of twine, but I did as he said.

  “When you feel yourself starting to lift off, yank on the line so I’ll know.”

  “You’ll know,” I yelled over the wind. It did not take long. A gust swept under me and I was suddenly airborne. I yanked at the line, but by then it was obvious that my feet were no longer on the sand. Farley braced himself, wedging his legs between two large boulders near our blanket.

  “Will you look at yourself !” I heard him exclaim.

  I cannot fully describe the feeling of being lifted off the ground—I can only say it makes your stomach jump and something in your chest squeeze tightly about your heart. I waited for the moment when I would tumble out of control, be sent hurtling into a tree or against the cliffs. I braced for impact, but it did not come. Surprised, I lifted my head into the wind and saw only the open sky before me. Slowly, I put my arms out to my sides and glided above the beach, above the rocks and the gulls digging for clams, and above Farley, who stared up at me not in fear or disapproval, but in amazement. I could feel his strength on the other end of the line. I was airborne, and for the first time that I could remember, I was not afraid. As I soared above the earth, a sure and certain knowing swept over me that with Farley as my anchor, I could lean into the wind and it would carry me.

  Farley was trying to tell me something, but I could not hear his words over the rush of the wind.

  He mimed his request by holding his free arm out and tilting it at an angle. I nodded and tilted my own arms to the right and then to the left and the wind obeyed my commands and sent me in first one direction and then the other. Farley cheered.

  There was no one to see me, no eyes upon me but Farley’s. All fear slipped away. I felt as free as a gliding hawk or an eagle. The wind filled all the space around me, so that I could hear nothing but its voice. I could move only as far as the line would allow, but with my newfound ability to guide myself, I soared over the whole range of beach where Farley and I had spent our days, seeing it all from a new perspective. I tried to find the spot where I thought the mysterious fire had been, but there was no evidence of it that I could see. I looked upon the Manor, dark and foreboding, perched precariously upon the cliffs, and I realized that no matter how bleak its facade, how dark its interior, neither the Manor nor Wysteria could ever truly threaten me. In their shadow, I had simply forgotten who I was. I had wrongly put my security in the hands of a house, a structure made of wood and nails, and of a woman who did not know my true nature. I was a creature of the air. This I knew now with certainty. I was not bound to any substance of earth, including that forbidding dwelling upon the cliff. I must always stay close to the wind, I told myself, as I caught an updraft and soared ever higher, pulling tightly on the line. No matter what happened, I must always stay within its embrace.

  I could see the gulls, not unlike me, catching the currents and gliding at eye level. And I could see below me the Hounds, worried and confused, racing down the beach toward Farley, barking at the spectacle of my figure in the air.

  Farley saw them, too, and quickly brought in the line, drawing me back to earth. I landed a bit roughly, but I was safe and intact and quickly surrounded, pushed into the sand by the Hounds’ giant, inquisitive paws and wet tongues. Farley rushed over and freed me.

  “Off with you, beasts,” he laughed, pushing the Hounds aside. He regally bent over and extended his hand, gazing at me with quiet admiration.

  “Your first flight, miss.”

  12

  I awoke to a world of wind and sand, the smell of fresh air and dampness, a lingering memory of flight.

  I was not in my own bed, or in the captain’s study, but bundled in a blanket on the beach close to a smoldering fire.

  Farley and I had spent the whole glorious day at the lakeside, and when the sun began to set, I could not bear to think of returning to the oppressive walls of the Manor. At Farley’s suggestion, we built a fire and fell asleep talking of the wings.

  I had so desperately wanted to tell him of the uneasy feeling that each day grew larger within me, of the sense that I could almost put my finger upon the whole truth of the Manor, the fortune, and the captain’s death, only to find that the closer I came, the more quickly it scurried away and eluded me. I had hoped that with his help, in the open air away from the Manor, I could make sense of the puzzling stories that swirled within me, but I found I could not. For, more than I desired to lighten my own burden, I wished not to entangle Farley in the Manor’s web of lies.

  “It’s morning, miss,” Farley said, shaking me fully awake. “Will you see to the Hounds?” Though we had secured the kites before falling asleep, the Hounds had been given their freedom and were now somewhere above the cliff
s, barking and creating a ruckus.

  “Yes, I’ll see to them.” I brushed the sand from my face, stood up and untied the twine from around my waist. I had slept in my coat and boots. As well, Farley had secured me fast to one of the boulders so I would not blow away in the night.

  “You’ll be back soon?” he asked.

  “Of course. I’ll feed the Hounds and bring us some breakfast. When I return, will we work on the wings again?”

  Farley smiled. “Indeed we will. Perhaps today I can make sense of them.”

  I ran to the top of the cliffs, my heart lightened by the promise of spending another day in the open air with Farley. All thoughts of his departure and the dilemma I faced temporarily faded from my mind and were replaced by the hope that today we might come closer to unraveling the mystery of the kites. I found the Hounds, barking not at a rabbit or squirrel as I had suspected, but at Dr. Mead, who stood at the entrance to the Manor, keeping his distance from their strong jaws.

  “So you are here,” he said, clearly relieved. He looked as if he had not slept well in many nights. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his usually well-groomed hair was swept about by the wind. “I did not see the lantern last night and grew concerned for your welfare.”

  The lantern. I had forgotten entirely about lighting it. “I’m sorry to have caused you worry, Doctor. It was such a lovely evening that I built a fire on the beach and fell asleep beside it. I have only just now woken.” I felt more guarded in my speech than I had been with Dr. Mead on his previous visits. I kept looking into his eyes for some clue as to his intentions, but he appeared only tired and distracted. Still, the nurse’s words would not leave me. I do not know what he realizes, nor what he covets. . . .

  “Then you are fine?”

  “Yes, sir, I am fine. The weather has broken and I was drawn outside to the fresh air, that is all.” I did not wish to divulge Farley’s presence. Dr. Mead might find it improper and forbid me to stay on my own.

  He nodded, eyeing me with curiosity. “I have come with news. You are not to remain alone much longer. Mrs. Barrows is on the mend. She requires little more attention at St. Elias’s and wishes to return here.”