words. I can tell Tessie without words. But Merwin-I guess he needs words.' 'Marnie,' I said, taking reluctant steps into the wilderness of my ignorance of what to do with a child who found 'no words more easy,' 'you must always use words. It might seem easier to you-the other way, but you must speak. You see, most people don't understand not using words. When people don't understand, they get frightened. When they are frightened, they get angry. And when they get angry, they-they have to hurt.' I sat quietly watching Marnie manipulate my words, frame a reply, and make it into words for her stricken, unhappy lips. 'Then it was because they didn't understand, that they killed us,' she said. 'They made the fire.' 'Yes,' I said, 'exactly. 'Marnie,' I went on, feeling that I was prying, but needing to know. 'You have never cried for the people who died in the fire. You were sad, but-weren't they your own people?' 'Yes,' said Marnie, after an interval. 'My father, my mother, and my brother-' She firmed her lips and swallowed. 'And a neighbor of ours. One brother was Called in the skies when our ship broke and my little sister's life-slip didn't come with ours.' And I saw them! Vividly, I saw them all as she named them. The father, I noticed before his living, smiling image faded from my mind, had thick dark curls like Marnie's. The neighbor was a plump little woman. 'But,' I blinked, 'don't you grieve for them? Aren't you sad because they are dead?' 'I am sad because they aren't with me,' said Marnie slowly. 'But I do not grieve that the Power Called them back to the Presence. Their bodies were so hurt and broken.' She swallowed again. 'My days are not finished yet, but no matter how long until I am Called, my people will come to meet me. They will laugh and run to me when I arrive and I-' She leaned against my skirt, averting her face. After a moment she lifted her chin and said, 'I am sad to be here without them, but my biggest sorrow is not knowing where my little sister is, or whether Timmy has been Called. We were two-ing, Timmy and I.' Her hand closed over the hem of my skirt. 'But, praise the Presence, I have you and Uncle Nils, who do not hurt just because you don't understand.' 'But where on Earth-' I began. 'Is this called Earth?' Marnie looked about her. 'Is Earth the place we came to?' 'The whole world is Earth,' I said. 'Everything-as far as you can see-as far as you can go. You came to this Territory-' 'Earth-' Marnie was musing. 'So this refuge in the sky is called Earth!' She scrambled to her feet. 'I'm sorry I troubled you, Aunt Gail,' she said. 'Here, this is to promise not to be un-Earth-' She snatched up the last flower she had put in the playhouse vase and pushed it into my hands. 'I will set the table for supper,' she called back to me as she hurried to the house. 'This time forks at each place-not in a row down the middle.' I sighed and twirled the flower in my fingers. Then I laughed helplessly. The flower that had so prosaically grown on, and had been plucked from our hillside, was glowing with a deep radiance, its burning gold center flicking the shadows of the petals across my lingers, and all the petals tinkled softly from the dewdrop-clear bits of light that were finely pendant along the edges of them. Not un-Earth! But when I showed Nils the flower that evening as I retold our day, the flower was just a flower again, limp and withering. 'Either you or Marnie have a wonderful imagination,' Nils said. 'Then it's Marnie,' I replied. 'I would never in a million years think up anything like the things she said. Only, Nils, how can we be sure it isn't true?' 'That what isn't true?' he asked. 'What do you think she has told you?' 'Why-why-' I groped, 'that she can read minds, Tessie's anyway. And that this is a strange world to her. And-and-' 'If this is the way she wants to make the loss of her family bearable, let her. It's better than hysterics or melancholia. Besides, it's more exciting, isn't it?' Nils laughed. That reaction wasn't much help in soothing my imagination! But he didn't have to spend his days wrestling hand to hand with Marnie and her ways. He hadn't had to insist that Marnie learn to make the beds by hand instead of floating the covers into place-nor insist that young ladies wear shoes in preference to drifting a few inches above the sharp gravel and beds of stickers in the back yard. And he didn't have to persuade her that, no matter how dark the moonless night, one doesn't cut out paper flowers and set them to blooming like little candies around the comers of the rooms. Nils had been to the county seat that weekend. I don't know where she was from, but this was a New World to her and whatever one she was native to, I had no memory of reading about or of seeing on a globe. When Marnie started taking classes in Mr. Wardlow's one-room school, she finally began to make friends with the few children her age in Margin. Guessing at her age, she seemed to be somewhere in her teens. Among her friends were Kenny, the son of the mine foreman, and Loolie, the daughter of the boardinghouse cook. The three of them ranged the hills together, and Marnie picked up a large vocabulary from them and became a little wiser in the ways of behaving unexceptionally. She startled them a time or two by doing impossible things, but they reacted with anger and withdrawal which she had to wait out more or less patiently before being accepted back into their companionship. One doesn't forget again very quickly under such circumstances. During this time, her hair grew and she grew, too, so much so that she finally had to give up the undergarment she had worn when we found her. She sighed as she laid it aside, tucking it into the bottom dresser drawer. 'At Home,' she said, 'there would be a ceremony and a pledging. All of us girls would know that our adult responsibilities were almost upon us-' Somehow, she seemed less different, less, well I suppose, alien, after that day. It wasn't very long after this that Marnie began to stop suddenly in the middle of a sentence and listen intently, or clatter down the plates she was patterning on the supper table and hurry to the window. I watched her anxiously for a while, wondering if she was sickening for something, then, one night, after I blew out the lamp, I thought I heard something moving in the other room. I went in barefootedly quiet. Marnie was at the window. 'Marnie?' Her shadowy figure turned to me. 'What's troubling you?' I stood close beside her and looked out at the moonlight-flooded emptiness of hills around the house. 'Something is out there,' she said. 'Something scared and bad-frightened and evil-' She took the more adult words from my mind. I was pleased that being conscious of her doing this didn't frighten me any more the way it did the first few times. 'It goes around the house and around the house and is afraid to come.' 'Perhaps an animal,' I suggested. 'Perhaps,' she conceded, turning away from the window. 'I don't know your world. An animal who walks upright and sobs, 'God have mercy!'' Which incident was startling in itself, but doubly so when Nils said casually next day as he helped himself to mashed potatoes at the dinner table, 'Guess who I saw today. They say he's been around a week or so.' He flooded his plate with brown meat gravy. 'Our friend of the double mind.' 'Double mind?' I blinked uncomprehendingly. 'Yes.' Nils reached for a slice of bread. 'To burn or not to burn, that is the question-' 'Oh!' I felt a quiver up my arms. 'You mean the man at Grafton's Vow. What was his name anyway?' 'He never said, did he?' Nils's fork paused in mid-air as the thought caught him. 'Derwent,' said Marnie shortly, her lips pressing to a narrow line. 'Caleb Derwent, God have mercy.' 'How do you know?' I asked. 'Did he tell you?' 'No,' she said, 'I took it from him to remember him with gratitude.' She pushed away from the table, her eyes widening. 'That's it-that's the frightened evil that walks around the house at night! And passes by during the day! But he saved me from the fire! Why does he come now?' 'She's been feeling that something evil is lurking outside,' I explained to Nils's questioning look. 'Hmm,' he said, 'the two minds. Marnie, if ever he-' 'May I go?' Marnie stood up. 'I'm sorry. I can't eat when I think of someone repenting of good.' And she was gone, the kitchen door clicking behind her. 'And she's right,' said Nils, resuming his dinner. 'He slithered around a stack of nail kegs at the store and muttered to me about still compromising with evil, harboring a known witch. I sort of pinned him in the corner until he told me he had finally-after all this time-confessed his sin of omission to his superiors at Grafton's Vow and they've excommunicated him until he redeems himself-' Nils stared at me, listening to his own words. 'Gail! You don't suppose he has any mad idea about taking her back to Grafton's Vow, do you!' 'Or killing her!' I cried, clattering my chair back from the table. 'Marnie!' Then I subsided with an attempt at a smile.
