I sign my name, and a few words, like “house,” “eat,” “cat,” and “wind.”
My bedroom is near dark. From the color of the light, I guess the dawn will not come for another half an hour. I am not ready to encounter Mama. Will she yell at me with words I cannot understand? Will she turn her back and refuse to read my signs?
I quickly splash yesterday’s water on my face, fasten stays over my shift, and dress in my gown, stockings, and shoes. I go downstairs as quietly as I can. I look to the back of the house. The light from the kitchen hearth has the dimness of night upon it. No one has gotten up to feed the fire.
As soon as I enter the yard, I see bright flashes from the Gay Head Light to the west. I picture the keeper igniting the spider lamp inside the tower’s lighting room. I imagine him and me as lonely twins.
The barn doors aren’t open. No sheep huddle by the stone wall. Though I catch sight of Bayard, running through the yard. How did he get loose? Why is he running in circles? Will Thomas or Eamon come tend to him? I know I can’t contain him, so I continue my walk up the high road. I try to put last night out of my mind by creating a new story.
A fairy lived in a garden. She was so small she slept in a rose and collected its dew to drink. One day, a fly came to her rose and wanted to live in the crimson flower with her. She was not a selfish fairy, so she agreed to share the rose with the fly.
Soon the petals of the rose began to fall off. The fly didn’t mind. He darted in and out of the rose with other flies. But the fairy became sick. She had to find another place to live. It was nearly winter, and the other flowers were freezing and dying on the vine. What could the fairy do?
I am startled out of my reverie when I see Andrew walking ahead of me, black satchel and carpet bag in hand. He is walking with a steady stride. His shoulders are bunched up. What reason does he have to be outside at this early hour?
Is he leaving? Good riddance!
As I watch him fade ahead, I remember George’s book with my map of memories inside of it! Has Andrew absconded with it?
He turns off the high road. He must be heading for his schooner. I quicken my pace to catch up to him.
I trip over some rocks in the lane. Andrew turns around. He shouts at me and waves me away.
I walk closer to him. I start to sign, asking him about the book. I make the sign for “book,” again and again. I put my hands together and repeatedly open and close them, hoping to get through to him.
It is an obvious sign; anyone who cares would guess its meaning. He puts down his bags and flaps his hands to mock my language.
“Never come back!” I sign to him. “Everything that comes from you is ugly.” Even without knowing the words, it’s obvious I’m not signing a friendly farewell.
Andrew speaks to me rapidly. His face in a cold rage, he laughs a mirthless laugh. Is he making fun of the fact that I can’t understand his harsh speech?
The dawn is coming. I must return home before Mama and Papa find me missing. But not without my map.
I head toward the black satchel on the ground. I work the latch to open it. I quickly take out the samples in phials and notes on top. Some of them blow away. Furiously, Andrew chases the papers as I dig deeper for the book.
Before I find it, he strikes my hand and snatches the bag. He is still talking at me.
I pick up my pace on the lane to the high road, but I can feel Andrew follow me. What is he doing?
I look back. He stops when I stop. When I walk faster, so does he. Is he aiming to frighten me, or does he mean me harm?
Fortunately, Ezra Brewer’s house is nearby. I’ll climb through the window. I’ll rouse him if he’s not already awake. He has a musket and a Flintlock gun. He will not hesitate to offer me protection.
I break into a run. Andrew surprises me by giving chase.
Wet sand slows my pace. My shoes stick, the ground sucking at them. I feel as if I am trying to run through water.
I can see Ezra Brewer’s house in the distance, smoke coming from the chimney. He is awake! Is he in his wicker chair? I raise my arms, waving wildly, hoping against hope that he spies me. My heart is pounding in my throat.
Andrew’s long legs carry him quickly.
The sun is rising. It distracts me for a moment. I trip and fall on my stomach. I bite my lip as my chin hits the ground, bloodying my mouth and rattling my whole head.
I scrabble in the sand, trying to push myself up. It sticks in my fingernails and slips under my feet as I try to get my legs under me once more.
Andrew is upon me. He grabs my hair and drags me backward across the sand toward his boat. My head feels like it’s on fire. I struggle and kick, making it as difficult as possible for him to keep hold of me.
He is puffing hard. When he pauses to catch his breath, I reach up and scratch his hands with my sandy fingernails. He lets go of my hair, though some of it remains tangled in his fingers, and spits words from his lips.
I get up and find
