But then he pushes me hard. I am surprised by the force of his attack. I land facedown in the dirt with a thud. Then I see the flash of wheels.
They are fine wheels, black with gold trim. They spin fast. Toward George. Before he can do anything, one cracks, and George disappears underneath. I scream a scream I cannot hear.
I look up to see the horse’s wild eyes. Even with the bit in its mouth, it seems to be squealing. It bridles, spooked. Where’s George?
The horse cart swerves and comes to a halt, and that’s when I see him. I scramble to my brother.
The driver hops off his seat and runs to George.
George’s eyes are open. His lips smeared with blood. His chest still.
When I feel a hand on my shoulder, I shake it free. I look up into the face of Jeremiah Skiffe, Nancy’s uncle. He seems twice the size of an ordinary man. He stares at George. He doesn’t move. Was it his cart?
I stagger to my feet and stumble toward our house. My ankle stings; it twisted when George pushed me out of the way.
Mama is running from the house toward me. Did she hear my scream? Did she see? I collapse into her arms. “George” is all I sign. I don’t tell her how we came to be in the road.
A hired laborer must have alerted Papa to the commotion and the yelling because I see him running to the high road.
Jeremiah Skiffe remains crouched by George’s body but then stands to face Papa. He signs awkwardly. I cannot read his gestures. Papa makes no sign to him.
I watch Papa gather George in his arms. He slips in the mud as he carries him to the barn. Jeremiah Skiffe follows, attempting to assist in some way.
Mama lets go of me and runs to catch up with them. She sways as she touches her son. When Jeremiah Skiffe gently steadies her by grasping her shoulder, she turns and beats on his chest.
I pinch my arm to return to the present moment. That was eight months ago, at the beginning of springtime. But inside me, it feels like fresh dew.
I turn my attention to the Hillman house. In spring and summer, their yard is full of greensward, and their fence and arched trellises disappear beneath roses of every color and scent. Now all that richness is covered with frost.
I go to school with the Hillmans’ youngest daughter, Sarah. I can’t say that we are compatible. She cares too much for appearances and wants other girls to follow behind her. She doesn’t mind that we don’t attend school year-round or study as many subjects as the boys do. But I chafe at the unfairness. Though I like our moving school that is situated in different towns for different seasons, I wish I could attend Edgartown Academy, where George boarded for weeks at a time. He learned Latin and was preparing to enter college. I wish I could bring home armfuls of books and pore over them for the secrets they unlock.
Miss Hammond makes up for some of the unfairness by being such a wonderful teacher. Matthew Pye is courting her. I pass his blacksmith’s forge; its soft-coal fire smoke fills my nostrils. I can feel the sound of the hammer on the anvil ring out through the air. I secretly hope Miss Hammond and Matthew Pye don’t marry so she’ll stay on as my teacher.
A little farther on, I spot Isaiah Butler standing atop the stone wall, holding his spyglass. When you look through the smaller end, you can see great distances magnified in the larger end. I have borrowed Papa’s to watch for whales and to stargaze.
“Who?” I sign, curious who he is watching.
“John Skiffe,” he spells with his fingers. Mr. Butler is a short, rotund man who is known to engage in gossip.
It is common practice for Vineyarders to use a spyglass to converse with neighbors whose houses are far apart. If they are hearing, signals are sent by blowing a large horn. Then both parties take up their spyglasses to read each other’s signs. If the other party is deaf, like Mr. Skiffe, they choose a time.
“Did you know?” he signs to me. “A young scientist is coming to town! He stopped at Edgartown Harbor first. Look out for his schooner on the beach, the SS Defiance.”
I have never met a scientist. Very few people stop at the Vineyard for anything more than trading.
“Why is he coming?” I ask.
“That I don’t know,” signs Mr. Butler. “Just that he’s a friend of Reverend Lee coming to work on our island.”
“Thank you for telling me,” I sign, eager to tell Ezra Brewer. “Good day.”
How exciting to have a stranger in our midst!
As a rule, our small island community does not take kindly to strangers. When they have docked down-island at Edgartown Harbor to bring us provisions and trade for our whale oil and wool, that’s one thing. But unless they have a relative on the island, or a resident to sponsor or introduce them, strangers are met with suspicion.
While I walk, I make up a story to please myself. It’s something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. If I’m restless in bed, it helps me fall asleep. If I’m bored, it entertains me. Sometimes it helps me make sense of things that lack sense.
Miss Hammond says I have a vivid imagination and that I can tell the truth from lies. She says that I’m a natural storyteller. I hope to become a schoolteacher like her one day. Then I would have my own collection of books, and I wouldn’t have to justify the urge to read and write rather than cook and clean.
I must look funny, walking along signing to no one in particular. Mama tells me it is no different from hearing people who talk to themselves.
I imagine a girl assisting a scientist with
