I turned my attention to the small talk, now peppered with comments about the summer weather and other perennial farming topics. Once the sandwich plate was emptied, River brought out butter cookies and a pitcher of iced herbal tea.
I reached into my backpack for my cell phone, a notebook, and a pen. “Abi, Cliff, do you two feel up to answering some questions?”
They exchanged glances, Abi’s worried and Cliff’s more settled resignation.
He patted his wife’s knotted fingers and brushed at the front of his short-sleeved shirt. “We are.”
I prepared to record the conversation, placing my cell phone next to the plate of cookies and positioning the table between Clifford and Abigail’s legs. “Do either of you remember anything about this past Tuesday, July twenty-fourth. Or even Monday the twenty-third?” Faltering, I waved both my hands. “Let me rephrase that. Did you have any appointments scheduled on Monday or Tuesday here at the house or the orchard? Were there any unexpected visitors?”
Abigail signaled she would speak first. “Sundays we go to church. And we have a late lunch. It’s a day of rest, Saturday being the Farmer’s Market, and you know how exhausting that can be, Calliope.”
I agreed. “So, there was nothing unusual this past Sunday. What about Monday?”
“Now, wait a minute, Calliope,” Clifford interjected. “We didn’t say there was nothing unusual. I like to have a walk in the evening, helps with my digestion.”
Abigail nodded at her husband and continued her slow rocking.
“I checked on the new stock,” he continued, pointing over my shoulder. “Those trees we planted earlier in the spring, and I would have walked back to the house but I felt like stretching my legs a little further. So I went the long way ‘round to the oldest section of the orchard.” He gripped the curved ends of the armrests and peered at me, his wild, steel-gray eyebrows lifting. “You familiar with that section, Calliope? Those trees might look like they’re done an’ ready to be chopped down and hauled off for firewood, but there’s life left in ‘em yet. They’re kind of like old friends you just can’t get rid of. Know what I mean?”
Everyone on the porch hung on Clifford’s recitation, and everyone nodded at his question.
“So, I went around the back, just stood there, looking at those old trees. Thought about their lives and my life and everything this land has seen.” His rheumy eyes stared past the crowded porch toward his beloved orchard. “Something told me it was time to make amends.”
“Amends for what, Cliff?” I asked, leaning into the moment.
He kept rocking, his gaze on the hidden horizon. My question hung in the air unanswered.
Tanner went into the house and returned with a handful of framed pictures. “Clifford. Abigail, we need to ask you about these.”
“Those are family pictures, Agent,” Cliff said. His hands gripped the armrests and relaxed. “Been around for years and years.”
“It’s not the photographs. It’s the frames,” Tanner specified. He handed one to Abi and one to Cliff. “These are hand-carved.”
“Yes, they are.”
“There are faces in the corners. We think they’re the hidden folk, perhaps a type of garden troll.”
“You would be correct in your assumption,” said Clifford, his lower jaw trembling. “When my ancestors arrived on this island, these hectares were seen to by trolls, and they didn’t take kindly to newcomers showing up and imposing their will on the land. Took both sides an entire generation to figure out how to share. And then it took my great-grandmother falling in love with one for it all to fall apart.” He smoothed his fingers over the carved faces. “Abi and I been tryin’ to set things right. The two grandsons who’re taking over? Their troll ancestry has reasserted, and we’re thinking this might be the best way to protect them and keep the two sides who love this land united.”
Tanner cleared his throat and pressed on. “Trolls are magical beings. Your story affirms local legend that says they have an affinity for orchards. But legend can’t explain why we found two severed heads in your freezer. And why you both were under a very powerful spell when we found you.”
Abigail worried the edge of her apron, a different one, similarly aged and patched as the one she was wearing when we found her on Tuesday. She picked up where her husband left off. “Clifford found them in the orchard, back by the oldest trees, the ones that haven’t been doing so well. We considered tearing those trees out, but then we decided the boys could make that decision, once they get here.” She continued, “There were no bodies, just the heads. We didn’t know who to call or what more to do so we decided to store them until we could figure out our next step.” Tears streamed down Abigail’s face, and her thin voice had begun to waver. “We did not kill those poor souls. We’ve lived with them on this land for as long as I can remember. Peacefully. They like the trees, and the trees like them.”
“Did you find the tunnels?” asked Clifford.
“We found three under older trees that look to be healthy and producing apples,” I said. “Are those the ones you’re referring to?”
Clifford nodded. “Did you explore ‘em?”
“One of our colleagues went down the ladder,” Tanner answered, “but didn’t go farther.”
“When I was younger and more agile, I’d stick my head down, check things out. Bring food.” Cliff looked at Abi and smiled. “Trolls liked my wife’s goat cheese. They took good care of the trees. And we left them in peace.”
Abigail’s hands began to shake even more. “Clifford, tell them the rest. Tell them about why we maintain the tunnels.”
“Those tunnels are meant to be places of refuge and safety for whoever needs them. The Pearmains have done their best to keep them open and passable for over a hundred years.”
“When you say, whoever needs them,” I
