Trevor was wrong. That night I heard her again, coming and going. At midnight she passed by going north, uttering the same heart-wrenching sobs. Hours later, she returned, going south, crying out for help and raising the hair on the back of my neck.
In the morning I had a quick coffee, laced on my hiking boots and walked into the trees. The open bush was brushed with the vivid green of new, unfurled leaves, and thousands of trilliums speckled the forest floor with white. Last year’s fall of leaves rustled softly underfoot. Squirrels skittered here and there, to and fro, and the air was alive with birdsong.
Soon I came across a path leading north and south. I was no woodsman, but I could tell it was not well traveled.
I elected to go left. After a hundred yards or so the terrain sloped, and spruce and cedar stood green against the grey trunks of the hardwoods. The ground underfoot was damp. I came upon a creek that intersected the path. A thick log that had fallen long ago formed a bridge across the stream. The moss on the log was undisturbed. I stepped along it carefully. After ten minutes I saw a clearing through the trees, and a small building. At the edge of the clearing, by a rail fence, I had an unrestricted view of green grass, a stone monument, and the African Methodist Church, lit by the slanting rays of morning sunlight.
I retraced my route, this time going past the spot where I had started following the path. The trail rose and fell with the terrain, twisting through the bush for about half a mile before turning into the sun. I climbed a steep hill and found myself at the edge of a small clearing, and I stopped.
I remained still, as if something had commanded me to stand unmoving. I scanned the clearing. It was carpeted with long dry grass and weeds. On one side a jumble of fallen and rotted logs enclosed the remains of a stone chimney. There was a strangeness about the place. An otherness.
On the edges of the clearing, branches stirred in the breeze, but the grass in the open area stood as motionless as it would on a sultry, windless July day, as still as a photograph. No birds flitted or soared overhead. No squirrel scampered across the ground.
And another thing. The ruin of decayed logs and mossy stones had fallen down long ago, but the surrounding forest had not reclaimed the open land. Not so much as a sapling grew there.
I took a breath and walked into the zone to the ruins of what had probably been a small cabin. It seemed a peaceful place, bathed in the yellow light of the morning sun, but there was a pervading chill there, a creeping, unwelcoming cold.
I wondered what Raphaella would think of the place. I decided to take her there.
It was late morning when I pulled into the driveway of our new house on Brant Street and parked in front of the detached double garage. It was run down, paint peeling off the ship-lap siding, shingles missing, and would need a lot of work. Just the thing Dad liked.
I walked around to the front of the house and onto the wide verandah and let myself in the front door. He was still at work, teaching music to the mites. I cruised the rooms, taking my time, noting the high ceilings, the wide baseboards and trim, the hardwood floors that creaked underfoot, the huge brick fireplace in the living room with the carved oak mantel. Inside, the place was in good shape. I could see why Mom and Dad had been so taken with it.
In the big kitchen at the back of the house I made some coffee and toast, and rummaged through the pile of newspapers Dad had left on the table. He’d clipped Mom’s first two articles. I read them, not at all happy about what I learned.
East Timor, she wrote, was in a real mess. Militia groups, mostly teenage boys with guns, roved at will, killing anyone they thought supported home rule. It looked like civil war might break out if the U.N. couldn’t keep both sides from each other’s throats. Many of the locals were heading for the hills — literally. Added to that was religious strife. Christian and Moslem. Some of the militia were ultraconservative Moslems who tried to enforce very strict Islamic rules, Mom had written. Her disapproval of their treatment of women was pretty obvious.
I stacked the papers again and put my cup and plate into the sink. I climbed the stairs from the kitchen to the second floor — they were narrow and steep and there was a half-moon depression worn into each one — walked down the hall and took the stairs to the third floor.
Here, everything was more compressed, built on a smaller scale. There were two wainscotted rooms. The one at the front of the house had a door that let onto a small balcony with a wrought-iron railing. From the balcony I could see Lake Couchiching. This, I decided, would be my bedroom. I only had to convince Mom and Dad.
Downstairs again, I picked up the phone. Luckily, Raphaella answered.
“I’ve got something I want to show you out at Silverwood,” I said mysteriously. “You’re not going to school today, are you?”
“Forget it, Garnet. Mom’s giving me a hard time. I have to lie low for a while. I’m working in the store today.”
“What’s her problem?”
“I told you. She doesn’t want me seeing anyone.”
“The plan you told me about.”
“Yeah. Listen, Garnet, you’d better not call here any more. It just makes things worse.”
My stomach fell. “Does this mean … Are you telling me …?”
“No, no. I just mean you have to let me call you. I should be able to sneak out tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved. “But at least let me tell you about what I —”
“Uh-oh. Got to go.” And she hung up.