Heartbroke Bay (27 page)
Authors: Lynn D'urso
She is elated and frightened, avoids Michael’s eye, and studies carefully, without seeing, the ice and mountains around them. As the skiff draws away, a pair of bold ravens swoop in to squabble over the pink and gray entrails.
The keel of the skiff crunches ashore, shattering the litter of mussel shells strewn about the beach below the cabin, just as the reddest part of the evening light floods in from the west. The low-angle light bathes the thick stands of fireweed along the edge of the forest in crimson and emerald, highlighting the copper in Hannah’s hair. Her color is high from the day, her face warm and ruddy. She feels flushed with the tension that sings back and forth along invisible nerves strung between her skin and the Irishman’s.
There is no response to Michael’s
haloo
to the cabin; the miners work late at their digging. Hannah is relieved. She will have time to compose herself before Hans returns.
haloo
to the cabin; the miners work late at their digging. Hannah is relieved. She will have time to compose herself before Hans returns.
As they pull together to raise the skiff above the reach of the tide, Michael and Hannah feel as though they’re being watched. The door of the silent cabin stands ajar—Hannah is certain it was secured when she left—and the atmosphere is tense with the electric, silent sense of another’s presence.
Michael yells
haloo
again, then stands quietly, watching and listening, before unlimbering the shotgun and motioning Hannah to stay back.
haloo
again, then stands quietly, watching and listening, before unlimbering the shotgun and motioning Hannah to stay back.
Easing forward, he notes first the garden. This morning it was a neat plot of beans and leafy plants laid out in straight rows; now it is a square of plowed wreckage. Stepping slowly and carefully to the cabin, he pushes at the door with the barrel of the gun, then pauses, cocking his head to listen. Hearing nothing, he risks a quick glance inside, then steps back and motions Hannah forward.
“We’ve been plundered! It looks like a bear.”
Inside the cabin is a litter of crushed cans, scattered blankets, and splintered wood. The bear has scratched and bitten at every item, and the interior looks as if a madman has run rampant, axing and smashing everything within reach. Grains of barley and rice litter the dirt floor. The tins that contained them are smashed flat. The small store of flour has been invaded, and white bear tracks mark the scraps of lumber that once were the table and bunks. Clots of ticking bleed from wounds in the thin mattresses; clothing has been pawed into the dirt, and the door itself sprung on its hinges. No single item has been left intact or bit of food unspoiled.
Michael studies the mess, then lowers the shotgun and begins to clean up, salvaging what boards and clothes he can. Hannah joins in, but moves slowly, numbed by the disaster.
Is this punishment?
she wonders.
The price of tempting my marriage?
Is this punishment?
she wonders.
The price of tempting my marriage?
Severts untangles the rope weaving of the Nelsons’ bed, coiling the line neatly. “I’ll fix this tomorrow. There’s enough here to rebuild your bed and at least one other bunk.” He looks out the door at the gathering darkness. “We best salvage what we can from the garden before it gets too dark. Perhaps it missed a few potatoes or something. Don’t want the beast coming back in the night.”
Outside in the dark, Michael holds a lantern aloft, and Hannah bends to the ground, probing with a shovel at the claw-tilled earth and vegetation. There are broken bits of carrots and a handful of pea pods, which Hannah drops into a sack. The vandalized garden gives up a small armload of potatoes. Many bear the marks of teeth and claws.
The lantern drops a cone of wavering light around them, isolating them from the rest of the world. Michael watches the firmness of Hannah’s slender back and shoulders as she bends to dig at the ground. The soil gives up a rich, fecund smell, and the damp earth clings to her hands. Curls of loose hair hang about her face, and when she brushes one aside, a streak of dirt appears on her cheek.
“I did this with my mother,” whispers Michael. “Just like this, stealing potatoes in the dark from the Grady’s field. And after . . .” He shifts once on his feet, then again. “She . . .” Just that and nothing more, but there is something anguished and confessional in his words, and Hannah swallows an urge to take his hand.
They work closely together, and when Michael places the lantern on the ground to hold the neck of the sack open for Hannah to drop in her meager booty, the darkness severs them both at the knees. They stand with their faces in shadow, the smell of seal meat and green earth in the air.
Hannah takes a deep breath and tastes the scent of Michael standing by her side. Shivering and trembling, she feels herself standing above a great vein of gold, and having no other words for the emotion, she names it love.
Fool’s gold,
she says to herself, wiping the dirt from her hands.
Fool’s gold for a married woman
.
she says to herself, wiping the dirt from her hands.
Fool’s gold for a married woman
.
The spell is broken by the sound of boots approaching in the dark. Michael raises the lantern, calling out, “Hello?”
“What ho!” cries Dutch and does a jig step as he enters the light. Hans is close behind, his face split in a grin. Harky stops just outside the range of the lantern and becomes a large shadow.
“Big news, Mrs. Nelson. Big news!” laughs Dutch.
Hans pulls a knotted handkerchief from his pocket and undoes it, holding it low to the light of the lantern. Cupped in his hand is a fistful of large nuggets, lumps of gold with the smooth, rounded texture of wax that has been melted and puddled in walnut-sized beads.
“It’s solid, Hannah, a streak of gravel that is yellow with gold.” He raises his fist as if offering her a closer look. “We’re rich. Very rich.”
Michael leads a back-slapping Dutch and Harky inside to inspect the damage. Before Hannah can follow, Hans restrains her, saying, “Wait, I’ve something for you.” Her heart skips at the feel of his hand on her arm and stumbles as he releases her to fumble in his pocket.
“I’ve done a bit of high-grading.” He smiles. “But I’m sure the boys won’t mind.” So saying, he raises his hand. Cupped in his palm lies a tiny, heart-shaped nugget.
“Take it.” He grins, mistaking her hesitance for surprise. “It’s for you.”
Hannah feels frozen, awkward, and it requires an effort to reach out and tweeze the nugget from his hand with a whispered, “Thank you.” When he wraps his arms around her, it feels like she is being bound by cables.
“There’s more,” he says, nuzzling. “Now that we’re rich, we can plan for children.”
When she stiffens, he pulls back. His smile melts into a puzzled grin. “I thought you would be happy.”
“Oh,” she says. “Of course I am. It’s just that . . .” She stares at the nugget, then makes a gesture that takes in the bear-plowed field, the shattered cabin, the gold, and the darkness. “It’s just all so overwhelming.”
That night she tosses fitfully on the floor, rigid and desperately aware of her place between her husband and Michael, whose presence a few feet away is tangible. The scope of the animal’s vandalism had done nothing to dampen Dutch’s golden exuberance, but Hans, puzzled, even hurt, by his wife’s lack of enthusiasm, had simply shrugged after inspecting the damage and said, “We can buy more. In a few weeks we’ll be able to buy dozens of everything.”
Hannah dozes, starting at every sound outside the cabin, and when she sleeps, dreams of opening herself to someone or something strong with warm breath.
THIRTEEN
Hannah sizzles the dark flesh of the seal in a skillet before the first crack of dawn, taming its gamey flavor with a handful of diced potatoes and salt. Hans and Dutch are raring to go, lacing up their boots as they gobble their meal. Harky takes his time, saving his energy for shoveling.
The remains of breakfast are still warm when Hannah scrapes them from the skillet into an empty lard bucket and covers it with a cloth for the miners’ noon meal. Outside, it is that moment of dawn when darkness first grows pale and objects take shape in the gloom. Michael is sorting out saws and hammers, nails and wire, marshalling his forces to drive the wrecked chaos of the cabin into order. Hans and Dutch head for the diggings, walking side by side with springing strides, shovels over their shoulders. Harky follows slowly.
Hannah, keeping her back to Michael as he works at the bent hinges of the door, arranges the few kitchen items salvaged from the bear’s depredations into a small row on the only shelf left intact, scrubbing overly long at the breakfast skillet, folding and refolding a dish towel over the back of a chair to dry. As the light comes, she sees that her hands are dirty with soil. Seal blood darkens the edges of her nails. She sniffs at her fingers; there is a lingering trace of seal fat, rank with the odor of fish, and the light smell of dried sweat from yesterday’s climb. Her skin itches. Her hair feels like a mixture of oil and straw.
Sorting out a towel and fresh blouse, she pushes them into a bag with a chip of soap and makes ready to leave. Michael must step aside to make room for her at the door, and they move around each other, excusing themselves in the too-polite tones of a couple who have recently argued. Michael watches her go down the path toward the bathing pool and shouts, “Be careful, Mrs. Nelson. That bear may be lingering about.”
Along the trail Hannah listens carefully for the crackling of branches or thud of large feet, but hears only the
yawk
of a raven calling out from its station in the top of a tree. The colors of the grass and foliage beside the trail have turned from a litany of summer greens to the pastel tans and browns of autumn. The mossy shadows beneath the trees are damp with dew. At the pool she slips behind a screen of alders and disrobes, spreading her skirt, petticoat, corset, drawers, and shimmy over accommodating limbs to air.
yawk
of a raven calling out from its station in the top of a tree. The colors of the grass and foliage beside the trail have turned from a litany of summer greens to the pastel tans and browns of autumn. The mossy shadows beneath the trees are damp with dew. At the pool she slips behind a screen of alders and disrobes, spreading her skirt, petticoat, corset, drawers, and shimmy over accommodating limbs to air.
Wading into the water, she flinches at the chill, raising her hands to her shoulders and taking tentative steps, pausing at ankles, knees, and thighs until finally stepping in to her waist with an inrush of breath. Making sharp, gasping sounds of pleasure, she scoops water onto her shoulders, breasts, and belly.
As she begins to wade toward the shore, the sharp
snap
of a breaking stick shoots a bolt through her heart. There is a rustle of movement among a bank of ferns lining the pool and the brushing sound of a body moving somewhere just out of sight. Hannah holds stock-still, shivering. Her pulse thunders in her ears. Her breath rattles, adrenaline screams through her blood. She waits for the bear to show.
snap
of a breaking stick shoots a bolt through her heart. There is a rustle of movement among a bank of ferns lining the pool and the brushing sound of a body moving somewhere just out of sight. Hannah holds stock-still, shivering. Her pulse thunders in her ears. Her breath rattles, adrenaline screams through her blood. She waits for the bear to show.
It is no bear but Michael who emerges. Relief, then panic, floods through Hannah, and she crosses her arms over her chest and plunges to a kneeling position in the water, covering herself to the neck. The cold forces a strangled shriek from her throat, and she rises, then drops again.
Michael stands at the fringe of the forest, mute and consumed, shotgun in hand, his chest rising and falling like a bellows, mouth tightened into a single line. Laying the shotgun down carefully, never taking his eyes from the woman before him, he advances to the edge of the pool.
“No, Michael.” Hannah holds up one hand.
He pauses, then walks fully clothed and shod into the water.
“Michael, please,” she says, backing away.
He advances.
“I mustn’t,” she says, moving backward onto the bank behind her and rising, lithe as an otter, beads of water freckling the skin across her breasts. Michael keeps coming until he is inches away, then reaches slowly with one hand and touches lightly with the tips of his fingers along her ribs, her belly, her breasts. She does not pull away.
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