The Secret of Sentinel Rock (8 page)

“Could we get a print made of it?” Emily blurted ­out.

“I suppose so,” said Kate. She noted the pleading look on Emily’s face. “I could probably get Dwayne to print one for us in the darkroom over at the newspaper office.”

“I wouldn’t mind one of Grandma and Grandpa’s wedding either. Could you get one made for me too, Mom?”

“Me too,” said Liz, ­laughing.

“I might as well make one for the rest of the family while I’m at it,” said Kate, chuckling. She patted Emily’s shoulder. “I’ll see if I can get Gerald Ferguson to take us tomorrow.”

“Great,” said Emily. She stood up and started across the attic. She could hardly wait to ask Emma if she’d known her ­family.

“Wait a minute, young lady. You’re not going to leave a mess like this, are you?” Kate swept her arm over the photos spread on the ­floor.

“Uh, no, I guess not. Maybe I should put these negatives in a safe place.”

“Good idea.”

Emily found a small box and tucked the negatives in, separating them with tissue paper she found. “I’ll just put these in my room.”

“Okay, but come right back.”

Emily hurried to her bedroom and slid the box under the ledge of the window seat as thunder rumbled farther in the distance. The rain was gushing down in torrents, the wind whipping the trees outside. The dark leaden sky did not show any signs of clearing. She knew there was no chance of going out again today. But first thing tomorrow she’d look for Emma once ­more.

Chapter Six

The next morning Emily awoke
to the squawk of sparrows when Aunt Liz opened her bedroom window. The air smelled fresh and clean in the aftermath of yesterday’s ­rain.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Aunt Liz laughed and jostled Emily’s arm as she sat down on the edge of the bed. “I have to leave, Em. Gotta get back to Winnipeg.”

“Bye, Aunt Liz. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.” Emily sat up sleepily and gave her aunt a hug. “Have a safe trip back.”

“Thanks, kiddo. Take care of yourself.” Her aunt got up and went across the room towards the door, then paused at the head of the stairs. “By the way, Emily. I had a talk with your mother last night about taking it easier, not working so hard. She said she’d try, but you know how she is.”

“Yeah, I know. She’s a workaholic.” Emily fiddled with her hair, and lay back on the pillow. “I just wish she’d take time to go out for a walk or a bike ride or something. She never relaxes.”

“She’s under a lot of pressure, you know. Trying to meet demands and pay the bills. It’s not easy running your own business. But it’s important that she take time for herself too.” Liz walked over to the mirror and straightened her blazer. Emily liked the way her aunt dressed – a professional, yet casual look, not too ­old-­ladyish. Her ­grey-­blonde hair was neatly in place, yet it looked natural. Aunt Liz smoothed her skirt and headed for the stairs again. “I’ll work on her when I get back. In the meantime, just keep inviting her for walks and maybe she’ll take you up on it sometime.”

“Okay, Aunt Liz. Thanks.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

“Bye.”

Aunt Liz’s head disappeared down the staircase and Emily slid out of bed. As she dressed she could see her aunt get into her car and drive off, showering gravel down the driveway as the car sprinted away. Someday I’m going to have a car just like that, thought Emily. Then she dashed down the stairs, meeting her mother in the second floor ­hallway.

“Morning, Mom. Could I go see if I can find Emma…?” She stopped short. She’d almost blurted out “and ask her about her family?” Good thing she’d caught herself before her mother asked more awkward ­questions.

“Morning, Em. Well, I guess so.” Kate’s face creased with a frown, as she considered Emily’s request. “I have to spend some time with Gerald Ferguson going over the business arrangements for the farm this morning. But this afternoon you’ll have to come with me to town – if I can get Gerald to give us a ride.” Kate looked at her daughter and suddenly gave her a hug. “You go on, but grab something to eat first, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Mom.” Emily was relieved. She and her mom had a truce again. She raced ­downstairs.

In the kitchen Emily scrounged around for a plastic bag, then grabbed a sandwich left over from lunch the day before and tucked it inside. Outside, Mr. Ferguson, who was just driving into the yard in his ­half-­ton, waved and grinned at Emily. He was knocking on the door as she strolled across the prairie, chewing her ­egg-­salad ­sandwich.

The ground was damp. She could feel the moisture leaking into her sneakers. Wet grass and weeds smacked at her pant legs, until the bottoms were soaked to her calves, but she didn’t care. The foliage everywhere was brilliant green, and the sun glinted off the bright blue of the slough as she passed. Two swallows swung and dipped over the power lines, headed for her grandparents’ barn. The leaves on the trees had seemingly popped out fully from buds overnight, and the air smelled fresh and ­clean.

Emily breathed deeply and ran. When she reached the boulder she climbed part way up and groped in the crevice for the special stone. She’d decided to take it with her in case Emma hadn’t come. Just as she touched its smooth coolness, she trembled and felt herself slipping…The scenery shifted. She slid the stone into the pocket of her jeans, then scaled the top of the rock – where Emma waited for ­her.

“Hi, Emma. Isn’t it a glorious day?”

“Indeed, it is a grand July day, Emily.” Emma rose to greet her. “Come on, lass. I want to show you our new home. We moved in a couple of weeks ago.”

The two girls climbed down from the rock and followed the trail across the ­meadow.

“It poured buckets yesterday,” Emily exclaimed as they waded through vegetation dripping with moisture. “Looks like it did here, too.”

“Yes, it rained here, but we were cosy and dry in our new house.” Emma stopped and bent over. Her fingers parted the foliage. “Look Emily. Mushrooms.”

“Don’t touch that, Emma. That one’s poisonous. I can show you some good ones to eat, though. Grandmother Renfrew taught me how to hunt for mushrooms. You have to be really careful which ones you pick, but there should be lots of good ones after this rain.”

Emily scampered through the grass and found what she was looking for. “Look, Emma, these ones are okay, but not those over there.” Emily pointed to individual mushrooms scattered here and there. “Don’t touch those. They’re really deadly. My grandma said you should always pick mushrooms with someone who knows what they’re doing,” Emily warned her ­friend.

She showed Emma the band of good ­mushrooms, and both girls were soon spotting them all over the meadow. They picked the spongy morsels, but soon had too many to hold in their hands. The mushrooms were too dirty to wrap in Emma’s apron. That was when Emily remembered the plastic bread bag from her sandwich. She pulled it out of her ­pocket.

Gazing in amazement at the clear bag, Emma reached out and rubbed the pliable material in her
fingers. “Oooh, what is this?” she squealed, making a disgusted face. Setting the mushrooms on the ground, she held the bag up to her eyes and peered at Emily through ­it.

While Emma tested the bag with her fingers, Emily tried to explain about plastic and its uses. By the time she was done, both girls were giggling at the distortion the plastic created as they peered through it. When their laughter subsided, they popped the mushrooms into the bag and resumed ­picking.

As they worked, Emma explained that they had baskets for carrying things and ­sometimes they used cloth or leather sacks. Soon the girls were discussing the differences between modern inventions and items used in the past. Emma was amazed to hear about television and disc players, and Emily laughed when Emma described having to hand crank a phonograph to hear music recorded on grooved ­cylinders.

Their talk eventually brought them back to a discussion about wild plants and mushrooms. Emily told Emma how she and her grandmother had harvested mushrooms around the edges of the manure pile after a rain. She told Emma how the little buttons appeared as if by magic overnight and how good they tasted fried fresh in butter with toast. If they were plentiful her grandmother also canned them, but that meant many hours of ­gathering.

“Sometimes,” she said, standing up and stretching her aching back, “we’d cross the whole meadow and pick them.” Emily sighed, remembering Grandmother Renfrew and their outings together. Oh, how she missed her favourite ­person.

Squatting on the ground again, Emily glanced down at her sodden runners and realized her feet were thoroughly wet. She should have worn rubber boots. She started giggling again, then tried to explain to Emma how she and her grandmother clomped about in rubber boots after a rain. As Emily demonstrated, both girls burst into fits of laughter, startling a gopher that had poked his head out of a nearby ­hole.

The girls continued collecting mushrooms until Emily’s bag was full, stopping only occasionally to swat at mosquitoes and dodge the grasshoppers vaulting about them. Or to stand and stretch in the heat of the strong summer ­sun.

“This is wonderful, Emily. I’ll take these to Granny and we’ll have something different to eat with our stewed rabbit tonight.” Emma held the bag up high and giggled ­again.

Emily smiled wanly at the thought of eating a poor defenceless wild rabbit. When she considered the options though, she realized there wasn’t a great deal of choice. Emma’s family certainly couldn’t go to a grocery store and stock up on ­supplies.

“What else do you eat, Emma?” asked Emily, curious ­now.

“Porridge, every morning, for sure. And ­oat-­cakes or bread. Sometimes wild fowl. You know – ducks, geese, grouse. Once in a while either my father or one of my brothers shoots a deer.”

Emily paled again at the thought of a deer, but realized that even in the 1990s, people hunted them for sport and ­food.

“We’ve found some wonderful berries to eat too,” Emma added. “Raspberries, and some ­purplish-­black ones like blueberries, although they’re not quite the same as the ones we grew back home. They’re plentiful right now.”

“Can you show me where they are?”

“Sure.”

Both girls ran to the edge of the woods where some bushes hung low to the ground, pulled down by the weight of ripe purple ­berries.

“Saskatoons! My favourite.” Emily grabbed a handful and popped them into her mouth. The sharp taste of the juicy fruit reminded her instantly of picking berries with Grandmother ­Renfrew.

Every summer her grandmother had made pies, canned dozens of jars of preserves, and frozen huge quantities to be used over the winter months. The best were fresh berries, heaped with sugar, swimming in fresh farm ­cream.

Emily felt numb for a moment when she realized her grandmother would never do these things again. In fact, Emily might never do them again either, if the farm really sold. So far she hadn’t been able to come up with a way to convince her family to keep it. Shrugging off the feeling of depression, she hurried after Emma, who had gone around to another side of the ­bush.

Both girls ate berries until they were full, laughing at their ­purple-­stained tongues and fingers. Then they wandered along the edge of the bluff, where a profusion of wild raspberries grew. They had a handful each, but were too stuffed to eat more. Besides, the mosquitoes were attacking the girls in larger numbers, and they were ­tired.

“I’ll tell my granny and we’ll come out and pick these later too.”

“What about your mother?” asked Emily. “How is she?”

“Poorly. She’s not regaining her strength like she should. She’s worried, but we are all doing what we can to help.”

“I’m sorry to hear she’s sick.” Emily thought for a few moments. “You know, I remember my grandmother used to say camomile tea was good for almost any kind of ailment. Has your mother tried it?”

“I’ve heard of it back in Scotland, but I didn’t know it grew here too.”

“Sure – it grows wild all over the pasture.” Emily pointed to a plant with her wet sneaker. “It’s just starting to bloom. See? You can pick it and steep it like tea. It can be dried, too.”

“Well, aren’t you wonderful, Emily.”

Emily grinned. “The thanks go to my grandmother. She knew everything about plants and I just listened. She said camomile was great for curing almost anything.”

“Come on, lass. Let’s take this to my home and then we’ll come back with a basket for some of this camomile,” said Emma. She snatched up the bag of mushrooms from the ground where they’d left it and headed into the ­trees.