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Authors: Zilpha Keatley Snyder
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standing on a large rock at the edge of the water. He’d never before seen anyone on that stretch of the creek, a place where the water ran swiftly in a series of small waterfalls and then dropped in a long cascade to the lake below. At times the rushing water probably filled the entire gorge, but now, in the dry season, there was a narrow strip of boulder-strewn land on each side of the stream. It was a place where one might expect to see a determined fisherman or an adventurous hiker, but the person who stood on top of the large dome-shaped boulder obviously wasn’t in either category.
Dressed in a long, close-fitting sheath that shimmered as if it were spun from silver thread, the person on the rock seemed strangely elongated, her body too narrow for its height. With her arms outspread, she was standing so perfectly still that for a moment James actually wondered if she were alive, or only some strange statue or mannequin. But then she moved, lifting her head and tilting it upward, so that her face was more clearly visible—eyes closed beneath dark, sharply defined brows, wide cheek bones and a full-lipped mouth. The mouth was closed and seemed to remain so, and yet the singing went on, a high, clear wailing chant. Frozen to the spot in amazement, James felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle.
Then suddenly, two more figures appeared from behind the boulder, and it all became, if not clear, at least explainable. It was some kind of game. Because these other two were obviously little kids, probably less than ten years old. They were plainly pretending to be involved in a ritual or ceremony of some sort. The first one, who seemed to be a boy, had a beach towel robe over his shoulders and was holding a large basket in front of him. The other was a little girl. James leaned forward, pushing his glasses back in place and squinting. The same girl, in fact, he had met in the grove near the west gate. The one who had helped him pick up groceries and who had said that her name was Laurel Jarrett. But now she was wearing something draped over her head and was carrying what seemed to be a large blue vase. The two kids walked in a circle and then approached the rounded rock where the silver figure still stood motionless. The mystery of the high-pitched chant was now solved. The kids’ mouths were opening and closing in time to the plaintive wail that had made the back of James’ neck begin to crawl.
When they reached the rock, the silver woman knelt suddenly and took the basket from the boy. Then she rose and, reaching into the basket, seemed to be scattering something on the surface of the creek. She was singing now, too, her voice soaring over the children’s, a high, clear, floating sound. Kneeling again, she returned the basket to the boy and, taking the vase from the girl, poured something into the foaming water below the boulder. A moment later she slid down off the rock, and the three of them moved slowly, in single-file, toward the cliff. It wasn’t until then that James noticed the cavelike crevice in the cliff face. When they had disappeared into the crevice, he hurried on across the cliff and down the long incline to the Peter’s Creek crossing.
He moved more quickly than usual, pushing himself until he crossed the stream, where he slowed to a thoughtful amble and then stopped altogether. Here at the crossing, the creek was wide and shallow, but he could see where, only a hundred yards downstream, the water was already beginning to foam and tumble. It would be a long steep climb down to the cave where the mysterious ceremony was taking place. He started down the bank, stopped and sat down on a rock to think. What, he asked himself, was he thinking of? Going out of his way to spy on some kind of silly game. It was late, and he ought to be getting home. The internal argument was still going on when he heard voices and looked up to see the game players themselves picking their way among the boulders a
Dressed in a long, close-fitting sheath that shimmered as if it were spun from silver thread, the person on the rock seemed strangely elongated, her body too narrow for its height. With her arms outspread, she was standing so perfectly still that for a moment James actually wondered if she were alive, or only some strange statue or mannequin. But then she moved, lifting her head and tilting it upward, so that her face was more clearly visible—eyes closed beneath dark, sharply defined brows, wide cheek bones and a full-lipped mouth. The mouth was closed and seemed to remain so, and yet the singing went on, a high, clear wailing chant. Frozen to the spot in amazement, James felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle.
Then suddenly, two more figures appeared from behind the boulder, and it all became, if not clear, at least explainable. It was some kind of game. Because these other two were obviously little kids, probably less than ten years old. They were plainly pretending to be involved in a ritual or ceremony of some sort. The first one, who seemed to be a boy, had a beach towel robe over his shoulders and was holding a large basket in front of him. The other was a little girl. James leaned forward, pushing his glasses back in place and squinting. The same girl, in fact, he had met in the grove near the west gate. The one who had helped him pick up groceries and who had said that her name was Laurel Jarrett. But now she was wearing something draped over her head and was carrying what seemed to be a large blue vase. The two kids walked in a circle and then approached the rounded rock where the silver figure still stood motionless. The mystery of the high-pitched chant was now solved. The kids’ mouths were opening and closing in time to the plaintive wail that had made the back of James’ neck begin to crawl.
When they reached the rock, the silver woman knelt suddenly and took the basket from the boy. Then she rose and, reaching into the basket, seemed to be scattering something on the surface of the creek. She was singing now, too, her voice soaring over the children’s, a high, clear, floating sound. Kneeling again, she returned the basket to the boy and, taking the vase from the girl, poured something into the foaming water below the boulder. A moment later she slid down off the rock, and the three of them moved slowly, in single-file, toward the cliff. It wasn’t until then that James noticed the cavelike crevice in the cliff face. When they had disappeared into the crevice, he hurried on across the cliff and down the long incline to the Peter’s Creek crossing.
He moved more quickly than usual, pushing himself until he crossed the stream, where he slowed to a thoughtful amble and then stopped altogether. Here at the crossing, the creek was wide and shallow, but he could see where, only a hundred yards downstream, the water was already beginning to foam and tumble. It would be a long steep climb down to the cave where the mysterious ceremony was taking place. He started down the bank, stopped and sat down on a rock to think. What, he asked himself, was he thinking of? Going out of his way to spy on some kind of silly game. It was late, and he ought to be getting home. The internal argument was still going on when he heard voices and looked up to see the game players themselves picking their way among the boulders a
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