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Authors: Frances O'Roark Dowell
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“I can’t imagine liking someone enough to marry him.”
“Do you know no nice boys?”
Isabelle pondered this for the briefest of moments. “No,” she said, shaking her head. She didn’t mention that up until Hen, she hadn’t known many nice girls, either.
Grete patted Isabelle on the back. “One will come along. You’ve had hard times, to be sure, but things will get easier for you. You’ll see.”
Isabelle wondered if Grete could tell she’d had hard times just by looking at her. She supposed it was possible. But her deep-down feeling? Grete could see inside of people, into their hearts and minds.
In fact, Isabelle felt that surely Grete was magic.
But what kind of magic did Grete possess?
Ah, a question that deserved an answer if ever one did.
19
I know, I know. What about the witch? Will Isabelle find the witch? Is she still looking for the witch? Or has Isabelle’s search come to an end? But if it has, then what? Do we leave Isabelle and Hen happily ever after in the woods with Grete, picking berries? Do they grow up there, tending to Grete in her old age, taking over her “business” when she passes into the Great Unknown?
That could be a good story, don’t you think? Lacking in excitement, admittedly. Perhaps more the thing your grandmother would read with her First Monday of the Month book group. Remember that time you had to go with her? How the hostess’s house smelled like a hundred cats lived there, but itturned out she didn’t have any cats at all, just one shivering Chihuahua? The book they discussed that night was something like
A Rosebush for Rosemary
, and you vowed that even when you were old as the ancient hills, you wouldn’t read books like that. No, only adventure books for you.
So, should you stop reading this book? I mean, you thought you were getting a witch, and so far all you’ve gotten is two girls and an old woman herb doctor. I don’t blame you for wanting your money back. You saved your receipt, right? Let’s march right back to the bookstore and demand—
Wait a minute.
I thought I saw something.
Yes, I’m pretty sure I saw something over—over—over—
There.
It’s a piece of paper falling out of a book.
I wonder what it says.
20
A few days later, when Isabelle was on the porch reading, a piece of paper slipped out of the book and fell to the floor.
It was a folded sheet of thick drawing paper, yellowing around the edges, crumbling at the corners. Isabelle leaned down and picked it up. Read:
For Isabelle
. She carefully unfolded it to reveal a nighttime picture drawn in blue-black ink—stars along the top, a full moon, a clearing in the woods, a patch of grass lit by the moon’s pale light. The trees that stood around the clearing had a friendly look to Isabelle, as though they were glad it was finally spring. Something was strung between the two trees in the foreground—was it a blanket? No, Isabelle thought, a hammock.
A hammock. And in the hammock—Isabelle didn’t even have to look. She did look, though, and so she saw the baby, round and glowing, so small. She could tell the baby wasn’t at all scared to be outside in the middle of the night. She could tell just by looking—just by feeling the feelings the picture made her feel as she looked at it.
But as she sat gazing at the picture, another feeling gathered at the edges of the paper where her fingers grasped it. Fear. The trees had felt it first. The trees had heard the children coming through the woods. They’d heard the whispering voices, the hands reaching down to the ground to scoop up rocks and stones. The trees knew who was coming—
21
—and they knew what the children would do next.
22
Isabelle was still sitting in the chair, the book still on her lap, when Grete came out from the kitchen to the porch. Did Grete look different to Isabelle now? Isabelle squinted her eyes, opened them wide, tilted her head left, then right, as she watched Grete walk out to the front
“Do you know no nice boys?”
Isabelle pondered this for the briefest of moments. “No,” she said, shaking her head. She didn’t mention that up until Hen, she hadn’t known many nice girls, either.
Grete patted Isabelle on the back. “One will come along. You’ve had hard times, to be sure, but things will get easier for you. You’ll see.”
Isabelle wondered if Grete could tell she’d had hard times just by looking at her. She supposed it was possible. But her deep-down feeling? Grete could see inside of people, into their hearts and minds.
In fact, Isabelle felt that surely Grete was magic.
But what kind of magic did Grete possess?
Ah, a question that deserved an answer if ever one did.
19
I know, I know. What about the witch? Will Isabelle find the witch? Is she still looking for the witch? Or has Isabelle’s search come to an end? But if it has, then what? Do we leave Isabelle and Hen happily ever after in the woods with Grete, picking berries? Do they grow up there, tending to Grete in her old age, taking over her “business” when she passes into the Great Unknown?
That could be a good story, don’t you think? Lacking in excitement, admittedly. Perhaps more the thing your grandmother would read with her First Monday of the Month book group. Remember that time you had to go with her? How the hostess’s house smelled like a hundred cats lived there, but itturned out she didn’t have any cats at all, just one shivering Chihuahua? The book they discussed that night was something like
A Rosebush for Rosemary
, and you vowed that even when you were old as the ancient hills, you wouldn’t read books like that. No, only adventure books for you.
So, should you stop reading this book? I mean, you thought you were getting a witch, and so far all you’ve gotten is two girls and an old woman herb doctor. I don’t blame you for wanting your money back. You saved your receipt, right? Let’s march right back to the bookstore and demand—
Wait a minute.
I thought I saw something.
Yes, I’m pretty sure I saw something over—over—over—
There.
It’s a piece of paper falling out of a book.
I wonder what it says.
20
A few days later, when Isabelle was on the porch reading, a piece of paper slipped out of the book and fell to the floor.
It was a folded sheet of thick drawing paper, yellowing around the edges, crumbling at the corners. Isabelle leaned down and picked it up. Read:
For Isabelle
. She carefully unfolded it to reveal a nighttime picture drawn in blue-black ink—stars along the top, a full moon, a clearing in the woods, a patch of grass lit by the moon’s pale light. The trees that stood around the clearing had a friendly look to Isabelle, as though they were glad it was finally spring. Something was strung between the two trees in the foreground—was it a blanket? No, Isabelle thought, a hammock.
A hammock. And in the hammock—Isabelle didn’t even have to look. She did look, though, and so she saw the baby, round and glowing, so small. She could tell the baby wasn’t at all scared to be outside in the middle of the night. She could tell just by looking—just by feeling the feelings the picture made her feel as she looked at it.
But as she sat gazing at the picture, another feeling gathered at the edges of the paper where her fingers grasped it. Fear. The trees had felt it first. The trees had heard the children coming through the woods. They’d heard the whispering voices, the hands reaching down to the ground to scoop up rocks and stones. The trees knew who was coming—
21
—and they knew what the children would do next.
22
Isabelle was still sitting in the chair, the book still on her lap, when Grete came out from the kitchen to the porch. Did Grete look different to Isabelle now? Isabelle squinted her eyes, opened them wide, tilted her head left, then right, as she watched Grete walk out to the front
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