her own life. Instead of dying, she was found by the first Thomas Lumsden, who had a European father but a native mother. This man, who could heal the ground and the sky the way she could heal the body, fell in love with her and hid her in the trackless marsh.
The poor knew where to find them when cures or rain were needed, and she stayed hidden from the rest, biding her time. Before Michael was born her first husband’s history caught up with him: a wanted confidence man, he was traced to his grand house and arrested in the middle of the night. She had come out of hiding then, and since she could prove that all of their estate was in truth her inheritance, to which he had no claim, her husband’s creditors could not touch it to cover his debts. Her revenge never came to light, Grandpa said most likely because the man was too ashamed of what she’d done to him to make it generally known.
They still live in her house, still keep the dark wood of hermedicine chest oiled, but even though they have these tangible reminders of her she has a mythic quality in their eyes. They cannot trace their lineage any farther back; Thomas had been part of a vast but loose tribe, his wife had come to the island with no familial ties. Perhaps, once before, their cousins would have also inherited the gift, would have shared out the duty. Now they are the only ones left.
—
There’s a dry wind blowing the next day, some cooler than it has been all summer. Sally scuffs her feet in the dirt on the edge of the turtleback road. A call has just come through from the rest home: her grandfather is in a coma. Mitch went straight to his room when he heard, Mom went to the home, no one else was around. The greenheads are swarming; she isn’t sure why she went for a walk.
She remembers something that happened, when she was eight perhaps. Grandpa had a little cottage of his own, and she would sit on the countertop in the morning and watch the coffee to keep it from boiling over while he did other things. She remembers the sharp smell of the coffee, and the rising foam of bubbles around the edges of the pot, and her grandfather’s voice in the background. He was on the phone, walking up and down across the kitchen, stretching out the spiraling cord like she and Mitch would stretch their slinky between them. His voice was strained, tight.
“I really am sorry, Vince, but I can’t do anything about it. There is no water up there—the sky is bone dry clear out to the mainland. I know your irrigation pond is empty, mine is too, but I can’t do anything about it right now.” The voice onthe other end bled through, and he stopped his pacing to bend against his hand, as though his back were hurting him, and listen. The voice was harsh, angry, almost panicked, and Sally thinks it may have been the first time she ever heard a grown man sound truly afraid.
As he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, she reached up into the sky, felt around a bit, and found that what he’d said was mostly true—there wasn’t enough water in the air for a storm. Curious, she reached out farther, and bumped the coffee saucepan. Her hands jerked to the handle to keep it upright before she realized that she’d only bumped it in her head: the part of her that felt the wind had found the water in the coffee. It had begun to steam gently, and she dipped her mind into it. Her grandfather had his back to her, so she poked at it some more, bullied the coffee until it began to climb reluctantly into the air, forming a soft cloud like a ball of molasses candy over the pot. Her grandfather mumbled apologies into the phone, hung it up, and turned around to see a tiny brown rain shower falling neatly into the saucepan from two feet up, Sally smiling guiltily.
“And what do you think you’re doing, missy?” he’d asked.
“If you can put the water in the sky, why does it matter that there’s none there now?” she’d asked. The cloud had sprayed a fine mist of
The poor knew where to find them when cures or rain were needed, and she stayed hidden from the rest, biding her time. Before Michael was born her first husband’s history caught up with him: a wanted confidence man, he was traced to his grand house and arrested in the middle of the night. She had come out of hiding then, and since she could prove that all of their estate was in truth her inheritance, to which he had no claim, her husband’s creditors could not touch it to cover his debts. Her revenge never came to light, Grandpa said most likely because the man was too ashamed of what she’d done to him to make it generally known.
They still live in her house, still keep the dark wood of hermedicine chest oiled, but even though they have these tangible reminders of her she has a mythic quality in their eyes. They cannot trace their lineage any farther back; Thomas had been part of a vast but loose tribe, his wife had come to the island with no familial ties. Perhaps, once before, their cousins would have also inherited the gift, would have shared out the duty. Now they are the only ones left.
—
There’s a dry wind blowing the next day, some cooler than it has been all summer. Sally scuffs her feet in the dirt on the edge of the turtleback road. A call has just come through from the rest home: her grandfather is in a coma. Mitch went straight to his room when he heard, Mom went to the home, no one else was around. The greenheads are swarming; she isn’t sure why she went for a walk.
She remembers something that happened, when she was eight perhaps. Grandpa had a little cottage of his own, and she would sit on the countertop in the morning and watch the coffee to keep it from boiling over while he did other things. She remembers the sharp smell of the coffee, and the rising foam of bubbles around the edges of the pot, and her grandfather’s voice in the background. He was on the phone, walking up and down across the kitchen, stretching out the spiraling cord like she and Mitch would stretch their slinky between them. His voice was strained, tight.
“I really am sorry, Vince, but I can’t do anything about it. There is no water up there—the sky is bone dry clear out to the mainland. I know your irrigation pond is empty, mine is too, but I can’t do anything about it right now.” The voice onthe other end bled through, and he stopped his pacing to bend against his hand, as though his back were hurting him, and listen. The voice was harsh, angry, almost panicked, and Sally thinks it may have been the first time she ever heard a grown man sound truly afraid.
As he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, she reached up into the sky, felt around a bit, and found that what he’d said was mostly true—there wasn’t enough water in the air for a storm. Curious, she reached out farther, and bumped the coffee saucepan. Her hands jerked to the handle to keep it upright before she realized that she’d only bumped it in her head: the part of her that felt the wind had found the water in the coffee. It had begun to steam gently, and she dipped her mind into it. Her grandfather had his back to her, so she poked at it some more, bullied the coffee until it began to climb reluctantly into the air, forming a soft cloud like a ball of molasses candy over the pot. Her grandfather mumbled apologies into the phone, hung it up, and turned around to see a tiny brown rain shower falling neatly into the saucepan from two feet up, Sally smiling guiltily.
“And what do you think you’re doing, missy?” he’d asked.
“If you can put the water in the sky, why does it matter that there’s none there now?” she’d asked. The cloud had sprayed a fine mist of
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