Perdita by Hilary Scharper Read Free Book Online Page B

24
    Everyone is in such a foul temper today. The mantle would not light properly and Tad and Uncle G. have been growling at each other like two old dogs. Tad says Uncle Gil got the oil hot too quickly and Uncle G. is so sullen under criticism. Oh, they are like this everyspring!
    The problem with everyone is that they get so…so preoccupied with that Light. It is such an exacting master. Or a spoiled child, I cannot decide. Tad wouldn’t walk out with me to see the boats, and I so wanted him to see them. No doubt I shall have to spend all my evenings in the company of trees now that the Light must be tended, but of this I can hardly complain. I am sure the trees see and know everything. They will tell my thoughts to the wind, who will carry them to the Bay, and then they are taken everywhere, as far as the waves will travel. Sometimes I recite snippets of poems to them, and then I know it goes around the entire world, and every tree that is will hear it. And I think that perhaps they send their poems back to me…as if their swaying and stirring were a recitation. I like to think that this might beso.
    Am I too fanciful? I wonder if George would understand me? He might. Perhaps it is because he is a painter and I have seen his pictures of the trees and they are beautiful—though Auntie Alis says they don’t look very much like trees at all and she can’t imagine who in his right mind would pay good money for such things. She makes me laugh. Thank goodness for her! I sometimes think I would drift off up into the clouds and out to the stars if it weren’t for her good sense. And she is so attached to Mother. She is never rough with her body. I caught a glimpse of them this morning, and she bathes her like a child, kind and yet no-nonsense either. Mother is ever docile in her hands. It has been almost two years since her seizure, and yet surely we must not lose hope, surely its effects are not permanent. If only she might speakagain!
    Tad and I went over to Dr. Clowes to pick up our mail, and there was a letter for Mother from Montreal, from Aunt Louise, as it looked to be her handwriting. Flore had to pull us through a veritable bog, poor creature; the road is still almost impassible. The wagon swung about wildly, and Tad broke off some branches that got in our way. I put my hand on his arm to stop him; it just seems cruel to me, though he does not mean it so. Tad is a goodman.
    It is just that the saplings are always curious to see us—that’s why they get in the way. I am sure that when I was little, I must have bothered Mother countless times by hanging on to her skirts; it was such a habit of mine. But she has ever been so gentle with me. I can’t imagine Auntie Alis putting up with such nonsense. But I do think that sometimes the wind pushes the branches in front of me, just to cause mischief and make me feel that they do not want me to be here among them. Oh, the wind can be difficult. It is the one I understand the least. At times it truly hates me—I feel it so. Sometimes I put out my arms to catch it, just to say that I am not like those cruel men, but it won’t letme.
    April 28
    I went out to the Point today—unaccountable occurrence! At first the wind was gentle, as if it were pleased to see me. But then, suddenly, it stopped and there was a strange stillness, as if there were some awkwardness between myself and the Bay. I grew constrained and anxious, and then without any warning, the wind came back but with such force it knocked medown.
    It swept up my skirts and pushed back my hair—so vehement did it rush at me that I began to scramble toward the trees. But then I stopped and turned, asking it why it was so rough with me. It seemed almost ashamed and quietedinstantly.
    I sat there for some time, eyeing the Bay—somehow we are changed to each other this year. Perhaps it is just me that is changing, or perhaps I have become a little altered to it. I cannot