The Hollow Tree by Janet Lunn Read Free Book Online

up the hill and the several hundred yards along the road to the village green. There she stopped. And fell silent. She could not makeherself walk past the tree where Gideon’s body had hung.
    Gideon’s body. She had not been thinking about Gideon’s body. It would be laid out in the Robinsons’ parlour. The family would be there, watching over it. She swallowed back hot tears. She stood at the edge of The Green, irresolute. She wanted to be there with them, keeping vigil. Even more, she wanted to run away and never return to this place of grief and misery. She felt that she could do neither. She could not tell Aunt Rachael what she meant to do, but realized now that she could not leave without some kind of goodbye. And she knew she had to get something to eat and her warm cloak. When she thought about food, she realized that she had had none since supper the night before and that then she had eaten almost nothing because she had been so upset about Gideon’s letter to Polly.
    Suddenly the hair rose on the back of her neck. A dark shape moved in the shadows of the trees at the edge of The Green. There was someone there. She knew there was. She froze. It was now so dark she could barely distinguish one tree from another, but she could see eyes, and the only sound she heard was Trout Brook in the distance, burbling over the stones on its way down the hill.
    “Is someone there?” whispered Phoebe. There was no reply. She shivered, looked around again, and pulled her shawl so tightly aroundher shoulders she felt it strain. She edged around the village green, turning only once to peer over her shoulder, and went along the road to Mistress Shipley’s cabin. There she slipped behind the cabins to the Robinsons’ back door. Only Quincy, Moses Litchfield’s old dog, noticed her passing. He growled once, but settled back at the sound of her familiar voice.
    Gratefully she sank down onto the stone step, not bothering to brush the thin layer of snow from it. Within seconds, she felt an impatient nudging at her hip. She looked down. It was the cat. George was bad-tempered and demanding, and seemed to care for no one, except that he had let Phoebe — and only Phoebe — feed him. He had never before sat down beside her. She reached over to stroke him. He hissed, but he did not get up. A moment later Phoebe did. Her head ached from fatigue, from weeping, from making and unmaking decisions, and from hunger. She lifted the latch on the back door very quietly and let herself into the house.
    There was no one in the kitchen, and the only light came from the low-burning wood fire on the grate in the big fireplace. Its homey, acrid odour welcomed her. The remains of the evening meal had been laid by on the dresser. Phoebe cut herself a bit of ham with the paring knife that lay beside the plate, and a square of johnnycake, but, after two bites, she put it down.
    She took off her shoes and went on tiptoe to the front hall. She started up the stairs. She did not want to go into the parlour. She did not want to look into that room. But George gave her away. He had followed her so closely that she stepped on his foot. He let out a squawk.
    “Is that you, Phoebe?” Aunt Rachael came to the doorway. For a moment they stood there without moving, Phoebe with one foot poised to start up the stairs, Aunt Rachael, tall and still, her face ghostly grey behind the flickering light of her candle.
    “Where were—” she began.
    “I was—” Phoebe started to say.
    They both stopped.
    “It doesn’t matter,” said Aunt Rachael. “You are here now. Come.” She took Phoebe by the hand, and Phoebe had no choice but to follow her into the parlour.
    There, under the front window, was the pine box resting on a pair of saw-horses, the scent of the fresh wood still strong. Phoebe couldn’t help but wonder who in the village had been bold enough to make a coffin for a Loyalist soldier. At either end of it a candle burned brightly in Aunt Rachael’s