The Hollow Tree by Janet Lunn Read Free Book Online Page A

best pewter candlesticks. Wrapped in a shroud, Gideon’s body lay resting in the coffin. For just one instant Phoebe wanted to rip the shroud away, to look at Gideon’s face once more. Then she remembered, with terrible clarity, whathis face had looked like early that morning. She gripped Aunt Rachael’s hand so hard that Aunt Rachael pulled it away. She put her arm around Phoebe.
    Uncle Josiah stood at the far end of the coffin. His head was bowed and he was reading from the Bible in a low, steady voice. Phoebe knelt with her aunt and prayed. She tried to listen to the words Uncle Josiah was reading, but, even more, she wanted to plead with God to be kind to this boy who had loved God’s world so much. It was all she could think, all she could pray about. How Gideon had treasured the plants and animals in the woods! How he wanted to know about them, to understand them! With Aunt Rachael she said the prayer for the repose of Gideon’s soul. Silently, she promised him again that she would finish his work, she would take his message over the mountains to the fort.
    As she stood up, she became aware that there was someone else in the room. At first she thought it was Anne and she steeled herself to face her. Then the girl moved into the light of the candle and she saw that it was Polly Grantham. Phoebe went to stand by her. They looked at each other; neither spoke, but Phoebe was sure that Polly felt, too, that they shared a terrible secret. She forced her eyes from Polly’s pain-filled ones. She took her hand in a tight, quick grasp, then turned and fled the room.
    Blindly she climbed the stairs to the bedroom she shared with Anne. The fire had died in the hearth and there was only the glow from the embers to see by. Carefully, she tiptoed across the room to the built-in cupboard beside the fireplace. From her corner of it, she took her moccasins and her mother’s tartan wool cloak. The red glow caught the silver clasp in its light, and Phoebe had a fleeting memory of herself, very small, playing with that clasp. She closed her eyes against the pang of longing that the memory brought. Resolutely, she eased the cupboard door closed. One of the hinges squeaked and Anne woke up.
    “Who’s there?” Her voice was thick with sleep. She sat up. Phoebe froze. She said nothing. She waited. After a moment or two Anne lay back down, turned over, and went back to sleep. Phoebe tiptoed out of the room. In the next room one of the boys cried out. When there was no other sound, Phoebe went downstairs to the kitchen. She picked up the paring knife to cut a bit of ham, then looked at the bit she had cut earlier and forgotten. She turned away; the sight and the smell of the food had taken all her appetite from her. She stuffed her feet into her moccasins, put her mother’s warm cloak around her over her shawl, squatted down to say goodbye to George, looked around her once more, and slid out the door.
    As silently as she had come, she skirted the village street, past the backs of the houses, through barnyards to the brook, bubbling and splashing over the stones, glistening under the stars and a crescent moon. How she longed to follow it down the hill to the river, to go home to Hanover to her own house, to shut the door and never come out. But she had made her mind up. She had made a promise to Gideon. She looked down at the brook.
    “This is the way Gideon said to go,” she whispered, “he said to follow the brook west, so that is what I will have to do.”
    She turned her steps to the west, up the hill, against the down-rush of the brook, and started forth.

Alone
    I t was a little over fifty miles through the dense wilderness and over high mountains from the Connecticut River to Lake Champlain, where Fort Ticonderoga lies. For a strong, full-grown man, wise in the ways of the woods, it was at least a week’s journey. Phoebe was strong, but she was not quite fifteen, not very tall, and a little plump. What’s more, she had not