The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (adventure books to read .txt) 📗

They walk forward into the water, holding the triangle, waist deep into the swells splashing against Stella’s chest, breaking onto her face. She can taste the salt in her mouth, and it stings her eyes. The wind has picked up and she cannot hear Granny and Cynthia. It’s the purple hour now and Stella watches the iridescent water cascade from their hands to their hair as they hold their cupped palms up into the twilight, the water gushing over their upturned faces. Stella does the same thing, imitating them.

They don’t talk on the way back to Cedar Grove, shaking and shuddering the entire way home. Cynthia brings towels for them, drying Granny off. She opens a cupboard and makes a tea from herbs in copper containers, Granny sitting in a rocking chair calling out instructions. Cynthia serves them cups of the mysterious brew. At first it tastes bitter, and then salty like the sea, with a sweet lingering aftertaste of roses and honey. What magic does the tea have? Stella thinks about the power Granny mentioned, how her grandmother Morgana was very strong. And the Commonplace Book of the Offing Society with its blank, yellowed pages. Stella shivers as she hears Granny in her mind saying it was in her blood, her tears. Just what is in her blood and tears?

On the Road.

Goodbye, Isaiah Settles.

Now

Today Stella tried to sneak away from the centre without Dianne. But she always seemed to know what Stella was thinking, especially now that she was on high alert after the brave young woman in the yellow dress and her disturbing warnings.

“Oh, Stella, you’re walking so fast a person can hardly keep up.” Stella was grateful for Dianne’s company but worried she might get worn out. It was one thing to loop endlessly around the centre grounds but another to go on the trail all the way to the Bigelow Bay Cemetery. But then there was the worry that Dianne might be removed to a seniors’ home while Stella was away, that Nurse Calvin would use that as an opportunity, thinking Stella might have forgotten it was even the plan. But this new Stella, this Stella driven by a brooding fear, by the past rolling out of the mind shells, this Stella hoped if she could solve the mystery of Isaiah, then she could stop this plan of moving to a group home, of Dianne in a nursing home. Whenever Stella looked down at her ageing hands she heard a clock ticking — life was moving forward, years had passed, and she had missed so many of them. The luxury of hiding at the centre was gone. Her mind was working differently now. She needed to remember.

Late morning and a chill in the August air. It would warm up very soon. Stella buttoned up her old moth-eaten yellow cashmere cardigan — her mother’s favourite, which Stella had taken when they moved here in 1980. Her father gave away almost all of her mother’s clothes without telling her. But she still had the sweater after all these years, thin elbows, a few holes, matted and thick from washing, but warm and comforting nonetheless. How could it be Stella’s mother had died when she was much younger than Stella was now? How could time move so quickly and so slowly, with holes filled by memories from another time, memories that didn’t belong in the places they were inserting themselves?

Stella wore a small backpack that held some nuts and crackers and muffins she had taken from breakfast. But she had forgotten water. With every crackle in the woods, Dianne looked about, a geriatric sentinel.

Stella had to know about Isaiah. There was still a regular phone at the centre, for local outgoing calls and any calls coming in. Isaiah’s number was disconnected. Three times she had tried, to make sure she wasn’t pushing the wrong buttons.

They hurried over the old train tracks, both grateful for their walking regimen. A few dragonflies darted about as the heat came on.

The tracks would come out near the graveyard. Stella hoped it was a weekday, when people would be at work. If they were caught, they would be shipped out, dispersed like dated, worn furniture, shoved into back rooms.

Dianne was not talking. She was listening, on guard. They stopped for a few rests in the shade, catching their breath. The railway ties had been ripped out years earlier. They came to what used to be a railway crossing and Stella leaned on a poplar tree. She looked out over the beginning of a strawberry field, berries harvested, leaves turning red now. A shack for weighing fruit stood at the edge of the field. They sat on the bench in the shade. The town’s graveyard was down the farm lane and across the road behind a row of pine trees. They were very close now to solving the mystery of who was dead and who was alive.

“Well, let’s go. They’ll be looking for us soon enough, Stella.”

The red, dry dust floated up with each step. Stella heard Dianne smacking, thirsty, her voice cracking as she spoke. “Now, Stella, you got to know that they never told you Isaiah died. It’s not you forgetting. They thought it might send you over the bend. They was planning to tell you. I know because I overheard them. They thought I was sleeping. People think whenever an old lady’s leaning back with her eyes shut and breathing heavy that she’s dozed off. If I said it once, I’ll say it again . . . never underestimate an old lady.”

Even in her good running shoes, Stella’s feet hurt. Her head hurt. She felt crusty and old, worthy of being underestimated. There was nothing she could do except hide. Stella stepped back into the shade of a maple, crushing the wild mint growing around the trunk, the peppery oils permeating the warm air.

“The Covid came? Remember? It took him away. Isaiah was some old. Back in