It Happened in the Highlands(22)

Too late now, he thought, still managing some belated praise as they walked along.

Cuffe slowed down when they reached the second fish pond. A lad from the  kitchens was net fishing in the shallows. Drawing in the lines, the  young man closed the net around his catch and hauled in a dozen  good-sized trout that were destined for the Abbey's dinner table. Wynne  realized this was one of the boys his son had fought with, and he was  relieved to see there was no open hostility between them.

"Now that I've finished reading them all," Cuffe said, addressing only  Jo as they continued on, "I can't decide which of the tales are my  favorites."

"The story of Lightning and Thunder was one I particularly liked when I was growing up," she replied.

From a marshy area at the top end of the pond, the sound of a thousand  frogs filled the air, causing Cuffe to glance in that direction.

"‘Getting Banished to Sky,'" he said as they continued to walk. "The stories have a lot of banishing in them."

"They are tales people told each other to explain nature, while keeping the young ones' attention."

"Almost all them teach a lesson," he noted. "And they're learned painfully."

"True in life as well, isn't it?" she asked. "But some of the tales are uplifting and quite funny."

Wynne decided to venture into the conversation.

"What about your grandmother, Cuffe?" he asked. "She must have had stories that she told you when you were growing up."

The old shrug was back, but Wynne wasn't going to be put off so easily.

"What were those stories like?"

Cuffe picked up a stick, hitting it on the ground as they walked, and Wynne and Jo exchanged a glance over the boy's head.

"How did they compare?" Jo asked. "Were any of the lessons in Ohenewaa's stories similar to your Nanny's?"

"She always said her tales were about wisdom," he answered with a smile.  "‘You smarter now?' she'd say after a story. ‘Ol' Hige is out tonight.  Better to stay in.'"

"What is Ol' Hige?" Wynne asked.

Cuffe ignored him and dragged his stick along the ground.

"Ol' Hige is a witch," Jo told Wynne. "She sheds her skin and flies by night. Sometimes she turns into an owl."

"How did you know?" Cuffe asked, looking up with admiration.

She shrugged and smiled. "Go ahead, tell your father what Ol' Hige does."

Too excited about the story to remember he was trying not to be nice to  Wynne, Cuffe rattled off his explanation. "She sucks out people's breath  while they're sleeping. She especially likes the babies."                       
       
           



       

"How do you protect yourself?" Wynne asked. "Can she be killed?"

Cuffe looked first at Jo, but when she shrugged, he decided to continue.

"She sheds her skin when she flies. And that's when you can beat her."  He talked as if this was information everyone knew. "If you find her  skin, you put salt and pepper on it. Then she can't put it back on  because it will burn her. That's how she dies."

Wynne smiled and looked at Jo. "You've heard this before?"

"A version of it. I've heard Ol' Hige stories under different names. In  Ohenewaa's tales, she was called the Sukuyan, and she traveled not as an  owl but as a ball of light, looking for blood to suck."

"But your sister didn't put it in the book," Cuffe said, holding out a hand to help Jo around a low wet place in the path.

"I think Phoebe was too frightened to write it down on paper." Jo  smiled. "Even as an adult, she spends most of her time living in her  imagination. I wouldn't be surprised if she still lies abed at night  looking at the window and expecting Ol' Hige to swoop in and steal her  breath or her blood."

They reached the log that traversed the brook and Cuffe ran across before quickly coming back to hold Jo's hand as she crossed.

As they started along the path again, Wynne tried to keep his son  talking. "Maybe you should add the stories your Nanny told you to this  collection. Or perhaps you could make a separate book."

Jo's nod told him he'd made a good suggestion, so he was surprised when his son's eyes grew sad.

"I didn't hear them enough to keep them in my memory," he said in a low  voice before turning to Jo. "You were able to listen to Ohenewaa for  years and years."

"No, I wasn't, though I wish I could have. We lost Ohenewaa when my  sister Phoebe-the one who set the tales down on paper-was younger than  you are now."

"How did she remember them?"

"She put down what she could and embellished them as she wrote. The ones you read are retellings of retellings."

"So they're not exactly as you heard them?"

Jo shook her head. "No, but we were all so relieved that she did it,  because now a woman we loved will stay in our minds and hearts forever.  And the next generation of Pennington children will know her too."

Cuffe seemed satisfied with the answer, but he said nothing of Wynne's suggestion about writing down Nanny's stories.

They walked in silence for a while until the stone walls of Knockburn  Hall came into sight. As they were passing the orchard, Cuffe spoke up.

"How did you lose her?"

Jo glanced over the lad's head at Wynne before she answered. "Ohenewaa died of old age."

"In Scotland?"

She nodded. "Yes, she's buried in a cemetery at our home in the Borders."

Cuffe stopped, facing her. "Why? Didn't she want to go back to her own home?"

When Jo hesitated, Wynne knew she was beset with her memories of the old  woman. He'd heard so many stories of her. In every way that mattered,  Ohenewaa had been a member of the Pennington family.

"She chose the place she wished to call home," Jo said finally.  "Ohenewaa was a free woman since before I was born. She came from  western Africa originally, suffered the brutality of slavers in the West  Indies, and came to live with us when she was free. She could have gone  anywhere she wished, and she guarded that freedom fiercely. But she  chose to remain with us. It was her choice to live the rest of her life  where my mother and her children were, to be part of our lives. We loved  her and she loved us."

Cuffe shrugged and drew a pattern in the grass with his stick before meeting Jo's gaze again.

"But what about her other family, the people she left behind in Africa  or in the islands? Don't you think they missed her? Didn't they need her  too?"

The ten-year-old didn't wait for an answer, but turned and strode away from them.

Wynne saw the concern in Jo's face as Cuffe trudged toward the massive building.

"He is still struggling," he whispered, touching her hand.                       
       
           



       

"I know." She smiled sadly and linked her arm with his. "But he has a  point. My brothers and sisters and I, my parents, my grandmother before  she died-everyone who knew Ohenewaa-felt so fortunate to have her in our  lives, but we were only thinking of ourselves."

There was nothing Wynne could say to console Jo. He had no answers, no  wisdom to share. He felt the same helplessness that he had been  experiencing for months in the face of his son's unhappiness and anger.  There were no other choices for Cuffe but the life he was offering him.  Jamaica was not a safe place for him. But to say the words or to argue  them wasn't enough.

The walls of the house glistened in the morning sun. It occurred to  Wynne that he could have moved here with Cuffe before now. He could have  had windows installed and purchased the furniture, and that would have  been enough. But he'd held off, making excuses, telling himself he was  waiting for the addition to be completed. All lies. They weren't living  here because neither of them was ready. How could he move his son from  the Abbey-as flawed as the living arrangements were-to a shell of a  house that had no heart?

As he considered this, he saw his son walk directly to the door, push it open, and disappear inside.

At one time his life was all about keeping those he loved under control,  protected, safe. It had driven his decisions about life with Jo. About  who would raise his son. But what did that get him? He felt no fuller  than the empty house looming ahead.

While they were climbing the last short rise to the door, Cuffe  reappeared. Without giving them so much as a glance, he walked around  the side of the house to where an overgrown greensward dropped away to a  pond. There, he plunked himself down, hugged his knees to his chest,  and looked across the water into the murky depths of the Highland  forest.

* * *

Wynne's air of sadness and defeat was palpable to Jo as she stood with  him outside the door of Knockburn Hall. He said nothing, but continued  to gaze at his son sitting alone on the knoll.