“That’s not good for you,” Mrs. Wakefield said, coming up behind her. “Spit it out, Jessie.”
She spit it out, but the wind was against her and she had to borrow Mrs. Wakefield’s handkerchief to wipe off her face.
Mrs. Wakefield shook the handkerchief and put it back in her pocket. She was still very pale, and her eyes seemed misty and remote. She looked like never.
“If you come with me,” she said softly, “I know where we’ll go.”
“Where?”
“The island. See?”
Jessie looked, and there was the island, the magic island that appeared and vanished with every whim of the weather. Sometimes it was blue, and sometimes grey; or it was not there at all, or it was only a tip visible above the low fog, like a castle built on clouds.
“I was silly not to think of it before, wasn’t I?” Mrs. Wakefield said, laughing. “Why, the island would be a wonderful place for you and me. All the starfish we want, and other things, lots of wonderful things.”
“You said no one lives there.”
“Of course we can’t live there just yet. But we can go and look around. We can see if we like it or not.”
“When?”
“Right now. And then if we like it we can make plans.”
“It looks far.”
“It’s too far to swim, naturally. But you and I, we’ll take the boat, the rubber one because that’s safer. And you can help me make it go.”
Hesitating, Jessie scuffed the ground with the toe of one shoe. “I don’t much like boats.”
“You won’t desert me, too, will you, Jessie? No, of course you won’t, of course not.” She pressed Jessie’s hand between her own two hands. “You want to see the island, don’t you? Imagine a whole island all to ourselves.”
“I’ll have to go to school some place.”
“School?” Mrs. Wakefield repeated blankly. “Oh. Yes. Such a sober little girl you are. Like Mark, always thinking. All right, all right we’ll build a school. How’s that? Now we’d better hurry.”
“I’ve got to tell my mother. She may want me to put on a sweater or something.”
“But this is a secret, Jessie. You can tell her when we get back. Or she’ll be able to see for herself if she looks out of the window, that we’ve just gone for a little boat ride. We must hurry, though. Listen.”
Through the woods, harsh and clear, came the sound of Mr. Roma’s cowbell.
“Someone wants me,” Jessie said.
“We won’t pay any attention.”
“Maybe my father’s come home. He promised to bring me some gum.”
“I’ll buy you lots of gum,” Mrs. Wakefield murmured, close to her ear. “And the biggest doll we can find. And the island, too. We’ll build a school and a house as big as a castle.” But never, her eyes said, and the cypress mauled by the wind dropped its dying needles and whimpered, Never.
Jessie didn’t hear it or see it, but her skin pricked, and just under her left shoulder blade she had a little twinge of pain, sharp as a tack.
“I’m.. I better go home first anyway.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like the wind. I just hate it!”
“But it’s pretty. Like music. Very special music so that only special people like you and me can hear it.”
Jessie listened, but she couldn’t hear any music, only the rhythmic clanging of the cowbell calling her home. She put her fingers in her ears and lowered her head against the wind.
“The wind will die down soon,” Mrs. Wakefield said. “Up here on the cliff we feel it more. Come on, Jessie.”
“Is there... is there really an island?”
“Of course, darling. You can see it for yourself.”
“Sometimes not.”
“It’s always there.”
She began to move along the path with her hand resting on Jessie’s shoulder. At first Jessie didn’t like her hand there — it was too heavy, it impeded her walking. But gradually it became a comfort to her, an anchor against the wind. She lengthened her stride to match Mrs. Wakefield’s. There was a little barb of excitement caught in her throat; she was walking beside Mrs. Wakefield, stride for stride like a grown woman, and she was taking a trip to an island where no one lived.
They skirted the side of the house and headed for the stone steps a hundred yards beyond. No one saw them or challenged them, though they had a glimpse of Mr. Roma standing where James used to stand, under the magnolia tree. The cowbell was silent.
“I think my father’s home,” Jessie said. “I saw the jeep.”
“You’ll see him when we come back.” She began to talk fast, trying to keep Jessie’s attention away from the house and the jeep parked in the driveway. “Last night I had a dream. It was funny. I dreamt the sea had dried up, and where the sea had been there was a vast hole covered with dust and crushed salt. In the hole, everything, all the fish and seals and porpoises, lay gasping and half-dead. There was no water anywhere in the world. Everything had come down to the sea to drink, birds and animals and people. Even people I know were there, Luisa and you — you were there, Jessie. But of course the sea had dried up, too. There was only this great hole.”
“That’s silly,” Jessie said.
“Dreams are. Then it began to rain, and the sea filled up, and everything came to life like magic. There was no lightning or thunder, just the rain. I walked in it. I walked in the woods, and out of the dust grew beautiful flowers, and the path was a velvet ribbon of grass. Not just devil grass, the kind we have now — this was real grass with a little clover in it. And the trees — ah, you should have seen the trees, Jessie. The live oaks seemed to reach almost the sky. Every orange tree was jeweled with gold, and the leaves of the peppers hung down like moist green lace. I could see things growing quite plainly. Buds opened before my eyes, and from bare wood little green sprouts emerged...”
“The sea was all right again, though?”
“Yes, it was all right. Just the way it is now.”
“Kind of rough?”
“Yes.”
“Did you swim in it?”
“No, I woke up too soon.”
“That’s a funny dream,” Jessie said, nodding gravely. “It certainly is.”
In single file they started down the stone steps holding onto the rust-blistered iron rail guard. Just before the house dipped out of sight Jessie turned to look back at it, and a secretive little smile crossed her face. She felt quite dashing and adventurous, following Mrs. Wakefield down the steps, and seeing ahead of her in the distance the island, the shape of a giant curled up on his side asleep. She wasn’t in the least afraid even when she thought of the giant image, because they had reached the bottom of the steps now and Mrs. Wakefield had taken her hand again and was holding it very securely.
“I’m glad you’re coming with me,” Mrs. Wakefield said gaily. “It wouldn’t be any fun visiting the island all by myself.”
“What will we do when we get there?”
“Explore. Or maybe we’ll watch the porpoises first.”
“How do you know there are porpoises?”
“A fisherman told me. He tried to catch one with a jig, but the porpoises were too clever to be fooled. Then he found out later what bad luck it is to catch a porpoise, so he stopped trying. Fishermen are superstitious.”
“Why?”
“Because they live by luck. You’re not getting cold, are you?”
“No.” But she was a trifle cold, in spite of the midafternoon sun. The masses of foam blowing along the beach like soapsuds had dampened her jeans, and they were beginning to feel soggy, flapping against her legs.