The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(44)

Then I added a rain cloud. Just one.

I concentrated with all I had to shape it, sculpt it. To make it realer than real. I made it darker than the others—gray as granite, and swelling with moisture. I placed it just at the sharp arête of the Mountain. Heavier and heavier it grew—until it was so swollen, so heavy, it couldn’t keep its altitude anymore. It began to sink . . . skimming lower and lower . . . whipping down the Mountain slope . . . out of control now and picking up speed . . . making for the garden . . . for me . . .

My eyes flew open and I was startled to find I was panting, struggling to catch my breath. Sweat was running down my face, the salt of it stinging my eyes. I used my shirttail to wipe it away.

I glanced up again, and the sky was just as it had been. The Mountain . . . still vigilant.

But what was that hugging the ridge?

It was a cloud like the others—only this one was not quite so white, not quite so high. Its underbelly was a pigeon gray, as if a charcoal pencil had only begun to shade it in.

Even as I watched, the cloud began to shred and dissipate. Fainter and fainter, until finally it dissolved into the same thin air it was made of.

As if it had never been there at all.





Nastas





Olin had built a freestanding fireplace and grill on the patio behind the house, with a pumice stone core and faced with sandstone flags. Jessie said they used it deep into winter, bundling up like Eskimos. There was no need to bundle yet—it was only the end of August, according to Jessie, although I couldn’t see how she kept track. The two of them owned no calendar—Olin said there was nothing a calendar could tell him that the elements couldn’t.

“Except birthdays,” Laurel said.

“That’s what the wife’s for,” said Olin.

Simon suggested a barbecue, and he’d bring the venison steaks. By now Saturday suppers were settling into routine, and no longer a cause for panic. I still left the bulk of the conversation to the others—I’m not garrulous by nature, but can appreciate those who are. Even Laurel has a better talent for it than me.

We were on the patio when Simon arrived. He showered and joined us, his eyes skimming my yellow sundress. I turned my back to finish laying the table, awkwardly smoothing the fabric over my hips.

Simon was a creature of habit, too, and as usual he took a seat facing me while Laurel claimed the chair next to his.

Olin took charge of the grill, forking the steaks onto a platter for Jessie to distribute. She started with Laurel.

“Ever had venison before, honey?” Jessie asked her.

Laurel frowned suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“Deer meat,” I answered, cutting her steak for her. “Give it a taste.”

She chewed cautiously at first, then nodded. “Good!”

“Atta girl,” said Olin.

“Mommy?” said Laurel.

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“I heard her again.”

“Who’s that?”

“Tinkerbell.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. I set down my knife and fork.

“Not now,” I murmured, handing her the breadbasket with a warning shake of my head. “Here, have a slice.”

Olin looked intrigued. “What’s this?”

“Nothing at all,” I said.

“Tinkerbell,” said Laurel. “She’s up there.”

She twisted in her seat and pointed high on the Mountain. Olin squinted, trying to make something out.

“It’s nothing,” I repeated.

Laurel pressed her lips in a stubborn line. “She was barking again,” she insisted. “I heard.”

“Is this your pup, hon?” Jessie asked her. “The one that run off?”

Laurel nodded. “I looked and I hollered, but she never came back.”

“Now, that’s a shame,” said Jessie.

“Mommy, we gotta go get her.”

“Please stop, Laurel.”

“But, Mommy—”

“Laurel! Stop! Now!”

She was shocked to silence. But I could see the fury brewing, every ounce of it plain on her face, until she broke into howls of misery.

I took a deep breath and tried again, this time without the snap in my voice.

“Tinkerbell got lost a long way from here,” I said. “She couldn’t have walked this far. In fact . . . In fact, I bet some other family took her in by now.”