you, girl. It holds all of the answers you seek as well as those
you might not want to know. My gift can protect you in the days to come. It can also
undo you. The truth waits inside.” She stroked Olivia’s carving, her eyes distant.
“I do this for your mother. My debt to her is paid. Go now.”
Suddenly, Olivia saw Munin not as a witch, a crazy hag, or a malicious crone, but
as a tired, lonely old woman who’d lived without companionship, without laughter for
far too long. When had she last shared a meal with another human being? When had she
been given a scrap of comfort during times of sorrow or illness? Was Camille Limoges
the only person to show her kindness?
Shadows from the candle flame played across Munin’s face, and as Olivia studied the
creases and the lines, mapping out the old woman’s solitary existence, she realized
that it had either taken incredible strength or immense fear or a combination of both
to live this woman’s life.
Before she lost the courage to do so, Olivia reached both hands behind her neck and
unclasped the gold chain holding her starfish pendant. She gently placed the treasure
in Munin’s hand and closed the old woman’s fingers around it.
“This is my most precious possession,” she said. “It always made me feel like my mother
was near. Maybe you’ll feel her too.”
Munin accepted the gift with a grave nod. “Thank you, child. I will be in need of
comfort soon. I should have known that Camille’s daughter would be the one to offer
it to me. I should have known that there is hope in the next generation . . .”
And with that, she turned away.
Olivia gathered the burlap sack containing her jug and stepped from the gloom of Munin’s
home into the harsh midday light. She winced, her eyes filling with tears, and motioned
for Haviland to heel.
Harlan forged ahead, his walking stick brushing idly against the carpet of leaves
until it gave way to the tall grass once again.
“You did a good thing back there,” he said when the Whaler came into view again. “Will
you come again?”
Feeling the solid weight of the jug in her backpack, Olivia paused on the muddy bank,
watching a cloud of gnats descend toward the water. “Maybe,” she said, but doubted
it. There was something final about her parting with Munin.
After helping her aboard, Harlan started the motor and coasted toward the mouth of
the creek. As the warm wind pushed strands of Olivia’s pale hair into the air, she
stared at the desolate underbrush and blank sky and recalled a poem by Katherine Mansfield.
It might have been written for the woman she’d just met.
Olivia spoke a few lines in a soft murmur, sending the words aloft on the salty breeze,
unaware that, in her own way, she was delivering the witch’s eulogy.
Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide
Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.
A strange wind flows . . . then silence. I am fain
To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,
Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land
Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain.
Chapter 4
I write for the same reason I breathe—because if I didn’t, I would die.
—I SAAC A SIMOV
A week after Olivia’s trip to the swamp, the Bayside Book Writers assembled in the comfortable
living room of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and helped themselves to beer, wine,
or, in Olivia’s case, a tumbler of Chivas Regal. There was also a selection of tasty
tidbits from The Boot Top to sample, including lemon and garlic grilled shrimp skewers,
fried crab wontons with a ginger soy dipping sauce, roasted avocado and asparagus
wraps, and prosciutto rolls stuffed with goat cheese and dates.
“Anyone else going to the Coastal Carolina Food Festival next weekend?” Laurel asked
as she poured herself a generous glass of chardonnay. “I volunteered to cover Saturday’s
events for the
Gazette
.”
Olivia was delighted to hear that Laurel would be
you might not want to know. My gift can protect you in the days to come. It can also
undo you. The truth waits inside.” She stroked Olivia’s carving, her eyes distant.
“I do this for your mother. My debt to her is paid. Go now.”
Suddenly, Olivia saw Munin not as a witch, a crazy hag, or a malicious crone, but
as a tired, lonely old woman who’d lived without companionship, without laughter for
far too long. When had she last shared a meal with another human being? When had she
been given a scrap of comfort during times of sorrow or illness? Was Camille Limoges
the only person to show her kindness?
Shadows from the candle flame played across Munin’s face, and as Olivia studied the
creases and the lines, mapping out the old woman’s solitary existence, she realized
that it had either taken incredible strength or immense fear or a combination of both
to live this woman’s life.
Before she lost the courage to do so, Olivia reached both hands behind her neck and
unclasped the gold chain holding her starfish pendant. She gently placed the treasure
in Munin’s hand and closed the old woman’s fingers around it.
“This is my most precious possession,” she said. “It always made me feel like my mother
was near. Maybe you’ll feel her too.”
Munin accepted the gift with a grave nod. “Thank you, child. I will be in need of
comfort soon. I should have known that Camille’s daughter would be the one to offer
it to me. I should have known that there is hope in the next generation . . .”
And with that, she turned away.
Olivia gathered the burlap sack containing her jug and stepped from the gloom of Munin’s
home into the harsh midday light. She winced, her eyes filling with tears, and motioned
for Haviland to heel.
Harlan forged ahead, his walking stick brushing idly against the carpet of leaves
until it gave way to the tall grass once again.
“You did a good thing back there,” he said when the Whaler came into view again. “Will
you come again?”
Feeling the solid weight of the jug in her backpack, Olivia paused on the muddy bank,
watching a cloud of gnats descend toward the water. “Maybe,” she said, but doubted
it. There was something final about her parting with Munin.
After helping her aboard, Harlan started the motor and coasted toward the mouth of
the creek. As the warm wind pushed strands of Olivia’s pale hair into the air, she
stared at the desolate underbrush and blank sky and recalled a poem by Katherine Mansfield.
It might have been written for the woman she’d just met.
Olivia spoke a few lines in a soft murmur, sending the words aloft on the salty breeze,
unaware that, in her own way, she was delivering the witch’s eulogy.
Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide
Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.
A strange wind flows . . . then silence. I am fain
To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,
Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land
Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain.
Chapter 4
I write for the same reason I breathe—because if I didn’t, I would die.
—I SAAC A SIMOV
A week after Olivia’s trip to the swamp, the Bayside Book Writers assembled in the comfortable
living room of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and helped themselves to beer, wine,
or, in Olivia’s case, a tumbler of Chivas Regal. There was also a selection of tasty
tidbits from The Boot Top to sample, including lemon and garlic grilled shrimp skewers,
fried crab wontons with a ginger soy dipping sauce, roasted avocado and asparagus
wraps, and prosciutto rolls stuffed with goat cheese and dates.
“Anyone else going to the Coastal Carolina Food Festival next weekend?” Laurel asked
as she poured herself a generous glass of chardonnay. “I volunteered to cover Saturday’s
events for the
Gazette
.”
Olivia was delighted to hear that Laurel would be
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