Sisters of Grass Read Online Free PDF Page A

sunlight. Each morning could begin this way, each evening end with the loons. To have grown up in this air, taking in the dust of this earth with each breath, dust of dried grass, animal skin, the bodies of collapsing stars. I have dreamed of a girl. Pollen falls into my coffee as I walk among the trees, wildflowers brushing my legs. A startled ground squirrel skitters away.

IN A HANDKERCHIEF edged with fraying lace, the smell of lavender. A few brittle seeds caught in the threads. I rub them between my fingers and am taken back to my own grandmother’s house in Halifax, where hedges of the grey-leaved plants lined paths and where bundles of their dry flowers kept the rigid piles of ironed sheets fresh. Gifts sent from that coast arrived with sachets tucked into pyjama pockets or wrapped in an apron constructed of scraps of polished cotton and lengths of crocheted lace, the bittersweet odour rising from the box as it was opened. And this box, too, has its incense, a prelude to the rituals of discovery and accompaniment.
    The air of the valley’s history is rich with the smoke of artemesias burned to clean and protect, clouds of tobacco smoke bringing the souls back from the dead. And the smell of evergreens laid about to protect against witchcraft, illness, the tips rubbed on the bodies of girls to keep away evil. The rising of dust as graves are swept with the branches of wild roses. When we make our campfire, I burn a branch of sage for my own safe passage through this world of ghosts, my hands rich with the oil of lavender, Margaret’s little bag of earth.
    Margaret, Nicola Valley, 1904
    She was riding in the direction of her favourite place, Minnie Lake, though she knew she wouldn’t get that far today. There were tasks Mother wanted help with, and the younger children were still weak from the bout of influenza that had laid them low one by one; Margaret was the only one strong enough to beat carpets and begin to mend the winter quilts before they were put away until fall.
    But today there was a fresh wind, and Mother told her to saddle up Daisy and go for a ride.
    â€œI can manage for a few hours,” she said. “Tom is sleeping and the girls are playing. You go. A ride will make you fresh. Bring back some sunflowers if you can find them in bloom.”
    Daisy had been easy to catch, though a few of the other saddle horses rolled their eyes and trotted away as Margaret approached with a handful of oats and a bridle. She tied her horse to the fence while she changed into trousers in the barn. This was the compromise she’d reached with her father: she could ride in trousers but had to change in the room where they kept the harnesses. How he could have imagined it possible to ride in a skirt, even a divided one, was beyond her, and why her riding clothes had to change just when she’d turned fifteen puzzled her, too. That was when he’d decided that she must cultivate a more ladylike appearance, helped by his visiting mother and sister from Oregon. They showed her how to roll up her hair, after brushing it a hundred times, showed her how to starch her petticoats with sugar until they were stiff as boards. Her mother only watched, saying nothing. Her own soft dresses moved as she moved and did not rustle.
    When Grandmother Stuart and Aunt Elizabeth had arrived in Forksdale for that visit a year ago, Margaret’s mother had not wanted to ride down in the buggy to pick them up. She would prepare food, she’d suggested, make sure everything was ready, the beds well aired. The ladies would disembark from the train at Spences Bridge, spend a night there at Mr. Clemes’s hotel, then come by stage to Forksdale, stopping along the way for tea at Coutlee. But Margaret’s father had insisted she come. At the livery stable, her mother had kept in the background as embraces and kisses were exchanged between her father and these two handsome women in their fine hats. Introductions were