a thud.
"You're lying. There's something you're hiding from me, I know it. You've never lied to me before."
His father flushed, then reached down with thick arms and lifted the load himself. When he reached the door of the woodshed, he spun around.
"You forget yourself, Nathaniel. I'm your father and you'll show me respect."
In his young life, the two had never exchanged such words. Nathaniel knew he'd been wrong but couldn't bring himself to admit it. Without answering, he turned and ran off.
***
Susannah Weber looked up from the kindling when she heard footsteps on the path to her cottage. It was Nathaniel. He was usually all arms and legs with only a hint of how to make them work together, but now his limbs hung limp, making his whole body slump. The vicars and their teachings, honestly. The boy looked awful and her daughter was no better; she worked the loom as if her father had just died. And poor Thomas would be worse off.
She did her best to soften her expression and be approachable.
"Why, Nathaniel, what are you doing here so early? The farmer's life must be easier than I thought."
Weaving was lighter work than farming but took more time, especially in the winter. She and her daughter had to spend long hours at the loom to produce enough cloth to trade for their needs.
"Good morning, ma'am. Is Orah here?"
"Of course she is, but she's taking her turn at the loom. I'd prefer you don't disturb her until she's done."
"I'd really like to see her."
She resumed her work, half-heartedly tossing kindling into a basket on the porch.
"We all have things we want, but we don't get them the instant they pop into our heads."
"Yes, ma'am. It's just that it's been so hard since Thomas was taken."
She thought of herself as kindly. When asked for help by someone, she never paused to consider her own inconvenience. Once she understood the young man's mood, she set down her load and gave him full attention.
"Yes, I know. I've seen it in Orah as well. Look, Nathaniel, she'll be done in an hour. Can I give her a message?"
"Yes, ma'am, if you please. Tell her to meet me as soon as possible. She'll know where."
She laughed. The three friends and their secrets. She vaguely knew about some meeting place in the woods behind the Rush cottage.
"You wouldn't mean the Not Tree, would you?"
Nathaniel nodded shyly.
She imagined how his own mother would have responded, and cut short her laughter. Tilting her head to one side, she pursed her lips as if to say "poor boy." Like everyone else in Little Pond, she liked Nathaniel and was sad to see him unhappy.
"I'll tell her, Nathaniel, I promise. As soon as I'm finished with this firewood. And I know she'll want to meet you when her work is done."
Nathaniel thanked her politely. As he walked away, she shook her head and-after glancing around to be sure no one could hear-mumbled to herself. "Why in the name of the light don't they leave these young people alone? Honestly."
***
Nathaniel wandered about the village, reluctant to go home. After a while, worried he'd draw attention, he headed to their special place. Before entering the hidden path, he checked to see if he'd left tracks. There were none. The ground was hard and, unusual for so late in the season, no snow had fallen.
When he arrived at the clearing, his heart sank. His mind held an image of a magical place. But here, beneath the noonday sun, the hut looked small and bare, a skeleton of their childhood.
Usually by now, they'd have held their winter ritual, cutting down boughs of balsam fir and covering the frame. Usually it would have snowed by now and... usually all three would be together. His throat started to close. It was as if the adulthood hovering over him since his coming-of-age had come crashing down.
He heard a crackle of dry leaves and turned to see Orah approaching. She was out of breath, and the color was rising in her cheeks.
"I came as quickly as I could," she said. "I didn't finish my turn, but I'll do
"You're lying. There's something you're hiding from me, I know it. You've never lied to me before."
His father flushed, then reached down with thick arms and lifted the load himself. When he reached the door of the woodshed, he spun around.
"You forget yourself, Nathaniel. I'm your father and you'll show me respect."
In his young life, the two had never exchanged such words. Nathaniel knew he'd been wrong but couldn't bring himself to admit it. Without answering, he turned and ran off.
***
Susannah Weber looked up from the kindling when she heard footsteps on the path to her cottage. It was Nathaniel. He was usually all arms and legs with only a hint of how to make them work together, but now his limbs hung limp, making his whole body slump. The vicars and their teachings, honestly. The boy looked awful and her daughter was no better; she worked the loom as if her father had just died. And poor Thomas would be worse off.
She did her best to soften her expression and be approachable.
"Why, Nathaniel, what are you doing here so early? The farmer's life must be easier than I thought."
Weaving was lighter work than farming but took more time, especially in the winter. She and her daughter had to spend long hours at the loom to produce enough cloth to trade for their needs.
"Good morning, ma'am. Is Orah here?"
"Of course she is, but she's taking her turn at the loom. I'd prefer you don't disturb her until she's done."
"I'd really like to see her."
She resumed her work, half-heartedly tossing kindling into a basket on the porch.
"We all have things we want, but we don't get them the instant they pop into our heads."
"Yes, ma'am. It's just that it's been so hard since Thomas was taken."
She thought of herself as kindly. When asked for help by someone, she never paused to consider her own inconvenience. Once she understood the young man's mood, she set down her load and gave him full attention.
"Yes, I know. I've seen it in Orah as well. Look, Nathaniel, she'll be done in an hour. Can I give her a message?"
"Yes, ma'am, if you please. Tell her to meet me as soon as possible. She'll know where."
She laughed. The three friends and their secrets. She vaguely knew about some meeting place in the woods behind the Rush cottage.
"You wouldn't mean the Not Tree, would you?"
Nathaniel nodded shyly.
She imagined how his own mother would have responded, and cut short her laughter. Tilting her head to one side, she pursed her lips as if to say "poor boy." Like everyone else in Little Pond, she liked Nathaniel and was sad to see him unhappy.
"I'll tell her, Nathaniel, I promise. As soon as I'm finished with this firewood. And I know she'll want to meet you when her work is done."
Nathaniel thanked her politely. As he walked away, she shook her head and-after glancing around to be sure no one could hear-mumbled to herself. "Why in the name of the light don't they leave these young people alone? Honestly."
***
Nathaniel wandered about the village, reluctant to go home. After a while, worried he'd draw attention, he headed to their special place. Before entering the hidden path, he checked to see if he'd left tracks. There were none. The ground was hard and, unusual for so late in the season, no snow had fallen.
When he arrived at the clearing, his heart sank. His mind held an image of a magical place. But here, beneath the noonday sun, the hut looked small and bare, a skeleton of their childhood.
Usually by now, they'd have held their winter ritual, cutting down boughs of balsam fir and covering the frame. Usually it would have snowed by now and... usually all three would be together. His throat started to close. It was as if the adulthood hovering over him since his coming-of-age had come crashing down.
He heard a crackle of dry leaves and turned to see Orah approaching. She was out of breath, and the color was rising in her cheeks.
"I came as quickly as I could," she said. "I didn't finish my turn, but I'll do
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