About a half mile in as we worked our way through the tall grass, we discovered the remains of a wooden fence. It seemed out of place so far into the woods, out of place and weirdly out of time, and after a bit we decided to change course and follow it. We walked for another hour or so but there were no other signs of habitation, no remnants of foundations, no leftover stone chimneys - the woods had reclaimed the land, digested it, and then naturally hidden the evidence. But fences, we knew, were built to either keep things in or keep things out. Someone had labored long and well here, measured distances, dug post holes, nailed up boards. Something had been protected and maintained in these woods but we found no signs of what it might've been until much later in the afternoon when the fence finally came to a sudden end in a very small clearing. By then, it was coming on sunset, the factory whistle was blowing in the distance and we knew it was time to go so we backtracked all the way to the path and then followed the cove road to the coast and the coast to Miss Clara's. We agreed on two things - to return the next day and not to mention our exploration to the grownups. Miss Clara sent us both home astride the painted pony.
A fogbank rolled in that night and it was several days before we got back to the woods and this time we took the dogs. It was quiet that day and we found the path easily, followed it to the fence and finally to the clearing. Both dogs seemed slightly anxious, we thought, they stayed close to us despite the temptations of the woods, sometimes whining but hardly ever barking, content to follow but not lead. When we reached the clearing, we almost had to coax them through - their hesitation made us both nervous and we wondered if they sensed something we couldn't see or hear.
We reached a second clearing just after lunch. Here there were more old fence parts and scattered boards and rusted nails. And here the dogs would not cross nor come when they were called. They sat on the near side, restless and unhappy when we left them behind, barking in protest and pacing. Ruthie and I had both been raised to respect and trust an animal's instinct and while there was no danger that we could imagine, both dogs were clearly sensing something out of the ordinary and possibly even menacing. We turned back and that was when Ruthie stepped on the rusty nail - she yelped in surprise and pain and dropped to her knees in a patch of dry, discolored grass - the nail had pierced her sneaker and embedded itself just under her toes. The dogs suddenly began to howl, an eerie and unexpected sound that gave both of us what Nana would've called the willies. When we pulled out the nail, it was attached to a piece of wire which in turn was attached to a thin piece of metal, much like a license plate but covered with rust and dried mud and jagged at the edges. Ruthie carefully turned it over in her hands and we both realized that it was a sign - not like the village signs, usually rough hewn and wooden and hand lettered. No, this was metal with clearly stenciled black lettering.
We shook off the dirt, scraped off the mud and sawed through the dried, splintery twines of attached grass.
Premonition Gate, we read outloud. The dogs gave another spine chilling howl and Ruthie made a disgusted, choking sound and flung the nasty thing back into the weeds. Without another word, injured foot and all, we were up and running as if the devil himself was on our heels.
Miss Clara disinfected and bandaged Ruthie's wound, served us warm gingersnaps and cold milk, gave each of the dogs a bone, and mercifully asked no questions until she'd left us alone long enough for us to come up with a story. Presently she slipped into her old rocking chair with a ball of yarn and her ancient tomcat in her lap.
Wolf, Ruthie said.
Come out of nowhere, I added.
Wolf, she repeated doubtfully, studying us in the fading light with one eyebrow raised slightly, Come out of nowhere.
Yes'm, we said together but not daring to meet her eyes.
Ayuh, she shrugged her thin shoulders and looked out over the ocean and the pastel sky, I reckon it could've happened just that way. Or....she paused, Couple of curious girls could've come across some old, forgotten graveyard that nobody talks about. Mebbe from a shipwreck nobody wants to recollect, a ship that might've been carryin' human cargo and just happened to dock at the wrong port. Could be that somebody set fire to that ship 'fore she could leave again and that there were bodies to be set free and bodies to be buried. Could be those bodies are still there but if that's so......well, I 'spect it be best to leave'em lie. No need to raise old ghosts. Got me a premonition about that, don't you know.
Ruthie and I sat, still and silent, too spellbound to answer while Miss Clara rocked serenely on.
Don't see many wolves this side of the island, she remarked after a time, I'd be a mite more careful of them woods if I was you. Got me a premonition about that too, and here she paused and gave us a direct look, full of meaning and expectation, or maybe it's a prediction, sometimes I can't recollect the difference. But I don't reckon we'll be seeing many more of them. Wolves, I mean.
Curious children, generally speaking, are smart children and as Miss Clara knew well, smart children know when to concede. The thing was that island story tellers were so skillful at blending fact and fiction, so polished at weaving a tall tale convincingly, that it was often not possible to distinguish truth from yarn. And in the spirit of telling these stories and keeping the legends alive, if one lied then another would swear to it.
Might there have been a slave ship? Could she have made port with her frightful cargo and never left? Was there an abandoned graveyard called Premonition Gate deep in the woods? It wasn't likely, Ruthie and I knew, but we couldn't discount it entirely - even as children, we'd lived long enough with the island's peculiar magic to know that our world was sometimes strange and wonderful and a little mystic. The painted pony took us home a second time and if anyone questioned our encounter with a wolf in the woods, they were discreet enough not to say.
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