It was, I suppose, as close to a rite of passage as any of us were likely to get and the adults smiled tolerantly at these small journeys, remembering their own experiences perhaps or just unwilling to spoil the game. To believe in the marmalade tree was a given - it was said to grow out of sheer rock although no one knew where - and to bloom alone but year 'round. Part of the mystery was that it could be found only by moonlight and only by children. Part of the magic was that if you found it, you couldn't tell where. It was said that when someone did find it, the wind took over and pulled it up roots and all, replanting it as easily as falling off a log. 'Course since no one ever told, we never really knew.
It didn't promise fame or riches or eternal youth. You didn't get three wishes or even your heart's desire. It didn't make you wise beyond your years or grant magic powers. It was nothing special really, just a tree that grew out of rock with leaves that smelled like mint but were the color of fire all year 'round.
So why look at all? my eminently reasonable cousin Gilda wanted to know, Who cares about a silly old tree?
Gilda, a distant cousin on her first visit to the island, wasn't fitting in and had already very nearly worn out her welcome with my grandmother. She wore pinafores and hair ribbons and shiny Mary Janes, disliked dogs, and found the smell of fish distinctly lower class.
Ain't nothin' says you got to go along, Nana remarked a little testily.
My mother says "ain't" isn't a proper word, Gilda replied primly and my jaw dropped and hung open while Nana's eyes flashed warning signs. Sass was never, ever a wise response to my grandmother and even I knew better than to correct my elders.
And I'd like apple juice, please, Grandmother Alice, my cousin added, delicately pushing aside her glass of orange juice, Citrus doesn't agree with me.
I heard tell, Nana said with a sweetish smile but a cold tone, that people in hell want ice water. She leaned back in her chair and regarded Gilda the way I'd once seen Uncle Shad double down on a snake in the cow barn. I'd crossed the road running for all I was worth and was halfway across the strawberry field when I'd heard the shotgun blast but Ruthie'd said there weren't enough left to pick up and throw away.
Reckon it took two days to catch all them cows, Shad had said with a kind of satisfied resignation, But I ain't seen no more snakes.
At the moment Gilda asked for apple juice, I was kind of glad Nana was unarmed.
Full moon tonight, she said to Ruthie and I without so much as a sideways glance at my sulking cousin. Reckon I kin make you a care package to take along.
What's a care package? Gilda asked immediately.
Flashlights, Nana said thoughtfully but clearly just thinking out loud and not in answer to the question, Matches and sandwiches, walkie talkies if'n I can put my hands on 'em, an extra sweater for each, bandaids and iodine mebbe.
Couple bottles of pop? Ruthie asked with a hopeful grin.
I 'spect so, Nana agreed, I reckon I could hunt up a spare church key.
What's a church key? Gilda wanted to know.
We left right after supper when the sun was just beginning to go down and the sky over Westport looked like a huge pastel paint spill. At the last minute, my grandmother had slipped her antique gold watch off her wrist and into my pocket with a reminder that marmalade tree or no marmalade tree, we were expected home by midnight.
By the lord Harry, she warned, If'n I have to send out a search party, you'll neither sit for a week!
Knowing my grandmother didn't make idle threats, Ruthie and I nodded a little anxiously, gave our word to be careful, kissed her powdery cheek and set off down the old dirt road. We could see Gilda watching from the sunporch, a small and defiant little figure framed against the windows, but she didn't acknowledge us, didn't even return our wave. In another few steps, the glare on the windows turned into a flashy reflection of the sunset and Ruthie and I took hands and began to run - past the canteen, past John Sullivan's boat dock, past the ferry slip and the breakwater where the road ended - and somewhere after we left the path to make our own trail, Gilda was forgotten. We walked, we climbed, we scrambled over rocks and downed fences, past the ancient logging paths and the whiskey stills and the abandoned fishing shacks, through the shadowy woods to the other side. I remember the moonlight shimmering on the water and the sound of the tide, the warm night air as it whistled so softly through the trees. I remember the random caches of driftwood and kelp at the tideline and hearing the owls calling. I remember the stars and the night birds and how peaceful it all was.
We were home by midnight, tired and well satisfied with the journey, content to have the marmalade tree keep its secrets.
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