Orphans of Stone: HomeComing: A Curious Middle Grade Fantasy Read online

  ORPHANS OF STONE

  HOMECOMING

  Rae Craig

  Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Rae Craig

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except of the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  March 2021

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter One

  HomeComing

  “But you promised.” Harriet gripped the backseat to either side of her knees. “You said we’d stop at the cemetery.”

  She slid a worn pocket calendar onto her lap and buried today’s white square under black marker. After the ink dried, she snapped a rubber band around 345 days of wrinkled black squares before sliding the calendar under her physics book.

  Now, she could dig at Grandpa’s grave.

  Dad turned and smiled back at her. “When we get down into the valley we will.” He glanced over at Mom in the driver’s seat before asking. “I smell marker. What are you working on?”

  Harriet tilted up her physics book, making sure he did not see the calendar. “Just about how sun flares mess up our electricity.”

  In her old school, physics had been a ninth grade subject, but, now that she homeschooled, those teachers could no longer tell her that she was 12 years old and too young.

  Besides, normal behavior like school work made everyone leave her alone, no more white-coated doctors trying to dredge up any detail of her lost memories. After months of therapy, she had finally lashed out at that pushy doctor: “You must know I’ve had a concussion and I never will remember my brother’s death!”

  Mom glanced at Dad to silence any more questions while Harriet scowled out at the passing badlands.

  Mom said, “No time for school work, you two. We’re here.” She swung the car into a paved overlook.

  Sweeping out below, spring green colored a deep basin-shaped valley surrounded by sheer cliffs, the rolling bottom land spread with a patchwork of farms and woods. Shi-octon village perched on high ground near the center, safe above the ring of flooded river that hugged the bottom of the cliffs all around.

  As Harriet tried to see their new house through the trees, the air contained within the valley rolled and bubbled like boiling water, making her blink. Waves of darkness shimmered over her eyes and the village and farms disappeared, replaced by a deep, ancient forest covering every bit of the valley floor. She closed her eyes and when she opened them back up the village on the higher ground and the bottom land with its farms and woods was back. She looked over at Mom and Dad. They acted like nothing had happened. They had not seen what she had seen.

  Traveling again, they descended into the valley’s only entrance, a canyon so deep and narrow that sunlight never reached the river at the bottom. This is where the backseat argument usually started: was the canyon road blasted into the cliff face or was it a natural ledge? Or a combination of both? But the back seat was silent, her debating partner gone forever.

  The chasm poured them out into the green valley, a spidery sky-blue bridge hanging high above the flooded river. As they drove across, the metal surface and their tires sang a duet she used to look forward to, but now the resonating whine made Harriet’s teeth ache. She lifted her feet to stop the vibrations that crept up her legs.

  Tucked under the far end of the bridge, a white cottage perched just above the flooded river. It was cozy with many windows, but in a lonely place. Harriet wondered who lived there.

  She rubbed her itchy palms on her jeans while thinking about digging a good deep hole. Up ahead, a stone wall surrounded Shi-octon cemetery. Their car crunched onto the gravel road edge and stopped, the afternoon quiet interrupted by cows mooing from a nearby farm. She slammed her door shut and pulled her carefully chosen rose bush from the trunk.

  The scent of wild chamomile beneath her feet pushed her memory back to a cool, spring day in Grandma Hoier’s barn-yard. The spicy herb carpeted the ground between the cow barn and the pig house, with pungent odors of pigs, cows, and chamomile fighting for attention. A cheeping chorus of seven-day old chicks came from under two boxes snugged up next to the tractor barn.

  Clarence already cradled a chick in his hand, gently stroking its downy back, while Harriet chased after chicks as they tottered out. Of course, she became frustrated and jealous, because the more she ran after them the less likely she was to catch one.

  “Shush… shush… shush.” Her bother calmed both the chicks and his sister. “Shush… shush… shush.” He smoothly transferred his chick into her quickly cupped hands and with little effort scooped up another.

  They smiled at each other across the downy feathers.

  Wild, laughter-like bird song burst from deep in the cemetery. Time to focus on her job, not some useless memory. Grandpa Hoier’s rose bush should have been planted months ago. It would bloom raspberry red, the color of his faded, much-washed special occasion shirt. Grandpa never would replace it, not even to please Grandma. Although he had had more proper shirts, Grandma chose that faded favorite for his burial. Harriet’s tight grimace relaxed thinking about how pleased he would have been.

  She found Grandpa Hoier’s gravestone. Compared to the other graves, each with its rosemary plant and rose bush, it was not complete. In Harriet’s imagination raspberry colored roses already nodded around the crisp engraving:

  Clarence Hoier

  Once<>Now<>Always

  Lifemate of Helen Morak

  Father of Jenny Wren

  Grandfather of Clarence and Harriet

  “Slice.” Harriet thrust her shovel deep into the soil behind the gravestone. She dug her good-sized hole. “Scrape.” With her foot she pushed dirt clods off the shovel and leaned on the cracked wood handle. Was the hole centered? Was it deep enough? Would the roots be crowded?

  The sound of hushed voices made her look toward the newest part of the cemetery where Mom and Dad stood side by side facing a grave covered with fresh sprouted grass. Mom reached forward to touch the gravestone, fingers tracing the name and a design above it. Dad leaned forward to cover her hand, the two of them standing motionless, connected to the stone. He drew her closer and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  Her parents looked soft and boneless like the garden worms Harriet had just shoveled up. She had an actual job to do.

  Harriet kneeled, pulling soil around the plant’s roots, and watering it in. She sat back on her heels and brushed moist dirt from her hands onto her jeans. With the rosemary Grandma had already planted, rose and
herb scents would soon mingle. Usually both were planted soon after a burial, but Grandma Hoier had insisted only Harriet could plant Grandpa’s rose. Grandma had waited all these months for Harriet to recover from her concussion.

  Moss covered the granite gravestone next to Grandpa’s except near the top, where a circular shape stood out in high relief. She traced a ring within a ring with her fingers, a cup-like depression in the center. Now that she paid attention, both Grandpa Hoier’s stone and Grandma Jameson’s nearby had the same rings and Mom had traced a circle on that other gravestone.

  Footsteps crunched near the car. Time to go. As they pulled away, Harriet turned to catch a glimpse of Grandpa’s new rose bush.

  Deep in the cemetery, a still, slim figure watched from between dark pines. Afternoon shadows hid the pale face, but not the long beckoning arm. Harriet stared into that nameless face, maintaining contact as long as she could. She did not feel menace or fear, but instead reassurance and connection. Had this stranger watched her plant Grandpa’s rose? That thought brought comfort.

  Ahead, the Hoier farm appeared from over the hill, the tall silo and barn first, then the farmhouse with its windows reflecting the grey sky. Grandma had moved out and strangers had moved in. These new people did not know where the wild asparagus grew in the long grass between barnyard and road. They did not know Grandpa Hoier had taught them to do headstands from his seat on the living room couch. They did not know she and Clarence had snuggled on that same couch with Grandma, conspiring to add another day to a rare visit.

  Now, Grandma lived in the shophouse attached to Dad’s new antique store.

  Mom pulled over before driving into the village and pointed across the flooded creek to her new workshop in the valley mill’s lower level. Stone pillars hid much of the three-story building. They were the Three Sisters, natural granite columns sticking straight up out of the creek. Clarence had loved the Shi-octon legend that explained that name, but Harriet preferred only facts and realistic explanations, so she had paid no attention to the obviously made-up story.

  As Mom started the car, Dad turned back to Harriet. “Almost there!”

  Anxiety fluttered her stomach.

  At the far end of Pew Street their house waited, the roof pushing down against the windows pushing up. Using a photo from long ago, Grandma and her carpenters had torn down the awkward modern porch and rebuilt it wide and comfortable like the original. Hidden for decades, they had uncovered and reused the earliest foundation stones.

  Grandma Hoier stepped out onto the porch as they drove up, a white dishtowel draped over her shoulder. Harriet unlatched her seatbelt and jumped out of the car, her feet already running as they touched the ground. Racing up the steps she hugged Grandma tight. She had been afraid she would cry, but instead calm enveloped her. Grandma smelled of cinnamon and looked fluffy with curly white hair, but she was capable and organized, and Harriet trusted her.

  They sat side by side on the steps, watching Mom and Dad get suitcases out of the car. Grandma whispered into Harriet’s ear. “Your favorite supper is in the kitchen.”

  Mom looked around the porch. “It’s just right, Ma. Now we need some places to sit and I know just what I’ll make.”

  Dad added. “There’s a porch swing in my last delivery.” He turned to Grandma. “Helen, there’s one for the shophouse porch too.”

  Inside, the dining room was familiar and strange at the same time. Wainscoted half-wall paneling shone a rich brown. A large granite fireplace sparkled with grey, white and rose crystals. The room was new to her, but their furniture was not. Mom’s secretary with its pigeon holes and drop-down writing surface faced her on a wall exactly fitted to it. Their drawing table fit between two windows in the room’s front corner. She imagined books and supplies scattered over the dining table, ready for a science or archaeology project.

  Grandma had laid out supper on the cozy table in the kitchen, a birdfeeder hanging just outside the open window. In the past Harriet and Clarence had built feeders together, planning the seed mix that would attract the most birds.

  “The bird feeder looks great.” Harriet said in her careful everyday voice as they sat down at the table. “Did you put it up?”

  “Last week.” Grandma said, giving the pot on the stove a last stir.

  “What seed mix did you use?” Harriet asked.

  Mom and Dad’s faces went blank. Harriet held motionless. Clarence had been the bird seed expert. Harriet had always teased him that birds have no sense of taste, what difference did it make?

  Interrupting the silence Grandma answered. “Just a regular bag from Empire Everything.” She ladled out the soup.

  Chicken soup with egg dumplings was definitely Harriet’s favorite.

  Clarence had warned her long ago. “Those dumplings you save for last are a terrible temptation. Just a little distraction is all a dumpling thief would need.” He called to Dad over at the sink. “It’s Harriet’s turn to wash the dishes.”

  She jumped up from her chair. “No it’s not. Look at the calendar!”

  With that, her brother had reached over to steal 3 dumplings, cramming them into his mouth behind a stretched out grin.

  Grandma reached past a staring Harriet to lift the lid off a blue pottery bowl. She turned to her granddaughter. “Did you make out your supper, because I hope you saved room for raspberries and clotted cream.”

  Grandma’s steady gaze connected with each of them. “I’m thankful you’re home. You need to be in the valley now.”

  Mom and Dad went out on the porch while Grandma washed the dishes and Harriet wiped down the stove. “Dad was so excited when he found this vintage stove. I especially like the red knobs.”

  Grandma hung up her towel. “He was lucky to find one with double ovens and not a scratch on it”

  They joined Mom and Dad on the porch for the firefly show.

  Grandma stood on the top step, her arms wide. “They’re early this year. We don’t usually see fireflies till closer to HomeComing.”

  She gathered her belongings. “It’s time I went home. Morgan is waiting for his supper and even though he’s the cat, I’m the one who’s trained.”

  Harriet walked her as far as the mailbox. “Do you miss the farm?”

  “Oh yes. but I’ve settled into the shophouse and now you’re all here.” She gave Harriet a shoulder hug as they parted.

  Harriet walked right past her parents. In the living room she discovered a second hearth with a stairway tunneling up through the middle of the massive double fireplace. A handrail carved into the stone would help on the steep, narrow steps.

  She spoke out through the screen door. “I’m going to bed.” She grabbed her suitcase before her parents could answer.

  Gripping the handrail to balance the heavy suitcase, she stopped mid-stairs to rearrange her load. The overhead light flickered and she looked up in surprise. Tingling waves swept up her arm, spreading through her body. Waves beat at her eyes, distorting her vision like a fun house mirror. Darkness closed over her.

  Cold, angry water rages over her, chokes her, pulls her under. Fighting the torrent uses all the strength she has. Before her desperate need for air forces her to breath water, the flash flood tosses her up into the air.

  A voice she loves shouts. “Hold on. I’m coming!”

  A dead tree whips by her head, snags her foot and pulls her into darkness.

  The edge of the step dug into her shin.

  She found herself standing on the steps: still clutching the suitcase; still gripping the handrail; steady light shone from the overhead bulb and she was absolutely tingle free.

  She fled to her room in the front of the house and dropped the suitcase with a thud as she sat heavily on the bed.

  That is not what had happened. She had been the rescuer, not the pitiful victim. But she could not actually remember; she just knew she had not been the one in trouble; she just knew that wasn’t it.

  What happened on the steps was not a memory,
or a dream. She had actually been alive again as the-Harriet-she-used-to-be. The Harriet with a twin brother named Clarence.

  After the accident, all through her long hospital stay, Mom and Dad had repeated and repeated the horrible facts, but she refused to hear the words. She watched their lips move, but heard no sound.

  Pushing away this new disturbing experience, she looked around her room.

  What had long ago been the farm-hand’s attic bed stood high off the floor. Next to it sat a drop leave table she could use as a bedside stand or worktable. Along the stone chimney wall empty bookshelves waited to be filled. A mattress on wheels slid under the bed, handy for the guests she didn’t want and would never have.

  She pulled the wrinkled, blackened calendar out of her bag and slid it and the marker under her mattress.

  Harriet put on her pajamas, turned out the light, and crawled under the covers. The crisp, white sheets were topped with a quilt of red stars.

  She set her glasses on the table.

  Laying exactly in the middle of the bed, darkness pressed down on her. In this house no one slept comfortably close in the next room. As her eyes adjusted, she saw lighter and darker areas, but couldn’t identify anything without her glasses.

  She knew Grandma would be pleased with Grandpa’s rose. But what about the cup and ring designs carved into the gravestones?

  Maybe they marked who was born in the valley.

  An image of the stranger reaching out to her in the cemetery drifted across her mind. Suddenly… she knew it was a boy. He should have worried her, but instead, she drew comfort from him. Just thinking about him, her mind stopped whirling around and she relaxed.