FLORENCE SOLVES A MYSTERY
That night, by the light of a fickle moon that ever and anon hid himself
behind a cloud, Florence made her way alone to the shores of that curious
island of "made land" on the lake front. She had determined to delve more
deeply into the mysteries of this island. On this night she was destined
to make an astonishing discovery.
It was not a promising place to wander, this island. There, when the moon
hid his face, darkness reigned supreme.
Yet, even at such times as these, she was not afraid. Strong as a man,
endowed with more than the average man's courage, she dared many things.
There were problems regarding that island which needed solving. She meant
to solve them. Besides, the place was gloriously peaceful, and Florence
loved peace.
She did not, however, love peace alone. She yearned for all manner of
excitement. Most of all she was enchanted by sudden contrast. One moment:
silence, the moon, the stars, placid waters, peace; the next: a sound of
alarm, darkness, the onrush of adventure and unsolved mystery. This, for
Florence, was abundance of life.
She had come to the island to find peace. But she would also probe into a
mystery.
As she neared the southern end of the island where stood the jungle of
young cottonwood trees, she paused to look away at the ragged shore line.
There, hanging above the rough boulders, was Snowball's fishing derrick.
Like a slim, black arm, as if to direct the girl's search out to sea, it
pointed away toward black waters.
"No! No!" Florence laughed low. "Not there. The mystery lies deep in the
heart of this young forest."
Straight down the path she strode to find herself standing at last before
that challenging door of massive oak.
"Ah!" she breathed. "At home. They can't deny it." Light was streaming
through the great round eyes above her.
Her heart skipped a beat as she lifted a hand to rap on that door. What
sort of people were these, anyway? What was she letting herself in for?
She had not long to wait. The door flew open. A flood of white light was
released. And in that light Florence stood, open-mouthed, speechless,
staring.
"Wa-all," came in a not unfriendly voice, "what is it y' want?"
"Aunt--Aunt Bobby!" Florence managed to stammer.
"Yes, that's me. And who may you be? Step inside. Let me have a look.
"Florence! My own hearty Florence!" The aged woman threw two stout arms
about the girl's waist. "And to think of you findin' me here!"
For a moment the air was filled with exclamations and ejaculations. After
that, explanations were in order.
If you have read _The Thirteenth Ring_, you will remember well enough
that Aunt Bobby was a ship's cook who had cooked her way up and down one
of the Great Lakes a thousand times or more, and that on one memorable
journey she had acted as a fairy godmother to one of Florence's pals.
Florence had never forgotten her, though their journeys had carried them
to different ports.
"But, Aunt Bobby," she exclaimed at last, "what can you be doing here?
And how did such a strange home as this come into being?"
"It's all on account of her." Aunt Bobby nodded toward a slim girl who,
garbed in blue overalls, sat beside the box-like stove. "She's my
grandchild. Grew up on the ship, she did, amongst sailors. Tie a knot and
cast off a line with the best of them, she can, and skin up a mast better
than most.
"But the captain would have it she must have book learnin'. So here we
are, all high and dry on land. And her a-goin' off to school every
mornin'. But when school is over, you should see her--into every sort of
thing.
"Ah, yes," she sighed, "she's a problem, is Meg!"
Meg, who might have been nearing sixteen, smiled, crossed her legs like a
man, and then put on a perfect imitation of a sailor contemptuously
smoking a cob pipe--only there was no pipe.
"This place, do you ask?" Aunt Bobby went on. "Meg calls it the
cathedral, she does, on account of the pillars.
"Them pillars was lamp-posts once, broken lamp-posts from the boulevard.
Dumped out here, they was. The captain and his men put up the cathedral
for us, where we could look at the water when we liked. Part of it is
from an old ship that sank in the river and was raised up, and part, like
the pillars, comes from the rubbish heap.
"I do say, though, they made a neat job of it. Meg'll show you her
stateroom after a bit.
"But now, Meg, get down the cups. Coffee's on the stove as it always was
in the galleys."
Florence smiled. She was liking this. Here she was finding contrast. She
thought of the richly appointed Opera House where at this moment Jeanne
haunted the boxes; then she glanced about her and smiled again.
She recalled the irrepressible Meg as she had seen her, a bronze statue
against the sky, and resolved to know more of her.
As they sat dreaming over their coffee cups, Aunt Bobby began to speak of
the romance of other days and to dispense with unstinting hand rich
portions from her philosophy.
"Forty years I lived on ships, child." She sighed deeply. "Forty years!
I've sailed on big ones and small ones, wind-jammers and steamers. Some
mighty fine ones and some not so fine. Mostly I signed on freighters
because I loved them best of all. They haul and carry.
"They're sort of human, ships are." She cupped her chin in her hands to
stare dreamily at the fire. "Sort of like folks, ships are. Some are slim
and pretty and not much use except just to play around when the water's
sparklin' and the sun shines bright. That's true of folks and ships
alike. And I guess it's right enough. We all like pretty things.
"But the slow old freighter, smelling of bilge and tar, she's good enough
for me. She's like the most of us common workers, carrying things, doing
the things that need to be done, moving straight on through sunshine and
storm until the task is completed and the work is done.
"Yes, child, I've sailed for forty years. I've watched the moon paint a
path of gold over waters blacker than the night. I've heard the ice
screaming as it ground against our keel, and I've tossed all night in a
storm that promised every minute to send us to the bottom. Forty years,
child, forty years!" The aged woman's voice rose high and clear like the
mellow toll of a bell at midnight. "Forty years I've felt the pitch and
toss, the swell and roll beneath me. And now this!" She spread her arms
wide.
"The ground beneath my feet, a roof over my head.
"But not for long, child. Not for long. A few months now, and a million
pairs of feet will tramp past the spot where you now stand. What will
these people see? Not the cathedral, as Meg will call it, nothing half as
grand.
"And we, Meg and me, we'll move on. Fate will point his finger and we'll
move.
"Ah, well, that's life for most of us. Sooner or later Fate points and we
move. He's a traffic cop, is Fate. We come to a pause. He blows his
whistle, he waves his arm. We move or he moves us.
"And, after all," she heaved a deep sigh that was more than half filled
with contentment, "who'd object to that? Who wants to sit and grow roots
like stupid little cottonwood trees?"