Having discovered that seaweed in the fields keeps the ground moist and the weeds down in the summer, Papa corrals Al and Sam and me to collect and distribute it. It takes two of us, our hands encased in thick cotton gloves, to steer a heavy wheelbarrow down to the water’s edge at low tide. We rip the kelp from the rocks, pulling up barnacles and crabs and snails, and load the barrow with spongy green strands bubbled at the ends and flat, wide strips fluted like piecrust. The gloves are stiff and unwieldy; it’s easier to grab it without them, so we take them off, rinsing our hands in ocean water to wash off the slime. Then we push the wheelbarrow up the hill to the newly furrowed field, where we grab big handfuls of cold kelp, squishing it between our fingers and scattering it down the rows. “Push it back,” Papa calls from where he’s hoeing. “Don’t smother the plants.”
Papa is always dreaming up projects to make money. His flock of sheep is growing, and though he sells wool to local people, one season he decides to box up the bulk of it and send it away to be carded and spun and dyed and sold out of state for a higher price. The following summer he constructs a fishing weir with a neighbor in the cove between Bird Point and Hathorn Point. Now that it’s winter, he’s decided that he will harvest freshwater ice, which can be loaded onto ships and transported easily and cheaply by steamer ship on the nearby sea-lanes to Boston and beyond. He’ll store it in an icehouse Captain Sam built that has been standing empty for decades.
Like any crop, ice is delicate and mercurial; bright sun or a sudden storm can ruin it. There’s no guarantee, until the ice is received in Boston, that Papa will get paid. He waits until February, when the ice on Vinal’s Pond is fourteen to sixteen inches thick, and offers money to other farmers to help him clear the snow with horses and plows. Up before dawn on frigid mornings, they use a workhorse to pull the clearing scraper, a series of boards attached together to create a flat bottom that angles back about eight feet wide, and a three-foot-wide snow scraper to remove heavier, wetter ice. Several men saw through the ice with handsaws fused to long iron T-bar handles, shedding coats and scarves and hats as they warm up. It is hard work, but these men and horses are accustomed to hard work.
When a slab of ice is cut and floating, twelve inches above the syrupy water, the men hold float hooks, long poles with spiky ends, to keep the ice where they want it. After this comes the tedious work of cutting and loading these floats onto flatbed trailers behind horses that will transport them to the icehouse behind the barn. There the blocks will be stacked and stored in sawdust, some set aside to sell to locals and the rest to wait until a carrier bound for Massachusetts is ready in the cove.
The morning of the harvest, after Papa has left the house, I dress in the dark, layering sweaters and trousers over my long underwear and pulling on two pairs of socks. I meet Al in the downstairs hall and we head out into the mist, blowing our breath at each other, and make our way toward Vinal’s Pond to watch the horses harnessed to plows trek back and forth on the thick ice, deepening the grooves. Snow falls softly, like flour through a sifter, accumulating in drifts.
We spot Papa in the distance, leading Blackie and the plow. He sees us too. “Stay off the ice!” he shouts. When Al and I reach the edge, we stand silently watching the men do their work. Blackie prances skittishly, tossing his head. He’s a nervous horse; I’ve spent hours in the paddock devising routines to calm him. He’s wearing the choke rope I fashioned around his neck several days ago to control him when he gets spooked.
One of the men has broken his float hook in a block of ice, and everyone is distracted, offering suggestions, when I notice that Blackie is sliding in slow motion toward the lip of the ice. All at once there’s a high-pitched whinny. His eyes roll in terror as he plunges into the breath-stopping cold, flailing and churning in the water. The plow teeters on the edge. Without thinking, I run toward Papa across the ice.
“Damn it, get back!” Papa yells.
“Grab the choke rope,” I call, motioning to my own neck. “Cut off his breath!”
Papa gestures to some of the men, and they join arms, elbow to elbow, Papa in the middle and several holding his belt. He leans far out over the horse’s head and grasps the rope, pulling it tight. After a moment, Blackie quiets. Papa manages to pull him up onto the slab by his harness, forelegs first, then belly, and finally his powerful thick haunches. For a moment the horse stands as if frozen, front and back legs apart like a statue. Then he dips his head and shakes his mane, spraying water.
At the supper table that night Papa tells Mamey and Mother that I am the orneriest and most stubborn child he has, and the only reason he didn’t wring my neck for running onto the ice is that my quick thinking probably saved Blackie’s life. A drowned horse, we all know, would’ve been a big loss.
“I wonder where she gets that from,” Mother says.
IN THE EVENINGS, once or twice a month, local farmers come by the house to drink whiskey and play cards around the dining table. Papa is different from the others, with his quiet ways and his Swedish accent, but the fact that they’re all farmers and fishermen is enough of a bond. After Mother and Mamey have gone to bed, Al and I sit on the stairs, just out of sight, and listen to their stories.
The more Richard Wooten drinks, the more he rambles. “There’s treasure in that Mystery Tunnel, by God, there is. One of these days, I swear, I’ll get my hands on it.”
Al and I are fascinated by the legend of Mystery Tunnel. According to local lore a two-hundred-foot tunnel was carved out of rock near Bird Point by early settlers as a place to hide from passing pirates and Abenaki Indians.
“I came this close. This close,” Richard says. His voice softens, and I have to lean close to the banister to hear. “Pitch black. Not a star in the sky. I sneak down there with a lantern. I’m digging for who knows how long, hours, it’s gotta be.”
“How many times have you told this story, a hundred?” someone scoffs.
Richard ignores him. “And then I see it: the glint of treasure.”
“You do not.”
“I do, with my own eyes! And then …”
The men grumble and laugh. “Aw, c’mon!” “Now he’s just makin’ it up.”
“Spit it out, Richard,” Papa says.
“It disappears. Like—that.” I hear the snap of his fingers. “Just as I was reaching for it. It was there and then it was gone.”
“Rough luck,” one of them shouts. “To treasure!”
“To treasure!”
The next evening Al and I slip out of the house with a candle nub and make our way down to Bird Point. The lip of the tunnel is dark and mysterious; our flickering candle keeps sputtering out. It’s eerily silent as we creep along. About fifty feet in, fallen rocks block the path. I feel a strange relief—we probably would’ve dared ourselves to continue. Would we have found the buried treasure? Or would we have disappeared in the depths of the tunnel, never to be found?
Al and I take our adventures where we can find them. Several weeks later he wakes me up in the middle of the night, a finger to his lips, and whispers, “Follow me.” I pull on a housedress over my nightgown and my old leather shoes over my socks and leave the snug cocoon of my bed. As soon as we’re outside I see a glowing orange ball several hundred yards out in the harbor, its reflection splashed across the water. Then I realize what it is: a ship on fire.
“Been burning for hours,” Al says. “A lime coaster. Headed to Thomaston, no doubt.”
“Should we wake Papa?”
“Nah.”
“Maybe he could help.”
“A dory came ashore with a group of men a while ago. Nothing anybody can do now.”
For