The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel

a long way away, that it was me, at the same moment that I remembered what the tune was: “Girls and Boys Come Out to Play.”
    . . . the moon doth shine as bright as day.
    Leave your supper and leave your meat,
    and join your playfellows in the street.
    Come with a whoop and come with a call.
    Come with a whole heart or not at all . . .
    I held on to Ginnie Hempstock. She smelled like a farm and like a kitchen, like animals and like food. She smelled very real, and the realness was what I needed at that moment.
    I reached out a hand, tentatively touched Lettie’s shoulder. She did not move or respond.
    Ginnie started speaking, then, but at first I did not know if she was talking to herself or to Lettie or to me. “They overstepped their bounds,” she said. “They could have hurt you, child, and it would have meant nothing. They could have hurt this world without anything being said—it’s only a world, after all, and they’re just sand grains in the desert, worlds. But Lettie’s a Hempstock. She’s outside of their dominion, my little one. And they hurted her.”
    I looked at Lettie. Her head had flopped down, hiding her face. Her eyes were closed.
    “Is she going to be all right?” I asked.
    Ginnie didn’t reply, just hugged us both the tighter to her bosom, and rocked, and crooned a wordless song.
    The farm and its land no longer glowed golden. I could not feel anything in the shadows watching me, not any longer.
    “Don’t you worry,” said an old voice, now familiar once more. “You’re safe as houses. Safer’n most houses I’ve seen. They’ve gone.”
    “They’ll come back again,” I said. “They want my heart.”
    “They’d not come back to this world again for all the tea in China,” said Old Mrs. Hempstock. “Not that they’ve got any use for tea—or for China—no more than a carrion crow does.”
    Why had I thought her dressed in silver? She wore a much-patched gray dressing gown over what had to have been a nightie, but a nightie of a kind that had not been fashionable for several hundred years.
    The old woman put a hand on her granddaughter’s pale forehead, lifted it up, then let it go.
    Lettie’s mother shook her head. “It’s over,” she said.
    I understood it then, at the last, and felt foolish for not understanding it sooner. The girl beside me, on her mother’s lap, at her mother’s breast, had given her life for mine.
    “They were meant to hurt me, not her,” I said.
    “No reason they should’ve taken either of you,” said the old lady, with a sniff. I felt guilt then, guilt beyond anything I had ever felt before.
    “We should get her to hospital,” I said, hopefully. “We can call a doctor. Maybe they can make her better.”
    Ginnie shook her head.
    “Is she dead?” I asked.
    “Dead?” repeated the old woman in the dressing gown. She sounded offended. “Has hif,” she said, grandly aspirating each aitch as if that were the only way to convey the gravity of her words to me. “Has hif han ’Empstock would hever do hanything so… common . . .”
    “She’s hurt,” said Ginnie Hempstock, cuddling me close. “Hurt as badly as she can be hurt. She’s so close to death as makes no odds if we don’t do something about it, and quickly.” A final hug, then, “Off with you, now.” I clambered reluctantly from her lap, and I stood up.
    Ginnie Hempstock got to her feet, her daughter’s body limp in her arms. Lettie lolled and was jogged like a rag doll as her mother got up, and I stared at her, shocked beyond measure.
    I said, “It was my fault. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
    Old Mrs. Hempstock said, “You meant well,” but Ginnie Hempstock said nothing at all. She walked down the lane toward the farm, and then she turned off behind the milking shed. I thought that Lettie was too big to be carried, but Ginnie carried her as if she weighed no more than a kitten, her head and upper body resting on Ginnie’s shoulder, like a sleeping infant being taken upstairs to bed. Ginnie carried her down that path, and beside the hedge, and back, and back, until we reached the pond.
    There were no breezes back there, and the night was perfectly still; our path was lit by moonlight and nothing more; the pond, when we got there, was just a pond. No golden, glimmering light. No magical full moon. It was black and dull, with the moon, the true moon, the quarter moon, reflected in it.
    I stopped at the edge of the pond, and Old Mrs. Hempstock stopped beside