Page 36 of It Happened in the Highlands
One more reminder of his failure as a parent. He’d missed so many rungs in the ladder of fatherhood. Last night, rather than a hastily said “good night” from the doorway, he could have gone into Cuffe’s room and talked to him. He could have already heard from his son’s lips about this accomplishment.
Too late now, he thought, still managing some belated praise as they walked along.
Cuffe slowed down when they reached the second fish pond. A lad from the kitchens was net fishing in the shallows. Drawing in the lines, the young man closed the net around his catch and hauled in a dozen good-sized trout that were destined for the Abbey’s dinner table. Wynne realized this was one of the boys his son had fought with, and he was relieved to see there was no open hostility between them.
“Now that I’ve finished reading them all,” Cuffe said, addressing only Jo as they continued on, “I can’t decide which of the tales are my favorites.”
“The story of Lightning and Thunder was one I particularly liked when I was growing up,” she replied.
From a marshy area at the top end of the pond, the sound of a thousand frogs filled the air, causing Cuffe to glance in that direction.
“‘Getting Banished to Sky,’” he said as they continued to walk. “The stories have a lot of banishing in them.”
“They are tales people told each other to explain nature, while keeping the young ones’ attention.”
“Almost all them teach a lesson,” he noted. “And they’re learned painfully.”
“True in life as well, isn’t it?” she asked. “But some of the tales are uplifting and quite funny.”
Wynne decided to venture into the conversation.
“What about your grandmother, Cuffe?” he asked. “She must have had stories that she told you when you were growing up.”
The old shrug was back, but Wynne wasn’t going to be put off so easily.
“What were those stories like?”
Cuffe picked up a stick, hitting it on the ground as they walked, and Wynne and Jo exchanged a glance over the boy’s head.
“How did they compare?” Jo asked. “Were any of the lessons in Ohenewaa’s stories similar to your Nanny’s?”
“She always said her tales were about wisdom,” he answered with a smile. “‘You smarter now?’ she’d say after a story. ‘Ol’ Hige is out tonight. Better to stay in.’”
“What is Ol’ Hige?” Wynne asked.
Cuffe ignored him and dragged his stick along the ground.
“Ol’ Hige is a witch,” Jo told Wynne. “She sheds her skin and flies by night. Sometimes she turns into an owl.”
“How did you know?” Cuffe asked, looking up with admiration.
She shrugged and smiled. “Go ahead, tell your father what Ol’ Hige does.”
Too excited about the story to remember he was trying not to be nice to Wynne, Cuffe rattled off his explanation. “She sucks out people’s breath while they’re sleeping. She especially likes the babies.”
“How do you protect yourself?” Wynne asked. “Can she be killed?”
Cuffe looked first at Jo, but when she shrugged, he decided to continue.
“She sheds her skin when she flies. And that’s when you can beat her.” He talked as if this was information everyone knew. “If you find her skin, you put salt and pepper on it. Then she can’t put it back on because it will burn her. That’s how she dies.”
Wynne smiled and looked at Jo. “You’ve heard this before?”
“A version of it. I’ve heard Ol’ Hige stories under different names. In Ohenewaa’s tales, she was called the Sukuyan, and she traveled not as an owl but as a ball of light, looking for blood to suck.”
“But your sister didn’t put it in the book,” Cuffe said, holding out a hand to help Jo around a low wet place in the path.
“I think Phoebe was too frightened to write it down on paper.” Jo smiled. “Even as an adult, she spends most of her time living in her imagination. I wouldn’t be surprised if she still lies abed at night looking at the window and expecting Ol’ Hige to swoop in and steal her breath or her blood.”
