A Light Between Us

The lantern flickered between us, its light unsteady against the gathering dark.

"Three years," Mira said, setting grandmother's brass lantern on the kitchen table between us. "Not even when Dad asked for you at the end."

Rain from the Remembrance Storm hammered against the windows—arriving precisely the same week our father had died last year, his body lowered into Penobscot soil while I stood in a Mojave field, collecting data. The memory surfaced with physical force: desert heat, cell phone pressed to my ear, Mira's voice crackling through poor reception. "He's asking for you. Hours, maybe." I'd glanced at my research tables—germination data at critical collection phase—and promised to check flights after completing measurements. By morning, Dad was no longer lucid.

The witch's eye floorboard—that dark knot of pine we'd both avoided as children, believing it watched and judged—creaked beneath my weight. I shifted automatically, the childhood habit persisting despite everything else that had changed. Mira noticed. Something flickered across her face—recognition, then deliberate withdrawal.

My rehearsed explanation about tenure requirements and emergency leave denials withered before it reached my lips. Instead, I watched her move through the kitchen—her right shoulder stiff, evidence of an injury healed without proper care. When she reached for the kettle, her wince was nearly imperceptible.

"You're hurt," I said.

"I manage." The lantern light caught the new lines around her eyes—a map of years I hadn't witnessed.

Through the window, the ancient sugar maple swayed ominously, its lightning-scarred limb stretching over the workshop roof. The wood groaned audibly against another violent gust. Mira's eyes followed mine. "Been saying since spring it needs to come down." The unspoken accusation hung between us: You weren't here to help.

Dad's chair had vanished, replaced by a loom bearing half-finished fabric. My fingers recognized the patterns before my mind did—winterberry for river, hemlock for mountain. I tracked other changes: jars of preserved vegetables arranged by planting zones I'd mapped using GPS coordinates for my dissertation. Mira's system was simpler: north field, river bend, grandfather oak. Same places, different languages.

On the wall hung my framed journal article on indigenous seed preservation. Beneath the glass, Dad's shaky handwriting marked the bottom margin: "Eliza's work." The last letters nearly illegible as his strength failed.

Something crushed against my ribs: while I'd documented traditional methods, reframing family knowledge into academic terms that erased its origins, Dad had still claimed me. Still honored work that had taken me from his deathbed.

"Why now?" Mira asked, shadows deepening the distance between us. "University send you collecting again?"

"The seeds won't grow," I admitted, the truth escaping before I'd planned it. "Perfect climate control, ideal soil chemistry, but they're failing."

"Hm." Mira turned toward the woodstove where a pot simmered, her response neither question nor agreement.

Rabbit stew—I recognized it instantly. Sage, thyme, and something else I couldn't identify despite cataloging botanical specimens for a decade. The wooden spoon struck the pot's edge with a hollow sound that traveled straight past my cerebral cortex into memory. Sunday preparations, autumn harvests, the year Dad taught us to identify rabbit tracks across new snow.

My stomach clenched with hunger and something more complicated. Sweat prickled between my shoulder blades despite the room's chill.

"Your university knows you're here?" Mira reached awkwardly for herbs hanging from ceiling beams, her injured shoulder limiting her range.

"That happened during calving season?" I nodded toward her injury, ignoring her question.

"Mrs. Kingfisher helped." She rotated her shoulder stiffly. "Used Gran's willow bark."

"Willow bark alone can't—" I caught myself. "Was it enough?"

"Had to be. Hospital's forty minutes when roads are good."

Rain paused suddenly, the silence more unsettling than the downpour. Through the window, clouds gathered over the western ridge like bruises. The sudden quiet transported me instantly—standing with Mira and Dad beside the swollen river, water breaching its banks.

"The flood," I said, the memory surfacing unbidden. "Remember? You watched the herons while I measured with string."

Mira's knife paused briefly against the cutting board. "You made that gauge with Dad's red marker."

"And you said the birds knew two days before."

"'Not better ways of knowing,'" she quoted, "'just different questions being asked.'" She resumed slicing. "Dad's words, not mine."

"We were already becoming different kinds of observers," I said.

She handed me a bowl, testing its temperature against her inner wrist—exactly as grandmother had taught us. I inhaled steam carrying complex notes beneath the obvious herbs. Wintergreen. That was the missing element I couldn't place.

"The stew is—" I started.

"—Gran's recipe," she finished.

"Third generation plants?"

She nodded. "Still growing where she planted them."

The implication hung between us: Some things remain rooted. Others leave.

The storm returned with sudden violence, rain striking windows like thrown pebbles. From where I sat, I could see the workshop roof's northwest corner—the edge I'd promised Dad I'd reinforce before leaving. Water now seeped visibly beneath damaged shingles.

"I've been recording the planting songs," I said abruptly. "Gran's exact words, melodies, everything."

Mira's head jerked up. "For your research?"

"Not officially. Department says it's just anecdotal."

"But you recorded them anyway." Not a question.

"Yes." I studied the stew rather than her face.

"Three companies tried buying Gran's seed varieties last year," she said, changing direction unexpectedly. "EastAgra offered enough to replace the truck, fix the roof."

"But you didn't sell."

Her knife struck the board with sudden force. "They wanted to patent winter squash our family's grown for ten generations. Call it 'newly discovered.'"

I heard the unspoken parallel to my own work—repackaging family knowledge in academic language.

Water tracked down the window in rivulets, finding every imperfection in the glass—just as this conversation exposed the cracks between us.

"Remember how she'd—" Mira hummed three notes suddenly.

My throat tightened. Without conscious decision, I joined the fourth note, then stopped, surprised at myself.

"North field song," I said.

"For squash and beans." Mira didn't look up. "Not corn though."

"Corn had its own melody. More complex."

Her knife continued its steady rhythm against the cutting board. The sound filled spaces where words failed us—the percussion of daily survival marking time between estrangement and whatever might follow.

A thunderous crack split the night—a sound like the world breaking open. We froze, recognition dawning simultaneously.

"The maple—" Mira whispered.

Through the window, the ancient sugar maple surrendered to the wind with an agonized splintering. Its massive form toppled in terrible slow motion, then struck with percussive force—central limb spearing through the workshop roof like a javelin.

"The archives!" Mira was already moving, yanking open the door against horizontal rain that stung like needles.

I calculated instinctively as I followed—wind torque against structural integrity, collapse probability at seventy percent. The support beam Dad and I had never properly reinforced couldn't withstand that leverage point for more than five minutes.

Inside the workshop, frigid water poured through the shattered ceiling. The space reeked of wet wood, mildew, and disintegrating paper. Through the darkness and swirling debris, I made out the shapes of irreplaceable knowledge: Mira's handwoven pattern books stacked beside Gran's dye recipes on birchbark scrolls; Dad's weather journals spanning forty years; my field notebooks containing observations deemed "insufficiently empirical" by the department.

"Pattern books first!" I shouted over the storm's roar. The leather-bound volume contained weaving techniques preserved nowhere else.

Mira's head snapped toward me, surprise visible even in the dim light. She'd expected me to lunge for my research. "Dad's journals," she countered, already moving toward my abandoned notes.

The building groaned like a wounded animal. Ceiling beams sagged visibly, water streaming from a dozen points. The main support had already shifted eight degrees from vertical.

"Left side's giving—move!" I shouted, tracking structural angles automatically.

"Cedar box—spring seed records!" Mira called back, hands finding objects in near-darkness. She passed me items with rapid-fire urgency: "Winterberry dye formulas—mordant variations—your germination charts!"

A section of roofing collapsed near the door, sending a waterfall into the room. Mira pushed a stack of bark scrolls into my arms, then reached higher on a shelf. Her injured shoulder trembled with the strain, but her fingers found their target unerringly.

"Beam's failing," I gasped, positioning myself beneath the most threatened section. My muscles screamed immediately under the weight. "Thirty seconds max. What else matters?"

No further explanation needed. Mira moved with practiced efficiency, gathering remaining materials while I braced against imminent collapse. Rain poured through widening gaps overhead, soaking us both.

The maple branch shifted with a sickening wooden groan. Through cascading debris, I saw Mira stretch toward a water-stained leather portfolio—my original field journal containing observations from our grandmother's teaching.

"Leave it!" I shouted. "Not worth—"

She lunged despite my warning. Her fingers closed around the journal as a secondary beam gave way with a splintering crack. The jagged end caught her arm in its descent—her sharp cry cut through the storm's roar. She stumbled backward, clutching the portfolio against her chest with her good arm, the other hanging awkwardly. Blood spread immediately through her sleeve.

"OUT! NOW!" I abandoned my position as the ceiling began its final surrender.

We stumbled into the yard as the workshop's eastern section collapsed behind us with a thunderous implosion. Rain immediately assaulted our rescued materials, but most were protected by the waxed canvas Mira had somehow thought to grab during our retreat.

Under the porch's meager shelter, I examined her arm—a jagged gash from elbow to wrist with splinters embedded in torn flesh.

"Hospital—"

"Road's flooded." Her face had gone pale beneath streaks of mud and blood. "Blue jar. North cabinet. Shelf above the sink."

I shivered, suddenly aware of rain dripping from my hair onto the salvaged materials between us. The structural weakness I'd noted months ago but never addressed had now drawn blood from my sister's arm.

"Why did you grab my journal?" I asked, staring at the leather portfolio still clutched against her chest, my grandmother's teachings now marked with my sister's blood.

Mira met my eyes directly. "Because it matters to you," she said simply.

Rain continued its assault on the collapsed workshop. Blood from her wound dripped onto the portfolio's cover, red darkening to brown against the aged leather—mingling with the water that seeped between us, finding every vulnerable seam.

-~-~-~-

I found grandmother's salve immediately in the north cabinet—blue jar, second shelf. The moment I unscrewed the lid, its cedar-and-spruce scent bypassed conscious thought, triggering muscle memory older than my academic training.

My hands moved with unexpected certainty—holding Mira's injured arm at precisely the correct angle, cleaning the wound with rainwater collected in a shallow bowl. I extracted each splinter using the technique grandmother had taught us specifically for wood injuries.

"Clockwise to draw out—" Mira whispered, watching my fingers.

"—counterclockwise to heal in," I completed, already applying the salve in spiraling motions. The words emerged from somewhere beyond conscious retrieval.

Scientific terms for the medicine's compounds—salicylic acid, tannins, antiseptic resins—floated through my mind, pale shadows compared to grandmother's instruction: "The hand remembers what the mind forgets."

Mira studied my movements as I wrapped her arm with strips of clean cloth—no metal fasteners, tension maintained through precise folding. Neither of us spoke again until I secured the final edge.

"Your hands still know," she said finally. Not a question.

The kitchen smelled of herbal medicine mixed with the earthier scent of rain-soaked paper. Our rescued materials lay spread across the table in careful triage—what could be saved immediately, what needed specialized attention.

I reached for a water-damaged leather journal, my fingers still fragrant with grandmother's medicine. Dad's unmistakable handwriting filled the soggy pages, ink bleeding at the edges. The open spread showed a detailed weather record from fifteen years ago:

April 17: 42°F at dawn. Barometric pressure 29.92 inHg. First red-winged blackbirds returned to north marsh. Oak leaves size of squirrel's ear. Mira says soil ready for early greens (temperature agrees).

"He recorded both," I said, turning the page to find my germination tables copied carefully into the margin, placed beside Mira's moon-phase planting calendar. "Scientific measurements alongside traditional knowledge."

Behind the weather journals lay a small cedar box, its surface still gleaming with fresh oil despite water damage. My name was carved into the lid in Dad's distinctive style, though the final letters wavered where his steady hand had failed him.

Inside, seeds were arranged in careful compartments, each labeled in both Penobscot and Latin: Askaskwi/Cucumis sativus, Wawaskapskw/Cucurbita pepo.

"He finished this three days before he died," Mira said. "Couldn't hold a spoon, but insisted on completing the labels himself."

I traced the gouge where his hand had slipped, the varnish collecting in its depth like amber. Despite his deterioration, he'd maintained the precise spelling of both naming systems.

"I requested emergency leave," I said, the justification burning like acid. "The department chair said—"

"Don't." Mira's interruption was gentle. "We both know the truth."

My throat constricted around the admission: "The choice was mine. I documented tradition rather than honoring it."

"Yes," she said simply. "You did."

The storm continued its assault outside, but here in our childhood kitchen, something had shifted. Her bandaged arm lay between us—raw evidence of what was broken and what might still heal.

-~-~-~-

Dawn revealed the storm's aftermath—broken branches, scattered debris, the workshop's collapsed section exposed against pale light. The familiar landscape had transformed overnight: ancient oaks uprooted, new waterways cutting silver paths through fields, boundaries erased and redrawn by forces beyond control. The air smelled of wet earth and pine resin, punctuated by the rhythmic dripping of receding floodwater finding newly carved channels.

"I don't recognize the north field anymore," Mira said, standing beside me on the porch. "Remember how straight the rows used to run from the oak to the stone wall?"

I nodded, automatically calculating watershed changes and erosion patterns—then stopped myself. Some transformations required more than analysis.

In the kitchen, we spread the rescued materials across the table. Water had transformed them—birchbark scrolls swollen with moisture, their edges curling inward like hands protecting what remained. Dad's journals remained mostly legible, though water had blurred dates along margins where years of weather patterns had been meticulously recorded in dual systems.

My field journal fell open naturally to an early entry: Grandmother's hand-testing of soil consistently outperforms moisture meters in predicting optimal planting conditions. Science lacks language for this knowledge.

"You documented her methods," Mira said, surprise evident despite her control.

"Not for publication," I admitted. "The department wouldn't accept observational data without standardized metrics."

Mira retrieved a small cloth bundle from a cupboard above the stove. "Grandmother's blue-tipped winter squash," she said, unwrapping seeds marked by distinctive indigo crescents. "The variant your university catalog listed as 'regionally extinct' while I was growing it every season."

"What happens now?" she asked. "After decades of dismissing traditional methods, suddenly universities want to document them?"

"The extension office is funding research sites for indigenous agricultural practices," I said, eyes fixed on the damaged materials. "I've requested assignment here."

"You want to use this land." It wasn't quite an accusation.

"I want to come home," I whispered. "Before we lose anything more."

She studied my face, searching for convenience or desperation. "These manuscripts will take months to properly restore," she said finally.

"The work we need to do," I responded, echoing her earlier correction.

Mira turned to the window where morning light caught the transformed landscape. Fields once carefully divided now connected by new channels. Her silence contained questions neither of us could yet answer.

I placed my damaged field journals deliberately beside her grandmother's recipe books—different records of the same land, separated by approach but united in purpose.

"I'll need your methods for the birchbark scrolls," I said. "My preservation techniques aren't sufficient for organic materials."

She nodded, a small concession. "February," she said, adjusting grandmother's brass lantern on the table between us. "We'll reassess in February."

The lantern flickered between us, its light unsteady against the gathering dark.