Aunt Bronwyn identified the stones. Here was a broken stone with a double spiral carving to help the plants to grow faster. Here were the broken pieces of a stone destroyed by an angry mob of Christian converts. Indigo asked if she had any healing stones in the garden, but Aunt Bronwyn did not know. She’d heard discussions of a standing stone that healed patients who were passed back and forth three times over its top. But over the years, the quack doctors and snake oil salesmen of Bath hacked the old stone to pieces to sell as curative charms. Reportedly there were healing stones that fit in the palm of the hand; they were steeped in water from Bath’s sacred springs; they cured any ailment. According to the legend of the healing springwater, the Celtic King Bladud learned from local farmers that pigs with sores were cured by soaking in the mud and warm springwater. The king built a temple and bath at the spring, but later when the king got old he made a pair of wings and jumped from the roof of the temple and was killed.
For centuries, Bath had been overrun by doctors and pharmacists peddling cures for cancer, gout, and heart disease, formulated from such ingredients as live hog lice, burnt coke quenched in aqua vitae, powdered red coral, the black tips of crab claws, and freshly gathered earthworms. Invalids pushed in their chairs by nurses still flocked to Bath the year round to take the waters.
Aunt Bronwyn paused to look over the stones rescued long ago by her grandfather. She pointed out a bluestone no larger than a steamer trunk — in times of drought the bluestone was beaten with hazel sticks to bring rain. Indigo’s eyes widened as she went on; Aunt Bronwyn had seen praying stones and cursing stones. There were stones that turned slowly with the sun to warm both sides of themselves, and stones that traveled at night to drink from the river and returned by morning. There were stones that danced at high noon and stones that danced in the light of the moon!
Indigo asked Aunt Bronwyn if she had ever seen the dancing stones. No, when she was a girl about Indigo’s age, she observed a black stone the size of a stove move across the road to the south side overnight. Tomorrow they’d take a picnic basket and visit the place. Aunt Bronwyn wanted to drive up on the ridge above the river overlooking Bath; a great deal of construction was going on there. Each week she checked to see if any stones were in need of protection.
Hattie recalled the unkind remarks she’d heard from time to time growing up, remarks her mother made to her father about Aunt Bronwyn’s peculiarities. So this is what it was: while other old women fed stray cats and dogs, this old woman took pity on stones. The evening of their arrival, Edward joked Aunt Bronwyn had gone native; what could be more English than an old woman feeding tidbits to her cows?
As they walked back through the garden toward the house, her aunt said something that surprised Hattie. The old people had warned her even would-be rescuers of the old stones must use great caution because it was dangerous to tamper with the standing stones or to cut down the sacred groves. The stones and the groves housed the “good folk,” the spirits of the dead. Never interfere with the fairies! When sheep were brought by the English to graze Scotland, the good folk and the people living on the land were displaced, and the fairies waged war against the sheep. An old man heard the sounds of dogs running down the sheep for the angry spirits; the old man was a seventh son of a seventh son and thus was able to hear and sometimes even see the spirits.
The terrible famine in Ireland in 1846 came because the Protestants and the English knocked down the old stones. The wars of Europe were the terrible consequences of centuries of crimes against the old stones and the sacred groves of hazel and oak. Still, the destruction of the stone circles and groves did not stop; now the reckoning day was not far off — twenty years or less.
Hattie found herself taken aback by her aunt’s remarks; she was reluctant to link the luminous glow in the garden with the forces of violent retribution. She wished Indigo would not listen so attentively to her aunt’s comments; the child might become confused. She felt a faint flicker of ill ease that announced an onset of anxious feelings, so she excused herself and the child. They needed to rest. Aunt Bronwyn invited Indigo to spend the afternoon with her in the garden, but Hattie was firm and took Indigo by the hand back inside the house.
Earlier Edward worried there would be trouble if they did not set some limits for the child. He was concerned about the agreement he signed with the superintendent of the Indian school. It was no use to pretend they were instructing Indigo about the duties of an upstairs maid. Hattie had bristled at the mention of the agreement. She was only a little girl; the boarding school superintendent was a criminal to hire out the Indian children at such a young age. Edward said nothing more, but Hattie wondered if he was concerned over the appearance the child was their adopted daughter, an assumption made by a number of their fellow steamship passengers.
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The day of Edward’s return from London, Hattie rested upstairs all morning and a good part of the afternoon. Aunt Bronwyn invited Indigo to eat lunch with the parrot on her shoulder and they both laughed with delight at the bird’s dainty table manners as he took bits of chicken pot pie from their forks. That evening when Hattie and Edward came to the table for dinner they found the child and the old woman feeding the parrot broth from a spoon. Indigo noticed at once that Edward did not approve and that Hattie was concerned too, but Aunt Bronwyn laughed and told them about the small white dog her grandfather kept with him; the dog sat on a chair with its own china plate beside the old man at every meal, a napkin tied around its neck as it stared straight ahead with great dignity waiting for its master to feed it a tidbit.
Edward smiled and shook his head, as if to acknowledge the old woman made the rules in her house. He had returned from London in good humor, after finding the watercolor supplies he wanted. The visit to the Kew Gardens went very well. The director of Kew Gardens agreed to pay a handsome price for Citrus medica cuttings. The French government closely guarded the citron orchards of Corsica to protect their exclusive supply of candied citron to the world market. Edward only smiled when the director commented on the difficulty of the task. The incident on the Pará River left him wary of misplaced trust. He revealed the plan to no one, not even Hattie, though he felt guilty for the omission and planned to tell her everything as soon as they reached Corsica.
The following morning after breakfast, they set out together for a walk downtown to the site of the excavations. Bath had a great many grassy arcades and parks shaded by trees where elegant ladies walked with their maids or drove in smart buggies with their lapdogs. Nowadays the parade of women’s fashions was more subdued, but in the last century the ladies went to great lengths to steal the attention from one another during their promenades in the parks. One woman went so far as to have a garden of pinks and violets planted in the framework of the wide hoop skirt of her dress.
Aunt Bronwyn nodded briskly whenever she was greeted by townspeople along the way, oblivious of the gawkers and tourists who stared rudely. Of course they must have made quite a spectacle on Stall Street, Hattie thought; the energetic old woman wearing a brown derby marched ahead, and Indigo with the parrot on her shoulder walked just behind her, followed by Edward and Hattie. As they approached the King’s Bath, the streets were crowded with vacationers from London and foreign tourists come to visit the shops and the royal baths.
Aunt Bronwyn pointed out the smaller pavilion, which was the Queen’s Bath. Originally there had been only the King’s Bath, but the queen became frightened by strange lights in the King’s Bath and refused ever to go back. So the Queen’s Bath was built. Hattie’s heart was pounding; what sort of strange light? she asked.