Chapter eighteen: Fortunately, the Mayne Islander Aster met knew her husband--although by another name--and where he lived. Why did Kenneth James Stevens go by a different name on Mayne Island?
photo by ldyck
Chapter nineteen
Kate parked the car on the side of the road. “Well, we're here."
"Pardon me?"
"This is your new home.”
“Are you certain, Kathleen? Exactly how do you know? There’s absolutely no sign of habitation, anywhere.”
“Sure there is. Don’t you see the footpath?”
“I see chest-high grass, surrounded by a forest of trees.”
“On Mayne Island, that’s called natural landscaping. Don’t worry, I’ll lead you.” Kate skillfully wove her way through the trees.
Eyes down, studying the ground, Aster followed what she thought must be the path. She took one more step and stumbled into the bog. The soggy soil grabbed a hold of her shoes and refused to let them go. She wrapped her hands around a small tree and tried to wiggle her way free. She won the tug-of-war but her shoes were lost. Apparently, high heels were not appropriate footwear for a forest trail. Aster continued on in pantyhose. Blackberry thorns, which seemed to be everywhere, scrapped the sensitive pads of her feet. Trees attacked her from all sides. Branches hit her in the face, poked her in the eyes, and whacked the back of her head. Wrestling with a low-hanging branch resulted in twigs breaking off and becoming entangled in her hair.
“Hey, Aster,” Kate called. “The path is over here.”
“Where? The way forward isn’t clearly marked.”
“Go over there and then over—. Oh, okay. Well, try over there, then. Yeah, that works. There you go. You’ve got it.” Kate’s persistent, patient guidance eventually brought Aster to the trail.
When the chest-high grass gave way to ankle-high, Aster stopped to catch her breath.
A building was barely visible through the trees. The new lumber reflected the sun. Was it a hen house? Fresh eggs for breakfast... Aster prepared herself for the foul smell of fowl. She wasn’t sure what chickens smelled like but she was sure they would stink. It wasn’t like Kenneth James would give them daily baths. Instead, they would be allowed to run around in their own filth. Maybe she wasn’t close enough to smell them but she should be able to hear them. Clucking... Crowing... Peeping... Whatever noises chickens made, they should be making them. Unless...? What if...? Something may have...?
Aster froze. Did she really want to see...? Feathers everywhere... Blood... Decapitated, half-eaten chickens. Still... If something had happened, Kenneth James would need to know. Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens should know. Aster prepared herself for the undeniable overpowering bittersweet stench of death. But... No stench.
The closer Aster got the larger the building grew. She couldn’t see it all. A tall hedge hid part of the building. But even the part she could see was too big for a hen house. There was no foul smell or chicken noises. Aster racked her brain trying to come up with a purpose for an outbuilding of that size. Maybe a... Workshop? A place for Kenneth James to putter... He was more a reader than a putterer but Kate had told her that Mayne Island changed people. And besides, he would need some place to store a lawn mower and hedge clippers and... It really didn’t look like anyone had done any yard work on that property. If Kenneth James had hired a gardener he should fire him immediately.
Why was Kate taking her to the workshop and not directly to the house? Did she need to borrow a tool? An axe? Was Kate an axe m—.
