Today is the anniversary of our Mom's death.
Scott is very quiet, maybe a little more than usual. I'm not sure what was said between him and Dad when Scott had come home injured, but he's been quiet and withdrawn since then.
Mom is buried at home. Not the island – although we do have a memorial stone on the clifftop for her – but on the farm in Kansas. Grandpa Grant is buried with her, which is nice for both of them. They are buried in a clearing in the wood, at the top of the hill at the bottom of the farm. The hill isn't really big, but the walk up is long, and as a child I remember whining about it. Not my finest moment, but Scott would invariably hoist me onto his back and carry me, Virgil taking over when Scott left home.
Now I am a man, but still that hill seems so long and tiring. John said it is more to do with the reason we have come than any physical thing, and I assume he is right. He is a genius after all.
Today's trip starts well. We had flown over timed to arrive just before sunrise so that we could be on the farm to experience it. It was a glorious crisp day. Our breath fogs in the air as we trudge up the hill, the sprinkling of snow that has made it through what leaves are left on the trees is crisp underfoot.
Dad leads the way, carrying the beer that he and our Mother will share. Virgil and John are beside him, the twins carrying the two foldaway picnic sets that will give us tables and benches to sit on while we have our lunch with Mom and Grandpa.
Gordon and I are next. Normally, in any other circumstances, we would be scooping up snow to throw at each other and everyone else, looking for the deepest bits to build a snowman or some such snow creature. I miss doing this on the island sometimes. But today is not a normal day, and my brother marches beside me, face set. I copy his stance and stride.
Scott brings up the rear, carrying the picnic basket. He doesn't always, often he's up front with Dad, but today he is almost dawdling behind us. I don't turn to watch him, but it's like I can sense when he looks behind to the now-hidden farmhouse where Kayo has stayed in the warmth with Grandma. They are going to prepare dinner – hopefully that means Kayo will and Grandma will watch.
We are two-thirds of the way up when Gordon remembers with a start that he has left the drinks behind. He usually brings them and I bring the flowers for the grave. None of us noticed that he was empty-handed, we are all so wrapped up with our emotions.
Everyone congregates around Gordon, and we are ribbing him for forgetting. Dad offers a small smile – it is most like my prankster brother to be the cause of a disruption, even on a day like today it is strangely comforting that he is himself.
'Don't worry, I'll head back and get them.'
Without giving Dad a chance to say anything Scott has turned around and is striding away, and I cannot help but think that maybe he is relieved to be heading back. I frown at that. Something is going on but no one is telling me anything – as usual. Then I am struck with the idea that no one else has realised this.
Footsteps tell me that everyone has resumed the gentle climb but I stay, half staring up after Dad, the other half watching the receding figure of my eldest brother.
I don't think I am supposed to see Scott turn to check we are still walking, nor see Kayo appear from the trees and greet Scott, or to see them carry on walking down the hill.
I turn and hurry to catch up to Gordon.
Scott, checking to see that everyone has continued walking, relaxed a little. He hated not letting his family know what was going on, but he needed to protect them. He'd seen Alan, half looking his way before turning to look up at Dad, and smiled to himself, sure that his youngest brother was suspicious.
But then Kayo appeared beside him and he wrenched his mind back to the matter in hand. She was looking at the Hollow tracker.
'See anything?'
'No, nothing yet.'
They might not see anything, but the air was almost heavy with expectation. Something was going to happen.
