The Sea is a Thief

by David Parmelee

  “I haven’t seen him today,” Elizabeth answered, gazing towards the beach. “But his herd was just down the beach last evening about sunset.”

  Willow was Anna’s pony, one of hundreds of wild ponies that roamed Assateague. No one could say for certain where the herds had come from. Island grandfathers liked to tell youngsters long yarns about the shipwreck of a Spanish galleon, its cargo of Arabian horses swimming to safety on the barrier island. The romance of it did appeal to Anna, as it did to many people. The coastline had seen its share of shipwrecks. In her more levelheaded moments, she leaned towards the less colorful but more likely explanation: that the ponies were simply domesticated herds lost on the island and gone wild. It had been common practice to graze livestock there as long as anyone could remember. There was plenty of forage for the animals and no means for them to escape. Chincoteague lay sandwiched between Assateague and the mainland; both islands were long and narrow, and even at low tide the channel between the two held deep water. The barrier island was the perfect place for horses to run loose, to be rounded up later when they were needed. Over time, some of the owners passed on, or lost track of their livestock, and wild herds developed. The ponies thrived tolerably well under difficult circumstances. Once a year at pony-penning, as many as could be rounded up were driven across the channel to Chincoteague, and the foals were sold to the islanders who wanted them.

  The wild ponies knew Elizabeth, and did not hesitate to come close to the lighthouse, where she cultivated plants they liked. It was a respite from the tough marsh grass that bloated their stomachs. They did not fear her. Most could be handled, and the more docile ones could be broken to ride. Anna’s pony was such a one. Her father had spotted him when he was very young. His color had caught his eye. Most of the ponies were a mixture of brown, black and white, with dark spots and patches of color. Willow’s coat was a pale golden-tan, with a few lighter patches scattered about: a champagne-colored horse. Almost all the Assateague horses had brown eyes, and some had blue, but Willow’s were green—the color of the earliest buds of the weeping willow, the first tree to bud in the spring. Anna christened him Weeping Willow, and over time his name became Willow.

  William Daisey first spotted the horse as he travelled to Assateague. He plied him with the things a wild horse finds hard to resist: apples, fresh vegetables, oats, and molasses. At first, he would simply leave an offering. Gradually he would remain with his gift, the distance between him and the animal growing shorter and shorter, until one day he could feed the young pony from his hand. From that point he knew his task would be easy. He fitted the horse with a rope bridle, walked him, and finally rode him. Willow took to it well. When William was sure he would be safe with a child, he brought Anna in his skiff to meet her pony, keeping his purpose a secret until they arrived. The horse was waiting for them. Anna clapped her hands with glee, making small jumps in the air. “What’s his name, Father?” she asked, overwhelmed. Sweet William had to tell her that he had no name yet. He simply hadn’t thought of it. It was at that moment that Anna noticed the pony’s green eyes. He was to be Weeping Willow.

  Willow was her pony from that day on. Whenever Anna visited Assateague she looked for him. If she stayed away for more than a few days, he looked for Anna; when she beached her boat on the island, he would soon appear, tossing his mane and scuffing the sand with his hooves, waiting for her to approach. They were good friends, and made no demands of each other. She doted on him. He was loyal to her only, leaving the familiar company of the herd to carry her about his territory, the wind on her cheek, the salt air sharp in her nostrils. At times they would gallop onto the low dunes towards the marsh; at others, directly into the shallow surf. Willow was the perfect horse for Anna. He was strong and clever, and unencumbered by the concerns that she carried with her. When they rode, they entered a separate world. Its borders were the dunes and surf, the sand and sky. No human beings shared it. Such were the gifts that a good horse could give a girl such as Anna. Freedom. Blessed solitude. Respite from her fears and burdens. In the back of her mind, no matter where she was or what she had to do, she knew that Willow was waiting on her island.

  Anna and Elizabeth sat down together in the tent. The fire was hot and the kettle was on the boil. Barley soup awaited them. Elizabeth seasoned everything with herbs from her garden. Her food was simple but so delicious. The aromas wafting up from the cast-iron pot sharpened Anna’s appetite. Elizabeth stirred the pot and scooped the fragrant stew into a bowl. She handed Anna a chunk of bread. Anna expected an interrogation, and prepared herself for it while she ate.

  None came, at least for the time being. Elizabeth rose to her feet. “I want to show you some drawings,” she said, and disappeared into the lighthouse, returning with an oilcloth package. She opened it on her bench. Anna sat beside her, her meal forgotten, eager to see her teacher’s new work. “Eat, girl,” Elizabeth scolded her. “You can look and eat, too.” She retrieved her bowl as Elizabeth began to display the sketches.

  The medicine woman usually drew the plants and flowers that surrounded her. She needed to be certain of every herb and leaf that was included in a mixture to heal the sick. They were powerful, and dangerous if misused. By drawing them she etched each turn of a petal or delicate branching of a stalk permanently into her mind. Here they were in perfect detail. The sassafras showed its three signature shapes: one a perfect oval, one like a mitten, and one with three fingers. The broad flat leaves and tiny bell-like flowers of Indian hemp covered a page. On the next, the berries of the Blue Cohosh, the papoose root, dangled among the plant’s ragged-edged foliage. To Anna they were beautiful in their precision. She had first learned to draw as a young girl, by Elizabeth’s side, her father not far away on the water. She sat before the same specimens that Elizabeth used, struggling to command the charcoal, seldom happy with the result. Comparing her sketches with Elizabeth’s, she would frown with frustration. Sometimes tears would flow. Elizabeth never once criticized her efforts, but even then Anna’s eye was keen and her failings glared at her from the page. Her mentor would encourage her as best she could, pointing out one good detail from each drawing. Anna took joy in each kind remark. Soon there was more for Elizabeth to praise, and over the course of years the hours spent drawing in the airy tent on Assateague began to work their magic. The day came when the older woman could find good in everything Anna did, and told her so. Some of their drawings could have been pages from the same book.

  As Elizabeth turned the pages, other images began to appear: pelicans swooping low over the surf in search of fish; a Virginia rail, hiding itself among the stalks of marsh grass; a clump of ponies clustered together by the waterside, tails fighting the persistent flies. These were far more to Anna’s liking. Over the years she had gradually begun to tire of the botanical subjects on which Elizabeth spent so much effort. There was more to draw on Assateague. The horses often found their way onto Anna’s sketch paper now. She could call up the power in their heavy flanks and heaving sides as they ran. Even at rest, she could capture the grace of their slender legs and long, tapering heads. Their lives played out in her drawings, day by day. Their images galloped and rested, grazed and swam, fought and gave birth.

  Elizabeth turned the last drawing over. “You can see now what I have been doing all these days you have been away,” she said, tying up her bundle. Her tone was cutting, but Anna knew that was only for show.

  “Tell me now, girl, about your father’s boat, and someone by the name of Sam.”

  Anna looked deep into Elizabeth’s dark eyes. She withheld nothing from her teacher and friend. Her advice was always good. Still, Anna did not know how Elizabeth would react to what she had to say. Sam was a sailor—a Union sailor, with an uncertain future. As her mother had pointed out, he was unlikely to stay in Chincoteague long. Their acquaintance was brief. Beau disliked him. Her mother had warned her against him. Her own common sense told her that the chances of any good coming from this were small.

 
As she added up the sums of the arithmetic problem that was Sam Dreher, all those sound and sensible facts arranged themselves in a neat column on one side of the ledger. On the other side stood only one fact, huge and inescapable, defying the rules of accounting.

  Anna believed she might love him.

  That is what she told Elizabeth at the very beginning. Everything else came easily. The whole story tumbled forth like a waterfall. By the time the soup bowl was empty, Elizabeth had heard it all.

  Her first question was an easy one. “Would you like more to eat, girl?” she asked. Anna allowed that she would, and extended her bowl. Elizabeth refilled it and watched as Anna ate eagerly. Soon she stood up, peering into the distance, shading her eyes with her palm. “Unless I’m mistaken, your pony is here.” Anna leapt to her feet. There he was indeed, part of a group of six horses, ambling towards Elizabeth’s tent. Willow knew she had come. Setting her meal aside, Anna rose to greet her horse.

  They met as old friends do after a time of separation, taking joy in the simple act of reuniting. Anna had brought a few handfuls of oats with her and she offered them. Her horse ate them greedily. Anna knew they would taste sweet to him, a contrast to his usual diet of salty grass. Willow’s companions shuffled forward, noses seeking their share, but a shake of his head sent them quickly away. He was not sharing.

  Anna had brought Willow’s rope bridle. When the oats were gone, she fitted it around his head. She stroked his coat, her eyes open for the ticks that often clung to the horses. Finding none, she clasped her arms around Willow’s broad neck and flung herself unto his back, her skirts gathered between her legs, as her father had taught her so many years ago. The Assateague ponies were not tall. She had mastered the art of riding them without a saddle. A quick tug on the reins and they were off towards the rolling surf.

  They fairly flew, the pony’s sure hooves carving crisp prints in the packed grey sand. For Willow it was a game; for Anna, a joy. The slender girl floated on the horse’s back. He galloped straight and fast, no obstacle ahead, his only enemy the wind that squeezed chilly little tears from the corners of Anna’s eyes. The beach on the barrier island stretched for miles to the north, broken only by the shallow creeks that fed the marshes. Flocks of plovers and sandpipers scattered before them, their endless hunt for morsels in the sand interrupted by the thunder of the approaching animal. They took to the air as one, joining the laughing gulls that circled overhead and the black-capped terns that hovered and dropped to the water.

  The surf rolled out a rhythm behind them. The wind carried them forward until Anna pulled Willow up, miles of sand in their wake. They trotted back at their leisure, up onto the dunes and back. Anna looked out to sea for pelicans, spotting a pair working the surf. On heavy wings they tilted just a little above the waves, crashing into the spray to emerge with fish in their bills. The fin of a porpoise, or perhaps a shark, skimmed the water just behind them. Anna’s heart was light. She was on her island.

  The lighthouse loomed slowly closer. As lighthouses went it was small, but on the vast flatness of Assateague it was by far the most prominent landmark. Anna ran her fingers through Willow’s coarse mane as he trotted home. He was the most beautiful of horses, she thought.

  As they drew near to the lighthouse she spotted Elizabeth down by the banks of the creek where she had beached the skiff. Elizabeth squatted close by the little boat, her hands clamped along the coaming, peering intently at something. Anna pulled near as Elizabeth looked up.

  “What do you see?” she called out. She dropped lightly to the ground, slipping the bridle from Willow in a few deft moves. The pony walked slowly towards the garden patch. Elizabeth did not take her gaze from the skiff.

  “Your work, Anna,” she answered. “This is very good work.” Anna moved to her side. They studied the boat together. In the sunlight she did make a fine appearance. The straight, close grain of the ivory-colored white cedar Sam had added stood out against the timeworn bluish-gray stock that her father had used when he built her, but their junction was perfect. The original brass nails had discolored the surrounding wood, sending dark streaks fore and aft. The new nails gleamed orange in the sunlight, aligned in perfect rows.

  She had been a pretty boat once, when she was new, before the endless misty days and frozen black nights of market gunning had weathered her to the stony color of old cedar. Anna had been too small to remember her as she was then, but she saw the new life in her now. Best of all, she was seaworthy again, not a drop of water intruding as she rowed to Assateague. Anna smiled.

  “I may like this fellow Sam,” said Elizabeth. “We shall see. Come,” she said. “Sit in the tent with me and tell me why it is you have such feelings for him.”

  To capture the tiny, subtle signs of newfound love is a task best left to poets. Gifted though they are, even they must labor mightily to coax them onto paper, like the blossoms of a particularly delicate flower pressed between pages of a dictionary. To ask a girl such as Anna Daisey to express such things is to invite disaster; Anna was poised at the precipice of her first love, blissfully unaware of the frothy whirlpool that lay below. But Elizabeth Reynolds had asked, and Anna did her best to tell her friend what Sam Dreher meant to her. The words poured out, at first in a torrent, then more slowly, stumbling into one another. Anna began to realize how little sense she was making. Try as she might, nothing emerged from her mouth as her heart had intended it. Already, she treasured so many small moments with Sam, but even as she described them she knew that they were lost on anyone but herself. They were silver minnows slipping through the weave of some vast fishing net to the open sea. Anna told Elizabeth about her mother’s rain barrel. She described how Sam held her father’s decoys, and how his fingers sought out the details of his carving. She recounted the hours they had spent in blissful solitude together, cutting and fitting cedar to the sneak skiff. She tried to conjure up the light in his eyes, the strength in his shoulders, and the grace in his hands.

  Gradually, Anna lost hope that she could put the stirrings of her heart into words and simply stopped, waiting for Elizabeth’s response. As she heard it, her heart sank. It was as though her mother had visited the lighthouse and left Elizabeth with a script to follow.

  “He’s a Union sailor, she said. All too soon, he will sail to other ports.”

  Anna could feel tears welling in her eyes. “How can you be sure of his good intentions?” Elizabeth continued. “Such a short time you’ve even known him! And he’s a Yankee, after all.”

  As cruelly disappointed as she was, Anna could not be angry. Elizabeth was so much older than she, older than her mother in fact. No doubt her caution arose from a long life with its share of disappointments. Perhaps there had never been a Sam Dreher for Elizabeth, or, worse, some man who seemed to be, but in the end was not. Perhaps her heart had been broken and her love cast aside. Anna would never ask. She swallowed hard and wiped away a tear that was about to show itself.

  “Thank you for your cautions to me, Elizabeth,” she said, her voice unsteady. “I know that you care only for my welfare. But I know that Sam cares for me also. I know that he does. ” Even as she made the declaration she knew that she could not defend it. How could she lay out in paragraphs what she felt so deeply?

  Elizabeth was quiet. She had said enough—perhaps too much. A friend’s first responsibility is to protect her friend from pain, but from certain kinds of pain no protection is to be had. Elizabeth reached for her pipe. She dug into the leather pouch that hung from the crooked arm of her bench, packing the pipe tightly with curly shreds of dark tobacco. Holding a sliver of cedar to the coals of the fire, she set the pipe alight and reclined back onto the bench, her face wrapped in a halo of blue smoke.

  “You’re just a young one, you are, my Anna,” she said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “Young and yet so badly hurt. If your father were still among us I might not feel as I do.” The pipe was not fully lit; she leaned over the fire with the cedar splint and work
ed on it until she was satisfied. “You’re smart, though, and not easily fooled. A young man such as you describe must have something to offer. Why don’t you bring this Sam out here to ride?” Anna could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Perhaps she had been able to express her feelings to Elizabeth after all. “Let the ponies get the smell of him. See what opinion they hold.”

  Anna’s smile was broad. “I will, Elizabeth! I surely will!” She leapt from her seat and embraced the medicine woman, squeezing her tightly around the neck. In her heart she knew that Sam would feel as she felt about Assateague, and Elizabeth.

  She would bring him to the island, as she had promised him, and soon.

  When she left Elizabeth to return to Chincoteague, Anna’s spirit soared. She leaned into her oars, rowing towards the setting sun. As she beached the skiff on the banks of the creek behind her home, the twilight sky was as dark as the ink from an inkwell, but the horizon was a tangle of orange flame. On Assateague, the sun rose over the water and set over the marsh. On Chincoteague, sandwiched between the barrier island and the mainland, the sun set each day over the wide, sparkling channel. As the last of the skipjacks found their way to port and the seabirds winged southwards to gather on beaches for the night, widening streaks of copper and red fanned across the sky until the sun was finally snuffed out like a smoldering wick. Many times Anna would stand at the edge of the channel watching the colors change, waiting for the perfect moment when the sunset to the west matched exactly her memory of that morning’s sunrise to the east. If she closed her eyes at that moment and reopened them again, she could not tell if a day was beginning or ending.

  This, she thought, might well be such a day.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Competing Interests

  The door to the Bagwells’ pantry was temperamental. Sticky in summer, it rattled in wintertime and created an annoying draft in the dining room. The pantry had once been a simple storeroom. Some time ago, it had been fitted up with cabinetry by a local fellow who was known for doing things his own way—that is, not the way anyone else would ever do them. He owed Edmund Bagwell a sizable sum of money and could find no other means to repay it. Thus the pantry and its frustrating door were built. Ruth Broadwater complained about it all the time. About once a year she coaxed George into attempting a repair, but the last thing George claimed to be was handy. So far he had accomplished nothing.