“It is, Ben.”
“We'll do it again, soon. We haven't even begun to cover some of the better sailing areas to the south.”
“I'm already anticipating it,” she said.
Then, without warning, he bent toward her and, putting his arms around her, kissed her lightly on the lips.
His lips were somewhat salty, warm, firm and yet tender.
She kissed back, surprised at herself.
They parted, ending the kiss, though he still held her close. He said, “Was I too bold?”
“No,” she said. Her voice was small, quiet, defenseless.
“I had as good a time as you did, Gwyn,” he told her. “Actually, I think I had a better time.”
She looked up into his dark eyes, saw that they returned her gaze with a steady, unwavering affection.
She stood on tip-toe and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I better be going,” she said, “so you can get the boat packed up.”
“Be careful on the drive back,” Ben warned her.
“It's only a short way,” she said. “No more than fifteen minutes.”
“The greatest number of traffic accidents,” he admonished her in almost fatherly tones, “take place within a few miles of home.”
“I'll be careful,” she conceded.
But on the way back to Barnaby Manor, her mind was not on her driving at all. Instead, as the road rolled toward her, under her and away, she let her mind wander through scattered memories which she had stored up throughout the day…
She hadn't been lying to Ben when she told him that the day had been so terribly enjoyable. Not since before her parents had been taken from her had she been given so much fun in a single day: the bright and rolling water, the baking sun, the clouds… They had played the old game with the clouds, watching them for some image that resembled a face or an animal. They had talked, endlessly, about this and that and nearly everything — and they had grown, or so it seemed to Gwyn, quite close in the space of just a few short hours. He said that often happened on a sailboat — if two people were at least somewhat compatible to begin with. Two people found themselves drawn quickly together, as if to ward off the immensity of the endless sea… Afloat on the blue, blue ocean, one was made small, until one seemed of very little value, little worth… But with someone to share the experience with, the huge universe could be pushed back, your own importance expanded until the ego was recuperated…
Now, as she parked the Opel in the four-car garage attached to Barnaby Manor, she wondered exactly what else had transpired between her and Ben Groves. She felt, inexplicably, as if some new and special relationship had begun, now quite fragile, but perhaps soon to blossom and flower…
By quarter past five o'clock — with a good deal of time remaining until dinner — she had showered, dried her hair, inspected her tan in the mirror and dressed. Still full of energy, despite the work that had gone into the day's sailing and despite the energy the heat of the sun had taken out of her, she wasn't satisfied to read or to relax to music in her room.
Downstairs, Fritz and Grace were at work in the kitchen. Though both were polite, neither was a particularly fascinating conversationalist. Neither her aunt nor her uncle were about, and Ben Groves had not returned from Calder. The house lay heavy, cool and quiet, as if it were asleep and must not be awakened.
She went outside to the steps by the sea, and walked carefully downward to the beach, where everything was beautifully golden in the late afternoon sunlight.
Far out to sea, a tanker wallowed southward, noiseless at this distance, like some immense, ancient animal that should have been long extinct.
Watching the huge tanker, Gwyn was reminded of the way that Jack Younger had followed her in his fisherman's launch only the day before, and she knew that she had, without realizing it, come here to the beach in hopes of meeting him once more and getting a chance to give him a piece of her mind.
However, though the time seemed right, not a single fishing boat lay on the swell in either direction.
Gwyn took off her shoes — white canvas sneakers — and walked into the frothing edge of the surf. She wriggled her toes in the rapidly cooling water, stirred up milky clouds of fine sand, and kicked at stranded clumps of darkening seaweed.
When she had walked nearly a mile, no longer charged with so much undisciplined energy, she stopped at the water's edge and faced directly out to sea, watching the creamy clouds bend toward the liquid, cobalt horizon.
She had built up a tremendous appetite and was looking forward to one of Grace's hearty meals, then to a couple hours of reading in her room, and early to bed. She knew that, tonight, she would sleep like a rock, without any strange dreams. She bent down and put on her shoes, turned to go back to Barnaby Manor — and was rooted to the spot by what she saw behind her.
As if following in her footsteps, her double stood no more than a hundred feet away. She was wearing that many-layered white dress that billowed prettily in the sea breeze and gave her an ethereal look, as if she did not belong in this world. And perhaps she did not…
Gwyn took a step toward the pale apparition, then stopped suddenly, unable to find sufficient courage to continue.
The other Gwyn, the Gwyn in white, remained where she was — though her own stillness did not appear to be founded in fear.
Despite the steady susurration of the sea wind — which fluffed the stranger's golden mass of hair into an angelic nimbus all around her head — and despite the rhythmic sloshing sound of the waves breaking on the beach, the scene was maddeningly quiet. The air was leaden, the sky pressing down, each second an eternity. It was the sort of silence, filled with unknown fear, that one usually found only in remote graveyards or in funeral parlors where a corpse lay amid flowers.
To break this disquieting quiet, Gwyn cleared her throat — somewhat surprised at the noise she made, and in a voice cut through with a nervous tremor, she asked, “Who are you?”
The other Gwyn only smiled.
“Ginny?” Gwyn asked.
She hated to say that. But she could not help herself.
“Hello, Gwyn,” the apparition replied.
Gwyn shook her head, looked down at the sand, trying desperately to dispel the vision. But when she looked up again, she found, as she had expected she would, that Ginny remained exactly where she had been, in her white dress, yellow hair fluttering.
“I'm seeing things,” Gwyn said.
“No.”
“Hallucinations.”
“And are you hearing things too, Gwyn?” the double asked, smiling tolerantly.
“Yes.”
The apparition took several steps toward Gwyn, cutting the distance between them by a fourth. She smiled again and said, in a comforting voice, “Are you afraid, Gwyn?”
Gwyn said nothing.
“You haven't any reason to be afraid of me, Gwyn.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
Gwyn said, “Who are you?”
“I've told you.”
“I don't believe—”
“Have you a choice?”
“Yes,” Gwyn said. “I'll ignore you.”
“I won't let you do that.”
Gwyn looked out to sea, searching for some possibility of help. She would even have welcomed the sight of Jack Younger in his launch, his whitened hair, his deep tan… But there were still no boats nearby — only the tanker which steadily dwindled on its trip southward. Already, it was little more than a dot against the darkening sky.
“Gwyn?”
She looked back at the — specter.
“How can you deny me, Gwyn?”
Gwyn said nothing.
“I am your sister, after all.”
“No.”
A tern flew overhead, screeching, and disappeared into the ragged face of the cliff.
“Besides,” the other said, in a tone of mild reproof, “I've come such a long, long way to see you.”
“From where?”
>
“From the other side.”
Gwyn shook her head violently: No. No, no, no! She could not allow herself to go on like this. She could not stand here and listen to — and even converse with — a ghost. That was insanity. If she let this go on much longer, she would slip right past the edge, into madness. And once that had happened, not even Dr. Record could do anything to give her a normal life again. She would be, until the ends of her days, completely out of touch with all that was real…
“I've missed you,” the other said.
Gwyn bit her lips, felt pain, knew she was not dreaming, but wished ardently that she were.
“Talk to me, Gwyn.”
Gwyn said, “If you are who you profess to be — then, you should look like a twelve-year-old girl and not like a grown woman.”
“Because I died when I was twelve?”
“Yes.”
“I could have chosen to approach you, from the start, as a child, as the Ginny that you remember. However, I felt that you would be more likely to accept me if I came to you like this. You could see, then, that I was not just a hoaxer, but your twin.”
“If changing your form is so easy as you indicate,” Gwyn said, measuring each word carefully, trying to conceal the worst of her fear, “then become a child for me now, right here.”
The other shook her head woefully, smiled sadly and said, “You've got the wrong idea about the powers of a ghost. We aren't shape-changers of such ability as you think; we can't perform tricks like that quite so easily.”
“You're no ghost.”
“What am I, then?”
Indeed, what? Gwyn had no ready answer, but she said, “You're much too substantial to be a ghost.”
“Oh, I'm quite substantial,” the other agreed. “But ghosts always are. You think of them as being transparent, or at least translucent, made of smoke and such stuff; that's what your superstitions tell you to believe. In reality, when we step into the world of the living, we take on flesh as apparently real as yours — though it is not real and can be abandoned at will, without trace.”
Gwyn shivered uncontrollably.
This was insanity, no doubt, no hope to overcome it.
She said, “Why — if you're who you pretend to be — did you wait so long to come back?”
The other sighed and said, “Conditions on the other side wouldn't permit me to make the voyage until quite recently, no matter how much I had yearned for it.”
“Conditions?”
The other said, “Oh, it's a strange place on the other side, Gwyn. It is not remotely like any living person has ever imagined it… I get so incredibly lonely over there — so desperate for companionship. The other side is still, dark and as cold as a winter night, though there are no seasons; it is always cold, you see. I've wanted to escape it, to come here and see you, speak with you, watch you — but only a few days ago was the time right.”
“I want you to go away.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“You're being selfish, Gwyn.”
“I'm afraid,” she admitted.
“I told you not to be.”
“I still am.”
“But I won't harm you.”
“That's not what I fear.”
“What, then?” the other asked.
“I'm going mad.”
“You aren't. I exist.”
They stood in silence for a while.
“Come take my hand,” the apparition said.
“No.”
Overhead, another tern cried out, like a voice from beyond the veil of death, sharp and mournful.
“Take my hand and walk with me,” the specter insisted, holding out one slim, long-fingered, pale hand.
“No.”
“Gwyn, you must accept me sooner or later, for we need each other. I'm your twin, your only sister… Do you remember, years ago, before the accident, how very close we were?”
“I remember.”
“We can be that close again.”
“Never.”
“Take my hand.”
Gwyn said nothing.
She did not move.
But the specter stepped closer.
“Please, Gwyn.”
“Go away.”
“Sooner or later…” the specter said.
Gwyn wondered if she could dodge to the side and run past the dead girl, back toward the steps and the safety of Barnaby Manor. Thus far, the ghost — or the hallucination — had not appeared to her when she was with other people. If she could get back to the manor, then, and remain in company, she would be fine…
“Gwyn..”
The dead girl stepped closer.
“Don't touch me.”
“I'm your sister.”
“You aren't.”
“Take my hand—”
Squealing as the dead girl reached to touch her, Gwyn threw herself backward, fell upon the warm damp sand at the water's edge. She scrabbled about, searching frantically for some weapon, though she realized it would probably do her no good at all. If this were a ghost, it would not be hurt by stones or other weapons; and if it were an hallucination, the product of a mind perilously close to complete disintegration, it would likewise be impervious to force.
“Gwyn…”
She closed her hands on the damp sand, scooping up balls of it and, rising to her feet, threw them wildly, like a child in a snowball battle.
The sand broke into several smaller lumps, falling all around the specter, striking her white garment.
“Stop it, Gwyn!”
Gwyn bent, scooped up more sand, tossed it, bent again, formed two more balls of sand, threw them, sucking wildly for breath, sobbing, her heart thudding like a piston.
In a moment, weak, her stomach tied in knots, almost unable to get her breath, Gwyn saw that the specter was moving away, running back up the beach toward Barnaby Manor. The dead girl moved quite gracefully, each step etherally light and quick — as if she were not really running, but were gliding only a fraction of an inch above the sand. Her full, white dress flowed out behind her, flapped at her bare legs, and her hair was a golden banner in her wake.
Running…?
A ghost did not run away.
A ghost merely vanished in the blink of an eye, as if it had never been in the first place. And even if this were not a ghost, but an hallucination, wouldn't it still simply dissolve before her eyes rather than take flight in such an unmagical manner?
Confused, but sensing something important in this detail, Gwyn started after the departing figure, stumbling in the loose sand, then running on the hard packed beach closer to the water. Exhausted already by the day's activities and by the one-sided sand battle she had just finished, she continued to lose ground. The specter ran faster, putting more and more beach between them.
“Wait!” she cried.
But the dead girl ran on.
“Wait for me!”
The specter slowed, looked back.
Gwyn waved. “Ginny, wait!”
The specter turned and ran again, faster than before.
She turned a corner of the beach and was out of sight.
When Gwyn turned the same thrusting corner of the cliff, she found that the dead girl, at last, had vanished. On her right was the rock wall, the sea on her left. Ahead lay three-quarters of a mile of featureless white beach until one came to the steps below Barnaby Manor. There was nowhere the dead girl could have hidden; she could not have run that three-quarters of a mile in the minute she was out of Gwyn's sight. Yet she was gone…
SEVEN
Somehow, Gwyn found the energy to run the rest of the way back to the stone steps in the cliff, tears of weariness burning in her eyes, her thoughts roiling confusedly over one another. Her legs ached with the exertion, from ankles to thighs, and they felt as if they would crumple up like accordion-folded paper. When she finally reached the steps, she found that she did not have the ability to climb them, and her mindless flight from her own fear
came to a welcome and inevitable finish.
She sat on the lowermost step, her back to the cliff, looking out to sea for a moment, as if she might sight an answer to her problems afloat on the bright water. Of course, there were no solutions to be so easily discovered. She could not sit here and solve her problems, but must get up and go looking for answers.
She put her elbows on her knees and let her head fall forward into her hands as if she cupped cool water in her palms.
She closed her eyes and, for a short while, she did not think about the ghost, about the dead, about anything. She listened to her furiously pounding heartbeat and tried to slow it down to a more reasonable rate. When that had been accomplished, she listened to the wind, the sea, and the few birds that darted in the lowering sky.
What was happening?
Madness…?
Had she been lonely for so long that, at last, she was conjuring up nonexistent ghosts to keep her company? Was she slipping rapidly past the razor's edge of sanity, resurrecting the spirits of long-dead loved ones to help her stave off this terrible overwhelming feeling of isolation with which she had lived, now, for many months?
That seemed to be the only possible explanation… However, why should this sickness come now, when she was happier than she had been in months? She was no longer so isolated as she had once been, but was snugly in the bosom of the Bar-naby household. She was wanted, and she was loved — two things which should have helped her recover fully from that previous bout with mental illness, that awful urge to sleep and sleep and sleep… She had her Uncle Will, and she had Elaine — and perhaps she even had Ben Groves to comfort her as well. She no longer needed imaginary companions, spirits of the dead to talk with — so why, at this of all times, was she hallucinating them?
Or, weren't these things hallucinations at all?
Was this a real ghost?
Impossible.
She could not permit herself to think along such lines, for she knew that surrender to madness lay that way. After all, she was no stranger to mental collapse… Anything was possible, she knew, any manner of relapse. This time, apparently, her deep, emotional disturbance had manifested itself in a different way: in ghosts instead of beckoning sleep, in agitated hallucinations instead of in lethargy…
The Dark of Summer Page 6
