THE GHOST SHIP

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  “It wasn't red.”

  “Look, I'm trying to decide if you’re sincere. I don't understand what this is all about, but you haven't proven to me yet that you've met – Jeez, been on a ship even – with my great-grandfather.” He shook his head, then said, “Do you realize how fantastic that sounds?”

  She did, but she pressed on, “He had a small brown birthmark, about the size of a pea, on his left temple.”

  Rod sat back in the Jeep seat, his mouth parted, his eyes staring ahead.

  She continued, “He – had fine hands.” Even now, the memory of them pulling her from the small boat made her tremble. “And long fingers, and the pinkie of his right hand had been broken. It was out of line. He said that he'd cracked the bone as a little boy and it grew that way because his father wrapped it in bandages. It wasn't set.”

  Running his hand over his face, Rod said, “Jesus. God.”

  She kept her face unemotional. “Can we see the photographs now?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  --

  Hearing the sea wash behind her, Ann hung back in the oaks, gaping at the cabin. The sinking sun shone on its wooden timbers and gave them an other-worldly glow. A curious purr crept along her nerve paths. “What kind of wood is it?”

  Rod said, “Oak. From the ship's keel and hull.”

  “There are no nails in the boards.”

  “They’re held together with oakem, a modified, environmentally friendly type of bitumen and hemp. I just got finishing chinking the whole outside and sealing it.” She heard the pride in his voice, its mellow timbre reminiscent of Lawrence's.

  Her eyes fastened on the door; she frowned at its familiarity. Rod turned the heavy brass knob, and the lintel nearly brushed his mop of hair as he stepped inside and flipped a light switch. Hesitant, she crossed the threshold as if entering another world. Lightly touching the door, she smiled knowing she'd passed through it before.

  She'd never been in an all-wood cabin like this. The hues glowed like a muted flame and despite the coolness of the cabin, brought light perspiration to the back of her neck and on top of her lips. Near the staircase, nestled in a corner, a metal stove sat on a metal plate. The smoke stack went up through the ceiling, which had open beams that would last for a thousand years. Suddenly it seemed as if the cabin began to pitch and roll. A rush of wind rattled her bones and made her sway.

  Rod was saying, “The interior paneling in here is hard pine, made from the decks of the Deering.”

  She remembered the deck as it looked when she first stepped foot onto the schooner. The deck had been warped and dulled from the sea. Her slim hands clutched together nervously; Rod was watching and she let them fall to her side.

  At a wall, she stroked her palm across the smooth surface, and felt as if her feet would slip from under her. A cry from the murdered first mate came from within. She snatched her hand from the wall.

  “You having a problem?” Rod asked.

  “No,” she whispered. Lordy, how she wished she could confide in this man. She wrapped her arms around herself.

  “You're cold.”

  She faced him. “I'm all right.”

  He went to a wood bin and hoisted two logs. He threw them into the fire box, opened the draft, and lit the gas. With a whoosh the room seemed to heat instantly, but the ice in her veins didn’t come from without.

  Rod led her into the back room. It was larger than the front room and served as a kitchen, sitting room, library, and, from the looks of some specimens on a table in the corner, a marine laboratory.

  “This is it,” he said. “Two rooms down here, one room upstairs. That's all there is to the cabin. Upstairs the room is planked in cypress from the ship. This room is the mahogany from the afterhouse.”

  Her heart wept that this reddish wood had witnessed the clubbing of Captain Wormell.

  “You seem upset,” Rod said.

  “I'm not …”

  Her eyes went to the fireplace, to the mantle, and to the large oval, ornate frame that hung on a gold rope. Inside the glass, Lawrence Curator's face shone out proud and beautiful. Her lower lip trembled. She put a fist to her chest and rubbed her breastbone with her knuckles.

  Rod took a step closer. “What is it?”

  “It's Lawrence,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” Rod said, pressing one of her shoulders with firm fingers. “My great-grandfather. Isn't he the man you expected to see?”

  Unable to find words, she shook her head yes.

  He went to the sink and turned on a faucet. She watched his back as the water splashed into the glass. Bless his heart – beneath the sullenness he really did have one.

  She turned back to Lawrence's face, seeing in it all the expressions that he'd bestowed on her, seeing him smile as he patted her hand to assure her that she was brave enough to board the Deering, seeing the remoteness in a gaze meant to discourage her fascination. She felt dizzy, about to swoon. She looked away. How can you be so stupid acting like an 18th century idiot in need of smelling salts when you saw the picture you knew you'd see?

  Rod was beside her, holding a glass of water. She took it from him, looking into his eyes to thank him silently. Composed, she looked at the photograph.

  What are you thinking, Lawrence? There was a twist to the mute lips, an almost imperceptible hint of merriment; perhaps even a touch of irony.

  Rod asked, “What are you seeing?”

  “It seems so impossible,” she whispered.

  “It is impossible.”

  She looked at Rod, for clues of malice, and said, “You can see the small spot on his temple.”

  “Yes. I can also see his bent little finger through the gloves he wears.”

  She knew what he was getting at. “You think I've seen this photograph before.”

  “I didn't say that.”

  She shook her head. “I – I don't know what I can say that will convince you that I never knew anything about Lawrence Curator before yesterday morning on the beach.”

  “When he just showed up and took you sailing,” he said, and walked to the fireplace.

  “Everybody showed up,” she said, watching his strong arms and hands deftly lay kindling and wood on the andirons. “The ship was discovered on the shoal by C. P. Brady at first light. He came running to where Lawrence and I stood at the shore. The Keeper was at the telescope.” She felt the energy of that morning as it rushed through her. “The telegrams were coming in. The horses were hauling the boats to the water. People on the shore were crying. Searchers were scanning the water for the crew. It was bedlam.”

  Straightening, he looked at her. “Typical of a disaster at sea.”

  “It happened.”

  His eyes weren't angry, but they were hard to read, as if he'd pulled a veil between himself and her. “Even if I grant you that something happened – and I'm not sure what it could be – I don't ever want to see my great-grandfather's name in your magazine, nor the slightest reference to your theory of what happened to the Carroll A. Deering.” He struck a match and lit the kindling.

  “You won't.”

  “Promise.”

  “Of course. Why do you think it would appear in Southern Monthly?”

  “Everybody loves a ghost story.”

  “It's not a ghost story, and it's personal to me.”

  “But the public would be mighty curious to hear what happened to the Carroll A. Deering by a time traveler.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Yes, I guess that's what I was.”

  “It's a rippin' good yarn, if nothing else.”

  “I don't open my life to the magazine's readership.”

  “I want to believe you. It's just …” He raised his head and shook it. “So fantastic.”

  Dry-swallowing, she said, “I think Lawrence wants you to believe me.”

  He looked at the portrait, then back at her, and smiled and shook his head.

  She said, “I felt him with me when I met Spence on the beach after – the voyage. It w
as as if …” She was reluctant to say it.

  “As if he's trying to tell you something?”

  She nodded, feeling shy, but sure of herself.

  He threw up his hands. “Hell's bells, Miss Gavrion. You say you were on a ship with him for months. I would think he would tell you then what he wanted you to take back into the real world.”

  “It wasn't like that. His consuming passion was to find out what happened to the Carroll A. Deering and her crew.”

  “Of course it was. That's why he died.”

  “He finally found out.”

  “You know, for his sake, I hope he did find out. It's reasonable to believe – if you believe in restless spirits – that he couldn't rest until he found out. Now that you tell me you and he solved the mystery, I think he would be at peace, not wandering the beach trying to reach you again.”

  She looked up at the photograph. “I think it has something to do with you.”

  He snorted. “Leave me out of your fantasies.”

  Against her will, tears welled and spilled, slipping down her cheeks.

  He said, “Don’t, please …”

  She spun to leave, tripped over a stool, and headed for the front room. “It's okay, I'm okay, I'll go.”

  He came after her, reached out and wrapped his hand around her upper arm. His supple squeeze meant that he was sorry. When she looked back at him, his soft eyes searched hers and he drew her closer. Responding, she leaned into him and he put his arms around her. She placed her head on his chest. He smelled of warm leather and clean salt air. His heart beat with the same rhythm as Lawrence's had.

  Smoothing her hair, he murmured, “It'll be all right, Ann. I'll listen.”

  Raising her head, she asked, “Really listen. No scoffing?”

  “No scoffing.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

  She felt like a tumbler in a lock which had slipped silently and snugly into place.

  The kiss didn't last long, and he raised his head slightly, looked into her eyes and smiled. Then he stepped back and clutched the tops of her shoulders in firm hands, the way Lawrence had done on occasion. His face glowed against the backdrop of firelight. “I can't begin to tell you what you've – you’ve done to me. I don't understand it myself.”

  She smiled, thinking all the horrible things he’d said were over and done with.

  Self-consciously dropping his arms, he put his hands in his jeans' pockets and walked over to stand directly under the portrait above the mantle. “What did you feel for my great-grandfather?”

  “Feel?”

  “Did you fall in love with him?”

  She hesitated. “It's hard to put into words.”

  “Try.”

  “He wouldn't let me.”

  He looked at her. “There's not much to a ghost to love is there?”

  His gentle derision caused her to look away, at the kindling fire, and sigh. No scoffing be damned.

  He said, “I mean, the body is – was not around any longer – to love.”

  The way he'd said it – as if sex was the only component of love – made her eyes flash at him. “Lawrence was a full-bodied man. He wasn't wispy. He was as solid and warm as you are”

  “I thought he wouldn't let you touch him.”

  “I didn't say that. His touch was familiar as in family, not as if he were a lover. It was as if – I thought at the time that perhaps he was married and was just being chivalrous and gallant and all that.” Rod's cynical smile maddened her more. “Don't look like that. Lawrence was courtly. He was charming. He was kind. He was brave. In the end …”

  “What?”

  “He humored me like a devoted brother.”

  He grinned. “I’m not so sure that’s what courtly is.”

  “He wanted me to accompany him on his mission for some reason. I worshipped the whole idea of him. He was my hero, and I wanted him in my life because his presence made me feel good.”

  “And you don’t think that was love?”

  “A kind of. It was a different time. If you’re thinking of sex …”

  “I didn’t say anything about sex, but since you brought it up …”

  “Forget it. I’m as carnal as any other twenty-first century adult, but I was in a different century, a different time.”

  Rod nodded and poked at the fire, then turned and asked, “Do you have any idea why he chose you? You are a beautiful woman, but beautiful women roam this beach and have for all time.”

  “I don't know why me. It had something to do with his quest. He said he had two quests, and one was to find out what happened to the Deering.”

  His eyes slid away from hers. “I just can't come to grips …”

  “Look, I'm trying to explain it the best way I know how. I'm trying to remember exactly what he told me.”

  “Okay, go on.” His tone had been sharp, but then he smiled a little to lessen its impact.

  She said, “Lawrence said I'd gotten onto his track – merged with his time. That I'd jumped from my life's track into his because ….”

  “Because?”

  “Because I wasn't happy with my life in my time.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why would you jump into a time track of a man who'd been dead long before your mother was even born?”

  “Lawrence said that time is relative. We go forward in our own time, and we can go backward if we put our minds to it.”

  “I understand relativity, but I see things going on a continuum, a forward continuum.”

  “I did, too, until I suddenly found myself in a different time, I wore different clothes, I thought different thoughts. I have come away from the experience a different Ann Gavrion than the one you would have met in Atlanta a week ago.”

  “All right, so he needed you in order to learn the truth about the Deering. When you decided to come to Hattaras, did you do research? Did you learn about The Ghost Ship?”

  “The first time I knew anything about The Ghost Ship was when I walked into the bar. I got a strange feeling from the ship’s photograph …” He almost rolled his eyes, and she couldn’t help snapping, “Don’t look like that. I can’t answer all your questions, Rod.” Throwing up her hands, she said, “Maybe I was at the right place, the right time, that day on the beach when the shipwreck lay uncovered in the tide.”

  “Why did you go with him?”

  “First you have to understand, he was a stranger I met on the beach. We talked, and then all of a sudden there was this great, tall ship on the shoal. This magnificent ship was stuck in the sand out there. I thought it was real, although there were aspects that didn't make sense. I didn't realize I was back in time at first. Even with the strange clothes, it wasn't clear where I was until someone said it was nineteen-twenty-one.”

  “Could you have escaped?”

  “Escape? I haven't the foggiest, but I know I didn't want to. I realized that I was in for a great journey.”

  “You didn't know anything about the sea, did you?”

  “Hardly. Sailing as a tourist in the Mediterranean is nothing like boldly going out on the Atlantic in winter.”

  “I've been on the Med, it's like taking a bath with a rubber ducky.”

  She laughed.

  So did he, and an auburn forelock swept onto his forehead. “I'm curious, when did you know that you were with a ghost.”

  “You keep saying ghost. Lawrence was real.”

  “All right,” he said, pushing his hair back through his fingers. “You were in a different time with a stranger. You’re smart. Why weren’t you asking questions?”

  She thought how difficult it was to explain to a cynic. Taking a breath was like taking the plunge into unknown depths. “I was asking questions, many, many; but your charming great-granddaddy waved them away. After C. P. Brady came running up, there was little time to ponder. It was a busy time, exhausting, exhilarating, dangerous, ugly and beautiful. I’d missed the time to raise objections
– if I even wanted to, you understand – when the lighthouse appeared where it shouldn't have been. I thought it was a mirage or a trick of the land jutting around to a point where I could see it. It was foggy and it looked like it stood in the ocean.” She shook her head, feeling tongue-tied. Then she smiled. “That lighthouse is enchanting. The day I came down here, I fell in love with it the moment I came over a rise and saw it shoot up into the sky.”

  “Many visitors to Cape Hatteras feel the same.”

  “Then there was the shipwreck in the tide. When I met him, Lawrence looked old-fashioned. The station house was out of a different time. There were few modern conveniences in it. The boats – everything was from another era. So I knew I wasn't in the 21st century. But I sometimes thought I was dreaming – a dream so real and wonderful, I didn't want to wake up.”

  “When did you realize you weren't dreaming?”

  “When Lawrence and I had our discussion about relativity. And, of course, the violence on the boat.”

  “Your dream turned into a nightmare.”

  “But it wasn't a dream, and it wasn't a nightmare.”

  He scratched his chin. “I want to hear everything there is to tell about this great journey.”

  “I told you already.”

  “Details. I want the music that goes with the words. But first, would you like something to eat. It's my dinnertime.”

  She looked toward the refrigerator and small range in a corner of the room. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you all evening.”

  “I'm inviting you to share what I have to eat.” He went to the cabinet and opened it. “It's not going to be much. I don't stock up because I eat at one of the local places.” Switching cans of soup around, he said, “During the off-season, the restaurants that manage to stay open need all the business they can get. Do you like chicken rice soup?”

  Too het up, she said, “I'm not hungry, thanks.”

  He picked out the red-and-white soup can, and asked, “What can I get you to drink?”