by Scott Jäeger
“They remember the names Bromm, Longbottom and Sloan,” he said, panting with nearly every word, “for side by side we sent their kind to the bottom of the sea.” He added, when he was able, “Watch out for them.”
“I’m hardly likely to meet up with any pirates in New England,” I replied, “or even Arabs for that matter.”
“Their memories are long and their blades sharp,” he said, with nothing of the excitement or relish of the past hour. He slumped down in place, and I helped make him comfortable for the night ahead. I had thought his feverish energy lapsed for the last time when he spoke again, a deathly wheeze all but swallowing the words.
“Listen, Isaac, there’s something left undone, something you could take care of for me.”
“Of course, Uncle. What is it?” I was impatient to get to my own bed. Sleep, for me a coy mistress, was just then very near and seductive.
“We may be overheard,” he said in a hoarse whisper, eyes bugging at the door.
His terror was so convincing I did check the hallway –Caddock after all was exactly the type I expected to find crouching at the keyhole– but we were alone. By the time I returned to the bedside, he was submerged in a fitful sleep.
* * *
I woke to wan light filtering through an overcast sky. Unsurprisingly, my next dose of laudanum was calling from wherever it made its home, but so far plaintively, not as an implacable command.
I dressed and went straight to my uncle’s room, eager to take up our conversation. The funk of sickness was now overlaid with an unbearable spicy sweet scent, a cleanser used by Mrs. Caddock I supposed. I had already said my good morning and forced aside the smothering window hangings before recognizing in his repose a stillness more absolute than sleep.
We would like to believe that in their last moments the dying find peace, especially those like my uncle, bedridden for so long he had been worn to the quick. But his features were locked in a rictus, eyes starting from his emaciated shell as if witnessing some incomprehensible horror.
This being the first time since my arrival when I wished to see Mrs. Caddock, it was also the first time she was not immediately under foot. Neither was Georgine at home. I forced myself to prepare and eat a bowl of oatmeal, thinking on Uncle’s stories and particularly on Bo’sun Longbottom, who I believed was still among the living.
When later in the day the housekeeper did return, she had no interest in my questions. The business at hand, she said, was to secure an undertaker in town. Since the dread surrounding the estate was anathema to something as useful as a young boy to run a message, this duty fell to me.
I came back to a cold dinner and a housekeeper immersed in spurious activity.
“How clean must the house be for a dead master?” I did not ask. The long walk had at least been productive. It is no great task to secure opiates in a place the size of Arkham, and after taking precautions regarding their storage, I passed the day in my chamber in a heavily medicated funk. Georgine did not reappear.
The following morning I was dressed and sitting comfortably in the parlour when Mrs. Caddock, bag in hand, passed me on the way to the front door, apparently ready for another day out. Her hand stopped on the knob as I cleared my throat, a look of guilt flashing on her face like the spot of a lighthouse’s lamp.
“A moment please, Mrs. Caddock,” I said. “Before he died, Uncle Eamon mentioned a friend of his, a bo’sun named Longbottom. I don’t suppose you have an address for him.”
“No, I don’t know any Longbottom,” she said. “What is a bo’sun?”
“A boatswain is a sailor,” I said with authority, “on a ship. Uncle Eamon served with this man Longbottom for several years. I’d like to get in touch with him.”
“Served? Like on a boat you mean?” She looked at me suspiciously, as if she may have to call for assistance. “Your uncle’s never been to sea. He’s always lived right here in Arkham. I know he loved to fill your head with stories, but you, a grown man– You don’t think they were anything but stories, do you?”
I wished to argue with her, from spite as much as anything else, but remained mute. She had introduced a doubt not easily refuted.
“Honestly,” she said on her way out the door, “I wonder which one of you was the more addled. No wonder you got on so well.”
* * *
The funeral was a lonely, rain swept affair. Having been too distracted by grief (and also my other problem) to be of assistance, I had left everything to Mrs. Caddock, who spared all expense. Other than the minister, the event was attended by the housekeeper, the groundskeeper, and myself. Georgine hadn’t been seen since the evening of Uncles’ death. I presumed she been run off by Mrs. Caddock and had a vague impulse to do something about it, but to actually take action seemed an insurmountable riddle. Afterwards, I retreated to my uncle’s study to sit brooding alone, a pastime that would in the days that followed become my second most consuming habit.
A shriek, fortuitously dulled by both opium and disinterest, sounded from somewhere else in the house. When Mrs. Caddock’s wide, colourless frame materialized stage left, rivulets of tears were streaming down its homely face. I couldn’t have been more surprised if the painting of my great aunt had begun weeping.
“I found out what the master’s ward has been up to, Mr. Sloan. She’s run off with our good silver service: the table settings, the teapot, the whole thing. Can you believe it?” Her hands anticipating her words, she said, “If I see her again, I'll wring her pretty little neck!”
Judging it to be the most aggravating possible response, I smiled dazedly up at her, and otherwise did not move at all. The old washerwoman herself was most likely responsible for the silver taking its leave, but absent Georgine I could see no point in accusing her.
Scorning the rules governing time and its passage, the hours of that day stretched improbably. I lurched to and fro among my scattered memories, grasping for a purpose, but always ending by staring into my empty hands. The slack-springed hall clock was, twenty minutes late, chiming the last hour of evening when my mind wandered around to the incident of my burned arm. I remembered the pain so intense I wished to hold it to me but could not, and biting my cheek against the tears, so as not to appear weak in front of my uncle.
I remembered also that the fire which had slain my parents was at our house in Boston. My uncle and I had been over a hundred miles away, in Arkham.
* * *
I don’t know how many days later, I came across a well-dressed man circumnavigating the drawing room. At each open door he paused as if restrained from passing through by some invisible barrier, squinting into the room beyond as if making an inventory. From the close relationship he maintained with his tailor, I guessed him to be a lawyer.
“You’re a lawyer,” I said.
“My name is Duncan Simmons, Esquire,” he replied, “and you must be Isaac Sloan. I don’t believe we’ve met, but I was your uncle’s solicitor. I have been appointed to represent his estate.”
“Please have a seat.” We acquainted ourselves with two leather club chairs, I thinking that sitting in this room might make a pleasant alternative to the study.
“Mr. Sloan, as you’re no doubt aware your uncle, Eamon Sloan,” he specified, unnecessarily I thought, “was in dire straits financially. Really quite dire. The Sloan estate is carrying many outstanding debts, the details of which I’ve no doubt you will find troubling. First, I must ask: since your uncle requested your presence at his side not long before the night of his passing, did he mention any valuables? Jewelry perhaps, deeds to property, or cash?”
“If only he had,” I said. I had intended it in jest, or partly in jest at any rate, but Mr. Simmons kept his lips fixed in a straight and humourless slash. He was that breed of man.
“That is unfortunate, Mr. Sloan, and places me –both of us– in an embarrassing position.”
I nodded vaguely.
“The estate is far in arrears, Mr. Sloan. Debt,” he said at the end, to
preclude any misunderstanding.
“Debt,” I said, nodding some more. “Well.” I had hoped that playing the fool would discourage him from speaking his troubling details. Mr. Simmons Esquire was, sadly, not so easily discouraged.
* * *
The next day I dismissed Mrs. Caddock, and although I declined to provide a written reference, invited her to send prospective employers to stop by to hear my opinion in person. That one bright point past, I roamed the empty house like a spectre, on occasion venturing into town to the pawnshop, where I exchanged candlesticks and linens for cash while waiting on future visits from Mr. Simmons.
Weeks passed and my mood grew blacker as the news was delivered one bitter dram at a time: there was a significant lien against the house, a delinquent account of over a thousand dollars at St. Mary’s, and an unpaid invoice for a leased automobile, current whereabouts unknown. If I lingered in Arkham much longer, not only would I be forcibly removed from the premises, I might end up in court dodging the family’s debts.
One morning, couched in the fantastic soporific of Uncle’s favourite chair, I was leafing through his atlas and discovered the page for Spain, marked with an envelope. Unable to locate Circo anywhere in the country, I tossed the book aside, annoyed. Perhaps his weird islands and scraps with pirates and moon worshipers were, as Mrs. Caddock stated, so much fantasy.
Then, I read the empty envelope. The postmark was two years old, the return address 77 Wharf Street, Kingsport, Massachusetts, and the sender one G. Longbottom.
Kingsport
The town of Kingsport is dominated by its towering central hill, upon the slopes of which Colonial era houses perch cheek-and-jowl. The bald head of this prominence is crowned by the Congregational Church, which venerable entity glowers disapprovingly down on the port and her inhabitants, where the Puritan values of her founders have by this century been all but abandoned.
Simply to look upon this protuberance was to feel weak in the knees, and it was a palpable relief I did not need to climb it. Hoisting again my all but empty valise, I followed the stationmaster’s directions towards the harbour, where I had wired ahead for accommodations. It turned out to be less work to find the place than it was to clear a circle in the greasy dust to sit down in my room, but I consoled myself that the price of my lodgings was in keeping with their quality. After settling in, a process comprised of putting my bag down on the bed, I resolved to regard the lack of comfort as an advantage, as it reinforced my commitment to track down Mr. Longbottom posthaste. When I enquired about the Wharf Street address, the proprietor shuffled his feet and muttered that only fishermen should have business by the docks, and thus I elected to find it myself.
I would be pressed to imagine a less welcoming sight than the grey fishing vessels of Kingsport harbour, rocking hollowly in their births. An unseasonably cold wind darted into my cuffs and collar whenever the opportunity presented, and the gloaming’s uncertain light made it seem wherever I glanced that small creatures had in the previous instant flitted into cover.
Presently, I arrived at 77 Wharf Street, a miserable clapboard structure that looked to have lost a few fights to its brick brothers. It didn’t appear to be a private residence, but neither did any shingle announce it as a business. Finding no clues at the window, so begrimed it revealed nothing but a warm yellow light, I knocked. The door was opened immediately by a middle-aged man in a cook’s apron, who regarded me with a sour squint. The noise behind him suggested a restaurant or similar gathering place. He continued to watch me suspiciously while I waited for some kind of greeting. His patience won out.
“Are you going to let me in?” I asked.
Before he could make up his mind, I was shifted aside by another man who moved past unchallenged. At an almost imperceptible nod from this newcomer, the proprietor waved me in impatiently, as if my dawdling on the stoop was putting him out. With a groan and a squeak, the door was secured again at my back.
Bo’sun Longbottom’s address was a speakeasy, one of those secret establishments which the federal prohibition against alcohol had made as rare as mice in a grain silo. I ordered a pint of bitter ale and sat at a table. The predictable maritime theme was in effect, featuring raddled nets, an anchor, and an assortment of scratched brass fixtures. The customers were each one dressed like fishermen, but none so perfectly as he who had nodded over my shoulder at the door. That gentleman had the salt-stained look of a lifelong seaman, his cap made shapeless by wind and wave, his homespun sweater fashioned more of holes than wool. I half expected barnacles were making their home beneath his white muttonchops. I was staring at him in fascination as I asked the passing barman, “I wonder if you were acquainted with my uncle. He was in the merchant marine, used to travel in these parts.”
“No, not at all,” he said gruffly, and started to move off, as if urgent business called.
“Can I tell you his name before you deny him?” I said sharply. “It was Eamon Sloan.”
“No, sir,” he said, and with the pretense of considering my question, “I’ve been introduced to no such person.”
“What about a sailor named Longbottom?” I said. “He served alongside my uncle. I have a letter posted by him from this address.”
“I know plenty of fat bottoms, but no Longbottoms. This building was a lot of things before the Volstead Act, maybe even the flop of some poor beggar name of Longbottom. Now I’ll thank you to leave me to my work.”
The background murmuring had dropped off abruptly during our exchange, and I looked from man to man, hoping to catch a reaction from some corner of the room, but they carefully avoided my gaze. Everyone but the whiskered old salt in the corner, who lifted his chin the fraction of an inch.
I joined him at his small, splintery table. Two more ales soon followed me. There was no introduction, but I would thereafter think of him as the Captain. I sat and sipped my drink while he proceeded to clean, fill, and tamp an ornately carved meerschaum pipe. Having lit the beast, he tilted back on his chair and drew one mighty draught. More seconds passed as he expelled it, and finally spoke.
“You’re no Kingsport man,” he observed flatly. “I wonder what brings a young college fellow to this fisherman’s tavern. Have you come to see the church? It’s one of the oldest in New England, but if that’s what you’re looking for I think the crooked streets have got you mixed up.”
I let him smile for a moment at his joke.
“My uncle brings me here,” I said. “Eamon Sloan was his name, and he passed away a month back. He spoke to me on many occasions of a long career in the merchant marine, but after his death the housekeeper, a woman in our family’s employ for decades, denied him any seagoing history. Not wanting to give her opinion too much credit, I’ve come here to track down one of his sailor friends.”
“Sloan, eh?” was the Captain’s response. He puffed on his meerschaum, the air between us thickening with cloying smoke. I stifled a yawn, thinking I could have used a night’s sleep before undertaking my search. “This uncle of yours called Kingsport his home?”
After first assembling the thought, it took me a minute or more to herd the relevant words, like so many errant sheep, into order.
“No he didn’t, but I found this in his effects.” I fumblingly produced the tattered envelope. The hands of a belly dancer writhed in the effluvium of the Captain’s pipe. “It’s from a G. Longbottom, and lists 77 Wharf Street as his home.”
“The life of a sailor is harsh and perilous,” he said, the words falling as if whispered into my ear. “A few men live it because they are suited for nothing else, the sea-born romantics. But most do it because the other choices are harder yet: prison, the gallows, or some messier death. That is why Elias,” gesturing at the bartender, “is so close lipped about our friend Longbottom.”
The Captain’s face seemed to be lit up, while the room and everything else remained dim, and though he spoke plainly enough, my understanding followed reluctantly.
“However,” he contin
ued, “the bo’sun is not in hiding. If he wishes to speak to you, he will make himself known.”
I breathed deeply of the sweet smoke one last time and said my goodbyes. I felt as though I were cocooned in cotton batting, weaving and bumping through the narrowly spaced tables like a sailing ship traversing dangerous shoals. In this fashion I eventually found the exit.
Once through, however, I stepped not on the grubby lanes of Kingsport, but through a cloud of moths, their softer-than-silk wings brushing my forehead, lips and, beneath the fabric of my clothes, skin. When the soundless wingbeats ceased, I opened my eyes to a sun on the cusp of setting.
I stood on a limestone pier in a foreign harbour. In the fading light garishly painted wooden ships rolled on magenta waves. Fishmongers, labourers and fat merchants marched past, and candlemakers, cloth sellers and scruffy indigents parleyed in unfamiliar tongues.
The scene was outlandish, but for reasons beyond my comprehension I felt full of a peace which in waking life I had never attained.
* * *
I woke back in the decrepit Kingsport apartment, the scene resonant in my mind. Beside my impressions of a walled city in a warm, maybe Mediterranean, climate, and the gentle motion of the sea, I remembered this: a dark-eyed girl stopping in the middle of her work to dance in the cobbled street. To someone raised in a wealthy New England family, this was no less stunning than an unscheduled eclipse.
The landlord later revealed, with the special contempt of a man near the bottom of the social ladder, yet crucially two rungs above me, that Elias has assisted me to my room late the previous evening.
As it was too early to return to the speakeasy, I resumed my other quest, the procurement of narcotics. I engaged a man whose presence on a corner declared him to be unemployed, and for the cost of a dollar purchased directions to the local opium den.
