A Gift Upon the Shore

by Wren, M. K.

  “No, I didn’t turn any on except in the basement, and I know I turned that one off.”

  “Maybe they’ll think the house is empty. That gives us the advantage of surprise.” And she brought her rifle up into firing position, resting the barrel on the top of the gate.

  Mary stared at Rachel, suddenly transformed into a steady-handed guerrilla soldier, ready to kill. The rumble of the motor reverberated in a numbing crescendo, and Mary was struck with a new kind of fear. I can’t kill anyone.

  It was then that she recognized the vehicle roaring toward them; there was just enough light left.

  Jim Acres’s old brown Dodge van.

  And within her, after this day of hideous revelations, terror found a channel into rage.

  Topaz barked manically, and the van lurched across the lawn, a hubcap spinning off, flashing away in the skewed light of the remaining headlight. Mary snapped off the rifle’s safety, felt the polished wood against her cheek, relished the potent weight of the weapon as she watched the last seconds of the van’s approach through the scope, cross hairs centered on the windshield, on the glowing skull mask behind it.

  The van slewed to a stop, both front doors swung open, the side door slammed back, and Rovers spilled out. Six—no, seven, eight raffish scarecrows in fluorescent paint, all laughing and shouting in demented camaraderie, staggering stoned. “Tice diggin for the take!” Had they said the same thing last night at the Acres house?

  Mary fixed one in the cross hairs, squeezed off a shot. The recoil pounded her shoulder, the muzzle flash startled her, and her ears were numbed by the report, yet she heard a yelp as the Rover jerked back, fell writhing. Rachel’s gun cracked while Mary lined her sights on another skull-faced figure, this one with an automatic snugged in his hands. She fired, and a spray of bullets smashed into the walls of the house, but they were high, and the gun tumbled to the ground as he fell.

  Another fluorescent apparition dived for it. Rachel’s shot dropped him. Shouted obscenities and Topaz’s barking filled a millisecond before Mary and Rachel pulled off shots almost in unison, before Mary saw another Rover move out from behind the van with another automatic. She fired, shouting, “Get down!” and crouched behind the gate as the top of it vanished in a shower of splinters. But the Rover was wounded, and Rachel sprang up to fire again as soon as the burst ended. Mary saw the remaining Rovers running for the van, fired five more rounds, and Rachel yelled, “Mary, let them go!”

  Mary hadn’t assimilated that command when something hit her shoulder. A piece of wood. Topaz had climbed to the top of the stacked wood, dislodging wedges of fir. Mary grabbed for her, caught only more falling wood, and Topaz leapt over the gate, landed running, charging the last Rover while he scrambled for the van. Rachel cried, “Topaz!” and fumbled at the latch. Mary tried to get a shot at the Rover as Topaz closed in on him. His steel-toed boot lashed out, and Topaz howled, hurtled backward. Rachel threw the gate open and ran for Topaz, but not before the Rover took a long step, and with vicious deliberation, kicked the dog again.

  Mary fired without aiming, staying a few paces behind Rachel, and the Rover made a dash for the van, jerked crazily at the impact of one of Mary’s bullets as his mates pulled him in the side door. The van wobbled into reverse, and Rachel fired shot after shot at it. Flashes of light in the open side window—another automatic—but Rachel stood firm, oblivious. Mary dropped to the ground to join Rachel’s desperate fusillade, while the van lurched toward the gate.

  And it vanished in a ball of blinding light. The concussion hit like a hard slap against Mary’s ears.

  Dazed, she stared at the incandescent ball, watched it expand, then shrink until the shape of the van emerged, black against yellow flames.

  And she began to laugh. Taste of your own medicine, you bastards! She felt no remorse nor even pity for the people burned to death in that van. She lay in the clover-scented grass and laughed. Until she saw a face in the grass not a yard away, the fluorescent skull smeared, glowing in the light of the fire.

  One of the Rovers. Dead. A woman. Strange, she hadn’t really thought of the Rovers as being male or female any more than she’d thought of them as being human.

  This face was human beneath the painted mask. Now it was human, now that it was dead.

  Mary heard a sobbing cry, and it wasn’t her own.

  In the flickering glare of firelight, she saw Rachel huddled over Topaz. Mary stumbled to her, sank to her knees beside her.

  Rachel’s silence had been broken. She wept now, sobs that racked her body, made her seem frail and small. Topaz lay on her side, every breath a whimper of pain, her eyes edged with crescents of white. Mary touched her flank, felt the crushed ribs soft under her palm, and her hand came away wet with blood. Her eyes burned, but she wouldn’t give in to tears now. Throughout this terrifying day, Rachel had held back her tears. Now, Mary knew, it was her turn.

  Rachel said, “Damn it, there’s no vet within a hundred miles. Connie—she could’ve helped . . . oh, Connie . . .” The name ended in a keening cry.

  Topaz coughed and whined, blood spattering out of her mouth. Mary said huskily, “Rachel, she can’t survive this.”

  “I know.” Those two words seemed a tangible weight, and the speaking of them bowed her down into a crouch. She stroked Topaz’s head, whispered, “But I can’t . . . kill her. Oh, my sweet Topaz, I haven’t the courage. . . .”

  “I’ll take care of it.” And even as she spoke, Mary wondered if she could do what she must to put Topaz out of her misery. Kill her. Rachel at least didn’t sink to the euphemism. Mary looked down at her own bloody hand. She had, with no remorse, taken part in killing eight people tonight. Yet she shrank at killing this agony-stricken animal out of kindness.

  But Topaz’s final act was, however unintentionally, an act of mercy. She didn’t force Mary to kill her. A retching cough, then she shuddered and closed her jewel eyes for the last time.

  Mary didn’t try to stop Rachel’s weeping. She waited, dry-eyed, and the only other sounds were the crackle of the burning van and the omnipresent murmur of the sea. I am here. . . . There was still a glow of red at the horizon and a bright star above the clouds. Venus, probably. Lucifer. The wind blew chill out of the west.

  She sat cross-legged in the grass on this erstwhile battlefield, smelled the bitter smoke, the gunpowder and blood on her hands, and tried to recapture that sense of triumph she felt when she became a killer. Self-defense? Of course. And more: revenge. But where was the satisfaction that was supposed to accompany revenge, that glorious, righteous satisfaction that was stuff of epics and history?

  She felt none of that now. She felt no guilt, but neither did she feel anything she could equate with satisfaction.

  She remembered the birth of Josie’s kids—was it only hours ago?—and tried to recapture her desire to take part in the mystical cycle of motherhood. But that was gone, too. She would bring no children into this world. Rachel was right. There were already too many children. And too many of them grew up only to starve or go insane.

  Finally she rose, helped Rachel to her feet, and saw the dark patch on her jacket just below her right shoulder.

  “Rachel, you’re hurt!” And it occurred to her then what a miracle it was that either of them was still alive.

  Rachel stared down at Topaz. “I have to bury her.”

  “I’ll do that. Let me look at your arm first.” But Rachel didn’t seem to hear her, and Mary added, “Shadow’s still in the house. She’ll be terrified.”

  Rachel stiffened and abruptly set off for the house. “Oh, damn, she’ll be over the edge.”

  And Rachel was nearly over the edge of endurance. She almost fell when they reached the backdoor. Mary got her inside and felt for the light switch, and Rachel began calling Shadow. They found her in the kitchen, huddled trembling in one corner. Rachel knelt
by her, nearly fell again. Mary steadied her. “Rachel, your arm—”

  “It’s not serious, Mary. If I could just . . . sit down.”

  Mary helped her to the couch in the living room, then had to carry Shadow to her; she wouldn’t leave her corner. Rachel took her in her lap and whispered reassurances, and Mary thought, it’s not fair that Shadow should suffer this terror and that Topaz should die simply because the humans they live with were victims of the insanity of other humans. It’s not fair that Jim and Connie, who were kind and loving, should be so cruelly murdered because of that insanity.

  But if she had ever doubted it, it was a conviction now. Fairness is the exception to the rule in life.

  Rachel looked up at her, studying her face as if she hadn’t seen her for a span of years. “I’m grateful, Mary. For you.”

  Mary could only nod. Then she went to the kitchen and a few minutes later returned with two glasses and a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. She put them on the side table, poured whiskey into the glasses. “Water?”

  “No.” Rachel took the glass Mary offered, closed her eyes as she sipped the whiskey. “I suppose we should call Captain Berden.”

  Mary wanted to laugh, but knew better than to allow herself that. She tipped up her glass, held the whiskey hot in her mouth. A poor remedy, she thought, wondering if there were any real remedies.

  Clad in rumpled pajamas and robe, a rifle in her hands, Mary looked out over the broken top of the breezeway gate into the glare of the early-morning sun. Her head ached unmercifully. Only a few hours ago she had seen the light of dawn in the windows before she achieved the oblivion of sleep.

  And a few minutes ago she had been wakened by the sounds of Shadow’s hysterical barking and a car horn. Now she stood trembling, trying to put her thoughts and memories in order. An Apie patrol was parked in the driveway, and she recognized the officer approaching her. Harry Berden. She opened the gate and went out to meet him, but stopped a few feet away. If she let him take her in his arms, she knew she’d start crying, and she wasn’t sure she could stop. For a moment he stared at her, then glanced at the rifle, and finally nodded.

  She said, “Harry, you look terrible. When did you last sleep?” And he did look like a specter, pale and hollow-eyed.

  But he called up a smile. “You don’t look so good yourself, Mary.”

  She laughed, brushed at her hair with her fingers. “No, I don’t suppose I do. It’s been a long night.”

  “Yeah. Damn long. The Rovers split up last night. Hit ten different places.” He looked around at the bullet holes in the walls, the bodies on the grass, the black shell of Jim’s van. “Is Rachel okay?”

  “She has a very sore arm. Got grazed by a bullet, but I patched it up. And she lost three of her dearest friends. Did you get my message about Jim and Connie?”

  A flicker of pain accompanied his nod. “We went to their house a couple of hours ago. Hell, I never thought . . .” He didn’t try to finish that. “Do you know about any next of kin for us to notify?”

  “No. I think they had some distant relatives in California. They didn’t have any children.”

  He stared at the van, then frowned. “You said Rachel lost three friends?”

  “Topaz.” Mary looked toward the mound of earth near the beach path. “One of the bastards kicked her to death.”

  “Oh, damn. I know how she feels about her dogs. But maybe I have—” He stopped, distracted. Rachel was coming out the back door.

  Mary studied her as she approached, wondering what lay behind her encompassing calm. When she reached them, she had a smile for Harry. “Good morning, Captain.”

  “Morning, Ms. Morrow. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through here. If it’s any comfort, I think we took care of most of the gang that was hanging out around Shiloh.”

  She nodded. “I hope you didn’t lose any of your officers.”

  The muscles of his jaw tensed. “Two. Five hurt. Anyway, I radioed for a tow truck and a wagon to clear out this mess here. It’ll take a while, but they’ll be around.”

  “Connie and Jim? Did you—”

  “Yes, we took care of that. Mary told me about your dog, and I’ve got something in the patrol—just a minute.” And he set off for his car, with Rachel and Mary, nonplussed, in his wake. He opened a back door, leaned inside, and emerged with Sparky in his arms. The dog was dull-eyed, atypically quiet, his right front leg bandaged.

  Rachel’s breath caught, she reached out with a shaking hand to touch Sparky’s head as Harry explained, “Some folks down on North Front found him this morning and took him to the clinic. Had a bullet in his leg, but Joanie says he’ll be fine. Little doped up now. Anyway, I figured I’d better find a good home for him.”

  “You’ve found it, you know that,” Rachel said huskily. “Come on, Sparky. . . .” And Harry gently transferred the dog into her arms, while Sparky whined and tried to lick her face.

  “Well, I’d better get going.” Harry looked around again at the evidence of carnage and shook his head. “My hitch is up in September, and I don’t think I’ll sign up again. Home is beginning to sound good.” He looked at Mary, a direct, questioning gaze. “Boise’s still a nice place to raise a family.”

  She could think of nothing to say. Harry Berden was the kindest, most honest man she’d ever known, and yesterday—the day before yesterday—that oblique query would have at least given her something to ponder. Now it fell like a pebble in a frozen pond, creating no ripples.

  After a moment he opened the front door of the car, then paused, frowning. “Ms. Morrow, I figure you’d like to know. We got a report yesterday that there’s been two cases of Lassa in Oldport.”

  Mary felt a chill at the back of her neck, and Rachel went pale. “That’s only thirty miles away,” she whispered.

  He nodded grimly. “Right.”

  Neither Rachel nor Mary spoke as he got into his car and backed down the drive, not until Rachel said, “Mary, I think we’d better start making some plans.”

  O cease! must hate and death return?

  Cease! must men kill and die?

  Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn

  Of bitter prophecy.

  —PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,

  HELLAS (1821)

  Rachel said once—stated categorically—that it is impossible for a wave to make a shape that is not perfectly graceful. Now at evening I look down at the beach and consider her dictum. In forty years I haven’t forgotten it; the sea reminds me of it each day.

  On this clear spring evening, the tide has gone out with the day, the sun has just set, its final moments marked with a pinpoint burst of incandescent green. The sky above the horizon is rose orange shading into pale yellow made green by its context, shading into warm blue and ultimately into ultramarine. There is little light left for the sea; it is pewter gray. The beach is umber verging on black, a somber expanse deserted by the tide. At the sea edge of this newly revealed strand, the waves have scoured out a topography of miniature hills and valleys, every valley a pool of captured seawater, every pool a mirror set in velvet umber, reflecting in reverse order the ultramarine, warm blue, green-hinting yellow, and rose orange. The shapes of these sky mirrors are all unique, the relationships of concave, convex curves complex and elegant. They are perfectly graceful.

  I sit at the end of the table in the living room, my chair turned so I can look out the window at the beach and watch the children playing tag on the grass beyond the deck. Jonathan, the oldest, is also tallest, and he runs like a deer. Yet he lets Isaac catch him sometimes, and they fall laughing into the grass. Jonathan even lets eight-year-old Mary catch him, although she’s so quick and lissome I wonder if he isn’t fairly caught.

  The youngest children, Deborah and Rachel, are downstairs being put to bed. Jerry is helping Miriam with that task, while Esther,
Enid, and Grace are in the kitchen cleaning up after the evening meal. I can hear their voices, the clatter of silverware and pots. Bernadette is in the workroom grinding herbs for her medicines. Behind me, the fire crackles in the fireplace, beside me Stephen sits with his chin propped in his hand, and I remember my years of solitude here and know I’m fortunate to have such warm and peaceful evenings in my old age.

  On the table is a stack of Rachel’s watercolor paper cut into small rectangles. My hand still aches from wielding the old, dull scissors. I haven’t yet begun writing the Chronicle, only preparing the paper. Fine rag watercolor paper: D’Arches rough, Whatman’s hot press, Utrecht cold press. I’ve saved this paper all these years. Now I know why.

  Stephen picks up a piece, runs his thumb over the rough surface. “Did you say this paper is handmade, Mary?”

  “Yes, some of it.”

  “Could we make paper here?”

  How many times have I asked myself that question? “I think so, Stephen. I have a book on papermaking. Maybe you’d like to read it.”

  “Yes, I would. Someday we’ll have to make our own paper.”

  I smile at that. The words right out of my mouth. “I’ll find the book for you tomorrow.”

  Not tonight. This is the sabbath. And this isn’t one of my sanctioned lessons with Stephen. Sunday is supposedly a day of rest. It’s also the day of the sabbath service: at least four hours of sermonizing and hymn singing. The children have no choice but to endure it, and I always feel sorry for them. Perhaps Jerry does, too. He usually plans something special for Sunday afternoon, and today it was a picnic on the Coho River. I didn’t go along, but I’m proud of Jerry for making Sunday afternoons pleasurable for the children. When he was a child, his Sundays offered him no pleasure.