Ascension of Larks

by Rachel Linden

  Maggie sat down on the bed and put her hand on Lena’s foot, staring out at the Strait. The water was dark and calm, lapping gently against the weathered rocks speckled white with barnacles. But it was deep, she knew, dropping off sheer just a few feet from shore, plunging down hundreds of feet with wicked currents swirling through the kelp beds. The water was cold, even in the summer, frigid to the touch. She looked away, unable to bear the mental images of what had happened there just a few days before.

  “I’m so sorry, Lena. I’m so, so sorry.” She squeezed Lena’s foot, feeling the fragile bones and long toes beneath her fingers.

  Lena was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was flat.

  “I don’t know if I can do it, Maggie. I don’t know if I can do this without him. He’s gone and I’m left with all this mess. I don’t know how to do it all myself. I don’t think I can.” She stared unseeingly out at the water. She looked so helpless.

  Maggie nodded. “I know. But you’re not alone. I’m here too.” She said no more, offered no platitudes, no assurances this time that it would be all right. She wasn’t sure how it would be.

  After a few moments, Lena roused and drank a sip of tea. Maggie watched her, noting the tousled blonde hair usually so carefully smoothed and the hollowness of her gaze, as though someone had scooped all meaning from the world in one fell swoop.

  Lena lay back down, curling once more around the pillow that must still smell of Marco. He’d smelled like licorice and cloves, a dark, spicy scent Maggie had wanted to bury her face in. They hadn’t touched, except for brief hugs of greeting or farewell, since her mother’s death when Marco had held her as she sobbed. It seemed so long ago, but she still remembered his scent. She squeezed Lena’s foot once more, and together they sat, sharing a grief too deep for words as the reality of all they had lost slowly seeped into the marrow of their bones.

  Lena was still in bed three days later. She’d been silent and inert, hardly eating, just staring out at the water and crying in harsh, choked sobs that hurt to hear. Ellen had put her head down and carried on, cooking and cleaning as though she were keeping their bodies and souls together by the power of pot roasts and Pine-Sol. Maggie did what she could to keep the kids occupied. She organized a nature scavenger hunt, a movie marathon with Disney movies, games of tag and hide-and-seek.

  Now, late on Sunday afternoon, Maggie couldn’t bear for them to be around the house any longer. In desperation, she piled them into the car and drove to Friday Harbor in search of some entertainment. Most of the shops had closed already, and none of the movie theater’s few offerings were suitable for young children. She crisscrossed the town looking for anything that might entertain them for an hour. It was spitting rain, so outdoor activities seemed unappealing. She drove past the Island History Museum, noting the Open sign, but dismissed it. How interesting could it be? But after traversing Friday Harbor in its entirety twice over, she opted for the museum. They could always leave if it was too boring.

  Located in a staid, clapboard, Victorian-style house on a side street, the museum was open until six o’clock, but the parking lot was empty at a little after five. The children complained, but Maggie cajoled them through the creaking wooden doors with promises of Popsicles after supper.

  They stopped at a long wooden counter inside, bare except for a round silver bell and a stack of brochures for whale-watching cruises on a historic schooner. At Maggie’s nod, Jonah pressed the bell once. It pinged and they waited for a response. A moment later a brief “Halloo?” echoed from somewhere down a narrow corridor behind the counter, and a second later a tiny, bright-eyed lady with hair like white spun sugar popped out of the doorway.

  “Well now!” She looked astounded to see them. “Good afternoon! How nice to have young guests.” She peered at them over the top of her spectacles and cleared her throat. “A full guided museum tour, including if you want to see the film, is three dollars per adult and a dollar fifty per child.” The kids perked up at the mention of a film, so Maggie dutifully handed over a ten-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change. Business didn’t seem to be booming for the museum. They could probably use the extra money.

  ‘Well then.” The lady smoothed her tailored brown serge skirt and delivered her speech. “I’m Verna Hawkins, and let’s travel back in time to a period when there were no cars, no electricity, no movies, and not even no toilets inside houses. Why, sometimes children didn’t even have shoes!”

  Gabby’s eyes were wide as quarters, taking all this in. “No movies? Not even on their birthdays?”

  “That’s right, young lady.” Verna nodded solemnly. “Not even on their birthdays. Now, come along and watch the film.”

  Seated in a row on an uncomfortable wooden bench, they watched a short film about the history of San Juan Island, learning about the earliest inhabitants, members of the Lummi Nation, who fished for salmon along the shores. The film breezed through the island’s history, from the famous Pig War between the American and British armies to the period during Prohibition when the island was a popular smuggling spot for liquor.

  At the end of the ten-minute presentation, Verna reappeared and led them to a line of glass display cases. She showed them various artifacts and drawings pertaining to the film.

  “What’s that?” Luca piped up, interrupting her explanation of the lime mining industry on the island. He pointed to a small display case in the corner.

  “Oh, well, that is a very interesting and little-known part of the island’s history,” Verna said, leading the way over to the case.

  “See now, here’s a picture of the first German farmer to live on the island.” She pointed to a dour-looking man wearing a tall black hat and holding a hoe. “His name was Gunther Schroder, and he brought his entire family over from Germany when he realized what a good life they could make for themselves here.” She pointed to another photo, this one of a large cluster of people standing stiffly and unsmilingly for the camera, the women all heavy-bosomed, the men frowning behind their mustaches. “They, in turn, brought other people to live on the island too,” Verna continued, pointing to more sepia-toned photos of people building houses, driving wagons, and standing rigidly for formal portraits. “They started their own small community on the north side of the island and called it Schroderberg.”

  “Inventive,” Maggie murmured wryly.

  Verna continued, “Now, there was something different about the group of people who lived in Schroderberg. They weren’t like the other settlers on the island. They were part of the Lutheran church of Germany, but after living on the island for a few years, they began to develop some peculiar ideas.”

  The boys were staring at the photos, but Gabby had lost interest. She wandered over to a display of clothing from the turn of the century and stared in fascination at the petticoats and feather-trimmed hats. Maggie turned her attention back to Verna, deciding that Gabby was behaving herself.

  “You see,” Verna said, dropping her voice, “in all other ways, the Schroderberg community was strictly Lutheran, but they had some unusual ideas about dying.” She leaned closer to the three of them. Her cardigan smelled faintly of lavender, a little musty. “They believed when a person died, their soul was flung free of the body, up and out into the world. It had to make its way back home to be at peace. This meant everyone who loved the dead person wanted to do whatever they could to help the soul return home so it could go on to heaven. So they began a practice they called ‘beckoning.’” She motioned them onward, to another display of photos. One of them showed the body of an old woman in a casket.

  Maggie drew in her breath, glancing sharply at Jonah and Luca, but they were examining the photo with interest, seemingly undisturbed by the depiction of death.

  Verna continued her explanation. “The people who had been closest to the deceased, both family and friends, would stay in the dead person’s home until the soul found its way back. Sometimes they’d build a shrine with the person’s favorite possession
s on it. They’d burn candles, make the person’s favorite foods, sing their favorite songs, whatever they thought would help the dead find their way home again.” She pointed to a photo of a group of people seated in a circle in a kitchen. One man was asleep. The women were knitting or sewing. In one corner sat a small pile of stones in the rough shape of an altar. A few items sat on top of the stones—worn black shoes, a book, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “What were they waiting for?” Jonah asked, eyeing the picture curiously.

  Verna beamed at this show of interest. “Well, they were waiting for a sign, you see. They needed to know the soul had come back home and could now rest peacefully. The sign could be anything—a strange bird flying by the window, a whistle of wind that sounded like the deceased person’s voice. They just had to believe it was the sign they had been waiting for. Then they could go on about their lives, assured that their loved one was safely on his or her way to heaven.”

  Jonah peered down at the photos. “What if the sign didn’t come?”

  “Oh, it always came.” Verna smoothed her skirt again. “You see”—she leaned in confidentially—“the island is full of surprises. Strange and wonderful things can happen here, things you can’t explain, things that don’t happen anywhere else. The people of Schroderberg knew that for themselves. They believed it.”

  “But what if they didn’t wait for the dead person?” Luca asked.

  Verna smiled brightly, enjoying such an interested audience. “Well, they felt that the person who had died would simply roam the earth until they eventually found their way home, but it could take a long time. Not a very appealing prospect for people who wanted to know their loved ones were safe and sound in heaven. So they beckoned them to speed up the process. Now”—she motioned them onward—“over here is a wonderful model re-creation of an early settler’s home, set up just as it would have been over a hundred years ago.”

  At that point Luca lost interest. He pulled his two small plastic dinosaurs from his pocket and began an epic battle between them. The remainder of the tour consisted of Maggie running crowd control, trying to keep Gabby from touching everything she could reach and Luca from falling behind or wandering off. Only Jonah continued to show even vague interest, and soon his attention span grew short.

  “Thank you so much, Verna, for such a great tour. Very informative,” Maggie said, cutting the tour short. She poked the kids, who echoed a trio of faint thanks, then ushered them out the door. Gabby and Luca bounded toward the car, already planning their Popsicle flavors, but Jonah was even more silent than usual.

  “What did you think of the museum?” Maggie asked, trying to draw him out, a little worried that it had been too much talk of death. He shrugged but said nothing. She didn’t press him.

  When they arrived home, the kids piled out of the car, racing to be the first inside, out of the rain that pattered gently but relentlessly from a steel-gray sky. They stopped abruptly at the mudroom door, Jonah’s hand on the knob. They were all three examining something on the concrete stoop.

  “Are they for us?” Luca asked. Maggie peered over their bent heads, trying to see what they were looking at. Three small, carved wooden animals stood in a row. A dolphin, an owl, and a fox. They were well crafted. Whoever had carved them was skilled. The fox glanced over its shoulder, wary. The owl looked solemnly ahead, eyes wide, and the dolphin’s back was arched as if it were leaping from water.

  “I want this one.” Gabby picked up the fox. Luca chose the dolphin, and after a second Jonah slipped the owl into the pocket of his cargo shorts.

  “Guys, we don’t know who those are from,” Maggie said. “Or if they’re for you.”

  “But there are three of them and three of us,” Luca interjected logically.

  “Mom and Aunt Ellen won’t want them,” Jonah muttered, opening the door.

  “Well, let’s just ask them about it,” Maggie said. The three kids filed inside to show the animals to Ellen.

  “Now, aren’t those the cutest things?” Maggie heard her say from the kitchen. “Who do you think left them? I wish they’d rung the bell so we could have said thank you.”

  Maggie started to follow the children but stopped. The carved animals were sweet gifts, but it seemed strange that they had just been left on the stoop. No note. No one had rung the doorbell. She glanced back down the drive and across the sweep of lawn. She had a faint niggling sensation of being watched. There was no sound or movement, just the steady shush, shush of the rain and the tide. She didn’t see anything, and after a moment she dismissed the sensation. But still she wondered. Who had left the carvings on the stoop, and why had they chosen to remain anonymous?

  From the shelter of the fir trees, Daniel watched the children each choose one of the animals he’d carved for them and go inside. He saw the woman glance in his direction and shrank back farther into the damp gloom. He had meant for the children to find the animals and was pleased they had. He’d seen their faces light up. It was a strange feeling to bring happiness to someone again. It seemed so long since he’d done it. In reality it had not been so very long, a little more than six months according to the calendar. But out here on the island, alone with the keening wind and the ever-rolling sea, he was losing perspective on time. It seemed to stretch longer and longer, spooling out like a white thread stretching to the horizon on the endless gray of the water, empty of human interaction.

  Daniel couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him on purpose. The clerk at the grocery store had brushed his hand a few days earlier when he’d given her change for apples, but that was it. How had it come to this, that his life was so empty he cherished the brush of fingertips on his palm from a stranger as she handed him a nickel?

  He watched the dark-haired woman as she turned and went into the house. He felt an affinity with her. She seemed lost somehow, as though she were searching for something she couldn’t name. Perhaps he would carve an animal for her too—a skylark. Their call was a song for travelers and weary pilgrims, for those who had lost their way or were longing for a place to rest. Something in the dark-haired woman was seeking. She was a traveler, he sensed, like himself, weary with the searching. Perhaps it would help her find her way home.

  The children came outside again just after dinner. The rain had stopped, bringing the sweet scent of the dark earth and a gray mist that hung low over the ground. Daniel watched from his place in the trees, melting back into the shadows, dark eyes and dark hair and muted clothes making him almost invisible. He was a shadow, felt like a shadow, as though someone might look right through him and see only the crisscross of boughs at his back.

  He had been coming here daily. He couldn’t keep away. He had promised himself he’d look after them, but it was more than that, he knew. He was drawn to them, to the life and warmth in that house. He felt his loneliness acutely when he watched them. They were grieving but still had each other. He was alone now.

  He hunkered down, boots sinking into the needles and the soft earth, and watched the woman as she shooed the children together for a game of freeze tag. Rainwater dripped off the fir boughs, dropping cold onto his tanned hands and down the back of his neck.

  “Aunt Maggie!” the younger boy called out, gesturing for her to come to him.

  “Maggie,” Daniel murmured. The name fit her, all flyaway dark curls and lithe energy. The children loved her; he could tell by the way they wanted to touch her, especially the little girl. Small wonder, with what they had lost, that they gravitated to someone so alive. She darted to and fro, avoiding the grasp of little hands. The oldest boy hung back, though, keeping apart even as they played the game. He carried a burden too heavy for his young shoulders, equal parts anger and guilt. He wore it like an overcoat too big for him. The boy had been the first to the water that day. He had seen everything. Perhaps he blamed himself. He shouldn’t. The blame lay elsewhere entirely.

  Daniel’s attention shifted back to the woman, Maggie. He couldn’t lo
ok away from her. She was beautiful, but it wasn’t just that. Again and again he felt his gaze turn to her, drawn by some intangible quality. She was laughing as the younger boy finally succeeded in catching her.

  “I got you!” the boy crowed. “You’re frozen!”

  “Jonah, Gabby, help me!” Maggie cried, stretching out her arms to the others. Giggling, the little girl darted past her brother, only to be tagged a second later when she slipped on the wet grass and fell.

  “Jonah,” Maggie called out, “you’re our only hope. Help us!”

  And grudgingly Jonah turned, evading his younger brother, tagging both frozen players as he barreled by.

  Daniel shifted his weight from one foot to the other, intent on the little scene. It seemed so normal, like a thousand other summer evenings, nothing extraordinary, but he felt as though he were watching a scene from another world entirely, something he remembered only from long ago. Once he had stood in the sunlight, head thrown back, laughing with baby Eli and Kate, swinging Eli so high he looked as though he could almost touch the sun. But that was before they knew about Eli. Before Katie’s love turned to cold disdain. That was before everything changed.

  Now Daniel was a thing of shadow and silence, the brightness as foreign to him as the children’s laughter, a sound so sharp and high, he felt it might cut his skin. To stand in the light, you had to be able to see yourself clearly. To laugh, you had to hear your own voice. And he was resigned to remain in the shadows, silent and unseen, carrying the burden of solitude and guilt for a thousand bad decisions, carrying the fault for all that had happened in his own two hands.