Mistwalker

by Saundra Mitchell

  And besides. She’ll need that discovery to fuel the first ten years. After that, she’ll manage on her own.

  FIVE

  Willa

  The next day, Seth waited for me on the main stairs.

  Light filtered through the stained-glass window on the upper landing, blues and greens and golds that wavered like water. The colors played through Seth’s hair and reflected on his skin. He was built too rough and angular to call beautiful, but there was a reason girls craned out their car windows to get a look at him when we went to Bangor.

  His smile bloomed when he saw me. Dumping his cracked paperback into his satchel, he hooked an arm around my waist and greeted me with a kiss. He pulled back, brushing his rough lips against my temple, and asked, “How’s Dad?”

  “Feeling like a dumbass,” I said. “He says he wants to go back out as soon as he can.”

  Without hesitation, he nodded. “I can miss school, no problem.”

  He was so earnest. So damned earnest, thinking he was helping me. Like I was avoiding the boat on purpose. “I don’t want him to go out. How did he even get hurt last time? He wasn’t paying attention, and that’s dangerous.”

  “I know, Willa. But he can’t stay ashore forever,” Seth said.

  “Well, yeah.”

  With another kiss against my temple, he said, “I could get Nick to pull the traps with me so Dad wouldn’t have to go.”

  That was Seth’s best friend, a lumbering, shaggy guy who practically lived at Seth’s house. I liked Nick; everybody did. But his family was from Indiana, and he’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference between a lobster trap and a beehive.

  So I was nastier than I meant to be when I asked, “Oh yeah? Does Nick even have a license?”

  “It’s for one day.”

  “That makes a big difference to the Marine Patrol.”

  He stiffened a little, his hand going cold and heavy on my shoulder. Ducking beneath his arm, I walked a few steps ahead. I was afraid he’d spill into the hollow inside me. His hurt wouldn’t fill me up; it would drown me. “It’s all right. I’m gonna cut out for the flats; tell Bailey, all right?”

  “You need a ride?”

  His expression smoothed; watered light rippled across his face. A streak of green illuminated his eyes, then danced away to leave them dark. He meant it when he offered to drive me, but I shook my head anyway. I just wanted to get away, from him, from myself, I didn’t even know. From my life in all the after.

  Seth lowered his voice. “I’m here, Willa.”

  It should have made me happy that he could read me. That he knew me like that. But I didn’t want to give him credit for growing up with me. For being good; for being the one who knew where we were supposed to be going. It was easy to be angry with him, at him.

  I said, “I’m fine. Tell Bailey.”

  A couple of people wound past us, an embarrassing reminder that we weren’t having this nothing fight someplace dramatic and quiet. I guess it was good that people like us didn’t have to scream. Seth pressed his lips together, then waved a hand toward the door. The gesture said he’d tell Bailey; it invited me to go.

  “Don’t you let Nick on my boat,” I replied, and let myself outside.

  People talk about crisp autumn days, and maybe if I’d hiked into the woods, I might have enjoyed one. The colors had started to come in, copper ornament between firs and pines. Worn paths revealed bare stone beneath the soil and seeds, smooth from centuries of hikers.

  But it wasn’t the woods for me. I walked home in a damp, clasping cold to get my worming gear. Then I followed the shore to one of the inlet flats.

  The fog had thinned, but in places it lingered. It snaked across the grey mud, stirring around my ankles.

  Late for low tide, I had to slog almost to the water to claim an untouched spot. The air smelled like fish and seaweed and the bloody waft of new-turned mud. I had my rake in hand, but instead of bending to get to work, I turned to consider Jackson’s Rock.

  It looked like a cairn: a pile of granite boulders weathered to orange, capped with a thick head of jack pines. Mostly, it wore dark evergreens. Right at the point, though, a single, skeletal hemlock kept watch over the water.

  Jutting above that, a sturdy, plaster white column cut the sky—our lighthouse. Even in daylight, it flashed a red light every nine seconds, calling souls and sailors home.

  But there was no one there. The foghorn moaned when a computer told it to. The light pulsed by remote control. And my head ached when I tried to picture the east side of the island, the only place the cliffs collapsed to a shore. It was like Jackson’s Rock wanted to be forgotten.

  I bent over to get to work, raking mud, wrestling worms into my bucket before they bit or escaped. My rake gasped through the mire, and the cold became a constant. Its own ache, one that usually scrubbed away thoughts and worries. But today, the lighthouse distracted me.

  No, it was the fog.

  Maybe it was both. They’d always been there, and I never thought about them. It woulda been like thinking about my own hip, or my middle toe. Some things were just there. Some things just were.

  Still, it seemed to me like I knew a hundred reasons why nobody went to Jackson’s Rock. No shoreline to land on. Couldn’t get a boat past the shoals anyway. It was a nature preserve for nesting peregrines. It was infested with bats; it was dangerous to breathe all their dried crap. It was haunted. It was dangerous. There was nobody in the lighthouse. There was nobody in the lighthouse.

  A fine wire of pain pierced through my head, but it didn’t stop me from thinking it. From feeling it. Maybe knowing it:

  There was somebody in the lighthouse.

  Cloudless skies came with morning and brought a sea barely rippled by the wind. I ate breakfast alone and dressed for school. Every time I caught a look outside, I hesitated. Our sugar maple had turned, half scarlet, half gold, and it seemed to sparkle in the pure light.

  A transparent sunrise promised good weather all day, and I groaned when I stepped onto our porch. It was just cool enough to taste clean. No freeze in the wind to sneak into open collars or down the front of spray-soaked oil clothes.

  The quiet pressed around me. Our fleet was nothing but shadows on the horizon, all set sail before first light.

  I turned away. I had school. I told myself that like I really cared about it. Like it should grieve me to miss it.

  Making my way toward the overlook hill, I felt the Jenn-a-Lo behind me. She didn’t care that I was banned from her deck. She needed the sea; she wanted to cut across the waves to our fishing grounds.

  Halfway up the hill to school, I looked back. All along the asphalt roads, a twine of roofs made up our town. Strung like Christmas lights, they draped city limits from one end to the other. Pines swayed between them, and a white steeple signaled due east.

  Just then, some of the little kids from town ran past. They held hands, a bright, giggling wall that swept me from the path. I stood in the soft, fallen needles, my back to the school. From that vantage, everything looked sharper, Broken Tooth revealed.

  And I was right. The harbor was empty, mostly empty—the Jenn-a-Lo remained. She pulled at her slip, untouched and unworked. Beyond her, terns circled Jackson’s Rock, an endangered halo drawing attention to the lighthouse.

  Something (someone) drifted across the island’s cliffwalk. A hook drew through my belly. I shielded my eyes to get a better look at the thing on the island. It glinted, like a piece of glass catching the sun. Drifting through the trees, it flashed once more, then faded.

  There were reasonable explanations. Maybe somebody from the Coast Guard was out there, checking on the beacon. Could be Fisheries and Wildlife counting active nests and live birds.

  Before I could puzzle it out, Denny Ouelette veered toward me. “What are you staring at, dummy?”

  My throat snapped closed. Denny was related to Terry Coyne, by marriage, not blood. Still, standing that close to her made my nerves fire. Lawyers had to
ld me not to talk about the case; common sense agreed. Better to keep my mouth shut. Things were tense enough.

  “My gran has to sell her house on account of you,” Denny said. She was shorter than me, and made out of delicate parts. Tiny hands, doll mouth—she looked breakable. But we’d grown up together, and I knew better.

  Out of reflex, and sincere, I said, “I’m sorry.”

  Like a snake, Denny coiled. Her eyes narrowed, and I could see her calculating. Could she break my nose with one shot? Had I sounded snotty enough for her to get away with it?

  Adrenaline buzzed through me; in a sick way, it almost felt like happiness. Already, I could taste blood; I savored the anticipation of the blow.

  Her sums must have come up short, because the blow never came. Instead, she spat on the ground—near my shoes, but not on them. Then she pulled her hair from her coat and stalked up the hill to first class. Her perfume, sugar and light, lingered even after she disappeared inside.

  My anticipation turned sour, and an ache started in my head. Somewhere on the top of the hill, Bailey waited for me. Seth, too. I could tell them about Denny. I could tell them anything. Then they’d stand too close and be too good.

  A cool breeze threaded through my hair, bringing in the sea, washing it over me. I took one more step toward school, giving my feet the chance to make me behave. But they turned instead. Toward the harbor, toward Daddy’s boat and the ocean.

  But I’m the one who took the step.

  It was a perfect day to be on the water, and there was only so much perfect to go around. I was desperate to go out, the sun bleaching my hair brighter and the wind chapping my lips. I wanted back all the things I’d lost, all the things that had slipped away.

  I wanted; it wormed through me. It writhed under my skin.

  It didn’t take long to walk to the harbor. Gliding over the warped wood of the dock, I felt my blood surge again. I was heat, inside and out. Herring gulls pierced the sky with their bodies and their cries. Jumping on deck, I didn’t bother to pull on my life vest. I went straight to the wheel; I steered straight out to sea.

  As soon as I got past Jackson’s Rock, I planned to throttle down and check the GPS. We had traps out; they needed to be pulled. It was a lot slower to run a lobster boat alone. Some people thought more dangerous, but it was possible.

  To hell with black, biting worms and slinking around on dry land. To hell with bad-luck ladies onboard . . . I couldn’t bring myself to cuss Daddy, but he had it coming for banning me from the boat. He knew how to hurt me because we were the same. I was his reflection; we were made of salt and sea and legacy, both of us.

  As I left shore behind, the color came back to my world. I breathed again. My eyes opened. Then I cursed under my breath.

  There are phantoms on the ocean. Ships sailed by the unseen; fae women and horses running beneath the waves. Mermaids and sirens, and all kinds of monsters—generations of sailors have seen them all.

  That’s why I cussed instead of gasped. Because that morning when I went back to sea, I looked past the waves to the mist-shrouded cliffs.

  And from them, the Grey Man looked back.

  FIVE

  Grey

  My celebration is simple. I raise my hands, and every music box plays at once.

  To other ears, it might be cacophony. Minor keys sob while major keys elate, none of the times deign to match. Each coil runs its own length—some songs ending after a phrase. Others linger, gold notes that swirl in the air around me like dust motes.

  In the end, just one tune remains. An old Irish song, and I knew all the words once. I forget them now.

  One of my father’s men liked to play it when we sailed home to Boston. He stood in the crow’s-nest with a pipe and played the ballad into the wind.

  Of the lyrics, I remember a single line: “It will not be long, love . . .”

  Oh, promises. Promises! She looks to the island, and she sees me here. Though I’ve wanted it, longed for it . . . been so achingly aware of it, this is the moment when she’s real. The moment that’s the same for her: when I become real to her, too.

  Laughter rolling through me, I raise my hands again. I turn in the gallery, and every music box sings. Again, again, again!

  SIX

  Willa

  Bailey put the thought in my head. That’s what I told myself, putting my stern to the Rock.

  A thin finger stirred in my brain, making my head ache. The pain pulsed along with the engine. It got worse when I tried to pin down what I’d seen.

  A bright streak for the black eyes, a low, thrumming thunder for the full curve of the lips. It was a strange, beautiful face, haloed by silver hair, cloaked in fog. Thinking about it made my head hurt so bad, my stomach turned.

  I’d never been seasick, and I wasn’t gonna start. Playing back the plots in the GPS, I turned the Jenn-a-Lo to our waters. It wasn’t long before I came up on our first buoy. Throttling the engine, I stepped on deck and reached for the gaff. As I leaned to pull the first trap, I hesitated.

  It felt like somebody was watching me. Turning slowly, I looked at the open sea all around. The day was too clear, too perfect, to be hiding anyone. The Marine Patrol and the Coast Guard never tried too hard to hide. What was the point? By the time they caught you doing something, it’s not like you had anywhere to run.

  “Knock it off and fish,” I told myself.

  Hooking the first trawl, I dragged the wet line into the hauler and switched it on. A trap rose to the surface in a sparkling ring of bubbles. A skinny lobster clicked at me, lazy and halfhearted. Maybe it felt like it had to put on a show.

  Pulling it free, I turned it over. Deep, dark green against my orange Kevlar gloves, it waved its swimmerets in surrender. No eggs clustered beneath the tail, no notch to mark it a breeding female either. The beast spanned the length of my metal ruler and then some. A keeper.

  I tossed it into the live tank and scooped new bait into the bag. Tied that in the trap, then checked my position. Careful to cover my tracks, I dropped the trap exactly where Daddy had.

  He’d never know I was on the water.

  The school might call, but I’d missed plenty of days onshore. The rest of the fleet had followed the lobster out deep; I’d be out and back before they sailed in for the night. Best yet, there was no reason to question my money from the co-op. Lobster was richer than bloodworms, but I could parcel it out.

  It was slow, hauling traps alone. Stopping at every single buoy, pulling and emptying. Baiting and dropping it over the rail, only then moving to the next. It was slow, and it was hard.

  But my shoulders didn’t even burn. They sang. My whole body did, back to doing what it was made for. My clothes got wet, and my skin got gritty with salt, and it was heaven.

  All around me, the ocean played. Waves kissed the side of the boat. Wind hummed strange melodies, and there were echoes on the water. Sounds I couldn’t place or follow back. Sometimes it was a groan; sometimes a sigh. It was life, the water alive.

  I felt sorry for the mainlanders, the people who thought lobster came from Plexiglas tanks. The people who thought sea salt was a gourmet name for the same stuff they poured out of blue boxes.

  Those people didn’t know what it was to stand on deck, surrounded by nothing but the elements. It felt complete; I felt holy—just me and the ocean that made up most of the world.

  Before sunset, the sky darkened. A deeper shade of blue, it told me to turn back. Without a single cloud before me, I was tempted to go for one more. Maybe two more. Maybe finish the string.

  But there were fishing hours, and I was in enough trouble. I needed to fill up again, on bait, on fuel. I needed to get my lobster to the co-op before they died. Fishing was complicated enough when you were supposed to be doing it. I had to be satisfied with ten traps, and a promise to do more soon.

  I lied to myself a little when I plotted my way home. With the tide going out, the shoals on the west side of Jackson’s Rock would be dangerous. I had to
go around the east side. Wasn’t my fault that’s where the cliffs turned to beach. Had nothing to do with me that the Grey Man lived there.

  The headache came back, sharp but strangely sweet. It was a dizzy kind of ache. Alluring, I guess. So when I sailed past Jackson’s Rock, I slowed, but I didn’t stop. It was enough to look at the shore, really look at it. Funny thing was, I’d sailed past it a thousand times, but I couldn’t remember seeing it before.

  It was a secret, the other side of that island. And I couldn’t help but feel like I was the only one who knew it.

  Daddy wasn’t sleeping in the armchair in the living room, he was just pretending to. The cut over his brow wasn’t much of anything. He held his arm like it should have been in a sling, though.

  Pity mixed with annoyance, that’s what I felt. He knew better than to hold on to the gaff, but he was still hurt, and he was my father.

  And since he was acting, I decided to go along. Carefully, I closed the door, my fingers pressed to the edge to dull the sound. Then I stood on the inside welcome mat, still and holding my breath.

  “Hm?” he mumbled, turning his head in my direction. Still pretending.

  Pulling a wad of bills from my jeans pocket, I thumbed through them, then left half my cash in the ashtray Daddy used for his pocket change. I kept the rest for later. Then, as I headed for the stairs, I murmured, “It’s just me.”

  “Mm-hm.” He turned his face toward the window again. The hospital let him keep a pair of slippers, it looked like. That explained why his toes curled in pink, fuzzy footies. He’d been known to wear cranberry plaid, but there was no way he’d picked those out.

  “I’ve got homework,” I said.

  “The school called.”

  My insides sank. Grabbing the banister, I turned back. “Yeah?”