Mistwalker

by Saundra Mitchell

  “They’re saying you’ve missed twelve days this year,” he said. There was a strange note in his voice, and finally, he looked at me. “Where you been?”

  “Worm digging, mostly.”

  Daddy and I weren’t talking people. We could work together a whole season and say maybe three things. But there was a difference between quiet and silence, and ever since Levi died, what hung between me and Daddy was silence. It had weight; it made me feel ashamed.

  Shifting from one foot to the other, I waited a minute, then decided he was done talking. Hauling myself up the stairs two at a time, I almost reached the landing before he called me back.

  “Take your money.”

  “It’s extra,” I said.

  “I don’t care if it’s fruit salad. It’s yours, so you keep it.” Daddy closed his eyes, back to a liar’s sleep.

  Acid rolled in my stomach, washing lazily from one side to the other. The mortgage was just about due; the utilities, too. We’d never discussed the bills, and definitely not me paying them. There was slack, and I’d picked it up. It’s what we did; it was my house too.

  Until then, nobody had questioned the money I left in the ashtray (though I think it was safe to say we all knew it wasn’t from Santa).

  I rubbed my hands together. “I’m trying to do my part.”

  His jaw tightened. It made the knot on his forehead stand up, showing off the cut there a little better. “You’ve done enough.”

  How many ways did he mean that? I couldn’t tell, but it cut all the same. I stepped down but didn’t let go of the rail. Instead, I let words out, daring to challenge his decision, and worse, his pride. “We’re gonna need fuel oil this month. Mom says that’s five hundred right there.”

  “Willa,” he warned.

  “Daddy,” I replied.

  “Don’t make me raise my voice.”

  In flashes and strobes, I crossed the room. Then I was back on the stairs, shoving bills into my pockets. Everything between was a great blank. My head echoed with things I didn’t say. Like, Nobody makes you do anything, Daddy, and What’s your freaking problem, anyway? I didn’t like worm digging. I didn’t want to be the one paying the bills.

  Storming upstairs, I wanted a hundred reckless, useless things at once. All the things I could have bought with my roll. A new cell phone, a box of Passion Flakies. Oreos and ice cream, and a bobblehead for Bailey’s truck. Some useful things too. A laptop. A used boat and the tools to start fixing her up.

  That last one felt like cheating on my family; shame chewed at me. But then Dad raised his voice. I don’t think he was yelling at me. Just yelling, but I still heard him. It was still about me.

  A newspaper flapped downstairs, and Dad shouted, “I can keep my own goddamned house.”

  “Who said you couldn’t?” I yelled back.

  “Shut up!”

  My thin veneer of numb broke. Heat and emotion spilled together, and I caught the frame of the door to steady myself.

  That man downstairs, that wasn’t my father. That was Bill Dixon, who boxed bare-knuckle and wouldn’t let you buy him a beer because he wanted whiskey instead.

  The same Bill Dixon who’d decked his best friend to keep him from jumping into a winter sea; who took a punch from Mal Eldrich like it was a kiss. I’d never met that man. He’d been a legend, a ghost.

  Right until then.

  I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it. Not to cry, but to pack my heart away. Squeezing my feelings into beads, I pinned them together and let them roll out of sight. Let them stay in the dark, and be small, and easy to ignore. Then, like nothing happened, I peeled out of my salt-stiff clothes and checked my phone. Bailey’d texted around lunchtime, and I was just then getting it.

  There’s a party on Garland Beach, you coming?

  Yeah. Yeah, I was.

  SIX

  Grey

  The things I see from my brilliant prison.

  A curse is a curse—the trappings are beautiful. They have to be, to tempt the eye, to sway the heart. The gilt packages, the plates that fill with any delicacy I like, they’re the sugar in the poison. The way I look—the way Susannah looked—ethereal monsters. I’m a devil with an angel’s smile.

  The one that’s been thinking of me—she saw me today. I barely saw her, but I stood on the cliff and I felt her come close. She hesitated; she saw through the magic for just a moment, and that moment was enough. I’m still imaginary to her, but I’m almost real. She had to disbelieve at first; I certainly did.

  But I’m in her thoughts. And that’s what matters.

  If she’s anything like me, if she’s anything like the others in this chain of unfortunate souls, her thoughts will grow. She’ll dream me, and wonder about me, and polish all her considerations until she has to come. Until she has to stand before me: to touch me, to know my face.

  And my face is beautiful.

  Her face is light. That’s what they all are, out there. That’s what I see when I watch this village, cursed but never realizing it.

  When it’s especially clear, and until lately, I’ve made sure it’s always especially clear, I can see the houses. Ivory and cranberry and blueberry and brown—they dot the hills, a delectable harvest in every season. I see the churches and their proud steeples. I see doors opening. Windows closing.

  But the people—they’re no more substantial than the orchestra that plays in my music boxes.

  They’re points of light. In the day, only the brightest ones, the ones that sail past my lighthouse, are visible to me. But at night, oh. I don’t look at the sky anymore; I watch the shore. All those souls are constellations that move.

  Tonight, they’ve clustered together on the shore. A bonfire glows. It spits embers into the air. I’m imagining it, but I think I can smell the smoke. The sweet sea and a wood fire, all washed by the gathering mist.

  I have nothing to do with it. If it comes, it comes. I’m done reining the elements for them. Instead, I watch them swirl across the beach. Jealously; I admit that. There are so many of them. They’re a cloud of fireflies. The bright ones dazzle, but they don’t interest me.

  The dim ones make me ache. With my cursed eyes, I see only their lives, the length of them, the strength of them. If they’re long for this world, they grow bright. Short for it, and they’re much dimmer. There’s a few on that beach who may as well be dead. Soon, they will be. I ask sweetly in my thoughts, Could you die on the water for me?

  It doesn’t matter if they drown. If they have influenza. If they come to blows, if they fire their guns, if some freak accident takes them—so long as they fall on the waves illuminated by my lighthouse.

  My reach stretches twenty miles on every side but the landward one. At the stony shoreline, they’re beyond my reach. So if they could slip into the water before they breathe their last, it would be lovely.

  It’s the least they could do for me.

  I’ve been a good steward for this town; better than most. I’ve been honorable. They’ve had a hundred years of my generosity, holding back the fog. So many good days for them. So many clear days. I’ve been patient. In all this time, I could have blinded hundreds of fishermen. Led them astray, helped their pretty little boats crash into rocks, hidden coming storms.

  Many would have; I understand now that Susannah drowned as many as she could before she realized that time and mathematics would betray her.

  So I’ve been a true gentleman. I’ve cleared their skies. Not once in these hundred years have I killed anyone. I collected souls, but only those that came by accident and happenstance.

  When I need it, there’s a wall-length cupboard below the gallery. It’s lined with glass jars.

  Yes, in all my faery-tale certainty that I was meant to redeem myself on this island, I failed to acknowledge two things.

  First, my dominion over the mists, and second, the jar cupboard. Ten years dragged on until a rowboat sank in the harbor. The jars chimed; they demanded my attention.

 
I uncapped one, and that soul all but collected itself. A hum filled the room, as if it were satisfied. And I, too, felt the faintest measure of peace. A taste of hope, a realization that I could free myself from this curse without any reflection on my character at all.

  After all, the seas are voracious. Sailors and swimmers disappeared into them all the time. Except not so many as I thought. Not so readily. Until this summer past, I collected only two more souls. This summer, I finally raised that total to four.

  Four in a hundred years. Rarely do I use my arithmetic anymore, but I can figure that sum.

  Twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six years.

  Longer than the course of all written human history. Longer than the memory of mankind itself. Thus, the anatomy of a perfect curse. It seemed possible. It hinted that I might keep my soul and morals yet. Simply let nature have nature’s way and benefit from it.

  But no—there aren’t so many tragedies beneath my light as it might seem.

  If I were to sharpen my teeth and learn to relish the prospect of drowning the innocent, I must be honest. There aren’t enough of them in Broken Tooth. If I cull them all at once, their families will flee my shores. None would sail beneath my light.

  Clever, clever curse. Twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six years.

  It’s been but a hundred, and I’m already sick of silence. Of magic. Of presents. Of kindness and generosity and honor and myself. Clutching the rail, I consider throwing myself over it. It’s a childish thought, stupid drama for no audience at all, and worse, it won’t make the slightest bit of difference.

  The lamp grinds behind me, spinning ceaselessly. Its heat stings—I’m here, I feel it. But my body doesn’t break its beam. I am insubstantial.

  Those lights on the beach have no idea I’m watching them. Wanting them. Plotting against them. Ignorant, every one of them—they dance; they sway. They’re just far enough away that I can’t enjoy their music or eavesdrop on their conversations.

  Right now, I hate them more than anything. And I’m glad, so glad, that she’s thinking about me.

  It didn’t take long to change my mind. To do the things I swore I would never do. Just one hundred years—but what is that in the face of twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six?

  SEVEN

  Willa

  The party got to me before I got to it. Music echoed down the beach, and people were laughing. Somebody threw another log on the bonfire, and a cloud of fire swirled toward the sky. Silver ash drifted over the water, disappearing into the dark.

  Across the waves, Jackson’s Rock loomed in fog and shadow. Couldn’t even see the slender body of the lighthouse, just the beam as it swung over us. The pines were brushstrokes jutting from the mist; the cliffs seemed to rise from nothing.

  When the foghorn sounded, its call rolled through the dark and the haze. Like it was alive; like it might draw me across that light bridge and into the secrets of the Rock. Harbor bells rang, like church bells on a wedding day.

  I stood for a minute, staring like I’d never seen my own harbor before.

  My head was so clear; I wasn’t thinking about anything. Aware, yeah, of the six-pack dangling from my fingers, and the steamy scent of hot rocks and boiling water. But I was alone in myself for a minute. No guilt, or anger, or fear.

  Then something glittered on the island cliff. My imagination rushed up to name it the Grey Man. Fantasy tried to fill in the shape I’d seen on Jackson’s Rock—out there, fishing alone, and that reminded me. I was guilty. Afraid. Angry. That’s all that put me on the beach. I gritted my teeth; going to this party was like going to war.

  I was going to drink and laugh and dance. Burn my fingers on littleneck clams and steamed corn. If somebody wanted money for a grocery run, I had it. If Seth wanted to disappear into the caves with just us and a blanket, I was up for it.

  Circling the fire, I raised my hand when Cait Toombs looked up from a kiss. She was all soft and twined around Bailey. Her wispy hair floated around her face, shimmering from the heat. Instead of waving, she smiled. Her lips moved, and then Bailey looked back at me too.

  “Well, look who graced us,” Bailey called.

  I flipped her off and pressed my way through the crowd to get to her.

  “Dad home yet?” she asked when I got closer.

  “Uh huh, this morning sometime.”

  “Is he okay?”

  With a shrug, I said, “Fine. You know how he is.”

  Cait tried to make room for me, which was sweet, but it wasn’t gonna happen. Since we used driftwood for benches around the fire, there was always a free one for the taking. Dragging a piece over, I arranged it so I could put my back to the fire and my face to them. And to the sea behind them, to the fog rolling in.

  Sitting, I gestured at Bailey and said, “I’m pissed at you for messing with my head.”

  Bailey read my tone better than Cait did. While Cait stiffened, Bailey kicked my boot. “Good. Which time?”

  I lowered my voice. “I went out today by myself.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, my gaze trailing past them, to the shadow of the island in the distance. The flick, the glitter, was gone. “So I’m getting ready to haul some traps, over on the far side of Jackson’s Rock. Minding my own business.”

  Bailey smirked. “Uh huh.”

  “I go and look up, and pow. There’s the Grey Man. Watching me.”

  Dissolving into laughter, Bailey leaned into Cait. Lacing their fingers together, she settled. She managed to kick my boot again first, though. “Oh, kiss it, Dixon. If you’re seeing things, that’s your problem.”

  Part of me was relieved. Legends weren’t real, and I was crazy to think I’d seen one. Hearing Bailey say so made me feel better. There was still a part left over, quietly urging me to look toward Jackson’s Rock. I thought as long as the fire burned and the music played, I could ignore it.

  “I have an uncle who saw the Grey Lady,” Cait said.

  Bailey looked at her, amused. “Is that crazy Uncle Jon?”

  “No, crazy Uncle Jon swears that time-traveling Navy ship capsized his dory.”

  Caught up in the absurdity, in the absolute normalcy, I laughed. “What the what?”

  Cait shrugged. “I can’t remember, it’s a city and a worky word. The Manhattan Project? The Philadelphia Experiment? They were inventing invisibility and disappeared in time.”

  “I’m pretty sure one of those is a movie.” Amused, I held up my hands and swore, “I’m not judging.”

  Cait stuck out her lower lip and blew her bangs out of her face. “Anyway, that’s Uncle Jon. Great-Uncle Dalton’s the one who saw the Grey Lady.”

  “Wait, the raisin?” Bailey asked. Then, incredulously, she informed me. “He’s a thousand years old.”

  “He’s ninety-eight.”

  “Same thing. He’s the mummy at Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s my family, Bailey,” Cait said, but she rolled her eyes and smiled about it. In reply, Bailey crinkled her nose, and I looked away to give them some privacy. As much as they could get making out on a beach in the middle of everybody we knew, anyway.

  Before they forgot I was there, I cleared my throat. “So was there more to this story?”

  Cait smoothed her knit cap. “Not really. I mean, there is, but he mumbles—”

  “And smells like rum,” Bailey added.

  “Who doesn’t?” I asked, and hauled myself up. Dangling the six-pack near them, I waited until they waved me off to look into the crowd. “You guys seen Seth?”

  “I don’t think he’s here,” Bailey said.

  Then she frowned, and so did I. Seth loved a party, being in the middle of it. Choosing the music and getting people new drinks. Surrounding himself with people kept his light going. After a nor’easter, Seth was the first person out of the house, visiting everybody he knew. Not me; I was the last one to open the door. I liked the quiet. I liked wide-open space and sea around me.

 
I stood up, nodding toward the fire. “I’m gonna make the rounds.”

  Leaving Bailey and Cait, I followed the sound of alt rock, lingering here and there to talk to people. Mostly “what’s up, how’re you doing?” stuff. Everybody in Broken Tooth was fine, it seemed, and none of them had seen Seth.

  A waft of steam hit me, full of good smells. The canvas over the clambake pit was still tight. I wondered if I could get away with breaking into it early.

  While I contemplated bake robbery, Nick loped toward me. His black hair gleamed in the firelight, long and cascading into his eyes. He slung an arm around my shoulder and took my beer. “Seth said you weren’t coming.”

  “Guess he was wrong.”

  Ripe with sweat and cologne, he banded his arms around me. Not because he was hitting on me, but because that was the only way to peel a can off the rings without letting me go. “How’s your dad?”

  It was normal for Nick to be all up on me. He was like that, a big sheepdog who loved everybody. Especially up close. Most everybody loved him back. But even as I let him give me one of the beers I’d carried in, I felt uneasy. “Fine. Sat on his ass all day. Expect he’ll be out tomorrow.”

  “Huh,” Nick said. “Miz Pomroy said the Jenn-a-Lo was out this morning. Surprised me and Seth both.”

  I shrugged. “Musta been seeing things.”

  “You know her. Probably got started early.” Nick held up his can and took a deep drink to demonstrate. Then his expression scrambled. Too fast, too loud, he went on, “I’m getting a student license.”

  “’Bout time.”

  Brightly, Nick nodded. One brown eye appeared from beneath his messy fringe. “Maybe if you get your own boat, you can hire me.”

  My skin prickled, and I lifted Nick’s arm. Slipping under it, I backed toward the fire. Other people’s conversations were tangled in this one. It unnerved me, seeing my life from slanted angles. “Where’s Seth, anyway?”

  Making a show of looking around, Nick finally shrugged. “Taking a leak, maybe.”