The companions set their gear on the gnarled roots of a giant oak tree that time and current had uncovered. Then, with bare feet dangling in the water, they fished in companionable silence, stringing up their catch one by one.
The afternoon passed happily. Cicadas hummed, and cloud shadows chased each other across the meadow. A gentle breeze nudged away the gnats that buzzed around their ears. But even as their conversation dallied among pleasantries, skirting anything of substance, the quill pen played on Micah’s mind.
Plucking a piece of snake grass from the muddy bank, he pulled it apart in sections, eyeing the older man curiously. “Sanjay, do you ever wish you could write the future?”
Sanjay looked up from his pole with a start. “What’s that?”
“You know, so you could make whatever you wanted to happen come true?”
Sanjay appeared thoughtful. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I could banish poverty and disease and indulge myself with any pleasure I dreamed up. Supernatural power at my fingertips.”
Micah nodded. “You’d never have to worry about anything again.”
Surprisingly, Sanjay shook his head, a little smile dangling cautiously at his lips. “It sounds wonderful, son, but I don’t believe any of us would be equal to such a task.”
“What do you mean?”
“Micah, none of us is alone. Our lives touch others all across the globe.”
“So? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Don’t you see? Our actions and choices affect more people than just ourselves.”
At Micah’s blank expression, Sanjay’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “Look at that lake, son,” he said pointing. “That lake is like our world. Each one of us, each life, is a drop of water. Together we fill up a whole ocean. If even one tiny drop becomes disturbed it bumps into others, and soon the whole thing moves, like ripples in a pond.
“If I were to start tampering with my future, meddling where I didn’t belong, I would have no way of foreseeing what my interference might do to the drops all around me, and the ones all around those. Pretty soon, I might have the whole ocean rocking in a storm that raged out of control.”
To emphasize his words, Sanjay picked up a heavy rock and chucked it far out into the lake. It landed with a ker-thunk and spread a circle of waves that shivered the cattails growing along the shore. Sanjay watched them bob with the water’s motion. “No, Micah, I don’t think I would want to take chances with something I didn’t understand.”
Micah grew sober. “It was just a fancy.”
“I don’t mean to dampen your fun. I’ve just seen more of the world than you have, my boy. Much more.”
Micah twitched his fishing pole. “Tell me about your sailing days, Sanjay.”
The big man leaned back with a smile wide enough to embrace the lake, the meadow, and the sky. This was something he could expand on. “Where should I begin? Storms, mutinies, battles, wrecks… Sailing’s a hard life, son. It can bring out a man’s honor. Other times mates kill each other over a scrap of food. I could tell you stories that would chill your blood.”
“I want to hear one.”
Sanjay warmed to his subject, and Micah thought he might start rubbing his hands together with eagerness. “All right then. I’ll tell you the legend of the Lady Christine. She was a beautiful ship, it was said. British. A brigantine, square-rigged on the foremast, fore-and-aft on the main, 196 tons. She ran before the wind like clouds playing in the heavens.
“The captain was a shrewd man who traded where profit seemed most likely, and he heard rumors about a land of mystery and wealth. Somewhere in the tropics of the Indian Ocean, it was said, was an island flowing with gold and treasure. Natives traded away jewels as though they were seashells. Some even said the island was enchanted, but one old seadog spoke of a curse.
“Though the information was vague, the captain deemed the risk worth taking, and he set sail for Mordolva. It took seven long years to find the island, but at last the Lady Christine dropped anchor in her harbor.
“A party rowed ashore and found the island just as it had been described to them—brown-skinned natives dripping with gold and gems, silver, treasure beyond comparison. For twelve days the crew feasted like royalty, but their hunger wasn’t for fruit and mead. Madness took them over, and they hoarded the island’s wealth, stuffing the ship’s hold with Mordolvan riches, of which there seemed no end.
“Late on the eve of their departure, a single native slipped onboard carrying a slender tube of wood. He was terrified, desperate, furtive, and claimed to have in his possession the island’s greatest treasure. He offered it to the captain in exchange for passage off the island.
“Among the whole crew, only the carpenter recalled the old seadog’s warning and advised against the trade, but the captain locked the treasure in his cabin and prepared for an early departure.
“As they sailed out of the harbor, a wail lifted on the breeze behind them, a wrenching moan of agony and desolation. It drifted on the air currents and rose about the ship, haunting the crew like spirits of the damned, until the men hid their faces in despair. And then came a terrible cracking, as though the very earth had split apart. The keening died away, and in the twilight the crew watched with horror as the island slowly sank into the sea.
“Then a great and terrible wind rose up, like the wretched arm of the devil himself, mauling the ship and driving it to its doom. Though she fought valiantly, the beautiful ship foundered with all hands and was never heard of again.”
Micah hung on every word of Sanjay’s story and couldn’t stop a tremor from quivering up his back. “Is that true?” he asked.
Sanjay shrugged. “I don’t know. No one lived to verify it.”
Doubt tugged at the corners of Micah’s mouth. “Then how did the story become known in the first place?”
“It’s a legend,” Sanjay chuckled. “The sea is full of them.”
Micah shifted the subject. “Did you like sailing?”
“Aye, son. It was in my blood. I visited every major port in the world and spent more years than I can count beyond sight of land.”
“Why did you give it up?”
“I met a lovely woman in a Spanish port and I fell in love.” Sanjay shrugged. “I guess this old ship was finally ready for a harbor. Look there, you have a bite!”
They had a nice catch of fish, and the sun was scooching toward the west. It was time to shove off.
They cleaned the fish on a table behind Sanjay’s workshop.
“How long before you finish Mrs. Crenshaw’s table?” Micah wondered.
“I promised to deliver it next week.”
“I wish my father was a woodworker,” Micah said wistfully. “I think I could work with my hands.”
“I’d apprentice you in a moment.”
“My father would never consent.” He paused, toeing the edge of some unknown horizon, aching to take that first step. “Sanjay, have you ever wanted to head west?”
“I’ve been west, east, north, and south. People are the same everywhere.”
“No, I mean cross-country. To the frontier. To someplace where the animals outnumber the people.”
“Where Indians take off your scalp when you’re not looking?”
Micah missed the remark, thinking again of the Deerslayer. “To the edge of civilization, where you are free to live as you like.”
Sanjay shook his head. “No, but I know what you mean. The sea called to me in exactly the same way.”
“And you answered it!” Micah exclaimed. “I wish I was as brave as you.”
“Micah, you are young. You have time—”
“No, I don’t!” Micah interrupted, giving in to a growing feeling of desperation. “I don’t have time! Next week my father is shipping me off to some school where I can learn to be a perfect little replica of him, so I can come home and take over his life. Well, I won’t do it!”
He knew he was blowing off steam. He knew in the end he’d step back from the edge of the unknown and creep home just as he’d done a thousand times before, and the knowledge made him angry.
“I won’t do it!” he repeated, and thrust the knife into a fish just as Sanjay stretched out his hand to grasp it. Horrified, Micah watched the knife pierce the skin between the man’s thumb and forefinger.
9
_______
Sanjay snatched his hand away and clutched it to his chest. “If you’re going to be a frontiersman, you’ll need to develop a bit more skill with your knife.”
Micah’s heart pounded. “Sanjay, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, son.” He held out his hand. “It was a near miss.”
The hand was rough and calloused, but whole. Relief and amazement washed over Micah. “I thought I stabbed you. It looked like the blade went right through your skin.”
“Well, you can see it didn’t.” Sanjay lifted the pierced fish. “However, this fellow has seen better days. If you’re going to get home on time, we’d best wrap up a few of his friends for you to take with you.”
Micah’s mouth leaked at the thought of what Lusa could do with those fish. If he snuck them into the icehouse, maybe in the next day or two his parents would both be away long enough for Lusa to fry some up without anyone knowing he had snuck away to catch them.
Micah shook his head regretfully. “It’s too risky.”
He bid Sanjay farewell, and as the clearing slipped behind him, he donned a familiar, heavy mantle. Every step closer to the untouchable house added another pound.
Afraid of encountering his father on the stage road, he crossed the river upstream and cut through a forest thick with hickory, oak, and elm. In the hour directly after school, when his father assumed he stayed after to study, he often came here to read, finish homework, or just whittle away the short span of time allotted to him.
Micah paused to suck in the moist, earthy fragrance of the woods. It flooded his senses, invigorated his body like cool rain on a hot August day. This was where he belonged! The canopy vibrated with the soothing noise of birds and insects. To his right, a fat gray squirrel leaped into the arms of a sugar maple and settled on a low limb, flicking its bushy tail.
Micah’s spirit swelled, floating him among the branches of the trees, merging with the grove until he could almost forget he wasn’t part of it. Till he could almost forget the slanting sun beckoned him home. Almost.
Emerging from the wood, Micah crossed a field of corn that stretched higher than his head, raising puffs of dust with each step, and came out just where the road entered the town. He leaped over a boggy ditch that separated the field from the lane.
“Randall!” a voice shouted. “You sneak off to see your little swamp vixen?”
Micah whipped around to find Magnus McKinley sneering at him.
“Don’t look so surprised. Everybody knows you’re soft on her. But not everyone looks kindly on it. If you know what’s best for you, you won’t be so chummy with that lot.”
Micah’s jaw tightened, but he ignored the boy and kept walking.
“I was talking to you,” Magnus growled, lunging. The impact threw Micah off balance and he toppled into the muddy ditch. Magnus advanced threateningly.
At that moment, a team approached, pulling a wagon out of town. Magnus scowled and backed off. “I’m watching you, Randall. And the girl, too,” he threatened before disappearing up the street.
Micah looked his clothes over with dismay. How could he explain this to his father? He tried to sneak up to his room to change before dinner, but the screen door squeaked, giving him away.
“Micah?” his father called. “You’re late for supper again.”
“Sorry, sir,” Micah said, dawdling in the entryway.
“What in the name of Jehoshaphat’s beard are you doing, son? Come here.”
Micah had no choice. He clasped his hands before him, hoping to mask the worst of the mud.
“Well, I vow!” his mother exclaimed, her hand spreading across her throat.
His father’s face remained unreadable. “The widow have you digging ditches today, son?”
“No, sir.”
The man took a huge bite of creamed carrots. When he swallowed he pointed the white-smeared fork at his son. “Before you tell me how you managed to cover yourself in muck, I better let you know she stopped by the store this afternoon.”
Micah’s heart shrank.
“That was at about three o’clock.” He pulled out a pocket watch and consulted it. “It is now five fifty-four.” He glared hard at Micah. “Did you crawl home? Were you stuck in quicksand for three hours?”
Micah just stood there as spineless as a jellyfish, the mantle dragging him toward the floorboards.
“Now, Gerald,” Micah’s mother soothed. “Keep your temper. He’s just a boy.”
“And he will act like a boy forever if I don’t demand some responsibility from him. Why, when I was his age—”
Micah broke in before his father could rampage down that trail again. “I was in the backwaters. At the Ramesh place.”
A muscle jumped in his father’s jaw, and he was quiet a long time. “You know how I feel about that family. Sanjay Ramesh is a vagabond, a worthless water rat who drifted in off some ship.”
Micah dared to quietly disagree. “He’s a good man who works hard to provide for his family.”
Gerald’s head jerked up at this backtalk.
“That ‘hardworking’ man owes nearly five dollars at the store.”
Micah wanted to reply that everyone in town kept money on their accounts, but his father’s hard glare melted his nerve.
His mother spoke. “Honey, I really must protest the way he lets his daughter run around like a heathen, half dressed in boy’s clothing. And at her age! It’s simply unseemly.”
“Perhaps the time has to come to collect payment and close Mr. Ramesh’s account,” Gerald mused, piercing his son with narrow, calculating eyes. “I will send word to him tomorrow.”
Micah’s heart gave a guilty twist, but he stood with head bowed.
“In the meantime, you’ve shirked your duties today and deliberately tried to deceive me. As punishment, you will spend tomorrow going door-to-door selling discounted bonnets. Then we’ll see how eager you are to trample the countryside.”
Micah bit his lip and turned from the room. Halfway up the stairs, his father flung out one final demand: “And get a haircut!”
Micah choked back the tears loitering at the edge of his vision. His hurts rolled together in a tight wad, solidifying into something harder than disappointment. They burned hot in his gut, frightening him.
Rather than share another stilted meal, he stripped off his muddy clothing and crawled into bed. Still his emotions smoldered, awaiting a chance to leap into flame. And drifting off to sleep, Micah gave no thought to what fire is capable of.
10
_______
The room blurred as if it were deep underwater. Micah rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. The light was still dim, but the birds had already set up a rousing chorus. He grabbed up the first pair of trousers he stumbled across, saw the mud, and his brain finally kicked upwards and dragged him to the surface.
Bonnets.
He drew a long sigh. Rolling over, he tugged clean clothing from an open bureau drawer and scurried to dress before his father came to wake him. In the kitchen, already alive with breakfast preparations, he scooped out a piece of leftover potpie from the ice box and shoved half in his mouth. He reached for another piece with his left hand and felt a touch on his shoulder.
Nancy stood behind him.
He paused, tried to swallow, coughed, and felt his ears begin to burn.
Lusa waddled over and coolly whacked him on the back. Handing him a glass of water, she returned to her duties shaking her head and muttering something about foolish children.
/> Micah took a long gulp and grinned sheepishly.
Nancy stood patiently, as though waiting for such idiocy was part of her normal routine. “I overheard everything from the kitchen last night,” she sympathized, “and I’m sorry. I don’t know Gabby well, but I like her.”
“Thanks, Nancy.” Somehow, the simple statement touched him. At that moment, the girl seemed more a comrade than just a schoolmate. He realized that she understood exactly what it was like to trudge along beneath his father’s hand. As his employee, she was in much the same situation.
He wished to react somehow to this newly realized partnership. To let Nancy know he appreciated that they were in this together. But the words got caught in his throat like a stray bit of potpie. The best he could manage was, “Has my father come down yet?”
“He’s gone and come back already. Right now he’s upstairs with your mother.”
“Perfect. See you later!” Micah plowed out the screen door to the store and stuffed a flour sack full of bonnets. Then, happy to miss his father and escape the building, he threw the merchandise over his shoulder and wandered into the sleepy morning.
Fresh, warm air touched Micah’s cheek. Though September drew near, summer lingered, balancing like a see-saw on the point of a fulcrum. Hot, bright days held on, refusing to tilt downward into the chill of autumn. The longer they wavered, the more the town seemed to hold its breath, watching, waiting expectantly. Summer could not hang on forever.
Micah traveled past the straight, even side roads shooting off Main, then turned at the old church and wound down Water Street. Once upon a time, in more exciting days, Water Street housed all the town’s commerce. The fishing industry still thrived, and the outdoor markets flourished as in decades past, but now black, crumbling buildings speckled the street like age spots on the arm of an old man.
Yet Micah liked the spicy smell of old wood and decay. It was the fragrance of roots, of belonging. It reminded him of times long forgotten, when simple, genuine people followed traditions and methods passed down from their forefathers. Or perhaps not so forgotten, for many of those people still walked Water Street.
The Quill Pen Page 6
