The Quill Pen

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “Yeah.” He pretended to shiver. “You said something creepy about secrets.”

  “That’s right. And it’s still my wish.” She looked him dead in the eye. “Either my father has experienced more in one lifetime than others could in ten, or he’s hiding something. And there have been some bizarre events, things I can’t explain…”

  She trailed off, and Micah recalled the incident cleaning fish. He was certain he’d seen that knife pierce Sanjay’s hand.

  Gabby half-whispered, “Ignoring them is like pretending there’s no elephant in the next room when you can hear it crashing about.”

  She faced Micah with firm conviction. “I want to know my father’s secret.”

  Micah hesitated, strangely reluctant to share. “Don’t you think he would have told you by now if there really was something?”

  “I don’t believe he’s even told my mother.”

  “But he lived a hard life on the sea. What if he killed someone? Are you sure you want to know about it?”

  “Micah, I need to know,” she insisted. “Imagining is far worse.”

  She pleaded with him, grabbing hold with her eyes, and he felt himself weakening.

  “All right,” he caved, “but the pen isn’t here. You’ll have to come home with me.”

  She gave him an impulsive hug. “Thank you!”

  He tried one more time. “It might not be magic, you know.”

  She smiled crookedly. “You told me it was.”

  Sneaking Gabby into his room proved simple enough. With his father confined to the den, they slipped upstairs unnoticed. There, Micah pulled the pen from his desk drawer where it shimmered in the full light of the afternoon sun.

  Gabby let out a low whistle. “It’s beautiful.” She touched the nib and rubbed at the dark mark it left on her finger. Peering at it closely, she asked, “There really is no ink?”

  He shrugged. “It’s magic.”

  “Oh, so it’s magic again?”

  He blew out a puff of air. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  He ripped a sheet from a tablet and poised the pen to write, but Gabby snatched the feather from his hand. “I’d like to do it myself, if you don’t mind.”

  He bit down his annoyance and stepped aside.

  Gabby frowned, tapped the feather against her chin a few times, then wrote in a clear, flowing hand, “I want my father to share his secret with me,” reading it aloud as she set it down.

  She paused, the pen suspended. Micah held his breath, half expecting Sanjay to walk through the door, fall at their knees, and reveal some sordid tale. The silence stretched thin and painful.

  He pulled the pen gently from Gabby’s fingers. “Sometimes it takes a while,” he whispered. “The thing with Jeb happened the next day.”

  Gabby giggled out loud, breaking the tension, and sank down on the desk chair. “I thought maybe a lightning bolt would hit,” she grinned. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anything. I told you, I really don’t believe in anything mystical.”

  He chuckled too. Their expectations did seem rather comical now.

  Suddenly, Gabby cried out and grabbed her bare calf, just below the knee. “My leg!” she gasped. “It’s on fire!”

  Micah pulled her hand aside to reveal a mark on the inside of her calf. Burned onto her skin was an image of a flame in the shape of a bird’s wing.

  The room spun out of focus, and Micah clutched the chair for support. “Gabby! Is that—?”

  Her face had blanched a chalky yellow. “My father’s tattoo,” she whispered.

  They stared at the mark, dumbfounded.

  Micah was the first to break the silence. He spoke with deliberate slowness. “Sometimes the pen takes the words literally, like when the horse knocked my father in the head.” He paused, and the silence ran on expectantly.

  “Gabby,” he continued, low and frightened, “I don’t know what your father’s secret is, but I think you share it.”

  15

  _______

  Micah slept terribly that night. Thick, heavy air smothered his room, trapping the overripe garden smells that seeped in through his open window. Just before dawn, he kicked off the sheet that had tangled itself around his legs.

  Tiptoeing downstairs, he found his mother dozing in a chair in the front room and still wearing yesterday’s crumpled dress. Stacks of papers lay scattered on the floor around her. She stirred and blinked up at him.

  “Mother, didn’t you go to bed last night?”

  She shook her head, stifling a yawn. “I had all these accounts to balance, and the library board asked me to copy down the minutes from our last meeting, and I had to get a letter off to your grandmother.” She glanced at the door to the den and lowered her voice. “And I didn’t want to be far away.”

  He nodded, though he planned to stay as far from the den as possible. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get a little rest? Lusa can take care of Father.”

  She yawned again and stretched. “No, no. I’m up. And I feel fine, really.” She smiled reassuringly. “You go get some breakfast.”

  In the kitchen, Lusa stood at the sink peeling a pot of potatoes. Another servant stoked the fire in the huge iron stove. Nancy wasn’t among the help. Anna had given her the day off after yesterday’s scene.

  Micah didn’t wait to be served a hot meal. Instead, he snatched a loaf from the pantry, poured himself a glass of milk, and carried his breakfast to the porch. Dawn was breaking in the direction of the beach, the sun pushing upward in a rigid, washed-out sky. There was no freshness to the morning. Summer, in one last, desperate bid for dominance, gripped the land in a stranglehold.

  Popping the last bit of crust into his mouth, Micah crossed to the store. To his surprise, he found the door already unlocked. Had he forgotten to secure it Saturday? He racked his memory. No, his mother had managed the store while he worked at the widow’s. She must have overlooked it.

  Micah entered the shop and slipped behind the counter. Nothing seemed amiss. He aligned the row of candy jars and wiped them with a dry rag, then straightened the account books beneath the counter. The inventory list still lay open on top, its reminder as persistent as a toothache. His father might have little choice but to rise from his sickbed.

  A noise from the stockroom made Micah freeze. Only his eyes moved as he waited, breathless, listening with his ears, his eyes, his nose, but the sound didn’t repeat itself. Nevertheless, he reached for an ax. Step by careful step he crossed the room, counting each thump of his heart.

  Magnus McKinley appeared in the stockroom doorway.

  Micah gripped the ax with both hands, his mouth a thin, hard line. “Why are you here?”

  Magnus grinned with acid humor. “Surprised, Randall? I’m the new help.”

  A corner of Micah’s mouth ticked involuntarily. Magnus couldn’t even work past the second grade in school. Why would he suddenly become industrious now? He dropped the ax and spun from the room.

  Crossing the road, Micah marched up the porch steps, straight to the mattress in the den. His mother and father sat speaking in quiet tones. Both looked up at his brusque entrance. He came to a quick, blunt point. “You cannot hire Magnus.”

  Surprise jumped to his mother’s eyes. “But dear, we already have. He did an excellent job running errands while you were at the widow’s Saturday.”

  “Well, fire him. He can’t work for us.”

  “Micah, what is this all about?” his father demanded.

  “Magnus is a liar, a cheat, and a bully. He’s nothing but trouble.”

  His mother interjected, “He seems like such a polite young man. A bit untidy, perhaps.”

  “He’s polite because he wants something, Mother.”

  “What on earth do we have that he would want?” she asked.

  Micah could think of a thousand things. “Money, jewels, a reputation, an alibi—I don’t know. I haven’t figured out his game.”

  “P
oliteness seems a poor reason to fire someone,” his father observed with sarcasm.

  “You don’t understand. Putting Magnus in charge of the store is like handing your reins to a horse thief. He’s bad news.”

  But the lines around his father’s eyes hardened with finality. “No. Your mother says the boy did a fine job last week. He stays until he proves unsatisfactory. You leave in a few days. We need his help.”

  Micah’s nostrils flared. Every instinct told him Magnus was up to something, yet his father was brushing his concerns aside like a child’s whim. “You don’t understand!” he blurted. “Magnus is trying to get Gabby’s family into a lot of trouble!”

  Gerald’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “That’s what this is all about? That little tramp in the swamp? I thought I told you to stay away from her!” His voice rose like a dragon in flight. “When I give orders, I expect unquestioning obedience, am I understood?” he bellowed. “Christopher Columbus! It’s a good thing you’re leaving so soon. You don’t mind me at all anymore!”

  Micah took a step backwards, certain his father would throw aside his confinement and chase him from the house. But when the man slumped against the cushions with one palm pressed flat against his wound, Micah drew a deep breath. He’d never get a better opportunity.

  “I’m not going.”

  Deadly silence filled the room. Anna brought both hands up to her throat.

  “What did you say to me?” The words were scarcely audible, like thunder behind a mountain.

  Micah cleared his throat. “I—I said I’m not going to the academy. I don’t want to take over your businesses. I want to go west and claim my own land. I figure I don’t need any fancy schooling for that.” His brave words wobbled like wash water.

  Gerald’s face darkened. He sensed his advantage. The clock on the mantle gave only three ticks before his fury broke open the room.

  “You will attend Fremantle Academy, and you will get a proper education if I have to get up and hogtie you to the stage myself!” He lunged for his dressing gown and jammed his arms into the sleeves.

  Anna placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Gerald, perhaps—” she began, but his father knocked her away.

  Throwing back the bedcovers, he raged, “Then you will come home and you will take over where I have left off. You stubborn, ungrateful boy! Do you think I’ve built all this for myself?”

  The words were kerosene on an ember. Resentment blazed up within Micah, consuming him. “That’s exactly what you’ve done!” he screamed. “You’ve never asked my opinion. You’ve never considered my wishes. I hate being cooped up in your stupid store! I need to be outside, free to move, free to breathe. But you don’t care. You’ve just ordered me around from the beginning.”

  Micah stormed from the room and out to the porch. Behind him his father bellowed in outrage, and his mother was screaming for Lusa to fetch the doctor. Micah’s chest felt tight, like a kite string about to snap, but he ignored it. He had the pen. This time, one way or another, he would get his own way.

  Plunging his hands in his pockets, he stomped down the steps and wandered blindly down Main Street. When his foot struck a rock, he plucked it up and heaved it with every pent up shred of anger. It cleared the roofs and disappeared. Somewhere a window shattered, but he didn’t stop. He had plenty of capital. He might as well spend it on something.

  Eventually his steps led him to the water at the edge of the docks. He dipped a toe in it, then he plunged in. Up to his knees. Up to his neck. The water rose over his head and he struck out across the bay, arms pumping, legs beating the water into submission. His anger carried him halfway across the cove.

  When his strength failed, he flipped to his back and lay gasping in the gentle current. The water cooled his body and calmed his temper.

  He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have lost it like that. Eventually, he’d have to go home and face his father, but he felt no regrets. This day had been building for years. Now there only remained to see what would become of it.

  Of course, he could always write his own ending.

  Micah glided to shore and clutched the end of a dilapidated dock. The fishing boats had already departed for the day, and the street behind him was vacant, save for two rough-looking men locked in conversation outside Buddy Lincoln’s shop. Their words just feathered Micah’s ears.

  “Yes, we’ll be there. My Marge baked a cake and dropped it off, not that any of the food gets eaten on a day like this, but you have to make the gesture.”

  “Barlow should have known better than to let his woman mix with that lot.”

  “I heard that after the funeral—” The voices became low and garbled.

  Within moments, the men seemed to reach some kind of agreement. Micah watched between the pilings as their meeting broke up. One fellow passed up the street and around a corner. The other cast a glance in either direction before entering the shop of the determined little barber.

  Micah dragged himself onto the edge of the dock and dangled his feet over the water. Immediately his shirt began to dry. The day had already grown stifling, and the glaring sun only pledged more heat.

  “Micah!”

  He turned to see Widow Parsons striding into town, stiffly upright, with a package tucked under one arm. He waved a hand in greeting, and she stopped at the foot of the dock. “Micah, am I correct in saying you leave on the Friday stage?”

  He rose to meet her, shrugging indifferently. “My father thinks so.”

  She gave him a piercing look. “You going to that school, boy?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “You tell that to your daddy?”

  “I did.”

  She nodded. “How’d he take it?”

  He looked up at the cloudless sky. “Let’s just say I’m glad there were several layers of quilts between us.”

  The old woman let out a high-pitched cackle. “Precious saints and thunder, I surely wish I could have seen that! I reckon that will get him off his sickbed a few days early.”

  She went on, “Whether you get on that stage or not, I need your help one more time. That should be enough to get us clean to the other side of my attic. Then I can rest in peace.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Parsons, you could serve two terms in Congress and still be the liveliest woman in town when you returned. You are not going to die.”

  She glared at him. “I believe we already had this conversation, boy.”

  “I believe we have, but I’m saying it anyway. The Grim Reaper won’t dare cross you.”

  She glared at him harder still. “I believe you’ve developed some sauce.”

  He paused, his mouth open. “I believe you’re right!”

  She spun on her heel, but not before a twinkle belied her sternness. “I’ll expect you tomorrow then,” she announced severely.

  Micah watched her stride away, shaking his head and chuckling. The old woman was a host of paradoxes, but he had come to respect her.

  Squeezing the water from his trousers, Micah considered escaping to the coolness of the swamp for the rest of the day, but he chose to return to the store. As much as he wished to avoid his father, he had to learn what Magnus was up to. He followed Water Street in the direction the widow had disappeared.

  Angry voices reached him soon after he turned onto Main. He hoped it wasn’t still his father. But the loud, clear tones floating down the street from the post office belonged to a woman. More specifically, he soon learned, they belonged to Mrs. Parsons.

  “Jebediah Reece, you stupid old fool, I did you an honor!”

  “By airing my dirty laundry in front of all those people? I’d have thanked you to keep your mouth shut, old woman.”

  It seemed the old friends were speaking again.

  “Your dirtiest laundry is like freshly pressed linen next to Ruby. I couldn’t bear to see the filthy crook put on a pedestal when the noblest man in town went unnoticed.”<
br />
  “I liked being unnoticed! Now I feel like a goldfish in a glass bowl.”

  A small crowd had paused in the street to take in the scene.

  Hank stepped in before the argument progressed any further, grabbing each of them by the elbow. “Merle, Jeb, you two have the strangest means of showing affection I’ve ever run across. Sit down and lower your voices. You folks,” he called to the crowd, “get on now. This ain’t no minstrel show.”

  Mrs. Parsons jerked her arm away. “There’s no need,” she declared. “I’m through trying to reason with this old fool.”

  Moments later, Micah climbed the steps to his father’s store only to hear another argument raging inside. It was Dr. Buford.

  “Gerald, you must get back in bed. If you suffer another injury it could result in permanent damage.”

  “What on God’s green earth is going to happen to me inside my own store? Just leave me alone, Doc. I’ll be fine.”

  Micah settled in Jeb’s usual chair to wait out the dispute. The whole town had gone crazy. For days the chaos had been building, getting worse and worse, ever since…

  Ever since the day they disturbed the widow’s attic.

  Finally, Dr. Buford stormed out of the store. “Stubborn idiot,” he mumbled.

  Gerald followed, his face pale, but whether from pain or anger it was difficult to say. He wouldn’t even look in Micah’s direction.

  Inside, Micah glanced around the familiar room. Magnus was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps his parents had listened to him after all. Perhaps standing up to his father had earned him some respect. But a low voice coming from the stockroom proved that idea wrong. He recognized it as Magnus right away.

  The words were drifting through the open back door. Micah snuck closer, crawling under a table to listen. A second speaker, a man, also sounded familiar, but Micah couldn’t place him. He strained his ears, trying to catch the conversation but netting mostly air.

  “—tonight…backwaters…pass the word—”

  The words left him uneasy. He told himself the coast had ten thousand acres of backwater, but after the churchyard gossip, he could focus on only one.