VOYAGERS

by K. L. Nappier

  He looked hard at the picture, and said, "Over there" thinking of his father. It didn't budge. "Over there, I said."

  But the best he could manage was to wiggle the frame a little. His father didn't even notice as he rushed out of the study ignoring even the lighted sconces. Aaron had no focus. He was thinking of his rage, and of his panic, and of Tess. The harder he tried the less focused he became. Stop it. I'm not doing the girl any good here. He walked over to where the address book lay, it's pages bent and torn. He stared at it for some time before a realization struck him. Maybe he could do her good elsewhere. It took some doing, but calmed himself, sat carefully in his father's chair, and just before he began, he wondered how Miss Roscoe was doing with her dream wending.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ghosthood

  To hold darling Tess again. It was unbelievable; it was like a dream. Then Greta laughed, because it was a dream. And what a lovely fantasy Tess was having. True day had never been bluer, true sun never more brilliant. The sisters strolled the upper promenade of a marvelous riverboat brightly enameled white with evergreen trim. It huffed against the current of the Mississippi, the banks of St. Louis passing stately by, the buildings of the landings glistening as if a spring rain had just meandered through. The sound of ragtime followed them everywhere, and Tess was the grandest of the belles in Greta's elegant green satin dress. Every gentleman, every shady gambler stopped in his tracks to watch her pass.

  So like Tess, this dream, and Greta knew why they were there. She remembered how Tess loved to walk the St. Louis Bridge whenever they could afford to indulge the 10-cent toll, and watch the elegant pleasure boats chug upstream, passing below the bridge. So long ago; before Mother's death, Father's collapse. Before Marshall had imprisoned them both in old Burgess' opulent dungeon. She remembered Tess' refrain, said over and over again.

  "If only we could just leave on one of those. I would live my whole life on a riverboat, wouldn't you? I would never touch ground again."

  Greta and Tess walked astern, the great paddlewheel's frothy roar masking all sounds as it churned the familiar, muddy water. It tossed mist on their faces and pushed the loamy scent of the river passed their noses. They strolled arm in arm, the soft warmth of Tess' skin more than real. Everything in the dream was more than real, and Greta understood why. Dreams were a threshold, a place where the living could experience the heightened vitality of the dead. But only if they were conscious of it, only if they were aware as they dreamed. And--at least tonight--Tess was aware.

  When Greta had walked down the starboard promenade, she had seen this in her sister's face. Tess had recognized the dream for what it was as soon as their eyes had met, but there was something more. Tess understood that Greta was really there. They came to the foredeck and sat at a small table where a waiter appeared with biscuits and spearmint tea for Greta, cheeses and a deep red sherry for Tess. They sipped and nibbled, always keeping a free hand clasped across the table, and Greta wished desperately that Tess would sleep forever, that the warning never had to be delivered. She confessed as much.

  "I wish we never had to leave here, Tess."

  Tess' smile of pure delight turned hopeful. "Why should we? At least, we wouldn't have to leave for long. I could get something that helps me sleep a lot. Greta, wouldn't that be wonderful? What reason do I have to stay awake, anyway? What's to look forward to back there, especially when I can live any way I want here, with you?"

  Greta was amazed at how tempting that notion was. It had a physical pull to it. Her forehead was creased from the effort to remind herself of just why she was in her sister's dream.

  She said, bluntly, "You have to find a way to escape from the house. If you don't, Marshall's going to murder you. By tomorrow night you could be dead." Tess almost withdrew her hand, but Greta clutched it tighter. "It's true. As soon as you wake up, you've got to get out of the house."

  "Why would he want to murder me?"

  "It's not you he wants so much as a man he's plotting against. Your death is a deception, the way to make it look like a quarrel of some sort, between lovers, is our guess."

  Greta felt her sister begin to tremble, their eyes locked, Tess trying to blink back tears. Suddenly she squeezed Greta's hand until it ached, and said with heat, "Does it matter so much? If I die, I can be with you, then."

  "You can't."

  "Why, Greta? Don't you want me, don't you…"

  Greta was barely aware of leaving her chair. She only knew that she had rounded to Tess, pulling her up and holding her tight. Tess clung as desperately and wept against Greta's shoulder.

  "It doesn't work that way, darling," Greta said, gently. "Where I am, where you would be if you died, is a place called the Passage. I can't tell you much, because I don't know very much, but I do know it's different for everyone. I can't follow your path, do you understand? But you won't be alone, darling. Someone will be there to help you through it, someone very good and very wise. It just can't be me."

  "So I won't see you when I'm dead?"

  "I don't know, darling. I don't know what lies ahead."

  Tess pulled away from Greta's shoulder to look up at her. "But we can be together here, in dreams." Greta knew where Tess was leading, and she could feel the pull, feel the heat of temptation again. "So if I get away from Marshall, I could spend my life in dreams..."

  Yes, it's a way. It's a perfect way to be with my sister, advise her, watch her grow. It's even better than being with her in life. Just look at this place. Together we can be anywhere, we could even visit the planets. Just like a Jules Verne story, only real. I could teach her about things no living person can, and by the time she reaches her Passage... She looked full into Tess' eyes and smiled. Yes, it could happen. She felt a power rising inside, a wonderful, indulgent greed. Yes.

  Wait. What was she thinking? No, what was she feeling? She was still gazing into Tess' eyes and she saw something flickering, draining. It was ever so faint, but it was there nonetheless. And through her fingertips she felt an alluring addictive warmth. For the first time since she had entered the dream she realized it wasn't the simple joy of contact. She was drawing something out of her sister.

  She let go suddenly, appalled. This was the essence of every warning Aridite had given. Dream was the threshold, all right. It opened a vein, a place where the careless voyager could leach life, abuse the source, feed on what she once knew, and lose the ability to come forward. And at what cost to the living host? The levies must be limitless, gruesome. Tess would exist only for Greta, a willing, wasting victim, whose love Greta would manipulate, even as she convinced herself it was for her young sister's welfare. This was ghosthood, a very powerful sort. Gradually Greta became aware of Tess again, clutching her arms, looking at her anxiously.

  "Greta?"

  So difficult to gently unbind Tess' fingers from their place, squeeze them once, then let go. "I can't come back, darling. God knows how I wish I could. Can you understand?"

  "No. If we're here now, why can't we be here again? Will God stop you?"

  "He won't stop me, at least, I don't feel so. This is my decision. I'd be living on your life, draining it away. Can't you...feel it even now?"

  Tess retreated, her face contorted in grief. "No, I can't. What's happened to you to make you so cruel? I hate you."

  Tess whirled abruptly, giving Greta her back, holding her waist as if in pain. Greta clenched her teeth, fiercely willing herself to not touch her sister. Dear Lord, anguish was as brilliantly painful in dream as joy was euphoric. But don't touch her. If hating me will save her, then let it be. Greta backed up a step, preparing to return to the flat.

  She closed her eyes, as she heard Tess say, "Yes. Greta. Yes, I can." Greta opened her eyes. Tess turned to face her, tears staining her cheeks, but her gaze was clear and determined. When she spoke her voice was stronger. "I didn't mean what I said. I understand. I do, really. I don't how, but I do." Tess ran to Greta and threw her arms around her. "Oh, no, I'm waking
up."

  Greta couldn't stop herself from receiving Tess. She held on tight, and said into her sister's ear, "Remember. As soon as you wake up, get out of there. And remember, I love you."

  The bright day and glorious riverboat dissolved before Greta's eyes melting into the dark shapes of Tess' little room. Through the round window the sky was barely pale and Greta watched Tess sit bolt upright as if startled out of a nightmare. The girl never said a word, only threw back the comforter, jumped out of bed, and headed to her dresser. She pulled at the middle drawer with such force that it fell to the floor, and Tess froze as if worried the noise might bring Marshall. But the only response was silence, and Tess went to work.

  She dressed quickly, threw what few other clothes she owned into a pillowcase, then went to the bedside table. The table had a splintered leg, and a thick book braced the stump. Greta watched Tess clear the table of anything that might fall in noisy alarm, then retrieved the book. The table leg had been broken for over a year, supported with that book. Tess had done that damage, knowing Marshall wouldn't bother to repair it for her. Inside the book, tucked away in a large hole gouged into the middle of the pages, was a fat cache of paper money and silver coins.

  Greta had always been nervous about Tess' nocturnal thefts. If Marshall had ever caught her only God knew what might happen. But neither had Greta discouraged her. She had even told her sister when the time was right, when Marshall was expected to come home from excessive revelry and sleep with particular soundness. The stealing had given Tess a sense of command over her own fate, and it wasn't without purpose. What was unfolding now more than bore that out. Actually, Greta was rather proud of her sister's cunning and self-control. The denominations were modest by Marshall's standards, who spent money as if it came from a magic well. The closest he had come to suspecting was to complain over breakfast that this waiter or that maitre d' hotel must have taken advantage of him. Greta would shrug noncommittally and sip her tea.

  Tess dumped the money into the pillowcase and knelt beside the bed's headboard. She pulled the bottom sheet from the mattress corner, stuck her thumb and a finger into a sizeable tear, and pulled out three hatpins. She unhitched the simple latch over the doorknob, then deftly picked the lock with one of the pins. Greta smiled. Marshall couldn't have opened it any easier with his key.

  The house's front door was the closest one to freedom, but it wasn't as easy to conquer. Tess was practiced at her own door, but had never dared the entrance, would never have thought to leave without Greta. If only this were happening in summer. Tess could have made her escape through the nearest window. But the windows were sealed by October. Their only use now was to portend the growing daylight as Greta hovered over her sister, and the great clock in the west hall chimed 6:30. Greta heard the echo of the kitchen door, and Tess looked behind her anxiously. The servants were arriving.

  "Never mind, darling, keep at it."

  Tess bit her lower lip and went back to the lock. For a moment she became frantic, then forced herself to calm. The knob, which she kept working in one hand, turned at the sound of a click and the door was open.

  "Girl! Hey, girl!"

  Greta turned toward the butler. He had stopped a few yards down the hall. Tess was out and running, and Greta shrieked with triumph, whirling and waving her hands in the air. The butler rushed to the door, but went no further.

  "You come back here!" he shouted. "Stop!"

  By now the downstairs maid came hurrying. "What's happened?"

  "The Roscoe girl's run off. Go get Mr. Fielding, quick."

  The maid began to leave, but she turned hesitantly back. "Maybe we should just pretend we didn't see."

  The butler looked at her as if she was mad. "Maybe we should pretend any number folks'd hire me after Mr. Fielding tosses me out and starts talkin' around." He lowered his voice. "Maybe we should pretend he won't tell anybody 'bout that little 'accident' he arranged to get rid of for you 'n' Toncey." The maid's chin trembled. The butler sighed and patted her arm. "It's all right, just go get him. This is none of our business, anyway." He looked out the door. "Look, she's already disappeared. I'll go off like I run after her, come back huffin' and puffin'. That's the best can be done. Now go, Harriet, go."

  "I'll go with you," Greta said brightly. "I want to see Marshall's face when you tell him."

  He said, "Tell me again, Harriet."

  "But there's not much to tell, Mr. Fielding, she just…"

  "Tell me, anyway!" Marshall screamed at the woman, inches from her face.

  The maid shrank back, and replied meekly, "Andrew saw the front door's open when he walked into the hall and glimpsed her runnin' across the yard. He told me to come get you and then he went after her."

  Marshall struggled with his dressing robe, whirling in a circle and cursing as he tried to get his other arm into its sleeve. Harriet didn't move to help. He finally caught it, then rushed to his writing desk and scribbled a hasty note.

  "Come here," he said, to the maid who wasted no time obeying. He slapped the note into her hand. "Get over to Mr. Enderly's house, do you understand? Get over there now."

  It was simply too vaudevillian. The elation in seeing Marshall squirm was as hot in Greta's veins as the temptation had been to stay with Tess in dream. She circled him laughing, her eyes flashing, taunting him with words she knew he couldn't hear, but oh, how she wished to Heaven he could.

  "Just like that, Marshall. She bolted like a pony right out the front door. She would have said thanks for the hospitality, but she was in a hurry and didn't want to wake you."

  Oh, this was grand. Tess was free and Marshall was getting his comeuppance. When the maid was gone and Marshall, exhausted from his frenzy slumped onto the bed, Greta skipped over and plopped next to him. He fell back forlornly and she did likewise, imitating his despair. As he lay staring up at the canopy Greta smiled pleasantly at him.

  "Finding yourself in a fix, brother dear? Poor, poor thing. What are you going to do when Mr. Enderly--oops--I mean Mr. Dubenshire comes to call?"

  Marshall hid his face in his hands, and through them came his muffled voice. "This is all completely out of control. God, the shit. I'm going to suffocate in it." Then he drew his hands away, and sat up looking pained and haggard, sagging on the edge of the bed like an old man. Suddenly, he laughed a sharp bark of bitterness. "But it's been deep all my miserable goddamned life."

  As abruptly as the laugh came a sob choked him. The changed startled Greta, but pleasantly so. Never had she recalled him coming near tears and it was high time he did. His tortured stare wandered to his dressing closet. Once again, he was a flurry of action. As soon as he had dressed and combed enough macassar into his hair to tame it, he yanked the bell cord impatiently.

  "Have Toncey get the hansom ready," he said, as soon as Andrew appeared. "And then you go straight to the police. Tell them my ward has run away. Make a full report. And tell them I'm out looking for her this very moment, you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Greta was right by his side when Marshall hurried into the carriage. But it became clear that her brother wasn't going to look for Tess. Not unless he expected to find her at LaFontaine. To be walking the halls of the asylum was not what Greta had expected, but she was certain of this: Marshall couldn't be up to anything good. She watched his face as they tread toward Lawrence Roscoe's cell, the attendant leading the way. She was powerless to stop him from tossing her father out on the street, but there was one thing she could do.

  "I don't know what you're up to, brother dear, but if you make one wrong move, I swear you'll never sleep another night of your life."

  Everything was so familiar and not the least bit comforting: the gray walls, the smell of lye and antiseptic, the air cool and moist from the morning cleaning. The thick knock of Marshall's heels and those of the attendant's sent echoes ahead, very much as her own shoes once did. And now those echoes and the jangle of the attendant's key ring caused a stir. Curious, wild-eyed faces p
ressed at the barred windows set in steel.

  Three doors from the end of the hall and to the right. That was her father's cell, and that was where they stopped. The attendant tugged the keys from his belt and unlocked the door, then stood aside for Marshall. Greta didn't follow. She had to collect herself before passing through the door, just as she had in life whenever she had come. She needed to take a breath before entering, then she could look upon her father.

  He was much as he had been the last time she had visited. He lay on his side, a starched white gown draping his frailty. His arms and legs were curled to his chest, his eyes vacant, but his face serene. That still gave Greta pause. His face was less lined in his dementia than when he was sane, though the white that had once streaked his auburn hair had taken it over entirely.

  "Father," she whispered.

  And Marshall murmured, "Papa."

  She hadn't braced for that. For cruelty, yes, for sadistic taunts whispered into her father's ear. But not for that plaintive offering, not for the grieving, wrinkled brow. She watched in horror as Marshall stepped up to the little bed and knelt before her father's face.

  "Papa," he said. "What am I going to do? Things have unraveled. They've gotten further and further from my control. Greta's dead, Papa. I swear to you, I wasn't going to let it happen. I could've thought of something to keep it from happening if I'd had time. And now Tess is gone. Run away and she's only going to make it worse. I could have thought of something before tonight. I just needed a little time, but this rotten luck...it keeps happening and then I have to stop and rethink. Papa?" Marshall lifted his hand, as if he were going to touch Father's arm. But instead resting his fingers against the thin mattress. "One thing after another, so quickly. None of this is my doing. I had no choice, do you understand?"