by Dianne Day
“Michael!”
He kissed me again, now tenderly. I clung to him and cried without knowing why. He wrapped his arms around me and murmured soothing sounds, nonsense, then finally words. Words I wanted to hear: “Fremont, listen to me. I am not in love with Artemisia. It isn’t what you think.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It’s not.” He released me, came to stand beside me at the sink, and took up the percolator himself. Which was just as well—in my still-boneless state I certainly could not make coffee.
“Then what is it?” I asked.
“I, ah—” He glanced over his shoulder at the open kitchen door, then out the window over the sink. The white beam of the light swept by. “I can’t talk about it. Not yet, and certainly not here. Where do you keep the coffee?”
I got it from the cupboard and gave it to him. My ability to think was returning, along with the dull ache in my head and various other parts. “More spy stuff,” I said bitterly, “is that it, Michael?”
Looking truly miserable, he carried the percolator over to the stove and placed it on a burner. “I can’t talk about it.” He bent over, opened up the stove’s firebox, and tossed in a couple of pieces of wood. “But the ‘spy stuff’ is not what you think, either.”
“Dear God in heaven!” I exclaimed, even though I am hardly sure there is one. “Now you’re driving me insane!”
Bent over, poking up the fire, Michael muttered something. His face glowed as if licked by the flames of hell.
I said, “I beg your pardon?”
He flung the stove door shut with a clang, straightened up, and nailed me with a gaze as hard as iron. “What I said was: Better insane than dead!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You had better explain what you mean by that.” My legs would not support me any longer. I fumbled for the nearest chair, grabbed it, and sat down rather too hard. “I confess this—this—” I made a stirring-around gesture. “All of this is a bit beyond me!”
Michael said, “I cannot.”
He withdrew into himself, becoming a sort of hyper-alert automaton. He watched me, he watched the about-to-perk coffee; me, the coffee; and so on. His face had gone utterly expressionless.
I waited.
Finally he spoke again. “I apologize for losing control of myself with you, Fremont. What I did was, under present circumstances, inexcusable. I hope you will forgive me.”
“It was nothing,” I said—which was of course an utter lie.
Michael winced.
“I suppose I might have rather enjoyed it,” I continued, observing him from the corner of my eye, “if I were more my usual self this evening. That is, of course, provided you told the truth about your feelings for Artemisia.”
He rubbed the top of his head: back to front, then front to back. An old habit that had caused less disastrous results in previous times, when his hair was clipped short. The motion meant he was anxious.
“You forgive me then?” he asked.
I hardened my heart, though he had made the most endearing mess of himself. “I did not say that. There is more at issue between us than a few moments’ indiscretion.”
The coffee began to perk and fill the room with its tantalizing fragrance.
“I told you: I am not in love with Artemisia,” Michael said.
I waited; the coffee perked; the silence grew. He waited, too.
Michael Archer—Misha Kossoff: By either name, he is one of the few people who can outwait me when I am determined. After a while it became apparent that he would not say more tonight. He would not lose control of himself again. He would not explain why these things were not what I thought they were, and the bubble of energy that had been holding me up had collapsed a good many minutes ago.
I sighed and put my head in my hands, elbows resting on the table. Michael, the self-appointed coffee monitor, got up and rooted around the kitchen. With my eyes closed I listened to the sounds of drawers and cupboards opening and closing; I did not offer to help him find anything. He had done perfectly well on the soup without me—why spoil his record?
Yet it was still a pleasant surprise to open my eyes when he said, “Here, Fremont,” and to see before me the coffee mug that I prefer, rather than a cup and saucer, which most women would have wanted. Solicitously he continued, “You are not concerned that a cup of coffee will keep you awake?”
“Surely you jest,” I said wearily, picking up the mug.
When most of the tangy brew had coursed warmly down my gullet, I asked one question I could not make myself let go of: “Does Artemisia know how you truly feel?”
He looked deep into my eyes and solemnly replied, “Yes, she does. But she thinks she can change my mind.”
“Ah,” I said. And then I left him sitting there and went to bed.
KEEPER’S LOG
January 20, 1907
Wind: N, strong and gusting
Weather: Heavy clouds, no rain a.m.
Comments: Whitecaps all across the bay; swells to eight
feet; no boats in or out
The face that peered into mine off and on during the night belonged neither to Michael nor to Quincy, but to Mimi Peterson. “Misha was concerned that the doctor’s orders be followed while still observing the proprieties,” she said in explanation the first time she woke me. “We do know what they are—the proprieties, I mean—even if we generally ignore them. Therefore I have come to monitor you. Now be still, Fremont. I understand that I’m supposed to see if your eyes go all wobbly.”
My eyes did not go all wobbly, not during the night and not when I got up shortly after six o’clock. The same could not be said for the Petersons’ automobile, which wobbled a good deal as Mimi drove away at six-thirty. Their car reminded me of Oscar—spindly struts but a certain charm—whereas Mimi was more of a steam locomotive. Perhaps it’s really true that opposites attract. So where did that leave me and Michael? Actually we are rather alike, Michael and I.
I sighed as I went back into the lighthouse after seeing Mimi off, wondering how this would all come out in the end. At least he had absolved me of calling him Misha. I supposed that was something.
After breakfast I felt a little fragile, and my head was sore but otherwise I was fine. It took quite some time, though, to conving Quincy that this was so. I was glad when he said, “Then mebbe I’ll take me a walk into town for a coupla hours, iff’n it’s all right with you.”
“Of course it’s all right,” I agreed, but I was curious, for Quincy is not generally much of a one for taking walks. I climbed to the platform around the base of the lantern and watched him disappear into the woods. It was good to be alone again—I’d had entirely too much close company for the past day and night. So why, as soon as I lost sight of him, did I feel apprehensive?
Cold wind tore at my dress. I raised my shawl up over my head, walked halfway around the platform, and looked out upon a gray and deeply disgruntled sea. Neptune was definitely in a difficult mood this morning. I raised the binoculars to my eyes and scanned the choppy waves, praying that I would not find anything out of order. Still with the same prayer, I turned my attention to the shoreline. Slightly nasty weather aside, all was well. I went down to the watch room and so noted in the log.
The typewriter sat on the watch room table, its handsome black-and-silver presence reminding me that I had a lot of work to do. Today was a Saturday, and in the normal course of events I would be going to my office on Grand from twelve to three-thirty. But the thought of carrying that heavy machine down the stairs, putting it into the shay, and so on nearly undid me. Actually I did not feel like getting in the shay myself, though a part of me wanted to dash over to Carmel and see Phoebe, then check by Braxton Furnival’s house again … while another part (the part that speaks in my head with the voice of my mother) said You do not always have to go dashing about. If you wait quietly, they will likely come to you.
“Perhaps by noon I’ll feel stronger,” I said to myself, canceling the Vo
ice as I trailed a finger across the typewriter keys. Really, I wanted to work, to keep my mind off everything else—I just did not want to transport the machine. Or, said the Voice, to drive the rig through the woods where it happened! The Voice has an inconvenient way of telling me the truth when I least want to hear it.
Then I realized: The log was done, the accounts were up-to-date, the animals could look after themselves, and Quincy would have let me know if any supplies needed ordering. There was not a reason in the world, at least none that I could think of, why I should not just sit right down and type.
I did ten of Braxton’s letters in an hour, and twenty-five envelopes in another thirty minutes. By then I was bored out of my mind—so bored that I started thinking about things I didn’t want to think about. Such as: Who was the masked man who struck me? Was he really a robber? Did he just want my purse, or had he really been after the sketches and taken the leather bag merely as an afterthought? Did he know me? Did I know him?
“Never mind,” I mumbled, stacking Braxton’s letters neatly, the envelopes on top and a paperweight on top of all. “Phoebe has more sketches.” And as soon as I felt physically stronger, or got back my nerve or whatever, I would go get them—if she hadn’t already come to me by then. I supposed I might as well admit, to myself at least, that I didn’t actually believe I was merely robbed.
I went out and did the ten o’clock watch a few minutes early. Everything looked exactly as it had before, except for a straggly line of black cormorants gleefully flapping along, their flight aided by a strong tailwind. I wasn’t really seeing cormorants, and my mind was not on the weather. I was seeing eyes that flashed through the holes in a mask, a plain black mask such as both adults and children wear on Halloween. He’d had a bandana folded into a triangle over his nose, mouth, and chin. And he’d worn a Western-style wide-brimmed hat.
A month ago I would have said the only thing I could be certain of was that the masked person was male. Now, after exposure to the Carmelites and their penchant for colorful modes of dress, I could not even be sure of that. The force with which I’d been hit also suggested a man. But I thought of Mimi Peterson’s strong arms and legs; of Phoebe, who worked in stone (no, scratch her—her arms might be strong but this person had been much bigger than Phoebe); Artemisia? “Surely a man,” I said aloud, as if that settled it. But of course it didn’t.
That blow might have snapped your neck! the Voice said. And I said, “Hush up!” but I was rubbing the back of my neck unconsciously as I went back inside.
I returned to the watch room and sat down again at the typewriter. Should I work on Artemisia’s novella or Arthur Heyer’s ghost stories? I decided on the latter, due to their lack of any Artemisia connection. The title of Arthur’s manuscript was Ghostly Tales of the Central Coast. I prepared two title pages, inserting the word California on the second, as one can only suppose that many regions must have coasts that are central to them. Perhaps Arthur would be grateful for my suggestion; on the other hand, taking into account the way my luck had been running, perhaps not.
Then I typed Arthur’s long preface, in which he thanked half the population of Carmel and Monterey and every hermit in Big Sur (or so it seemed), and described his method of collecting “oral histories” in boring, pedantic terms. I had always thought titillation was the point of ghost stories, but to Arthur these tales were cultural artifacts. One could only hope the tales themselves would be less dry than the preface.
The first story, “The Little Lost Child,” got off to a less-than-promising start with a catalog of the communities and regions in which variants of this same tale appear. Then it listed the variations, thereby giving away part of the story and ruining the suspense. I made a note to suggest that he might place these bona fides, or whatever he wanted to call them, after the stories rather than before. And then I began to type “The Little Lost Child.”
A dashing Californio was riding his handsome horse over Carmel Hill one foggy summer night. He had been courting his señorita, who lived with her parents on a rancho in the Carmel Valley; it was late and he was tired and eager to get back to his house in Monterey.
Just as he approached the summit, he thought he heard something. What was that? He slowed his horse and listened carefully. It was the sound of … the sound of … someone sobbing!
The Californio walked his horse at a snail’s pace while his sharp eyes darted from one side of the road to the other, looking for the one who cried. It was a still night with no wind; the jingling of his spurs sounded clear and bright as bells. The sobbing had stopped. Perhaps he had imagined it?
But no; there it was again! With the heavy gray mist shrouding everything, the Californio—for the sake of convenience, shall we call him Juan?—Juan could barely see beyond his horse’s pricked ears. A sudden chill came over him, and an inexplicable desire to spur the steed to a gallop, to come down from Carmel Hill as fast as man and mount might fly.
“For shame!” He upbraided himself; then he called out more loudly: “Hola! Where are you?”
Ahead in the middle of the road a patch of fog swirled and cleared; the crying stopped midsob, and a child in a white nightgown was standing there.
“Pobrecito!” said Juan, sliding down from the saddle and approaching the child, a beautiful infant of about a year old, with golden hair and big dark eyes, a button nose and rosebud mouth, and a tiny chin that trembled. “Do not cry anymore,” said Juan. “We will find your mama and papa.”
The child smiled and raised its chubby arms in a plea to be picked up, which Juan did, smiling and marveling. Just such a beautiful child would be his one day soon, when he and his señorita were married. Tucking the infant against his chest, with a graceful bound and a jingle of spurs Juan leapt back into the saddle.
The horse, which was a strong animal with a brave heart, whinnied and reared. “What is wrong with you?” Juan scolded, struggling to get the animal under control with one hand, while with the other he held tightly the little lost child. The child whimpered. “See what you have done?” Juan went on to the horse. “You have upset the pobrecito, a poor little thing that has lost its parents.”
When the horse settled down Juan urged her forward at a slow pace, expecting at any moment for the fog to thin and reveal an overturned wagon, or perhaps a woman pinned beneath her fallen steed—for how else could this child come to be along the road?
“Can you tell me your name, pobrecito?” Juan cajoled. The child obligingly began to babble, but nothing it said made sense. Indeed, the sounds it made were like some strange foreign tongue, all full of gnashing and hissing. And yet the child was happy, for it laughed and waved its chubby starfish hands in the air. There was no overturned wagon, no fallen horse, nor any breaks in the brush along the side of the road where a wagon might have gone over.
A most peculiar feeling had come over the Californio. Although, like his horse, he was very brave and afraid of hardly anything, the chill he felt would not go away, and a sick sort of emptiness was creeping up his spine. Where had this child come from? It was really most peculiar.
The little lost child babbled on in its strange language, waving its hands about, quite content in Juan’s arms. But Juan was not content, he was in dismay. He looked down at the babe, and for a moment was reassured by the baby-grin and the angelic cloud of golden hair. “Truly you are a beautiful child,” Juan said. “I suppose until we find your mama and papa, I must take you home with me.”
The grinning child opened its rosebud lips, smiling wider … and wider … and wider. And the dashing Californio’s eyes grew wider, too, for the child’s mouth was full of teeth, crammed with teeth, row upon row of sharp, pointed, animal teeth.
“Madre de dios!” exclaimed Juan, crossing himself. “You are not human! What are you?”
The front doorbell jangled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed, thoroughly caught up in the story. I yelled out, “Just a minute!” although there was very little chance that I’d be heard down two
flights of stairs and through thick stone walls. I did not type, but quickly read the last few sentences of “The Little Lost Child”:
A growl came out of the infant’s throat, dark and low and threatening. “My name is Legion,” the baby said. And a very frightened but still dashing Californio leaned down out of the saddle, deposited the child by the side of the road, galloped off, and left it there. A warning: If ever you are crossing Carmel Hill and you hear a child crying, stop your ears but not your journey. Ride on by!
“Well,” I said, hastening down the stairs, smoothing my skirt along the way, “that was quite a story!” My head, which still felt a little strange, warned me to go more slowly, and I called out again, “I’m coming!”
I glanced at myself in the dining room mirror as I hurried past—the bruise along my cheekbone looked ghastly but there was not much I could do about it. I do not wear powder, and I doubt anyway that mere powder would have done much to disguise such a seriously awful shade of purplish red. Whoever was at the door would just have to take me as I was.
I had already jerked the door open when the thought occurred to me that I should have been cautious, opened it only an inch or so and peered out. Next time I would remember; this time all was well. The caller was none other than Braxton Furnival.
“Good morning,” he said, losing his polite smile as his eyes flickered over my bruised face. But Braxton was smooth; he recovered immediately, hiding his expression by tucking his head into a suave little bow that did not go at all with his big body. He was as well dressed as usual, though in a style less formal than I had heretofore seen him wear: a leather jacket in a sort of butterscotch color, a yellow ascot tie at the neck, soft wool trousers, boots. No hat.
“I found your communication,” he continued, “took you at your word, and came on to the lighthouse.”
“I am so glad you did,” I said, smiling, and stepping back. “Will you come in, Mr. Furnival?”
