by Trisha Telep
“You’re right, Mrs Cardenas, there’s nothing like this in space,” I said, and she beamed.
“How long will you be staying?” Ethan asked, his voice neutral.
“Not very long,” I said, feeling awful at the look on his mother’s face. “I do plan to sell and return to Bifrost Station. I just needed to check on the place – I mean, I don’t have to, but—” I quit my excuses. After all, I could hardly tell them I had seen a ghost.
“I see,” Mrs Cardenas said. She glanced at her son. “Well, if you hurry, Ethan can get you there and back before dark.”
“Oh no, I intend to stay the night,” I blurted in a rush, just as Ethan said, “We can’t do it in one afternoon, Ma.”
We looked at each other.
“Not if you really want to see the place,” he amended.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I do. Mrs Cardenas, the lawyers told me they prepared the house for my arrival and it’s perfectly habitable. Surely Ethan ferried over the supplies and workers?” I looked over at him for support.
He nodded, but reluctantly. “It’s all ready. They upgraded the Stirling heat exchanger and fixed the roof and some other stuff.”
I remembered the cranky old Stirling that used to creak and groan and keep me awake at night.
“So you see? Everything is set. In fact, the wind is kicking up. We should probably go before it gets worse,” I said, then winced inwardly. I sounded as if I was eager to be rid of Mrs Cardenas, but I really just wanted to reassure her.
Mrs Cardenas didn’t seem offended. She patted my hand. “I know you’re anxious to be on your way, Bea, but I just think—” she didn’t finish. “Ethan, perhaps you should stay, too.”
“What?!” We both exclaimed. Ethan looked as shocked as I did. And perversely, that irritated me.
Despite her worry, Mrs Cardenas tried to keep from smiling. “I just think that Bea shouldn’t be alone on Tern Island, especially so soon after returning from space.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Really. I appreciate your concern, but Ethan doesn’t need to babysit me.”
“Tell you what, Ma,” Ethan said. He cast an anxious eye at the weather. “We’ll see how it goes. If the weather is too bad, or if Bea doesn’t feel comfortable about being by herself, we’ll update accordingly.”
Mrs Cardenas smiled up at her son and he kissed her on the cheek, and then picked up my duffle bag with an ease that I envied. She watched us from the window of the office while I trailed after him to his boat.
“What’s the big deal about me staying alone on Tern Island?” I asked him. He looked at me and sighed.
“My mom, she thinks there’s something not right about that house. And I don’t know, Bea – you grew up there. You tell me.”
I opened my mouth to say something and found I couldn’t lie. Back then Ethan came and played with me whenever his father ferried over supplies, but he wasn’t there every day, and his parents never let him stay overnight. Some of that was due to my grandfather, of course. At my expression, Ethan cocked an eyebrow as if to say, “See?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said finally. And maybe it’s about damn time that someone told the ghosts of Tern Island that. As if he could hear that last unspoken bit, he snorted and shook his head.
We reached the ship, and my heart sank further. It wasn’t a ship but a mere boat, rusted and peeling, with a spray-soaked deck and a small pilothouse aft.
“Now, don’t judge,” he said, taking in my appraisal. “She’s a good little ship, especially in weather like this.”
“Not judging,” I promised, and made a cross-my-heart gesture. He laughed and took my hand, helping me jump onto the swaying deck. He threw my duffle bag to me and hopped on board. He untied the lines and coiled them efficiently and once again beckoned me.
“Come into the wheelhouse with me – there’s no heat, but it’ll be warmer than on the deck.” We all squeezed into the wheelhouse – him, the duffle bag, and me – and with the door closed it was warmer, though still dank. He started the engine, and I could smell the acrid chemical note of biodiesel.
The boat dipped and swayed as it pulled away from the wharf. He piloted with concentration, standing easily as we bounced along through the waves. I swallowed nausea. The odors from the engine and the sea were strong, and overwhelming me with scent memories.
“You can open the door if you need fresh air,” he shouted over his shoulder. I shifted the duffle bag and opened the door a crack, and the fresh sea air rushed in, making my eyes water but relieving my stomach. I kept my gaze fixed firmly on the bow as it plowed through the waves, the ocean frothing over it like a scene out of The Odyssey. I, too, was going home to my island, but in my case there would be no welcoming dog, no waiting wife to recognize me. Unlike Ulysses, I intended to leave as soon as I had settled my affairs.
The island was just a dot at first, and then it steadily grew until the engine slowed and sputtered, and we puttered gently alongside the long jetty until Ethan cut the engine and we drifted.
“Give me a hand,” he said, and I followed him out on deck. He jumped the distance between the deck and the jetty. I threw out the ropes, and he made his little boat fast with quick knots. I grabbed my duffle, threw it onto the jetty and followed more awkwardly, unaccustomed gravity complicating my movement. I slipped and he caught me, holding me close. His eyes had green flecks, and he had dimples around his mouth. I was staring and reddened. He steadied me and set me back a step, but he didn’t let me go.
“Don’t fall, Captain,” he said softly, and the way he said it made it sound like a caress. “Water’s cold.”
“I remember,” I said. You could only swim in August, and even then it was brutally cold. Ethan and I used to swim until our lips were blue and then run shivering into the house, where Mrs Dawes gave us hot chocolate and wrapped us in enormous towels.
At the same moment, we both realized he was still holding onto me. Ethan coughed and set me aside, and I turned to look at the house looming on a rise near the shore. I remembered its gables and roofs silhouetted against the wintry sky, a dark presence of stone and slate. The lighthouse thrust at the sky, white stone against a dark cloud. For a second it looked as if there were a light in the window, but I shut my eyes and looked again, and it was gone.
In a few minutes I would be alone in the house of my childhood. I could sense my own reluctance, and it irritated me. I steeled myself, picked up my duffle bag, and turned to Ethan.
“Well,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Look,” he said. “I can come up with you, if you like.” I could tell he didn’t mean it, the way he cast an anxious look at his boat. The wind had picked up, and the waves crashing over the end of the jetty were increasing. The boat bobbed and bounced. I shook my head.
“I’ll be okay.” I attempted a smile. “They’re not really ghosts, just memories, and they can’t hurt me anymore.” It was the first time I’d ever admitted it, I thought ruefully.
“If I were you, I’d burn the place down,” he blurted. He caught himself. “Bea, if you need anything, just call, okay?”
“I will. You better be going. Weather’s kicking up.”
As if to emphasize my words, a wave crashed over the end of the jetty, spattering us with a curtain of spray and foam.
He surprised me with a comforting hug, and a kiss on my scarred cheek, kind and all the sweeter for it. Then he let me go and I hefted the duffle bag and headed up toward the house. Behind me the boat chugged into life and pulled away from the jetty.
I felt for the key in my coat pocket. The lawyers had sent it, along with a new set of keys, but this was the one that I remembered. It was ornate, tarnished brass. I had been fascinated with it as a child. At the door, I set down my duffle bag and pulled it out.
Something caught my attention and I turned sharply. The lighthouse was a dark shape in the gloom now, no longer white under the cloud. That’s why the tiny flash of light was able to get my attention as
much as it did. But when I looked straight at it, the tower stayed dark.
Some stars can only be seen out of the corner of the eye. But that’s on a planet such as Earth, with an atmosphere. Out in space stars are defiantly bright. Still, I knew the trick of looking sidelong, and I knew that I would have to practice it, but later. I wanted – needed – to get inside. Deliberately, I turned my back on the lighthouse, put the key in the lock, and with some effort turned it. It scraped but the tumblers fell into place.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
The house was warm, blessedly so, but gloomy, with very little light coming in through the high windows. I set my bag down, closed the door behind me, and touched the light plate where I remembered it. The warm glow that came up chased away the gloom, and I let out my breath.
The rich red carpet under the antique electric chandelier looked as warm as it had when I’d been a child, sitting in the ornate central medallion, playing with my toys. I remembered my grandfather thundering at me for leaving behind a sharp block that he had stepped on in the middle of the night in his wanderings.
His wanderings . . . I remembered those, too – the heavy-footed walkabouts in the night, creaking along the hallway, muttering to himself. I had asked the housekeeper Mrs Dawes about it once. She only told me to hush, that old men had to get up and about in the middle of the night, and there was nothing to be afraid of. And I knew that to be true, but then, why was my door always locked from the outside during the wanderings?
And one time it had stayed locked even past daylight, and I had shouted until I was hoarse and screamed and cried and wet myself, until at around mid-morning Mrs Dawes had come hurrying up the stairs, breathing hard, and scolded me for locking myself in, her eyes darting about the way people do when they lie.
I wandered around the house now, turning up the lights as I went. There was the parlor with the furniture covered with sheets. The dining room was shrouded as well. The kitchen was cheerful, though. The fridge hummed, and I peeked in. As the lawyers had promised and Ethan had confirmed, it was well stocked. The pantry was filled with dry goods, and someone had set out clean dishes for me. The kitchen smelled of freshness. I turned on the water and grabbed a glass, drinking the icy coldness of sweet water straight from the sky. I had forgotten how water tasted. In cities it was as filtered as it was on Bifrost Station.
I set the glass down on the farmhouse kitchen table and poked around a bit more. There was the ancient house phone that connected to the office on shore. There was the door to the root cellar, but it was locked. My grandfather used to store his wine and Scotch down there. I wondered if there was a stray bottle or two – a drink would be nice. I had left the other set of keys in my duffle bag, and I decided that despite my inclination for facing things head on, investigating the cellar could wait for morning.
I left the lights on and went up the stairs, turning on lights as I came across them. I looked into all the bedrooms except mine. There was grandfather’s, with its lovely fireplace and mantel. Incongruously, there was a hospital bed in place of the massive four-poster that used to be there. I wondered why no one had come to remove it. It was sleek and white and shiny, still new with the latest med-tech.
The next bedroom was empty. Then there was a bathroom, with its tub big enough to swim in, and the tiles still bright blue and white, with dolphins cavorting in green waves. I suddenly wanted a bath. I had not had one since I left Earth. Here I could be as frivolous with water as I wished.
I saved my bedroom for last. I paused in front of the door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open. I fumbled for the light switch, and slowly the darkness gave way.
My grandfather had not changed a thing. There was the child’s bed, too small for me when I left as a gawky teenager. There were my books and vids. The books were old relics of a previous age. I had a bright new reader but I preferred the books, even the musty-smelling ones. The vids had long gone dark, the gel memory having faded, but I picked one up and shook it, and for a moment a bright image of a horse galloping over a beach appeared in the air in front of me, and then ghosted away apologetically. I set it down on my bed and wandered around the room. The pictures on the walls stared down at me. Some were of animals – I remembered my owl phase – and there were the rock stars and the cute movie-star boys, young and non-threatening. I was far past that stage, and I thought of Ethan’s green-flecked eyes and the dimples around his mouth, the strength in his arms as he had caught me. Gravity had its good points, I thought.
There was a dresser, my desk, and a clothes closet. I hesitated. The closet door was barely ajar. I remembered that it didn’t like to stay closed. I hated it. I felt as if sometimes it moved from within, as if something watched me. One of my bedtime rituals had been to jam my desk chair under the doorknob to keep the door firmly closed. And once, when I thought I had closed it, I had woken in the middle of the night with the chair by the desk, and the closet door opening, ever so slightly, a tiny bit more as I stared at it. And my grandfather, wandering the halls, muttering and dragging his feet . . .
This was ridiculous. I reached out to yank open the closet door when I heard a loud bang from downstairs.
I jumped and gave a little shriek. My heart hammering so hard I was almost fainting, I backed out of the room and went to the top of the stairs.
“Who’s there?” I shouted. It was an island for goodness’ sakes. I was the only one home. I hadn’t closed the front door completely, that’s all.
Sure enough, I went downstairs and saw the front door wide open, banging against the wall with every gust of wind. Another gust drove rain onto the floor, wetting the flagstones and the rug, and cold air blasted the house. I cursed myself and went to push the door closed when another blink in the darkness caught my eye. I stood there, framed in the doorway, the house lights all blazing behind me, and stared at the dark lighthouse at the tip of the island. I could hear the crash of the waves and I was getting soaked with rain, and finally I saw it again. A light – a faded, barely visible light, fluttered weakly in the tower. I frowned. I couldn’t understand what kind of light it was. It flickered and was barely bright and seemed to flutter . . .
Wait. Could it be candlelight?
The wind shrieked up around me and almost tore the door from my grasp. I came to my senses and pushed it closed and locked it for good measure, and the cold and the noise abated. I found myself hoping that Ethan had made it back to shore okay.
The steady thrumming from the Stirling heat exchanger in the basement eased my nerves. It sounded comforting and familiar, reminiscent of Bifrost Station, whose mechanical heartbeat was a sign that all was safe and sound.
I shivered in my wet clothes. It was time to change and settle in for the night.
The bathroom steamed up luxuriously, and I stripped out of my wet clothes and stepped into the full tub. I sank back and let my eyes close, enjoying the near sensation of weightlessness that the water gave me. The bath soothed my aching muscles and bones, so unaccustomed to one-g. Gravity was a burden, something we spacers have to relearn. There had been stories of people just returned who set a cup aside in mid-air and were surprised to see it drop. Worse were the spacers who pushed off of balconies or second stories without a single thought. Some of us have been exiled permanently, unable ever to return to Earth because of bones that have become so fragile that the forces of re-entry would turn them into dust.
I dozed, half-asleep, and ended up in the middle of a dream in which Ethan’s ferry boat was crashing into the station and I was unable to stop it. The impact shuddered me, and the ferry broke apart in a bloom of fire, fed by the explosive decompression of station air.
I woke with a jerk and a splash, gasping as I sent cooled water up my nose. Disoriented, I wondered what had woken me, when I heard it again – a bang, much like the first time. The front door slamming open, and the rising sound of the storm as it wailed around and inside the house.
But I had locked the door.
> I got up, heavy and clumsy as a mermaid on land, and fumbled for the big soft towel. I dried off hastily and then, cursing because I had forgotten to get dry clothes from my duffle bag, I struggled back into wet clothing and pulled on my boots once more. All the good the bath had done me vanished in a clammy moment.
At the top of the stairs, I could see the front door banging back and forth again, the storm flinging rain inside onto the red carpet of the hall.
I hurried down and closed it again, locked it again, and let my heartbeat subside as the warmth returned to the house.
“Beatriz Sabatini,” I scolded myself out loud. “Get a hold of yourself. You are an experienced pilot and spacer with millions of miles of vacuum under your belt. Stop acting like a child.”
I needed to change into dry clothes. With deliberation I went to pick up my duffle bag. It wasn’t there. Confused, I turned all the way around. Nowhere. I certainly hadn’t lugged it around with me when I’d first got in. I had dropped it just inside the entrance.
There was a large wet spot by the front door. A faint trail of wet gleamed across the wood floor where something large had been dragged.
Something steeled inside me. I grew calm, making my heartbeat slow and my breath even. I picked up a fire iron from the hearth, hefted it and followed the wet trail. I held my breath and listened for other breathing sounds, but the only background noise was the rhythmic movement of the Stirling.
The wet trail led to the kitchen, and now I could see small bare footprints. A child? The bag was heavy even if you didn’t have zero-g muscles. How could a child drag it?
You know which child, I told myself. But I still didn’t want to believe it.
The cellar door was open, cold musty wet air flowing up from it like air from an opened grave. Child or no child, I lifted the poker and called out.
“Come on out of there.”
