I suspect that readers of this magazine enjoy a good ghostly tale from time to time, and one of the best American writers of such stories was Russell Kirk, although he might be better known as a political theorist. Ghostly Kirk (ghostly-kirk.weebly.com/) is a website that provides links to information about Kirk, among other things. One of those other things is a recording of Kirk telling ghostly stories at his home in 1993. Another is a link to Kirk's reading of “There's a Long, Long Trail A-Winding.” There's a lot to enjoy for fans of Kirk's work or ghostly tales in general.
The Passing Tramp (thepassingtramp.blogspot.com/) is a fine new blog devoted to the classic crime novel. So far it's featured excellent discussions of Edmund Crispin and J. Jefferson Farjeon, with much more to come. Judging from what's appeared, I'd say that this blog is going to make a major contribution to crime-fiction studies.
Pulp 300 (pulp300.wordpress.com/) isn't interested in the classics, but it's based on a great idea: “Traversing the full spectrum of pulp fiction in 300 words or less. Noir. Gold Medal. Men's Adventure. Western. Crime. Sci-fi. Espionage. Sword & Sorcery. Hard Boiled. Vigilante. Zombie. War Pulp. Mystery. Thriller. Supernatural. Shared World. Sleaze. Detective. Horror. High Fantasy. Erotica.” It is what it says. Recent reviews of Scott Phillips’ The Adjustment and Ken Bruen's Headstone will give you an idea of what to expect.
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Bill Crider is the author of The Wild Hog Murders, published by St. Martin's Press.
Copyright © 2012 by Bill Crider
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Novelette: MARSH ISLAND
by Lina Zeldovich
Lina Zeldovich was born in Russia and came to the United States at age twenty-one, but her stories read as if the U.S. were the country of her birth. Her fiction has been published in the anthology Murder New York Style,four Deadly Ink anthologies, and many online magazines. She's the recipient of two Writer's Digest fiction awards, the winner of the 2008 Deadly Ink short story contest, and a finalist for the Moondance Film Festival in the short-story category (the latter for “The Call of the Red Desert").
It was the day the wind nastily herded the grey clouds across the sky while ripping them apart and dripping the water from their torn bodies onto the earth like sap from a tree. It was the day Martha always feared yet expected, because it was as inevitable as the changing of the seasons. All things in the world came to an end, and so would her peaceful existence on her Marsh Island once the old ghost returned to claim his due. Or his payback—depending on how one looked at it.
That morning, Martha found the motorboat docked on the beach, the spare pair of oars tied together on its bottom. There was nothing else in the boat, but Martha instantly knew Richard was back. It made sense. He had gotten twenty-five years for what he had done, and it had been that long. Now the two of them were stuck together on this little stretch of land, a doubling of the island's modest population. By the end of the day, there would be only one of them alive. The question was who.
The wild geese that nested on the north side of the island, in the narrow wooded patch that separated Martha's house from the beach, were anxious also. They flapped their wings and stretched their necks as they let out shrill cries of distress into the damp air, as if warning her of the invasion. It was as if they sensed the silent menace the newcomer brought to their home. The geese didn't have to worry, but Martha did, and she no longer had the law on her side. The law had worn out like the old flowery dresses she had slipped into when she used to meet Richard on the south meadow.
Martha's family had owned the island since the eighteen hundreds. It was a fifty-acre piece of land, twenty miles east off the coast of Maine—a thin, hilly line on the horizon on clear days. The north shore had a beach where the geese took their little ones to swim and play. The south side had a meadow where Richard and she met way back when. In between lay a deep perilous marsh hugged by wild woods all around. Martha inherited the island once her father passed away. She was the only child left when her little sister died shortly after turning fifteen. Martha and Lauren used to run around the island together, and they knew every inch of its land, every puddle of its water, and every trick of its dangerous marsh. That was why when mainland people said that Lauren must have slipped off the path, perhaps scared by a sudden burst of marsh gas in the dark, Martha had grown quiet and discontent. Lauren knew the path like the back of her hand. Lauren had walked it a thousand times. Lauren didn't slip.
The geese still screeched as Martha went home, tense with anticipation. The game had begun. It would be a slow race, because they both knew speed didn't guarantee victory, the same way an alibi didn't guarantee freedom. Besides, they were both old now. She had arthritis, and who knew what tricks Richard's health played on him after all these years. Did he keep himself healthy? A smart man would have. But she could never figure out whether Richard was smart. He was smug, which was why he did what he did, the egotistic self-centered bastard, but smart was not the adjective she'd use to describe him. She had him beat at the end and she would beat him again. Even if she had to lay her life on the line like a bunch of casino chips on a gambling table.
At home, she spent some time preparing for the race. She put on a jacket and a pair of waterproof pants. She found her father's old fishing boots, so tall she had to cut off the tops in order for her feet to reach the bottoms. They had non-skid rubbery soles, which were perfect for walking in the wetlands, but bad for running. They were two sizes too big, so even walking in them was difficult, but they'd come off easily when it was time to ditch them. Besides, she didn't expect to walk around much. Richard would wait for her in the north woods, near the house and his boat. Even if he was nostalgic about the south meadow, he wouldn't dare to cross the marsh. He didn't know the path.
Martha left the house, locked the door, and shuffled down the stairs in her fishing boots, two sizes too big.
* * * *
Richard saw her first. She was roaming through the woods, leaning heavily on her walking stick, her boots making swishing noises on the leafy soil. That's why she didn't hear him. She only heard him when he called her name. He was about twenty feet away and she couldn't see him very clearly, yet she noticed that he had gotten old. Time did this to people, and he sure did time.
She stood for a few moments, not knowing how to start the conversation. She'd let him speak first, if he had the words.
He uttered his version of a hello. “It's been a long time.”
“Sure has,” Martha uttered hers.
There was more silence.
“You've changed,” he observed. “Not a lot, but somewhat.”
Martha took time to reply. “You haven't,” she finally answered.
He grinned, showing his bad teeth in an unkind smile.
“That's a lie. I've changed. Prison changes people.”
Martha pursed her lips, waiting. The wind gushed, the droplets of water fell from the sky spattering her salt-and-pepper hair. It was Richard who started it all, so she was letting him have the floor.
“So how have you been, Martha?” Richard asked, still not moving. “You look healthy. You ever get married and have kids and family, and all that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Martha sighed. “I just stayed on my island,” she said simply. It was too hard to explain. Perhaps she was one of those people who only fall in love once.
Richard waited motionlessly.
“You didn't do right by me, Martha,” he finally said. “You didn't do right by me.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“You lied, Martha!” He burst out in anger. “You lied to the judge! I never did anything. I wasn't even on the island that night.”
“You were here the last warm night of October.”
“Your sister never wrote that note. She couldn't have! I never promised to meet her!”
Martha swallowed hard. “I found it under her bed. I didn't have it the first day of
the trial, but I found it later.”
“You're lying!” Richard snapped. “You knew the judge was going to set me free because I was innocent, so you made it up. You were mad at me, Martha, you were jealous and you'd do anything to send me to jail.”
A slow fury rose from the bottom of Martha's gut like the marsh gas that bubbled up through its spongy surface until it broke free into the air. He had nerve, that bastard.
“I wanted justice!” she croaked, her voice suddenly hoarse and failing. “I was not jealous!”
“Yes, you were,” he retorted. “You were jealous of your sister. You still are. She was more of a woman than you ever were! You were a cold fish while she had hot blood in her little body. Too bad things worked out the way they did.”
Martha choked on her reply. She knew what Richard was trying to do. He wanted to drive her mad with anger, challenge her to the first move—and have her fail. But she wasn't going to fall into that trap. She hit Richard with his own weapon instead. Anger was a powerful instrument, and he never dealt well with it.
“Lauren left the note on the dresser before she went to see you that night,” she said calmly. “The wind must've blown it off so it stayed under her bed until I found it the morning I had to go to court. She said you were coming to pick her up.”
Even through the bushes, Martha saw her cannonball reach its target. Richard shook in rage.
“I was not picking her up! I was not on the island! I had a witness who confirmed I spent the night in Grover's pub. On the mainland!”
“Only part of the night, Richard.” Martha had her comeback ready. She plunged into full attack mode. “You made a promise to her with no intention to keep it. You tricked her. You know what your real intention was.”
“Liar!” Richard lost it and lunged forward, breaking through the blackberry bushes to get her. Martha scurried away as fast as she could in her ill-fitting boots, helping herself with her stick. She had thrown him the bait and he took it.
She led him through the thicket easily, as she knew the best spots to climb over fallen trees or duck under tangled ivy. Richard fell behind and Martha heard him hacking in the distance, as he was breaking through the shrubs. So he had brought an ax. And all she had was a walking stick and a flashlight, in case they got stuck in the woods until dark. She led him around in circles like a leprechaun and he followed her like a bull infuriated by a bullfighter's darts. When her legs started complaining inside her huge uncomfortable boots, she decided it was time to head for the marsh. She needed to save her strength for later.
She left the thicket and waited for Richard in the clearing. She leaned against a tree, hugged her walking stick, and her memories got the better of her, taking away her concentration. Twenty-five years back in time. Rewound. She thought she was in love. She was sure she was in love. Yes, of course, she was in love!
Martha had met Richard on a stock-up trip she took with her father in early summer. For the rest of the season, Richard rode his boat to the south meadow every chance he got, the marsh being a safety net between their hideout and Martha's father with his gun. The old man never bothered crossing the marsh even though he knew the path, because all the fish swam under the north rocks, which was why the geese nested there. Martha's father didn't trust any man who'd lay an eye on his daughter, despite her arguments that she'd end up an old spinster if he didn't stop. The irony of life was that she did end up an old spinster, but it wasn't exactly her father's fault.
The south meadow hid them in its tall grass, where they played the same game every time: Richard's hands all over her, in her dress and under it, fighting her firm and invariable “no.” Martha knew her father would kill her. He could barely manage the thought of marrying her off. Worst of all, he didn't like Richard, so she had to keep their games secret until either she won his good will or worked up her courage to fight. But Richard's patience was thinning.
“You're not a teenage girl,” he used to tell her, the frustration in his voice making her skin tingle. “You're twenty-four, for Christ sake. How long will he keep you on this island like an imprisoned nun?”
It was late October when Richard had lost it—one of the last few warm nights of the year before the trees turned completely bare and the winter cold sealed the earth. Mother Nature was taking their meeting place away until the next spring, and Richard was angry. He was angry at himself for taking so much time, at Martha for being so stubborn, and even at Mother Nature. He had lost it to anger then and he would lose it to anger now.
A chopping sound of the ax, sharp and close, brought Martha back to reality in an instant. Richard broke through the thicket and stepped into an opening. She saw him clearly for the first time after twenty-five years. He was covered with twigs, leaves, and spider webs and his breathing was labored. His skin was pale and wrinkly like a Thanksgiving turkey before you put it in the oven. Martha might've remembered him handsome and muscled, but that was a thing of the past. She realized her cheeks were slightly wet, which could've been the water falling down from the torn clouds. Or from the drizzling trees. She wiped it off with the back of her hand and blinked, squeezing that goddamn water out of her eyes to get Richard and his ax back in focus. The marsh lay right behind her so she felt safe.
“Here, Richard,” she spoke. It was time to throw another malicious dart at him to keep him on her tail. “She disappeared here, not too far from where we stand now. Does this place look familiar to you?”
She watched his face twist in a grimace.
“Liar,” he croaked, lifting his ax. “You could've pushed her off the path yourself for all I know. Bet you did. And then you sent me to jail!”
He made a swinging move with his ax and Martha scampered, leading him astray, before her memories returned and flooded her cheeks with little streams of water again. The ground underneath her feet changed. From firm and solid it became spongy and quivery, responding to her steps with dubious vibrations rather than with stable support. A few more feet and her steps became wet and smoochy, her feet sinking in heavily. Here, about a foot away from the thin birch tree, was the path.
Submerged in mud, the path could only be walked by feel. To the touch, it felt like a rocky passage, about two feet wide and easy to walk on, as long as you knew all the twists and turns of its route. Martha always thought that it must've been the top of a cliff once surrounded by a body of water that eventually thickened into a marsh. Martha and her sister knew every inch of that path, so the thought of Lauren slipping off it was incomprehensible. They had walked it in the night, in the rain, and even with their eyes closed. And if the marsh swelled unusually deep after heavy rains, one could always feel it with a pole.
Martha stepped onto the path and sloshed along, her feet immersed in black spongy substance, but Richard was hesitant to follow.
“Where are you taking me?” he questioned angrily as he probed the mud with his rubber boot. “You won't run away from me this time. I'll catch you. If you can walk it, I can walk it too.”
“So could Lauren,” Martha told him to fuel his fury. “That's why I hate when people say she slipped off by mistake. This was no mistake, and you know it.”
“I did not kill Lauren!” he roared at her. “You made it sound like I threw her in this goddamn marsh, but I know I'm innocent. I didn't promise to meet her. I didn't come here. You must've scribbled that note yourself, Martha! I spent twenty-five years in jail for a crime I didn't commit! That sin is on your conscience and you know it.”
“And her death is on yours, whatever way you put it,” Martha snapped. She knew exactly what to say to make him follow her into the marsh. “I didn't scribble that note, but I know it by heart. It said, ‘Dear Father and sister, I will not be here tomorrow, but don't worry about me. Richard Burne and I are going to the mainland to get married. I will meet him in the south meadow and we will take his boat to the village to get married in the church. I should be back in a day or so, but you must promise me that you will not hold this against me and yo
u won't be mad. I will see you soon. Lauren.'”
Martha dodged a stone Richard threw at her as she finished. Her feet slipped and she nearly lost her footing on the rocks. She waded through the mud away from him before another stone threw her off balance and into the black hungry abyss, right where it had taken her sister. There was a spot where the path abruptly dropped knee-deep and then dove even deeper, so if you didn't know it returned three steps later, you'd turn back right away. And if you spun around in the mud too franticly, you could lose your balance and fall into the black soppy mire, which would hug you with all its might, hug you till your last scream, hug you till you were gone.
Only once before in her life had Martha lost her footing on the slippery rocks—that last warm night of October when she had run away from Richard, frantic and upset. He was fed up with her, and they had a fight, violent as the wind that rattled the bare bony branches over their heads. He had grabbed her and pinned her to the ground, but she threw a handful of dirt in his eyes. He had let go of her for a second and before he grabbed her again, she swung a heavy fallen tree branch across his face, and ran away. Thank God she snatched a stick before she entered the marsh or she might never have made it through. Still shaking, she sneaked into the house and tiptoed into her room, which she shared with her sister, happy not to draw a sound from Lauren's bed. Little did she know Lauren was not in her bed. Lauren had followed her to the meadow that night, full of teenage curiosity and thirst for adventure. Lauren came home much later, when the sun was already climbing up in the sky, her clothes a mess and her mind in mayhem. Only Lauren wouldn't say anything about it for months—until she could no longer keep it to herself.
Martha waded along the path until the marsh grew wider, boasting its power. It had been slowly eating up the land from underneath the trees that grew on the border. Some of them still stood, others caved and tilted over the mud, their roots still grasping at the soil. Their crooked limbs hung over what looked like a small island in the middle of the marsh. The island was seeded with grass and even a few flowers that bloomed shyly under the overhanging branches. Yet it wasn't an island at all. It was a coagulated patch formed by fallen trees and soil accumulated on top. It gave an impression of a walkable surface, but was in fact a bottomless abyss. It even felt like solid ground if you stepped on its mossy hummocks, but they couldn't sustain you for long, giving you an illusion of safety until your feet fell through and you plummeted into the hungry mush, even deeper than you would've when falling off the rocky path.
EQMM, May 2012 Page 12
