Across The Sea (30 page)

At this point, Francis yelled,
“What?” with much incredulity.

Captain Bongard of the HMS
York, who was also ordered to attend the meeting, made a request
then to have his ship searched. He assured everyone that there was
no such contraption taken aboard by Michael. Michael, Francis, and
Lily were asked to step outside, and after much discussion, it was
agreed (although reluctantly on Admiral Strick’s part) that Michael
be released.

As Michael made preparations
for his and Francis’ journey back to Langer, Lily wondered how she,
herself, would be returned to her uncle’s home. Captain Strick came
to her then and offered to have her stay with him and his wife and
children for a while. She could be tutored here in London, and in
his spare time, Captain Strick could teach her more about the Navy
and the sea, just as her father once had. Mica was welcomed to join
the Strick family stables as well. Lily was ecstatic. A letter was
sent to her uncle, requesting permission.

“We’re leaving in the next few
minutes,” Francis said to Lily.

Lily turned to face him.

She had tears in her eyes. As
did Francis. She pulled him into her arms and hugged him fiercely.
He hugged her back, just as strongly.

“We’ll always be friends,
okay?” Lily said. “Even though we’re saying goodbye now.”

“To you,” Francis replied,
“I’ll never say goodbye.”

* * *

In Langer, Michael and Francis
stepped out of a horse drawn carriage on the pathway leading up to
their home. Francis ran. In front of their house, their father sat
on a stool looking off in the distance at the sun setting at the
end of a long day. He looked despondent.

“Father!” Francis bellowed.

Francis’ father shook, as if
woken from a dream.

“Father!” Francis yelled again,
nearing him.

Francis’ father looked on,
befuddled.

Francis’ mother ran out from
the house.

“Where did you run off to?” she
screamed, enfolding her arms around him. “Where were you?”

“Far away,” Francis replied,
hugging her back.

“You’re never to run away
again,” his father spoke, anger tingeing his voice. “We’ve not
slept nor eaten since you’ve left.”

As Francis’ mother pulled back,
Francis looked up at both his parents. They had deep pools of water
in their eyes, and their faces looked gaunt. Older. Francis felt
terrible for them.
What did I put them through?

His mother stared at him.

“You’re different,” she said.
“What happened?”

“I found him,” Francis
answered.

“Who?” his father asked. “Who
did you find?”

“Francis!” Margaret shrieked,
charging at him from the house. She clasped her arms around
him.

“Francis,” his mother began,
sounding scared. “Who did you find?”

“He’s alive,” Francis replied.
“And he’s come back. Home. He’s here with me now. Look behind me on
the path. He should be arriving now.”

Francis’ parents refused to
look past him.

“Who?” his father asked again,
his voice quivering.

“Look, Mother,” Francis said.
“Please. He’s right behind me.”

Francis’ mother did not want
to, but she made herself. She lifted her gaze to the pathway.

A stranger stood there. He was
clean-shaven, much too thin, but handsome just the same. She
squinted as this young man took a few steps closer. He grinned. She
recognized that spark in his eyes. She started to cry. Michael ran
to her and scooped her up in his arms. Margaret hugged her arms
around his legs. Francis’ father looked on, tears falling from his
own eyes. He could not help himself; he put his arms around
everyone, holding them close.

* * *

That night, after the boys had
finished telling of their adventures, Francis’ father turned to
Francis. He, too, saw a different boy now. He saw someone who was
older, wiser and perhaps… perhaps… he saw a hero.

* * *

For days afterward, everyone in
Langer asked Francis how he had found his brother and what he had
seen out at sea. He never told anyone much of Bodin. Or the fact
that he had met the real Sir Robert of Dreighton. Neither did
Michael.

Everyone claimed that both of
them did not speak enough of their travels. Ackley and Harold, both
of whom had grown taller since Francis had disappeared, always
asked questions about what happened and as days passed, Francis
found it very hard to answer them. Many times, Francis would wander
off on his own, appearing downhearted.

“You’ve been very quiet
lately,” Michael said one day.

“So have you,” Francis
countered.

“I guess so,” Michael said,
nodding his head. “But you’re my little brother. It would be a
waste for you to become a melancholic man just yet.”

Francis looked up into
Michael’s eyes, saying nothing.

“It’s still so soon since we’ve
arrived,” Michael added. “But after some time, you’ll be able to
talk to people again, even those who didn’t take part in the search
for the Acadae.”

Francis knew that Michael spoke
the truth. He was relieved that Michael knew exactly how he felt
even when he himself could not express it in words. However, it did
not take away the angst, deep in his heart; the feeling that he was
in a dark, winding tunnel all by himself and he could see no end or
light shining in. Francis had much difficulty believing that he
would ever feel at home here in this village again.

“Is the lighthouse really
haunted?” he asked Michael, out of the blue.

Michael smiled, surprised. “So
they say,” he answered. “I’m not sure that it really has a ghost
but it is…” Michael paused, trying to think of the best way to
convey his thoughts. “It’s,” he began again. “It… certainly has a
sentiment of sadness ingrained in its round walls. Loss.”

And when he said that last
word, his eyes met Francis’.

Francis’ own eyes began to tear
up. He did not know why. “Did you ever find anything,” he asked,
“when you used to go there with your friends?”

Michael shook his head. “No,”
he replied.

“What happened there? Did the
lighthouse keeper really die inside?”

“They say that when the
lighthouse keeper was alive, he was a very angry man. He never came
ashore and had all of his food and supplies delivered to him. One
day, someone from the village rowed out to warn him that a cruel
storm was on its way, likely to cause a lot of damage to the
lighthouse. The keeper was also advised that he should come inland
for safety, but the keeper paid no attention. Legend has it that
when the ruthless storm finally hit, the keeper walked out onto the
high balcony as a wave higher than the lighthouse itself wrapped
around the structure and struck the keeper, washing him away,
drowning him.”

* * *

That afternoon, by his lonesome,
Francis walked down the wooded path toward the shore. He sat down
on the pebbles and sand and stared out at the abandoned lighthouse.
The water was peaceful. Nothing moved. He sat there all
afternoon.

As the sun began its silent
descent into the horizon, Francis stood and walked toward Digby’s
old rowboat. It was still tied to the trunk of the tree, exactly
where Francis and his friends had left it. Francis untied it and
pulled it toward the water. With the two oars inside, he rowed
out.

The river remained calm, quiet;
its surface a still sheet of clear vellum. All Francis could hear
was the gentle “plop” and “gloop’ of the oars dipping in and out of
the water.

When Francis neared the island
and its solitary lighthouse, he lifted both oars and placed each
inside the boat. He then jumped out into the shallow water and
pulled the boat up onto the sandy shore. He looked up at the
lighthouse. He was not excited like he used to get whenever he and
Ackley dared to venture here. He found it pleasant now. It was nice
to be away from everything, everyone.

He walked toward the maroon
door. He lifted its latch and pushed it open, revealing the unlit,
first floor. He stepped toward the ladder and climbed to the second
floor, and then to the third.

He was now enveloped in
complete black.

And alone.

“I have been waiting for
you…”

Francis turned, alert.

A flame was lit. The room
alighted with the glow of a lantern.

And Francis stood across the
room from Bodin, who grinned down at him.

“What are you doing here?”
Francis asked, astounded, and not certain whether he was dreaming
this or not.

“I’ve been waiting a few days,”
Bodin replied. “I thought you would know to come find me here.”

“I didn’t,” Francis admitted,
taking a few steps closer. “Why did you leave Alianna’s island
without saying anything? You never even said goodbye.”

“You were all safe then. If I
had stayed until we reached England, young Strick would have had me
captured and imprisoned.”

“No,” Francis disagreed,
shaking his head. “He wouldn’t have.”

“He would have been given no
other choice, Francis.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you… to
say goodbye. Finally.”

Francis said nothing, growing
sad then. He did not know with certainty what he had felt when he
had first seen Bodin just now. It had felt like happiness, joy. Now
those feelings were dashed. Francis nodded. “So goodbye I guess,”
is all he could think of to say.

Bodin smiled. Francis smiled
back, in spite of himself.

“You would do best to be on
your way now,” Bodin advised. “I have to leave again and you can’t
know the means or the destination.”

“What are you going to do now?”
Francis asked. “Will you still be for hire? Doing bad things?”

“Well…” Bodin answered. “I’ve
lived a long life. And I’ve done many wrongs. With the little time
I’ve left, I’m going to try to right a few.”

Francis smiled again.

“Go,” Bodin said.

Francis turned to leave.

“Francis,” Bodin said, after
him.

Francis turned around.

“I came… to say thank you… for
saving me. I don't know when, or how. I just know that it was you.
That’s really why I came. ”

“If you ever need any help,”
Francis offered, “on your new adventures. Please. Come find
me.”

“I will.” Bodin smiled again.
“When you least expect it, on a cold night, you may find me at your
window.”

* * *

As Francis exited lighthouse, he
walked straight to the rowboat, careful not to look back. On the
mainland, as he stepped up the wooded path, he still did not look
back. Even on the high cliff, overlooking the river and lighthouse,
he only looked ahead. On the horizon, lit only by the orange glow
of the sleep-heavy, setting sun, Michael was sitting on the grass,
staring out at the water. Michael turned, and smiled up at his
younger brother. Francis smiled back. Both had returned from
Atlantis very different. It was then that Francis realized that
even though one adventure might be behind them, many more were yet
to come.

THE END

# # #

I want to take the next few
lines to let you how grateful I am to have you read my story. I
wrote
Across The Sea
when my wife and I lived in a small
one-bedroom apartment in Toronto and created the entire thing at a
desk which I crammed inside a closet filled with my ratty clothes.
That closet became my isolated workshop as I went to work trying to
put into words this complicated tale with its diverse characters
who lived inside my head. My cat sometimes visited me and lay on my
lap as I typed away, and my wife sometimes knocked on my closet
door and moved the cat so she could sit on my lap herself and see
how things were coming along. So I guess my workshop wasn’t as
isolated as I thought, which was a blessing. Even though I wrote
this story when I was living modestly, I was in love (still am),
happy, and eager to step through new, open doorways. My wish as I
write this is that this energy pops off the screen, the page,
however my story has found its way to you. It is this energy which
I have charged myself to pass on to you.

Much love,

your new friend,

Eric

Eric lives in Brampton, Ontario,
Canada with his wife, toddler son and cat. He loves reading,
writing, dancing, and the TV show
Lost
.

[email protected]