He
picked up the toolbox and the canvas bag, gestured at the gallon jugs.
"Can you handle those?"
I
pulled on the watchcap and picked up the jugs. "Yeah."
"What
about this?"
He
reached into the shadows and grabbed a wooden pole about six feet long, tipped
with a lethal-looking bronze spike that had a hook like a talon welded to it.
He hefted it, eyed it measuringly, then handed it to me.
"What
is it? A harpoon?"
"Boat
hook. For grabbing stuff that falls overboard. Among other things. Like if we
run into your friends again outside. You know how to use a boat hook, don't
you? You just put your lips together, and—"
He
mimed smashing someone. "Run like hell. Come on.
I
followed him outside. I tightened my grip on the boat hook, but the alley was
empty.
"We'll
go this way." Toby headed around the corner. "Shorter walk."
It
also avoided that sorry little main drag. A small crowd had gathered at the far
end of the beach. I recognized Everett Moss and a few
of the other men
I'd seen when I first arrived, but not the guys I'd encountered by the Chandlery.
Two black dogs played on the rocky beach. There were more boats in the harbor,
including a Marine Patrol vessel.
"Guess
that's how they'll get Aphrodite back to shore," said Toby.
We
headed toward the pier. No one seemed to have noticed us yet. They stood in a
tight group, heads bent. Now and then someone looked across the reach to the
mainland. '"Less they're waiting for an ambulance boat or something."
The
sky had grown darker and more ominous. Clouds and sea were the same charred
gray. A cold wind seemed to blow from everywhere at once. The black dogs were
the same color as the clots of kelp they snapped at. The gulls were like white
holes in the sky. Everything seemed to be part of one thing here, even the men
in their slate blue coveralls and dun-colored coats and blaze orange vests:
They were all like pieces that had broken off from the island but could be made
to fit again, if you knew which jagged part went where.
I
used the boat hook like a walking stick and tried not to lag behind Toby. A dog
spied us and ran across the shingle, barking. The men all turned. I half
expected someone to shout at us—at me—but they said nothing. Their silence
unnerved me, but after a minute they turned away again.
Toby
waited for me on the pier. "How you doing?"
"I'm
okay."
He
held out a hand, steering me up the granite steps, and we walked to the dinghy.
I felt exposed and went as fast as I could, my boots skidding on the slick
surface. We reached the dinghy and climbed in. Toby rowed to where the
Northern
Sky
was moored, climbed up on deck, and set down his things. I handed him
what I'd brought, and he helped me on board.
"You
get this stuff stowed below while I tie up the dinghy. Those water jugs go
under the sink down in the galley. The rest of that stuff, just put it so we
don't trip on it."
I
started for the companionway then paused.
"I
might want to take some pictures out here. You going to let me use my camera
this time?"
Toby
loosened a line from a cleat. "I don't have a problem with that."
"How
come you had a problem with it yesterday?"
"I
wasn't sure yet whether or not
you
were going to be a problem."
I
felt oddly pleased and gave him a wry smile. He looked at me. "You still
don't have a mirror, do you?"
"Nope."
I stared back, then asked, "The mirror game. Suze told me that was
something Denny used to do with everyone."
He
said nothing.
"What
was it?" I prodded. "Was it something about that girl? Hannah?"
"No."
He sighed. "It really was a game. We'd get really stoned, then you'd just
stare into the mirror until your face started to look all weird, like it was
melting or something. The way if you repeat the same word over and over, it
starts to sound funny? Like that. It was silly. But then Denny started to do
some other stuff. He was reading a lot about primitive religions; he started
making up these rituals. That was pretty silly too, at first. But then it just
started to get bizarre. He started believing in the stuff he'd made up. He'd
force people to do things—look at yourself in the mirror for an hour, three
hours. He did it once for a whole day. All day, all night. It—"
He
shook icy rain from his parka and shivered. "I was with him. I did it
too—stared at myself in this big mirror. Every time I started to nod off he'd
poke me. After a while he stopped, but he wasn't asleep. He just sat there and
stared at himself, and then he started whispering to himself. Just kept saying
the same thing over and over. Like Chinese water torture." He glanced at
me. "That was when I knew I'd had enough. I got the hell out of there and
got a job at Rankin's Hardware for a few months, just to kind of normalize
myself. I know it's stupid, but I can't stand it now, seeing myself in a
mirror."
He
stared at the sky and shook his head, as though remembering.
"What
was he saying?" I asked.
'"I
see you.'" He shielded his eyes from the rain. '"I see you, I see
you. I see you.' That was all."
Abruptly
he turned and clapped my shoulder. "Go on now. You better get that stuff
below."
I
climbed down the companionway and stowed the boat hook and water jugs and my
bag. Toby joined me a few minutes later.
"I've
got some extra foul-weather gear." He rooted through a cupboard.
"You'll ruin those cowboy boots of yours, sliding around in the salt
water. See if these fit."
The
anorak fit, but the Wellingtons were way too big. I said, "I think I
better stick with my boots."
"Suit
yourself. Just be careful. Give me a hand with the rest of this stuff."
It
took me a few trips to get everything stowed below. Toby moved quickly and
efficiently across the deck, seeming impervious to cold and sleet. When he
finished, he beckoned toward the companionway.
“We'll
motor past the point there. Going straight into the wind like this, it would
take us three times as long to sail. If the wind changes direction, we might
motorsail."
He
squinted as icy spray gusted across the deck. "This could be rough. Think
you'll be okay?"
"I'll
be fine."
"You
sure?" He looked me up and down. "You feel bad, you can try going
below. I don't think that helps much, myself. You're better here on deck where
you can feel the wind. There's life jackets there—"
He
cocked his thumb at several orange vests and a life preserver. "Not that
they'll do you much good. You go overboard, you've got eight minutes before
hypothermia kicks in. That's how they train kids down at the yacht club—they
throw 'em in the harbor and toss 'em a life preserver to help get 'em to
shore."
"They
get them back out, right?"
"That's
what the boat hook's for."
I
huddled in the stern while Toby went below. After a few minutes I heard the
rumble of the engine turning over. Smoke spewed across the water. Toby hopped
back up on deck and stood beside me at the tiller as the
Northern Sky
nosed
away from the pier. I tugged the watchcap over my ears and looked across the
harbor to the beach.
The
men stood in that same small group. A few watched us pull out. The others had
turned to watch four dark figures walking slowly down the road from the crest
of the island. Two of the figures carried a stretcher. Behind them walked a
heavyset man in a black overcoat, and a tall lanky figure. Ray Provenzano.
And
Gryffin.
"Look,"
I said.
Toby
turned. He ran a hand across his brow then raised it in a wave.
On
shore, the tall figure stopped. He lifted his head and gazed across the water
then slowly lifted his hand. His voice came to us, garbled by wind and the
throb of the engine.
"What’d
he say?" I asked Toby.
'"Be
careful.'"
I
watched as the figures on shore grew smaller and smaller, until they were no
bigger than the rocks and, at last, became indistinguishable from them,
disappearing completely as we rounded the point.
21
you
can get used to anything, even hanging. Even cold. Still, I thought longingly
of the little woodstove I'd seen down in the
Northern Sky's
cabin. When
I asked Toby about it, he looked at me dubiously.
"Think
you can get a fire going? It's tricky. Time you did, we'd probably be
there."
I
reluctantly agreed. We'd left the point behind us. Now Paswegas was a
green-black hump, like a breaching whale. There was no real chop, but a lot of
long swells. It didn't make me feel sick, more like being in a gray uneasy
dream that I couldn't quite wake from. Now and then a big wave would catch us
sideways, flinging frigid water over the bow. I started counting these to see
if there was a pattern, and yeah, every third wave was big, and every twelfth
wave was
really
big. I helped Toby pull up the dodger, a small awning
that covered the cockpit, and ducked under it as another wave slapped the boat.
It wasn't much protection, but it kept the worst of the spray from us, and some
of the wind. My feet were swollen inside my boots. My face felt as though it
had hardened like cement.
Churning
sea thrust against roiling sky. The sky pushed back. We fought both of them. A few
gulls beat feebly against the clouds. I went below and got my camera,
returned to the relative shelter of the dodger and did my best to keep my
balance while I shot that unearthly expanse of gray and white and sickly green.
Islets rose from the water, some little more than big black rocks, others
crowned with salt-withered spruce or birch. I saw tangles of bone white
driftwood on rocky beaches, and dead seabirds, creosote-blackened pilings
ripped from God knows where. I thought of photos I had seen of Iceland, of
volcanic islands rising from the sea.
Who
would ever live here?
I thought. And
answered:
I could.
"Cass."
I capped my camera and put it back beneath my jacket. "Come here, I'll
teach you how to keep a heading. The currents are okay for the moment."
He
showed me how to read the compass, its face tilting beneath a transparent
plastic dome; how to hold the tiller steady.
"I'm
going below for a second." He raised his voice above the wind and pointed.
"That's where we're headed—"
A
long black shape skimmed the broken surface of the water. "That's Tolba.
We're sailing a line of sight—not sailing, motoring. So you just keep heading
in that direction, okay?"
I
minded the tiller while he went below. It was like fighting with a live stick,
but I figured Toby wouldn't leave if he didn't think I could hold my own. He
returned a minute later with two coffee mugs, a liter of Moxie and a bottle of
Captain Morgan's rum.
"See
if this warms you up."
He
poured Moxie into each mug, added a slug of rum, and handed one to me. I took a
sip and nearly spat it out.
Toby
looked hurt. "You should try it with a little squeeze of fresh lime.
Nothing finer."
I
fished beneath my anorak until I found my Jack Daniel's. Toby finished off his
mug and set it down. The deck was treacherous with spray, but he moved easily,
keeping the tiller steady. The freezing mist had turned to a fine, steady rain.
After a few minutes, Toby shook his head.
"We're
dragging," he yelled above the wind. "The dinghy. Here, I'll need you
to take over again—"
He
opened a storage box and removed a bleach bottle that had been cut to make a
scoop, turned and placed my hands on the tiller. "I've set it so we're
going into the wind now. That'll slow us down while I bail. Keep that
heading."
He
ducked out from the cockpit and headed toward the stern. I watched him lower
himself down into the dinghy and begin bailing then turned my attention back to
the tiller.
Ahead
of us, Tolba Island rose against the mottled sky. It was like watching a
photograph develop: bit by bit, details grew clear. The finely etched tips of
spruce on the island's heights; slashes of white that were ancient birches; a
sweep of blood red stone that gave way to a pale, red-pocked strand; a granite
pier projecting into the water.
It
was big; far bigger than Paswegas.
I
looked back to check on Toby.
He
shouted, "How you doing?"
"Okay."
"Almost
done here! Hang on—"
Exhaustion
seeped through me like another drug. My gut ached from coffee and speed and
alcohol. If I crashed now, I'd be down for the count. I fingered the film
canister in my pocket that held the stolen pills. I had enough speed to last me
another day or two if I rationed it. I had the Percocet for when I needed to
sleep. If I held off till I got back to Burnt Harbor, I could hit the road and
get as far south as Bangor that night, find a Motel 6 and crash there. Not
exactly deluxe accommodations, but better than the Lighthouse.