Mistwalker (8 page)

The dim ones make me ache. With my cursed eyes, I see only their lives, the length of them, the strength of them. If they’re long for this world, they grow bright. Short for it, and they’re much dimmer. There’s a few on that beach who may as well be dead. Soon, they will be. I ask sweetly in my thoughts,
Could you die on the water for me?

It doesn’t matter if they drown. If they have influenza. If they come to blows, if they fire their guns, if some freak accident takes them—so long as they fall on the waves illuminated by my lighthouse.

My reach stretches twenty miles on every side but the landward one. At the stony shoreline, they’re beyond my reach. So if they could slip into the water before they breathe their last, it would be lovely.

It’s the least they could do for me.

I’ve been a good steward for this town; better than most. I’ve been honorable. They’ve had a hundred years of my generosity, holding back the fog. So many good days for them. So many clear days. I’ve been patient. In all this time, I could have blinded hundreds of fishermen. Led them astray, helped their pretty little boats crash into rocks, hidden coming storms.

Many would have; I understand now that Susannah drowned as many as she could before she realized that time and mathematics would betray her.

So I’ve been a true gentleman. I’ve cleared their skies. Not once in these hundred years have I killed anyone. I collected souls, but only those that came by accident and happenstance.

When I need it, there’s a wall-length cupboard below the gallery. It’s lined with glass jars.

Yes, in all my faery-tale certainty that I was meant to redeem myself on this island, I failed to acknowledge two things.

First, my dominion over the mists, and second, the jar cupboard. Ten years dragged on until a rowboat sank in the harbor. The jars chimed; they demanded my attention.

I uncapped one, and that soul all but collected itself. A hum filled the room, as if it were satisfied. And I, too, felt the faintest measure of peace. A taste of hope, a realization that I could free myself from this curse without any reflection on my character at all.

After all, the seas are voracious. Sailors and swimmers disappeared into them all the time. Except not so many as I thought. Not so readily. Until this summer past, I collected only two more souls. This summer, I finally raised that total to four.

Four in a hundred years. Rarely do I use my arithmetic anymore, but I can figure that sum.

Twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six years.

Longer than the course of all written human history. Longer than the memory of mankind itself. Thus, the anatomy of a perfect curse. It seemed possible. It hinted that I might keep my soul and morals yet. Simply let nature have nature’s way and benefit from it.

But no—there aren’t so many tragedies beneath my light as it might seem.

If I were to sharpen my teeth and learn to relish the prospect of drowning the innocent, I must be honest. There aren’t enough of them in Broken Tooth. If I cull them all at once, their families will flee my shores. None would sail beneath my light.

Clever, clever curse. Twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six years.

It’s been but a hundred, and I’m already sick of silence. Of magic. Of presents. Of kindness and generosity and honor and myself. Clutching the rail, I consider throwing myself over it. It’s a childish thought, stupid drama for no audience at all, and worse, it won’t make the slightest bit of difference.

The lamp grinds behind me, spinning ceaselessly. Its heat stings—I’m here, I feel it. But my body doesn’t break its beam. I am insubstantial.

Those lights on the beach have no idea I’m watching them. Wanting them. Plotting against them. Ignorant, every one of them—they dance; they sway. They’re just far enough away that I can’t enjoy their music or eavesdrop on their conversations.

Right now, I hate them more than anything. And I’m glad, so glad, that she’s thinking about me.

It didn’t take long to change my mind. To do the things I swore I would never do. Just one hundred years—but what is that in the face of twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six?

SEVEN

The party got to me before I got to it. Music echoed down the beach, and people were laughing. Somebody threw another log on the bonfire, and a cloud of fire swirled toward the sky. Silver ash drifted over the water, disappearing into the dark.

Across the waves, Jackson’s Rock loomed in fog and shadow. Couldn’t even see the slender body of the lighthouse, just the beam as it swung over us. The pines were brushstrokes jutting from the mist; the cliffs seemed to rise from nothing.

When the foghorn sounded, its call rolled through the dark and the haze. Like it was alive; like it might draw me across that light bridge and into the secrets of the Rock. Harbor bells rang, like church bells on a wedding day.

I stood for a minute, staring like I’d never seen my own harbor before.

My head was so clear; I wasn’t thinking about anything. Aware, yeah, of the six-pack dangling from my fingers, and the steamy scent of hot rocks and boiling water. But I was alone in myself for a minute. No guilt, or anger, or fear.

Then something glittered on the island cliff. My imagination rushed up to name it the Grey Man. Fantasy tried to fill in the shape I’d seen on Jackson’s Rock—out there, fishing alone, and that reminded me. I
was
guilty. Afraid. Angry. That’s all that put me on the beach. I gritted my teeth; going to this party was like going to war.

I was going to drink and laugh and dance. Burn my fingers on littleneck clams and steamed corn. If somebody wanted money for a grocery run, I had it. If Seth wanted to disappear into the caves with just us and a blanket, I was up for it.

Circling the fire, I raised my hand when Cait Toombs looked up from a kiss. She was all soft and twined around Bailey. Her wispy hair floated around her face, shimmering from the heat. Instead of waving, she smiled. Her lips moved, and then Bailey looked back at me too.

“Well, look who graced us,” Bailey called.

I flipped her off and pressed my way through the crowd to get to her.

“Dad home yet?” she asked when I got closer.

“Uh huh, this morning sometime.”

“Is he okay?”

With a shrug, I said, “Fine. You know how he is.”

Cait tried to make room for me, which was sweet, but it wasn’t gonna happen. Since we used driftwood for benches around the fire, there was always a free one for the taking. Dragging a piece over, I arranged it so I could put my back to the fire and my face to them. And to the sea behind them, to the fog rolling in.

Sitting, I gestured at Bailey and said, “I’m pissed at you for messing with my head.”

Bailey read my tone better than Cait did. While Cait stiffened, Bailey kicked my boot. “Good. Which time?”

I lowered my voice. “I went out today by myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, my gaze trailing past them, to the shadow of the island in the distance. The flick, the glitter, was gone. “So I’m getting ready to haul some traps, over on the far side of Jackson’s Rock. Minding my own business.”

Bailey smirked. “Uh huh.”

“I go and look up, and
pow
. There’s the Grey Man. Watching me.”

Dissolving into laughter, Bailey leaned into Cait. Lacing their fingers together, she settled. She managed to kick my boot again first, though. “Oh, kiss it, Dixon. If you’re seeing things, that’s your problem.”

Part of me was relieved. Legends weren’t real, and I was crazy to think I’d seen one. Hearing Bailey say so made me feel better. There was still a part left over, quietly urging me to look toward Jackson’s Rock. I thought as long as the fire burned and the music played, I could ignore it.

“I have an uncle who saw the Grey Lady,” Cait said.

Bailey looked at her, amused. “Is that crazy Uncle Jon?”

“No, crazy Uncle Jon swears that time-traveling Navy ship capsized his dory.”

Caught up in the absurdity, in the absolute normalcy, I laughed. “What the what?”

Cait shrugged. “I can’t remember, it’s a city and a worky word. The Manhattan Project? The Philadelphia Experiment? They were inventing invisibility and disappeared in time.”

“I’m pretty sure one of those is a movie.” Amused, I held up my hands and swore, “I’m not judging.”

Cait stuck out her lower lip and blew her bangs out of her face. “Anyway, that’s Uncle Jon. Great-Uncle Dalton’s the one who saw the Grey Lady.”

“Wait, the raisin?” Bailey asked. Then, incredulously, she informed me. “He’s a thousand years old.”

“He’s ninety-eight.”

“Same thing. He’s the mummy at Thanksgiving.”

“That’s my family, Bailey,” Cait said, but she rolled her eyes and smiled about it. In reply, Bailey crinkled her nose, and I looked away to give them some privacy. As much as they could get making out on a beach in the middle of everybody we knew, anyway.

Before they forgot I was there, I cleared my throat. “So was there more to this story?”

Cait smoothed her knit cap. “Not really. I mean, there is, but he mumbles—”

“And smells like rum,” Bailey added.

“Who doesn’t?” I asked, and hauled myself up. Dangling the six-pack near them, I waited until they waved me off to look into the crowd. “You guys seen Seth?”

“I don’t think he’s here,” Bailey said.

Then she frowned, and so did I. Seth loved a party, being in the middle of it. Choosing the music and getting people new drinks. Surrounding himself with people kept his light going. After a nor’easter, Seth was the first person out of the house, visiting everybody he knew. Not me; I was the last one to open the door. I liked the quiet. I liked wide-open space and sea around me.

I stood up, nodding toward the fire. “I’m gonna make the rounds.”

Leaving Bailey and Cait, I followed the sound of alt rock, lingering here and there to talk to people. Mostly “what’s up, how’re you doing?” stuff. Everybody in Broken Tooth was fine, it seemed, and none of them had seen Seth.

A waft of steam hit me, full of good smells. The canvas over the clambake pit was still tight. I wondered if I could get away with breaking into it early.

While I contemplated bake robbery, Nick loped toward me. His black hair gleamed in the firelight, long and cascading into his eyes. He slung an arm around my shoulder and took my beer. “Seth said you weren’t coming.”

“Guess he was wrong.”

Ripe with sweat and cologne, he banded his arms around me. Not because he was hitting on me, but because that was the only way to peel a can off the rings without letting me go. “How’s your dad?”

It was normal for Nick to be all up on me. He was like that, a big sheepdog who loved everybody. Especially up close. Most everybody loved him back. But even as I let him give me one of the beers I’d carried in, I felt uneasy. “Fine. Sat on his ass all day. Expect he’ll be out tomorrow.”

“Huh,” Nick said. “Miz Pomroy said the
Jenn-a-Lo
was out this morning. Surprised me and Seth both.”

I shrugged. “Musta been seeing things.”

“You know her. Probably got started early.” Nick held up his can and took a deep drink to demonstrate. Then his expression scrambled. Too fast, too loud, he went on, “I’m getting a student license.”

“’Bout time.”

Brightly, Nick nodded. One brown eye appeared from beneath his messy fringe. “Maybe if you get your own boat, you can hire me.”

My skin prickled, and I lifted Nick’s arm. Slipping under it, I backed toward the fire. Other people’s conversations were tangled in this one. It unnerved me, seeing my life from slanted angles. “Where’s Seth, anyway?”

Making a show of looking around, Nick finally shrugged. “Taking a leak, maybe.”

Amber Jewett glided by, then glided back when she realized Nick had beer. “Can I buy one off you?”

Already digging in her pocket, she was oblivious to me. A silver vine climbed her ear, seed pearls hanging from loops and catching the firelight. She was in my jewelry class too.

“They’re Willa’s,” Nick said.

“Just have it,” I told her, and kept walking.

Faint embers bobbed beneath the cliff on this shore, the other half of the party. If the cops or the Coast Guard rolled up on us, they’d probably figure out that the stoners by the caves were with the boozehounds by the fire. We always kept separate, though, just in case.

The rocky coast rolled beneath my boots. I shoved my hands into my coat, hunching my shoulders as I walked. Leaving the fire reminded me that it was almost winter. My breath added to the haze, and wind snuck down my collar. My back broke out in gooseflesh, the rest of my skin following.

Everything felt slightly sideways. Like the ground had shifted, but it didn’t roll like water. If it did, I would have found my balance easy. Instead, it was increments. A tilt beneath my feet; the wind coming from the wrong direction.

No matter what Bailey said, I felt that island. It was looking at me; it felt alive. And that was crazier than seeing things.

Tugging the red-yarn braid on Ashley Jewett’s hat, I melted into the huddle. I knew all these people, and they made room for me out of habit. But since I was the angel of death around these parts, it was up to me to keep the conversation rolling.

I held out my hand for the next pass and asked, “Anybody else starving?”

The night drifted on. Our buzzes faded, and there was nothing left in the bake. Slowly, we knotted back up by the fire. It was too cold to stay at the cliffs, even if you did have somebody to hang on. I didn’t; Seth never showed up.

Our parties on Garland Beach usually ended with music. Instead of pulling out his guitar, Nick plugged his laptop into an external battery and let GarageBand do the honors. Songs he’d written with Levi—Nick never stopped smiling, but it was a tell. Without my brother there to sing, it wouldn’t have been right to play.

“You’re quiet,” I said.