Bystander in Time

by Richard Stockford

  Arriving home, Dex put one of the trimmer batteries on the charger and then stepped outside to inspect the sagging door. He could see that the wood holding the old painted hinges had rotted, allowing the screws to pull loose. Realizing that the repair was beyond his meager carpentry skills, he settled for removing the screen door and leaning it out of the way against the side of the house and then wandered out back to inspect the overgrown cemetery. It was a large plot, about forty feet wide and perhaps twenty-five feet deep with a spidery black wrought iron fence around the front and two sides. The back side butted up against an ancient crumbling stone wall, and large overhanging oak trees pooled cool shadows inside the fence. Dex could see a dozen gravestones standing in the tall weeds and grass, seemingly arranged in smaller family sub-plots as well as suspicious mounds that seemed to conceal several others that had fallen. Movement caught his eye, and he spotted Stanley leaping out of the grass in pursuit of some unseen small prey. Remembering some tools he had seen in the carriage house, Dex found a rake, a rusty old sickle and a shovel and taking off his shirt, opened the gate to the old graveyard.

  D.J. locked his bike in a rack in front of the police station and set off on foot to explore the town. From the elevation of the house, high on the ridge, he had seen that there were two main dock areas in town, one built alongside a huge seafood restaurant in the center of the village with at least eighty pleasure boats tied to floating docks in front of it and the other stretching out along the left side of the harbor where there was a line of smaller docks that seemed to be home to a flotilla of small fishing boats, a ferry landing and, at the outer end of the harbor, a fenced-in Coast Guard station and dock. He and his father had inspected the dock in the center of town the day before, so D.J. began walking along the shore road that wound around the left side of the harbor.

  After a couple blocks of mixed residences and small shops, the road opened up on the right side to smaller, older houses, many with rickety docks behind them. Dex saw a few ‘NO TRESPASSING’ signs, but he soon came to a parking lot lined with white boulders and a small sign inscribed ‘Cranberry Cove Ferry’ that overlooked a large dock, and several small ones that seemed to be open to the public. He went down and checked out the dock and then slipped under the walkway railing and picked his way along the rocky shore towards the open end of the harbor. Most of the small docks were empty, but there was a neat looking boat docked at the one on the end. The boat looked like an old lobster boat, about twenty-four feet long with an open cabin just behind the bow and a short metal crane rising from the rear deck. The boat's hull was gleaming white with a deep blue stripe at the waterline and wooden gunwales painted the same color. The woodwork around the cabin sparkled under many coats of protective varnish. D.J. climbed up onto the dock and looked down into the boat to see the anchor chain and lengths of rope neatly coiled on the foredeck deck. High on the stubby bow, he could see the words 'Carcharias' painted in bright red script. Compared to the other lobster boats in the harbor, this one looked brand new, like a showroom advertisement. Drawn by a fascination he didn’t understand, he edged closer to the dazzling boat, oblivious to all until startled by a deep rumble of sound behind him.

  “Hey boy, what the hell are you doing there?”

  Dex blinked in the sudden realization that he was soaking wet. A light summer shower had plastered his hair to his scalp and a layer of sweat and grime was dripping down from his hands and arms. Glancing around, he was astonished to see that most of the weeds and grass in the cemetery plot had been roughly hacked down; he had little memory of it but the ache in his back and the painful blisters on his right hand told the story of at least a couple hours of hard work with the sickle. He was standing in front of a deeply weathered, lichen-covered granite gravestone that bore the name: ‘WELDON QUILL, 1753 – 1821’ and under that, a two line inscription that he couldn’t read. Suddenly overcome with curiosity, Dex ran to the house and grabbed a bottle of bleach and a scrub brush from under the sink. After a few minutes of hard scrubbing, he was able to make out the words carved into the stone:

  ‘AUDACES AUTEM THESAURUM – VIRTUTE FORTI – VICTA AD INFIRMA’.

  Dex backed slowly away from the old grave, suddenly shaken with an unexpectedly sense of menace. He limped into the kitchen and fumbled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, wondering where the feeling of danger was coming from. He had spent many long hours wandering old cemeteries and browsing the gravestone inscriptions, always enjoying a calming sense of history and peace. He grabbed paper and a pencil and went back to the cemetery to copy the inscription. Back in the kitchen, a Latin translator on his laptop gave him the answer:

  'To the bold, the treasure -To the strong, the power - To the weak, conquest.'

  Wet, dirty and suddenly chilled, Dex sat at his table and shivered at the implied belligerence behind the words.

  D.J. whirled around to see a giant striding toward him across the dock. The man was at least six and a half feet tall and must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. Shaggy white hair hung down over the widest shoulders D.J. had ever seen, matching the thick beard that covered most of the man’s face. Below that, he wore a shapeless sweatshirt and faded blue jeans over dirty sneakers.

  “Can’t you read, boy?” yelled the man pointing behind him with one long arm. “It says no trespassing by damn it, and that’s just what it means.”

  D.J. looked in the direction the man was pointing and saw the back of a small sign attached to the rickety railing that led up a small house perched on the embankment above. The one-story building squatted in a thick tangle of scrub trees and bushes but, like the boat, looked freshly painted and perfectly maintained. “I…I’m sorry sir,” he stammered. “I didn’t see the sign; I was just walking along the shore and I wanted…I, I thought…”

  “You thought you’d snoop around for old Zachary’s treasure, is what you thought,” the old man thundered. “Well, you’re too late, boy. The pirate ship that sank out there,” ” he lifted a bearded chin toward the harbor mouth, “gave up her treasure long ago. You’re too late.” The old man’s voice ran down and he seemed to sag a little. Who are you, boy?” he asked.

  “M, my name’s D.J. Stockford,” D.J. stammered. I just moved here with my dad. He’s a teacher and we’re staying at the old Quill house up on the ridge. I was just looking around, honest.”

  The old man furrowed his brow and stepped closed to D.J., staring into his face. “Stockford, Stockford,” he muttered, “where do you come from?”

  “We lived in Bangor,” Dex answered.

  “And your father’s name?”

  “His name is Dexter. Well so’s mine really, I’m Dexter junior.”

  Zachary nodded slowly. “And you live in the Quill house.” He gazed out over the harbor for a long moment before continuing. “Well, go on,” he finally said in a more normal tone of voice. “Be on your way boy, there’s nothing here for you.”

  D.J. jumped down onto the shore, but hesitated for a moment. Turning back toward the old man he said, “I’m really sorry mister,” before trudging back towards town. When he got to the next dock, he turned back once again to see the old man still standing on his dock, stating out into the harbor.

  “You’re lucky. Most times he throws things.” The voice from the rocks along the shore startled D.J. He whirled to see a smiling tow-headed boy about his own age, dressed in a ragged t-shirt and faded jeans perched on a rock with a fishing pole in his hands. He was smaller than D.J. wearing large black plastic frame glasses under a battered Red Sox cap.

  “Uh, hi. I’m D.J.” he said uncertainly.

  “Oscar Frost,” the boy said wedging his pole against the rock and jumping to his feet. “You’re new.”

  D.J. nodded. “Just moved here yesterday,” he said. “What do you mean he throws things?”

  Oscar frowned. “Old man Taylor doesn’t like anyone around his place. Usually he chucks a rock at something at any kid he sees on his dock. You goin’ to MDI next y
ear?”

  D.J. nodded again. “Yup. Freshman.”

  “Me too. Where do you live?”

  “My Dad rented the old Quill house.”

  Oscar’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “Oh wow,” he said “You couldn’t get me to stay there for anything. Everyone knows that place is haunted.”

  D.J. laughed. “Well, it sure looks like a haunted house,” he said. “Feels kinda’ spooky too.” He shrugged. “Any arcades or anything in this town?”

  “Nope, but I got an Xbox if you want to come over to my house.”

  By the time D.J. got his bike and started back up the ridge a light rain had begun to fall.

  Supper that night was canned beans and hotdogs. It was a quiet meal followed by another early night with Dex and D.J. both lost in their own thoughts.

  Chapter 24

  Dex opened his eyes to a distant banging sound. He got out of bed and followed the sound downstairs in the predawn light. The noise was coming from outside, and he looked out the kitchen door to see the side door to the old carriage house swinging back and forth, against the inside jamb. Curious, wondering in the back of his mind why D.J. was up so early, he stepped outside. “D.J.?” he called. “Are you in there?”

  Hearing no answer, Dex frowned and started across the yard. As he neared the carriage house, he slowed down, suddenly positive that he was walking into danger. Oddly, a small part of his mind registered the fact that the air around him was dead still. He could feel his legs weaken as the feeling of dread grew with each step, but he could not make himself stop. “D.J.,” he called again through suddenly dry lips.

  Heart pounding, with all of his senses screaming at him to run, Dex reached out a tentative hand and pushed open the old door. Although the yard was aglow with the soft light of the coming dawn, none of it penetrated the grimy interior of the old building and the darkness inside was absolute. Dex took a half-step through the door and reached for the old-fashioned rotary switch on the inside wall. Even before he turned the switch, Dex knew it was not going to work and he almost sobbed in fear as the unnatural darkness seemed to intensify. Powerless to move, he could only stand, feverishly clicking the useless switch.

  Suddenly, blinding light flared in the center of the cluttered room and through squinted eyes Dex could see a blurred figure standing there. His eyes widened in horror as the figure came into focus. He was staring at himself, only the Dex he was seeing was a teenager; a standing corpse, skin white and wrinkled, face relaxed and eyes half open and fixed in death with water streaming from his hair and clothes. Suddenly released from his thrall, Dex felt his throat rupture from the scream that tore from his lungs as he bolted back through the door. His headlong, stumbling flight was followed by the mocking sound of the door slamming shut in the still morning air.

  “I’m coming, just a minute. Dad, someone’s here.” Dex opened his eyes to the remote sound of knocking and D.J. yelling as he clattered downstairs. Sweat stinging his eyes, he was panting with the intensity of the dream and struggling to grasp the reality of bright sunlight streaming through the bedroom windows as he crawled out of bed.

  When Dex made his way down to the kitchen a few minutes later, Anne was at the sink filling the coffee maker and D.J. was rooting around in the refrigerator. Dex was happy to see that they seemed to be chatting companionably

  “Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” grinned Annie.

  “Mmmph. What time is it,” mumbled Dex.

  Annie’s smile faded as she looked at Dex. “Are you ok?” she asked. “You look terrible.”

  Dex managed a shaky grin. “Thanks,” he said, “I’m ok; just had a bad dream and overslept. Coffee would really help.”

  Later, after he’d gulped down a hasty breakfast of toaster waffles, D.J. settled into a computer game and Dex and Annie took their coffee out into the back yard. Dex could not help but glance at the carriage house as they walked out to the cemetery. He knew the old building was not electrified and wondered where the feel and sound of the antique rotary electrical switch in his dream had come from.

  “I started cleaning up a little out here yesterday,” he said leading her through the gate. “It’s amazing; from what I can see, the whole history of the Quill family is right here, all the way back to the revolutionary war. I’m going to start cleaning these stones today.”

  “Well, that’s interesting,” Annie said, “but I thought you might want to run into Ellsworth and do some shopping with me today.”

  “Oh, I guess I’d better take a rain check,” Dex said distractedly turning back to the house to get the string trimmer and cleaning materials. “I really need to work on this.” When he came back, he hardly noticed that Annie had left.

  The sun was just beginning to descend in the west when hunger finally drove Dex out of the little cemetery.

  After bolting a bottle of water and cold food he barely tasted, Dex went back out to the cemetery to continue his work, but stopped suddenly at the closed gate. He put a hesitant hand out to touch the folded piece of paper impaled on one of the wrought iron spikes.

  ‘Danger comes out of time and out of mind. Look to the past if you would survive.’ read the note in a cursive hand Dex had seen before.

  Chapter 25

  “Where the hell have you been all day?” Dex angrily shoved the greasy box of cold pizza across the table.

  “I was down at the dock, hanging out with a kid I met,” D.J. said quietly, stopping the box in front of him. It was seven o’clock and he had just walked into the house.

  “You don’t just leave here without telling me, D.J. You didn’t even take your phone with you.” Dex fumed. “What if there’d been an emergency?”

  D.J. bristled. “Dad, I’m fifteen. I can take care of myself. Anyway, I told you I was leaving,” he said. You were out back in that graveyard and you didn’t even turn around; just waved and nodded. I’m sorry I forgot my phone. I was just watching the boats and I lost track of time, but I did tell you where I was going, honest.” He hesitated. “It was just after you blew off Annie.”

  Dex frowned. “I did?”

  “Yeah, and she looked pretty mad when she left.”

  Dex took a deep breath and stood. “OK,” he said, “Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you, but I need you to meet me halfway here. I don’t expect you to sit around the house all summer, but you've got to stay in touch and make sure I know where you are.”

  D.J. nodded. “OK, dad, ok,” he said, “I will.” He hesitated. “Dad, is everything alright?”

  Dex frowned. “Yeah, it’s just been a really long day,” he said reaching out to touch D.J. lightly on the shoulder. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll take the ferry and check out Cranberry Island.”

  The next morning, Dex had to force himself to turn right out of the door towards the driveway instead of left towards the cemetery. He didn’t understand his compulsion to work at the old graves, but he did recognize the need to fight it. Fortunately, the pull of the cemetery seemed to lessen with distance, and by the time they pulled out onto the main road at the bottom of the ridge, he was as excited as D.J. at the prospect of the impending ferry trip.

  Two round-trip tickets to Great Cranberry Island set Dex back sixty dollars, but the weather was perfect and the forty-foot passenger-only ferry was well appointed with a spacious open cabin area to the rear as well as below-deck accommodations. The ferry made the almost eight mile round trip every two hours from seven am to five pm, making stops at both Great Cranberry and Little Cranberry, also known as Islesford, Islands and also passing close by Greening Island and Sutton Island which were the other land masses across from the Cranberries on the north side of the harbor entrance.

  Dex and D.J. joined about twenty other people, about half of them with the camera-toting look of early season tourists, for the nine o’clock departure and while Dex found a seat and studied the tourist literature, D.J stood by the gunwale staring intently at the gray water between the islands.

  The tourist brochures indicate
d that Great Cranberry Island was largely undeveloped with the only commercial enterprises being a post office, a large boatyard, a small café and gift shop and a free museum located on the first floor of a large house. Dex and D.J. opted to stay on the ferry as it continued on to Little Cranberry after a brief stop at the larger island. Leaving the boat on Little Cranberry, they roamed the town of Islesford, spending time at the Historical Museum and the docks on Haddock Cove. D.J. was particularly interested in the narrow channels between Haddock Cove and the eastern shore of Great Cranberry and the north shore of Little Cranberry and Sutton Island, both of which were only about a half mile wide. In the museum, he found a display of nautical charts and studied the depths of the waters around the islands intently. Noticing his interest, Dex asked, “planning on doing some boating?”

  “Do you think we could get a small boat?” D.J. replied excitedly. “This would be a great place to explore. Do you need a license to drive a boat? Did you know that a pirate ship was wrecked out here between the islands?”

  “Whoa, slow down,” Dex chuckled. I don’t think you need a license, but boats are expensive and you can’t just go out on the ocean without some sort of training. It’s too dangerous. And, no I didn’t know that a pirate ship was wrecked out here, but that might be an interesting research project. Where did you hear about it?”

  “Oh, I was just talking to some guy on the docks, an old fisherman. He said that there was a battle between the pirates and some British ships a long time ago and the pirate ship sank.” D.J. felt a little guilty about leaving out the part about the treasure, but he didn’t think that the secret was his to share.

  Dex and D.J. caught the four o’clock ferry from Little Cranberry back to Southwest Harbor finally arriving back at the house on the ridge at five-thirty. That evening, Dex and D.J. spent some time on the internet visiting some of Dex’s favorite historical research sites but, although they found a lot of information about revolutionary era maritime activity off the New England coast, they could not find any information about any pirate battles in the vicinity of Southwest Harbor.