Feather From a Stranger

by Marianne Schlegelmilch

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  books@publicationconsultants.com—www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-128-2

  eBook 978-1-59433-142-8

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2010921584

  Copyright 2010 Marianne Schlegelmilch

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical

  or electronic means including photocopying or

  recording, or by any information storage or

  retrieval system, in whole or in part in any

  form, and in any case not without the

  written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Contents

  Chapter One Leaving Bellingham

  Chapter Two yeterday

  Chapter Three The Feather

  Chapter Four Meeting Thor

  Chapter Five Sitka

  Chapter Six Risky Travel

  Chapter Seven Canada

  Chapter Eight Alaska or Bust

  Chapter Nine The, Aurora

  Chapter Ten Palmer to Knik

  Chapter Eleven thebest Laid Plans.…

  Chapter Twelve time to go

  Chapter Thirteen The, Phone Call

  Chapter Fourteen The Carbin

  Chapter Fifteen their story

  Chapter Sixteen Midnight

  Chapter Seventeen Saddle the horses

  Chapter Eighteen Trapper creek

  Chapter Nineteen Family and Friends

  Chapter Twenty The Search

  Chapter Twenty-One Two Bags

  Chapter Twenty-Two A Child's Faith

  Chapter Twenty-Three Doug

  Chapter Twenty-Four Joe Returns

  Chapter Twenty-Five Dan speaks

  Chapter Twenty-Six Homer

  Chapter Twenty-Seven Charges Pending

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Strange Find

  Chapter Twenty-Nine Evidence?

  Chapter Thirty Place By The River

  Chapter Thirty-One Re-tracing that Night

  Chapter Thirty-Two Sarah

  Chapter Thirty-Three The Wedding

  Chapter Thirty-Four The Past Becomes the present

  Chapter Thirty-Five Uncertainty

  Chapter Thirty-Six The Dance

  Chapter Thirty-Seven A Brether's Scorn

  Chapter Thirty-Eight Betrayal

  Chapter Thirty-Nine gunfire

  Chapter Forty Thor

  Chapter Forty-One Aftermath

  Chapter Forty-Two Joe Revealed

  Chapter Forty-Three The Feds Speak

  Chapter Forty-Four Forgiveness

  Chapter Forty-Five Inner peace

  Chapter Forty-Six New Beginnigs

  Dedication

  To the Commodore, as he quietly rides the ferry playing his balalaika.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Leaving

  Bellingham

  Mara stared at the feather that had a red dot painted about a third of the way down on one side. She rolled it slowly between her thumb and forefinger, thinking about the stranger who had given it to her two days after she had boarded the Alaska State ferry in search of a new life. The old man's cryptic message had become almost as frequent a visitor into her thoughts, as the memory of the event that had changed her life forever.

  STANDING ON THE DECK OF THE SHIP BOUND FOR ALASKA, SHE BRACED herself against the pitching motion of the sea, her departure city of Bellingham, Washington, long ago a shrinking dot on the distant shore. Just as she had for the past four years, she struggled with a burden too heavy for a woman of thirty-three to have to bear, as the memory of that day replayed once more in her mind. Nothing she had done so far had been able to stop its habitual emergence into her consciousness.

  Veiled by the thick fog that enveloped everything for miles, she sat against the wall on one of the benches beneath the orange lifeboats suspended above. Here, in the foggy stillness of this far away place, she remembered—as if she had ever forgotten—that day.

  “Policia Federal,” a uniformed official had said when she opened the front door of her home in Rio Branco, Brazil one Sunday afternoon late in May.

  The memory of the day, of the moment, of the way the sun sat high in the sky, and of the coldness that rushed up her spine in spite of the blazing one hundred degree heat, came rushing back with an intensity that had so far not dimmed with time. Had it already been four years?

  She shuddered, remembering as if it were yesterday, the instant when her life began to pass in moments rather than in days. Even now, she could relive the phone call from her husband that still ran chills up her spine.

  “Mara,” Brad, his voice, raspy with whispered urgency, had spoken over the phone.

  “Brad, what's wrong?” had come her tenuous reply.

  When it seemed he would never answer, nearly drowning in the noise of the plane's engine, Brad had spoken again. “Mara…”

  The noise! The deafening noise! She remembered nearly crushing the phone as she strained to hear him.

  “I… love… you…”

  Even now she could feel that endlessness pause as she waited, and how her lips had silently mouthed his name until finally he spoke again.

  “Mara, can you hear me? I…lo…”.

  Hellish abruptness followed by hollow silence had finished the call.

  Then nothing but her screams; screams that had brought neighbors running, screams that stole her voice for days, screams that she didn't remember until they started regularly appearing in her consciousness without warning.

  The officials told her there had been a distress call and then, silence. They had found the wreckage of Brad's research plane strewn down the side of a steep mountain peak on the Brazil-Peru border, but there had been no sign of the man she had married only six months earlier. Numerous investigative reports followed a countless number of searches, each ending with the same chilling phrase,

  “Missing and presumed dead.”

  Mara pulled her fleece jacket tightly to her as she recalled the ceaseless waiting. At first distraught, and then confused, she had refused to accept the news of her husband's death, pressing officials for a new inquiry each time the preceding one produced the same unacceptable answer.

  The finality of receiving the certificate that declared Brad legally dead, along with the settlement of his affairs last month, had removed the last hope she held of anyone finding him alive. Resigning herself to her loss and unwilling to live in the hollowness of their once full life, she had decided to move to Alaska. There, in the place that she and Brad often dreamed of visiting, she planned to pursue work in her field of biology and begin a new life, alone.

  With the torrent of memories threatening her resolve, she got up and strolled along the outer deck of the ferry, trying not to think anymore. She walked the entire mid deck and then climbed a stairwell to the next level, walking the perimeter of that one as well. Moving briskly, she fought to quell her racing mind. Blocked by the wheelhouse from walking fully around, she ducked through the heated outdoor camping area to get to the other side of the ferry.

  The seclusion provided by the open decks and the neatly tucked benches they housed felt calming. She stopped and pulled the tattered picture of Brad from her purse just as she had done countless times a day for the past four years. Gazing into the blue eyes of his likeness on the crumpled paper, she stroked the image with one finger.

  “How could there be a more beautiful place than this?” she said, willing the piece of paper to hear her words.

  She looked out at the rugged coastline and drew the clean Al
askan air deep into her lungs, forcing her thoughts to return to the present. The onset of darkness, along with the chilly night wind, sent her back to the comfort of her room. At the table in front of the weathered window before which countless others had undoubtedly sat, she put the picture of her husband away and twisted her wedding ring around on her finger. Slowly, she removed it and felt the beginning of the closure that had eluded her for so long. She placed the wide gold band on the table next to the book she then picked up to read. Unable to concentrate, she snapped the book shut and with two giant steps, climbed up the wooden ladder into her bunk. There she lay awake thinking of Brad. Sometime, in the wee hours of the night, she fell asleep.

  She awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed. Sleep on the gently rocking seas had provided the best night's rest she could remember.

  Instead of going to the dining room for breakfast, she took her treasured brass cappuccino maker out of her backpack, stuffed a towel under the door to muffle the sound, and proceeded to make a Kona espresso just as she had done every day for the last four years of her life.

  Something about continuing this well-worn ritual brought a normalcy even now. Tearing open a small packet of raw sugar, she sprinkled it on top of the foamy brew in her white china cup and let her thoughts drift back to yesterday.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Yesterday

  THE OLD MAN, WITH A DUFFLE BAG SLUNG OVER ONE SHOULDER AND A backpack held by a single strap hung over the other, shuffled along the boardwalk at the Alaska Marine Highway ferry terminal in Bellingham, Washington. He glanced at the hazy form of a woman standing in the fog as he paused to pull a long envelope out of his pocket, remove a ticket, look at it on both sides, and then stuff it back inside his jacket before moving on. The woman, her form little more than a silhouette underneath the amber glow of a street-lamp, turned and watched him walk by before stepping down from the viewing platform near the terminal.

  “Is that better?” she spoke into her cell phone, looking down at the bag that had just slid off her shoulder and landed on the ground with a thump. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and listened, and then walked a few paces back and forth before sitting and balancing herself on the bag.

  “Sarah…” Flashes of annoyance crossed her face as her words were cut short each time she tried to speak.

  The rumble of the ships boarding call echoed across the docks, bringing with it the welcome opportunity to cut the conversation short.

  “Like I said, I already have a job… I'll find a house or I'll rent an apartment until I find one… Look, Sarah, the ship is boarding now… I have to go… Yes, I'll try to stop and see Ellie… I'll call you when I get there… Sarah… I'm losing my signal…”

  Flipping the phone shut, she jammed it into her pocket. She was fortunate, she supposed, that someone cared enough to try to stop her from the impulsive decision to leave everything behind to move to Alaska, but her mind was made up. Sarah would forgive her for lying about the lost signal. Best friends could always sense deception. Later, when she had reached her destination, she would call her and admit the white lie that she knew her friend was fuming about this very moment. After she had time to cool down, Sarah would make a point to understand. Fifteen years of friendship had taught Mara that.

  Standing in line behind the old man, she studied her boarding pass. At the top, in boldface type was printed:

  NAME: Mara Edwards.

  DESTINATION: Haines, Alaska ***ONE WAY***

  She squelched the guilty smile that threatened to spread across her face. In spite of Sarah's attempts to stop her, no way was she going to turn back now.

  The old man inched along in line ahead of her. More out of boredom than for steadiness, she held onto the cold metal rail that lined the walkway, idly watching fellow passengers drive their cars up the ramp to the car deck of the M/V Malaspina. Below, she could see her own SUV, already loaded and lined up among the other vehicles into neat, organized rows.

  Amazed at her newfound courage, she smiled and whispered, “Here goes.”

  STATEROOM 203 WAS NEAR THE TOP OF THE SECOND DECK'S FORWARD stairs and Mara used the key bearing the same number to unlock the door. Just as the ship set sail, she stepped over the raised threshold, pushing her pack ahead of herself through the door and then heard it latch closed behind her.

  The far wall of the stateroom, located on the port side of the vessel, held a large window with glass scratched and dulled from years of travel on the northern seas. She ran her hand along the length of the ribbed cotton spread on the lower bunk, feeling the crisp cleanliness of the freshly washed bedding. She was glad she had opted to pay more for the double stateroom. The two sets of stacked narrow beds would serve her well for the three and half days she would be at sea.

  She threw her bags on the lower bunk, saving the upper one to sleep on. Across the aisle, she unloaded her camera and purse onto the other lower bunk and left the top one bare. Her eyes wandered to the small table near the window. It looked inviting. Whether to read or just to think, she looked forward to future moments in this cozy and secluded space. Moving back outside into the hallway, locking the door behind her, she walked down the narrow passage, then out the heavy door leading to the open deck of the ferry.

  MARA STUMBLED AS THE FERRY SUDDENLY PITCHED IN THE CHOPPY SEAS, falling against another passenger before she was able to grasp the deck rail and regain her balance. Her purse dangled precariously from her right shoulder as she cast an embarrassed look at the figure beside her.

  “Oh… I'm sorry,” she blurted apologetically to the old man she had just bumped into. “I hope you're okay. The boat rolled and I lost my balance and….”

  The old man nodded without looking her way, a slight smile tweaking the corner of his mouth. In spite of her embarrassment, Mara was struck by how oddly he was dressed for conditions. He wore jeans, a thin shirt, a lightweight blue bomber jacket, and white tennis shoes that made him look like he might be more at home at a baseball game in Chicago than here in the middle of winter on a ship sailing into Alaskan waters.

  “It sure is cold out here,” she blatted, startled by the loudness of her own voice. The man continued to look ahead, not responding.

  Uncomfortable at the man's silence, she tried to look busy by searching for imaginary items in her purse. Why wouldn't he acknowledge her and why was he dressed so lightly for winter conditions?

  Something about this man captured her imagination. She couldn't quite put a finger on what it was. He had a presence that made him seem tall, even though he was a good head shorter than she was, and a build that made him seem stout, even though she could see he was thin. His dark skin was weathered and bronzed as if he had spent a great deal of time outdoors. Mara shivered uncontrollably despite her heavy down jacket and the full glare of the winter sun. Her eyes watered from the cold and she used the back of her mitten-covered hand to wipe them dry.

  “I do apologize,” she tried again, puzzled by the fact that he seemed unmindful of either the cold or of her embarrassing loss of balance.

  She watched him pull a maroon colored baseball cap out of his jacket pocket and tug it over his full head of gray hair, letting the brim rest on the dark frame of his glasses. Still, he said nothing.

  Mara pulled a fleece headband from her own pocket and over her head in an attempt to keep the wind from whipping her hair into her face. By the time she was finished, the old man was gone. Looking in both directions along the deck, she could see no sign of him and so she purposefully put him out of her mind.

  Holding the deck rail with one hand as the ferry rocked in the choppy seas, she fixed her eyes on the coast. A panorama of everything she had dreamed Alaska would look like unfolded before her. The white heads of infinite numbers of eagles stood out like holiday ornaments on the spruce forests lining the coast. After a while, she gave up trying to count them and moved back inside out of the wind.

  By evening Mara had walked the perimeter of the ferry multiple times and had enjo
yed both a hearty lunch and dinner in the vessel's roomy cafeteria. Surprised by the good weather and by the number of people who traveled by ferry this time of year, she made a point of mingling with the other travelers. For the most part, she found them to be friendly and easy to talk to—much less reserved than the people of Boston. The absence of ice and snow along the coast in this northern climate surprised her, making it difficult to believe that the ferry was now alongside the area called the panhandle of Alaska. It was even harder to believe that it was the middle of winter.

  “I could live this way,” she said casually to another passenger in the dining room as she got up to take one more walk around the decks before retiring. “There's just something about the water.”

  “We call it Southeast,” a man who stopped to chat said, adding that he was from the upcoming port of Wrangell.

  Later, in her stateroom, Mara referred to it by that same term as she finished a letter to Sarah. Just as she had on the phone, she apologized for leaving Boston without telling anyone. She pleaded in lengthy paragraphs for Sarah to understand her need to leave the past behind her. She wrote about how, after four terrible years of waiting and uncertainty, she, Mara Benson Edwards, was taking control of her own life and moving on.

  “…please, Sarah, help everyone understand. Love, Mara,” she penned a close to the letter. Near midnight, after sealing the envelope shut, she walked to the purser's desk and dropped it in the box for outgoing mail.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Feather

  THE NEXT MORNING, MARA STRUGGLED TO MAINTAIN HER EQUILIBRIUM as the ferry's motion jostled her from wall to wall inside the narrow stairway that lead to the car deck. Grateful at least for the excellent lighting, she steadied herself, stopping when she got to the bottom to read the sign posted on the door. She read the car deck regulations more to steady herself than out of any need to be informed, before pushing the heavy metal door open and stepping over the raised frame.