The Liars

by Ida Linehan Young

  Teddy’s arm throbbed as he squeezed into the cavern. He was cold and wet and knew his chances of coming out of this alive were minimal at best. What would he do if he did survive? McPherson and the crew would hunt him down wherever he went.

  He was contemplating his predicament when the men returned. “Any sign of him?” a voice called from the other side of the beach. Teddy knew the man, McPherson’s cousin.

  “No, none,” Simmons shouted.

  “Come help bring the supplies to the camp. The winds are too high to take the Walrus out of here tonight.”

  The men grumbled as they trudged across the rise. They went to the rowboat and unloaded trunks, two of which Teddy recognized. One was his, and one was John’s—a crate of food, and a cask of rum. Now two different men were coming from somewhere beyond the point. Teddy would have to be careful. He was outnumbered.

  14

  Teddy was cold and hungry, something he hadn’t been since befriending John. He left his hiding spot just at dusk. There had been no movement on the beach where the two rowboats were tied, but loud voices were coming from a sheltered cove not far from his position. He saw the flames from the campfire as he crawled through some low spruce and tall beach grass near the crew.

  Two canvas tents had been set up and seemed to have been there a few days. They looked like they had been made from sails. So, the three men’s story had been partly true when they said they had run aground, and their boat had been wrecked. The name on the rowboat was the Vagabond. They must have been her crew and cronies of McPherson. Every time Teddy thought of McPherson, he raged inside.

  The men were drinking and well into the cask by the looks of things. He crept closer as the sky darkened to see if he could make out any of their conversations. The men bragged about being glad they’d lucked out on McPherson. Teddy surmised from their talk that the Walrus had been the first ship they’d seen in days since the wreck. The Vagabond had broken apart on the reefs in a heavy gale. They planned on renaming the Walrus and leaving people to assume she’d sunk or met with some unfortunate fate. The captain had approved of McPherson’s efforts, saying it showed a sign of good faith among his crew. They planned to do a brief search for Teddy after dawn, then leave on the morning tide if the winds blew out. McPherson was convinced Teddy was dead.

  “It should be easy to find a dead man,” one man said.

  “I fired two shots,” McPherson exclaimed. “One hit MacDonald, and the other White. White grabbed MacDonald, and they both fell overboard. I’ll find his body in the morning and leave him with the rest.”

  The crew all drank to that. Teddy had heard enough. He backed away from the camp and waited within view. One by one the men went to relieve themselves or fell asleep where they sat.

  Teddy watched for his chance. When McPherson moved away to the trees, Teddy circled around and struck him hard with a stick he’d found near his hiding spot. McPherson didn’t know what hit him and fell over in the brush. Teddy whacked him again for good measure—each sickly thud was for John. He quickly looked toward the camp in case somebody heard the noise and came looking, but everyone was either drunk or asleep or distracted.

  Grabbing McPherson’s legs, Teddy pulled him away from the encampment toward the beach. His strength was propped by his anger and hatred for this man who’d betrayed him in the worst way. He quickly removed McPherson’s pants and shirt and exchanged them with his own. Then he returned to where John lay and retrieved the axe from where it rested after McPherson’s blow. He went back across the beach, carefully watching so that nobody else had come in search of the man. Teddy rolled McPherson onto his back and swung the axe. He carried the head, all the while heaving and retching, and using the butt of the axe, he dug a hole and buried it in a shallow grave in the sand near where he’d been hiding.

  He crossed to the ocean and dipped the axe and washed his hands. Then he moved up the beach, back to John, and knelt beside him. The light of the quarter moon outlined the body of his only friend. Teddy bowed his head into his cold, wet palms and wept.

  In the end, John had wanted Teddy to save himself. He got up, took the axe, scaled the rocks, and crept back into the crack beneath the outcrop. The morning was a long time coming.

  “McPherson, where are you, man?”

  “McPherson!”

  He could see the men on the other side of the beach circling the dead bodies. One of them crouched beside McPherson’s and checked the pockets of his shirt and pants. He got up, and the gathering talked amongst themselves before they began shouting McPherson’s name again.

  They headed for the rowboats. They made two trips to the Walrus before four men returned to the shore, two in each boat. One man—the cousin, Teddy believed—came over to the spot where John had been murdered. He shouted McPherson’s name a few more times before turning back again and shrugging toward the others.

  The four pulled the rowboat from the Walrus up on the beach and turned it over. One of the men grabbed a large rock and struck a hole in the bottom. The four then jumped into the other rowboat and went back to the Walrus.

  Men moved around the deck. Teddy pulled himself back into the hole so he wouldn’t be seen from the ship. A couple of men watched the shore while two others went to work piling the bodies of his former shipmates at the stern. Teddy guessed they’d all be tossed overboard when the Walrus was miles away.

  He waited until the ship was out of sight before venturing out of hiding. Cautiously, he moved toward the campsite, fearing somebody might have remained behind. Seeing nobody, he hunted for scraps of food. The crate they’d carried ashore had a few tins of beans. Using a sharp rock, he beat the top off of one and wolfed down the contents. The fire had long gone cold, and he dared not try to start it again. He took the can with him and went back to find another spot on the bluff to stay out of sight. Things would be as they left them if they came back. The weather was cold, and very little warmth came from the sun. Fear, sadness, and despair paralyzed him. The cold drove him from the den in the rocks when darkness swaddled the land. He crept to the camp to take shelter under the tent and went back to the bluff early the next day.

  Memories and instincts awakened in him, remnants of his life on the streets. He had fought then to stay alive when all seemed bleak and would do it again.

  15

  On the third day, Teddy rummaged through the trunks. His hand fell on the picture he kept of Lavinia. First Vinie and now John. He wouldn’t be able to take John with him when he left, so he would leave his Vinie behind with his friend. He found a crevice in a nearby rock wall and pushed her picture there, then took the items from John’s trunk and stuffed them in around the photo. John had kept a journal of their ports of call, some things he had collected for his father, and various papers describing their cargo.

  Teddy folded the last letter John had finished but hadn’t been able to post. He shoved it in his shirt pocket. There was also an envelope of cash in a small, hard-covered journal at the bottom of the trunk. There was nothing of consequence in his own trunk aside from Lavinia’s picture.

  He thought for a while about how much John would be missed. Mr. MacDonald would cry for his son. Nobody would care about Teddy White. The only ones looking for Teddy White would be a bunch of murderers from the Walrus. Teddy mulled it over in his head for most of the day. McPherson had identified John, but nobody had identified him. By evening, he decided Teddy White would die here, too. He’d leave the life of Teddy White here on the Labrador with the body of John MacDonald and the picture of Lavinia Walker. In honour of his only friend, he’d carry John with him wherever he went.

  He ate the last tin of beans and used a sharp rock to carve off some of the canvas from the sails of the Vagabond. Then he stuffed as much as he needed into the hole in the rowboat. He righted the boat back over into the water and allowed the wood to swell around the patch to seal it. He’d test it in
the morning.

  Saying goodbye to John was the hardest thing he ever did. Saying goodbye to Lavinia wasn’t easy, but she was already gone when he’d gotten home. He didn’t see her or touch her after he’d kissed her on the pier. That was a fond memory, but John’s final moments had been horrific.

  “John, I don’t know how to do this,” Teddy said. “I have to leave you like this in case they come back. I’ll make sure you’re found and buried properly. That much I’ll promise you.” He squeezed John’s cold, lifeless hand and closed his eyes. “You didn’t deserve this. You saved me, John. I hope I’ve made it right.”

  A single tear escaped, and he brushed his face with the back of his hand. Teddy squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his brow and cheeks before quickly standing. He looked out over the water. It was calm enough for him to row north in hopes of reaching a settlement on the mainland. So, with prevailing light winds and tides, a strong back for the oar, and an arm that had healed enough for the job, he landed in the small village of Indian Harbour.

  “You look tired and hungry,” the leather-faced man in town said to him. “Where’d you come from, son?”

  “George’s Island, I believe, sir. McPherson’s the name.” He deliberately used the dead man’s name to throw off the crew from the Vagabond should they ever come looking for him.

  Teddy told the gathering men that he was the only survivor from the boat, the Walrus, which had been wrecked on George’s Island. He said that all hands had drowned. They gave him provisions and landed him in Rigolet the next day. From there he headed inland, intent on living a solitary life.

  Meanwhile, news of the wreck spread along the coast. Fishermen from the nearby village of Black Tickle were shocked and bewildered to find the headless men. They knew something horrible had happened and that the men from the Walrus had met a fate worse than drowning. They were laid to rest in a proper grave. News from the site did not reach the Island of Newfoundland until the next spring, where it was reported in the Twillingate Star.

  The new John MacDonald made friends with the indigenous peoples of Labrador and learned from them how to survive. After all, he told himself, he had lived. It wasn’t the first time he’d started from nothing with a leaden heart. He bought and bartered for dogs and began to bring supplies between the missionary communities on the northeast coast. He remained outside the bounds of humanity wherever possible, until the day his path crossed that of the black-haired woman who reminded him of Lavinia. Her desperation matched his own as he’d fled George’s Island. Maybe it was the loneliness of his life that drew him to her. He wasn’t sure. But he answered her plea just the same. It was time for John MacDonald to walk amongst the living once again.

  16

  Present day, 1895

  The wagon stopped in front of the Whitbourne Hotel.

  “Thanks, Richard,” Danol said. He grabbed the canvas bag from the rear and helped Erith down from the seat. “Are you staying the night?”

  “No, I’ll make my way back home. The missus will be expecting me,” Richard said, his red hair almost haloed in the glow of the evening sun.

  “I’m glad you and Meg could make it to the church,” Erith said.

  “It was a fine wedding, Miss Erith.” Richard paused and looked at her intently. “Don’t go fretting about anything at home.”

  Erith nodded at Richard Dalton. He and his wife, Meg, were Mary Ro’s dear friends. She took his hand. “Thanks, Richard. I’m not worried about home.” She squeezed his hand once more and then linked into Danol’s arm. Her husband escorted her inside.

  Erith’s stomach clenched once more. Her head was full of worry for what tonight and tomorrow would bring. She tightened her grip on Danol as they climbed the steps to the reception area.

  Danol registered them as Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. With the room key in hand, they made their way upstairs.

  Cream-coloured wallpaper festooned with tiny yellow and purple flowers with matching pinstripes brightened the room. A shiny oil lamp with a smoky chimney adorned the small dresser near the lone window. Thick yellow curtains hung from ceiling to floor. The ceiling, not much higher than Danol, had glistening white oil paint over planked boards. The chamber pot and washstand were in a tiny room behind the door.

  Danol plopped the canvas bag on the bed. Erith stopped and eyed the blues, greens, yellows, and reds in the patchwork quilt and the fluffy white pillows resting against a gold-coloured headboard. She remained quiet. She was afraid that if she spoke she might cry.

  “You must be tired, Erith. Do you want some supper?” Danol asked and came around the bed to her.

  “I couldn’t eat if I tried,” Erith said absently.

  Danol put his arms around her and stroked her hair. He kissed her tenderly, but she remained tense. He held her away from him. “Erith, honey, I know this has been a long day. Why don’t you get ready for bed? Tomorrow will be difficult for you.”

  “I’m worried about tonight, too, Danol,” she ventured shyly.

  “Tonight?”

  She burst out crying. “I’m so sorry. I know tonight is our wedding night.”

  He pulled her to him and embraced her once more. “Oh, my darling, I hope you are not worried about tonight because of me.”

  “Things are supposed to happen, you know . . .” She pushed away again to look into his eyes, blushed, and then buried her head in his chest.

  “You silly woman. Or, should I say, you silly wife?” Danol said playfully. His lips moved against her hair.

  “But Danol, Mary Ro said . . .”

  “Don’t mind Mary.” Danol smiled and lifted Erith’s chin so she could meet his eyes once more. He bent and lightly kissed her lips. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t look out for my wife?” He paused and kissed her again. “I still can’t believe you’re my wife, Erith. God, I’m a lucky man.”

  “That’s just it, Danol. I’m your wife. I want to be your wife.”

  “We have the rest of our lives for you to be my wife,” Danol said. He embraced her once more. “Tonight I want to hold you and comfort you so you can sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day for both of us.”

  “But Danol, what kind of wife is that?”

  “That, my dear Erith, is the kind of wife I want. When the time is right,” he said gently, “we’ll have our wedding night. I don’t want you to feel like it has to be tonight—or any night, for that matter.”

  Tension released in Erith’s spine and jaw, she reached for his hands. “Oh, Danol. I love you.”

  “I hope so,” he said with a grin. He picked her up and twirled her around. “Tomorrow you’ll see Beatrice, and I’ll be by your side. No matter what has happened, Erith, I will always be by your side.”

  Erith blushed when she entered the room a short time later with her flannel gown tied tightly at the neck and her bare toes showing. The tension had returned, and the strain showed on her face. She eased herself beneath the patchwork covers. By habit, she reached to fix the hair away from her face, then patted the short tresses instead.

  Danol closed the curtains and blew out the lamp. Clothes dropped to the floor. The springs squeaked, and the mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed. When he stretched out, gravity drew Erith toward him. Before she could react, he was tucking her into the crook of his arm. She continued to roll until their bodies touched and her hand rested on his chest.

  He inhaled sharply, and the muscles flexed where her fingers grazed his skin.

  “Good night, my love,” he whispered as he tucked the quilt around her.

  “Good night, Danol,” she said as she nestled closer to him. His arm tightened around her, and she relaxed into his embrace. The even rise and fall of his chest and the surprising comfort lulled her into a deep sleep. She dreamt of Beatrice and what tomorrow would bring.

  Danol shook her. She stretched, and h
er hand lingered on the warm imprint where he had lain. Her cheeks reddened. “Good morning, Mrs. Cooper. It’s time to get up if you want some breakfast before the train is due.”

  Her husband was sitting, shirtless, on the side of the bed. He quickly leaned in and kissed her. “I hope I get to do this every morning,” Danol said as he stroked her hair. “I can’t believe that, either,” he said playfully as he caressed her short mane again before turning back to the dresser to grab his shirt.

  Danol gave her some privacy. The sunlight streaming in around the curtain brightened the room and shone across his back as he stretched forward. When he sat back down on the bed, Erith reached and gently stroked the red puckered scar left from the gunshot wound that had struck just below his ribs. He stopped what he was doing and rested his arms on his legs as she gently explored, first one and then the other one, a little bit lower and closer to his spine. She bolted out from under the covers and threw her arms around his neck, almost pushing him off the bed. He chuckled as he tried to hold his position.

  She kissed him behind the ear and hugged him tighter. “I almost lost you then and hadn’t told you that I loved you.” Before Danol could face her, Erith pushed back to the other side of the bed and scrambled to the little room to change. When she returned, he was dressed and waiting for her with a smile on his face.

  “How about that breakfast, Mrs. Cooper?” He bent his arm, and she circled hers in through.

  “That sounds just about right, Mr. Cooper.” She lowered her eyes and smiled shyly at him. He pulled her arm closer to his side and patted her hand, then kissed the top of her head before they left the room.