by Nick Scorza
This was strange. She must have really been worried. What’s more, I had no idea we’d been here once when I was little.
“I’m sorry too, Mom, I should have called. And I’m upset about school and the way this year went, too. I promise to do better this fall. But I’m not coming home yet. I like it here, and I like spending some time with Dad.”
“All right, Clara. But if there’s anything else out of the ordinary, I want you on the next bus back, okay?”
“I understand.”
I hadn’t technically said yes, but I hoped my mother would let that slide. It felt good to have a normal conversation with her again, for a few minutes at least. We chatted about her work, and how tired she was of casting the murderer of the week.
“Lots of actors don’t want to play serial killers,” she said, “so we end up going with standup comedians. They usually get the material better anyway, plus they’re more likely to have the right weird look.”
I made a face when she brought that up—this was exactly how my mother had met Charlie. He wasn’t a comedian, no matter how funny he seemed to find himself, just a washed up character actor my mother had cast as the Bushwick Butcher. Somehow he’d managed to talk her into a date when shooting wrapped.
“Why don’t you just cast Chuck for all the killer parts? That’d make him happy.”
“Clara, I need you to give Charlie a chance.” My mother’s voice went flat abruptly. I could picture her pinched expression on the other end of the phone. “I hope you’ll see why he makes me happy. I get to be happy, don’t I?”
“Of course, Mom. But did you have to bring him into our home?”
“It’s my home, young lady. If I talked to my parents that way, I’d get a spanking with the belt.”
“Maybe you should talk to a therapist about that, Mom. Doctor Bellamy is good.”
I was over the line and I knew it. The words just slipped out, and I immediately started wishing life came with a rewind button. I was going to pay for this. Maybe when I got home, Mom would announce she married the Woodchuck, or maybe she’d just ground me for the rest of the year. The line was silent for a long time. Finally, I whispered that I was sorry into the receiver.
“Goodbye, Clara,” my mother’s voice was taut and brittle. “We’ll talk later.”
My friends all thought my mother had the coolest job, especially film-geek Rayna—at first, I thought that was the only reason she made friends with me. I guess it was cool that she worked on a TV show, but I saw how tired Mom always looked after work, how each season’s taping seemed to come closer to making her snap, and I already knew I didn’t want to follow in her footsteps. Especially if it meant working with guys like the Woodchuck.
“Dad?” I said when I hung up the phone. “You never told me we came here when I was a baby.”
“I-I must have mentioned it sometime,” he said. “It was just a short trip, so your mother could see where I grew up.”
“No, you never talked about this place. . . . I didn’t even know about our family history until now.”
My father nodded. At least he was admitting I was right—this place was starting to make me wonder if I was imagining things.
“I thought I was done with this place, but . . . I guess you’re never done with the past, are you?”
My father said this to himself as much as to me, and that was all he’d say. If he had any thoughts on my fight with Mom, he kept them to himself, and I was glad of that at least. He heated us up a frozen lasagna for dinner, but I was only hungry enough for a small piece.
“Hey Dad, can I ask you a question? Does the water we drink here come from the lake?”
My father made a disgusted face mid-chew, like his lasagna had suddenly turned into a pile of wet garbage.
“Oh no,” he said, swallowing uneasily. “It tastes terrible. It’s got too high a mineral content, sulphur and things like that. The same minerals that give the Redmarch marble in the quarry its color make the lake water unpalatable. It has no river access, it’s fed by underground springs. Funny story, they tried to bottle the lake water and sell it as a health tonic, back in the1800s. It didn’t go well.”
“Why not?”
“There were rumors the makers were lacing the water with opium—which was actually legal at the time, just frowned upon. The thing is, several customers reported really vivid nightmares; sometimes so horrifying they developed insomnia or nervous disorders. Have more lasagna before it gets cold.”
I was sick of everyone in this town dodging my questions, especially my father. I put my fork down with a clang on the plate and pushed it away from me, fixing him with the hardest stare I could.
“Dad, what the hell is wrong with this place? No one will talk to me, and the one boy who would is dead now. I’ve seen—”
My father tensed up. He seemed intensely frightened of what I would say next. I thought of the weird statue in the consignment shop, the thing I’d heard and felt in the woods. What did it all mean?
“I’ve seen and felt things I can’t really describe, and if you don’t say something, I’m going to explode.”
He was quiet for a long time, staring back at me with a determination I didn’t know he had. Finally he sighed. When he spoke, it was clear he’d chosen his words carefully.
“Lots of people think they want a place that never changes, but they wouldn’t if they knew what it was like. It’s the same here every generation—people talk about going to college, or moving away, but they stay and work in the quarry, the same shops stay open in town, folks move into their parents’ houses. The Redmarches like things the way they are.”
“You got out.”
“And look at me, back here again . . .”
He didn’t sound happy about it, and that made me want to ask him why the hell he had moved back then, but I knew that would bring on another quiet spell. It was so hard to get my dad to talk about this—I’d have to swallow my own feelings for now.
“Every year, though, we lose people in accidents, drugs, drinking, bar fights that go too far. Despite all the warnings, people still go missing in the forest. Death is one of those things that doesn’t change, but everyone pretends it’s normal. This town is actually a really nice place, so long . . . so long as you don’t worry too much about what makes it different. I’m sorry, sweetheart, that’s all I can say on the subject.”
I still wanted to ask him what was so important here he couldn’t stay in New York, but I didn’t have it in me. Whatever reason he gave me, it wouldn’t be enough.
That night, I tiptoed out to the front door after my father had gone to sleep. There was an old round clock directly above the door, in the same place where the painting had been in the café. Slowly, I stood on my tiptoes and lifted the clock. Just like Hector had said, there was another little knot of bent nails driven into the wood underneath. What were they supposed to keep out? Or in?
Feeling guilty, but also insatiably curious, I walked over to my father’s computer. It was still on, but in sleep mode. I reached out and slowly moved the mouse, and watched as the screen came to life. I was about to give a guilty, silent cheer when I saw the screen-saver was password protected. I guess my father was serious about not letting anyone read what he wrote. I tried my and Zoe’s birthday as a password, but it didn’t work, and I felt too ashamed to keep guessing.
Just as I was about to give up, though, I saw that my father had left some handwritten notes beside the keyboard. They looked like they’d been copied from a book, but I couldn’t see any books nearby. Maybe he’d traveled somewhere to do research. His handwriting was a chaotic scrawl, but with a little light I could decipher it.
. . . following his dogs, he soon lost his companions, and he did hear the cry of other hounds, not his own, and from a different direction. And when he had come to a glade at the heart of the wood he beheld a pack of strange hounds set upon a stag. Such hounds he had never seen, with coats of white and ears of glistening red, and the white of thei
r bodies was white as bleached bone and the red of their ears as red as blood. Seeing them he gave a cry, and drove them from the stag, and set his own dogs upon it.
Then came a stranger from the wood, clad all in gray, with a hunting horn, saying, “Prince, I know who thou art, and I greet thee not.”
“And what discourtesy have I done thee, that thou would show me such discourtesy in return?” said the prince.
“A greater discourtesy I have never seen in man, as to rob me of my rightful prey. My dogs had felled the stag, and yet you drove them off, and set thine own upon it. For that I shall be revenged upon thee for more than the value of a hundred stags.”
And a great fear fell upon the prince, for he did see the gray stranger was no mortal man.
“My lord,” said he, “I have done thee ill. How may I redeem thy friendship?”
“After this manner mayest thou,” smiled the stranger. “I am a crowned king in my land, as thou art in thine, and I am beset by rivals who challenge my dominion, as I know thou art as well. I shall clothe thee in my features, such that none may know thou are not I, and so I shall wear thy aspect, and walk in thy realm, and thus we shall aid each other and make firm friendship.”
“Gladly shall I do this,” said the prince, though great fear was upon him.
“Come then,” said the stranger, “and let me wear thy skin.”
There was a note added underneath the block of text:
Believed to be a corrupted translation of the Mabinogion, from the collections of Lady Enid Rosegrave; translator unknown.
There was another, shorter passage copied below this in a different color ink, as if it had been added later.
He does go about in darkness with a great black book, and he will offer pretty things, and riches, and aches and pains to any as dare cross you. So many things he will offer you, if only you sign your name with blood into his black book.
Under this was written, Testimony of Molly Goodwin, Salem Town, 1690.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. What could it mean? I started to look through the rest of the papers when I heard my father stirring in the other room, and I left his desk in a hurry.
When I finally fell asleep, I had the drowning dream again.
I was floating on my back in warm water. I could see the rose glow of the summer sun even through my closed eyes. The water lapped at my ears, and I felt like I could hear the echoes of the entire ocean as it moved—a deep, dull roar like a giant’s breath. Sometimes the dream lingered there, and I only hung suspended on the edge of the nightmare before mercifully waking up.
This was not one of those times.
The water rose around me, filling my nose and mouth, burning my eyes. In my dream, it was slow and viscous, more like thick jelly that ocean water. I couldn’t fight it, only struggle feebly as I sank and it closed over me. I coughed and gagged as I felt it fill my mouth, my throat, my lungs, until it had stolen all my breath.
On that day, Zoe had caught my hand in hers and pulled me to the surface, before the next wave crashed over us and took her from me forever.
In my dream, I waited as the water drew me down and down, but her hand never came.
1777
That morning I spied one Captain Redmarch emerge from our Quartermaster’s tent, a look of murder in his eye and a hand resting uneasily on his saber. I saluted as befitted his rank and made myself scarce thereafter. I’d heard rumors of the man, and felt no urge to cross him, especially in such a fearful state. It was not until late in the day that I arranged to hear what had transpired straight from old P_____ the Quartermaster himself.
“That [here the good Quartermaster used a word I’ll not repeat] dared threaten me with flogging when I told him truly we have no good steel bayonets for his company. He’ll have the same as the rest of us, and I’ll be damned if I let some New Yorker threaten me like that. You’d think he was George the Third himself the way he was making demands.”
“Careful with that one,” I told him. “I’ve heard tell he has his own men flogged on the regular, or worse. The ones he suspects of insubordination aren’t seen again.”
“[Our Quartermaster uttered another unrepeatable phrase], he’ll get his good steel bayonets tomorrow, only they’ll be on the end of a Hessian musket and pointed his way.”
I bade old P_____ good evening then, for I had an appointment with a bottle of rum a good friend of mine had squirreled away for the eve of battle. I’d not told the Quartermaster all I’d heard, for it was not pleasant. I had another friend in Redmarch’s company, and he swore to me that when a sergeant reported for duty one morning reeking drunk, Redmarch had had his Lieutenant, a bull of a man named Morris, drown him in a horse trough, all while Redmarch himself sat and watched like he was passing an evening at the theater.
That next morning, we marched out to meet the Loyalists at the Brandywine, and I forgot the whole affair. I never did hear what happened to old P_____ though, even years after the war.
—Excerpt from His Soldiering Days: Recollections of a Continental Soldier, by Elias West
From the library of Tom Morris
VIII.
The next day, I woke up feeling like the living dead, but I still managed to be up and ready in time for my first full day at the café. I walked to town so I wouldn’t leave my father stranded without a car. A chill fog still clung to the trees, and the forest was as dark and imposing as ever. The sun was rising, filling the eastern sky with a bright band of gold, but under those trees, it was still night. I made sure to walk on the side of the street where all the houses were.
The town center was empty in the gray light before dawn. It was empty most of the time, but this was another level, a new degree of stillness. The lake was completely invisible from the town square, a bank of gray fog obscured both land and water. Something made me afraid to walk down into that fog. I imagined it would be like walking out into the lake until the water covered me. I looked away and headed straight to the café.
Lady Daphne left me a list of things to do before opening. Most of them were easy enough to take care of. I cleaned all the coffee machines a second time, ground the beans and brewed the drip coffee, and scrubbed down the tables. As the rich, earthy smell of coffee brewing hit me, I felt better. A near-sleepless night full of bad dreams wouldn’t slow me down. I helped myself to the first cup of dark roast—I had to test it out, right?
As I took a sip, I thought I saw a face at the front window, out of the corner of my eye. I quickly looked up, but there was nothing there. I even checked outside, but the street was empty on either side of the café. I told myself it had just been my reflection.
I arranged the sandwiches Lady Daphne had made last night into the display cases, and got Clyde the cat his food, just as she had specified. Clyde, looking the most energetic I’d ever seen, came trotting to his dish, furry belly swaying. He gave me a single, indignant meow when I didn’t put his food down fast enough.
“There you go, your highness. I hope you like chicken parts platter,” I said.
He certainly seemed to like it—I think it was gone before I turned around.
With everything on the list complete, I flipped the sign on the window from closed to open. I knew the customers wouldn’t suddenly come stampeding in, but even so, I was surprised how quiet my first hour was. The two ladies who’d come in yesterday as part of their power walk were my first customers—just getting drip coffee this time. Once they had their to-go cups in hand, they hit the sidewalk again.
No one else came in after that, and I was feeling pretty useless. I wondered if I’d scared Hector off for good. I reminded myself that it was his own fault if he felt bad about not helping me. I wished I didn’t want his help so badly in the first place. I kept picturing his stupid cocky smile when he said, you have fun with that. Who did he think he was?
When the door chime rang, I caught myself hoping he’d changed his mind. It wasn’t him though; Lady Daphne had come to check
on me.
“The place looks wonderful, dear. Keep up the good work.”
I made her a latte, pouring the foam in another fancy leaf design just because I felt like showing off.
“Delicious,” she said. “I’m lucky to have found you. Ashley always does her best, but she doesn’t drink coffee so I don’t think she knows how it’s supposed to taste.”
“Is she all right? Did she complain about me or anything?”
“No, dear, why would she?”
“No reason,” I said, trying quickly to change the subject. “It’s been pretty quiet in here. Maybe you should have a poetry night or something. Not that you should do anything like that during my shift. I’m sure Ash could cover it.”
“My patrons like their quiet,” said Lady. “I have an advantage when it comes to customer research.”
She tapped her temple, pointing at all the psychic secrets trapped in her brain. Her powers didn’t work that well, though, because she took my silence as a request to tell me more about the wonderful world of clairvoyance.
“I’ve seen the whole world without leaving my room,” she said. “The Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, Niagara Falls . . .”
“That’s just a few hours from here,” I said.
“Still, easier with clairvoyance, dear. Saves me quite a bit on gas.”
“So you can see anything anywhere, any time you want?”
“Oh no, sadly it doesn’t work like that. It comes only when it wants to, just like Mr. Clyde here.” She extended her hand, beckoning to the cat, who raised his head from his cushion, only to yawn and return to napping.
Ask her if she’s ever seen anyone on the toilet, I imagined Zoe saying. Before I had a chance to think better of it, I’d already asked the question.
She was quiet for a moment, and I was afraid I’d crossed a line, but then she smiled.
“So far I’ve been lucky,” she said. “I’m a little afraid I’ll see something I can’t unsee every time I feel it coming on, but such is the burden of the gifted.”