Unwept

by Tracy Hickman

  “Hallo!” he shouted again just as lightning tore the clouds overhead and the thunder drowned him out.

  The deck suddenly shifted beneath his feet. A shiver ran up Isaiah’s spine. He reached for the latch on the cabin doors and pulled them open. Yellow light spilled out from the hatch and he quickly stepped inside.

  The howling was muted in the cabin. Isaiah recognized the salon at once. Hurricane lamps rocked back and forth in their suspended mounts, their wicks carefully trimmed and burning brightly. There was a long table mounted to the floor that ran almost the length of the compartment. Chairs were strewn about from the motion of the storm and the collision with the shore.

  It was the smell that took him aback. He had never encountered such sensations before. Plates of food were strewn about the cabin, cooked meats, bread, cheese and fruits all tumbled to a mash on the floor. Isaiah reached down and touched a piece of ham on the floor. It was still warm to the touch.

  “Hallo there!” Isaiah called out. “Anyone aboard?”

  He straightened up and ran his hand down his face both to get the water away from his eyes and as an act of hesitation. He set his teeth and stepped quickly around the table to the darkened hallway beyond. Flashes from the storm came through the transom windows but did not penetrate the corridor well. Isaiah bit at his lip and then stepped into the dark passageway.

  “I’m Isaiah Walker!” he called out, his own voice sounding muffled in his ears. He kept talking as much for his sake as for any other ears that might hear him. “You’ve run aground and I’ve come to help. Happened to meself once—so I know what you’re facing.”

  He paused in the passage. The kitchen to his left was warm and he could see the glow from behind the stove grating. The fire had been banked properly.

  A dim glow to his left outlined the edges of a passageway door. He fumbled for a moment for the handle and opened it.

  It was a passenger cabin, a single candle in its lantern shielding it. The space was typically cramped. There was a trunk and a pair of cases stacked on the floor. The upper case was open. Several dresses were carefully packed in the case, with a long print dress laid out on the bunk next to it.

  In the corner of the bunk rested a porcelain doll, its head cracked and missing a piece from its forehead down over its left eye. A baby rattle sat next to it atop a crumpled soft blanket.

  “Passengers, and women at that,” Isaiah muttered to himself. He took the candle from the lamp glass and stepped back into the corridor. Another door lay at the end of the hall. He felt a sudden urgency and stepped quickly to open the last door.

  It was the captain’s cabin in the style of the schooners, cramped and efficient. Captains of such vessels were meant to be on deck, not holed up in their cabins. Under the flickering candlelight Isaiah saw that the captain’s cap was resting on his bunk along with his weather gear.

  The logbook lay open on the small table, the quill dripping ink where it lay abandoned on the desk out of the inkpot. Isaiah moved the candle closer. Isaiah reached for the book with care and slowly flipped over the cover so that he could read its title.

  LOG OF THE MARY CELESTE

  Capt. Joseph Aarons Commanding

  Isaiah laid the book flat again and peered down at the words written in a tight and precise hand on the page:

  SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1917: Set sail 8:45 am out of Halifax, Nova Scotia, bound for Moncton, N.B. Crew of six, passengers: Mr. and Mrs. Mont-Blanc and child; Miss Julia Carter; Miss Hepseba Lindt. With officers fourteen souls aboard.

  SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1917: Arrived Moncton, N.B. Provisioned and trade. Disembarked Miss Carter. Took on shipment steam engine parts. Set sail 2:35 pm bound for St. John. Weather turning foul. Following wind making good time despite high seas.

  SEPTEMBER 8TH, 1917: Arrived St. John early, 5:45 am. Off-loaded steam engine parts. Departure of Miss Hepseba Lindt. Took on passenger Miss Philida Epstein and no cargo. Departure 1:15 pm bound for Bar Harbor.

  SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1917: Swells and a southern wind. Progress slow. Unable to make St. John, weathering at sea.

  SEPTEMBER 10TH, 1917: Entered St. John, N.B., harbor 9:10 am. Disembarked Miss Epstein 10:30 am. No new passengers. Took on cargo of wool packets. Minor repairs. Provisions and departure at 4:50 pm bound for Penumbra, Maine.

  SEPTEMBER 11TH, 1917: Weather worsening. Following seas driving us toward shore. Unable to outrun the storm. Hatches secured. We are making for Curtis Light and will weather in Gamin Harbor. Curtis Light in sight.…

  “Curtis Light in sight,” Isaiah muttered, his brows knotted in a question. “Where are they, then? Where have they all gone?”

  Isaiah glanced up at the top of the writing desk.

  A pipe lay in its holder, the tobacco still smoldering and its smoke curling up from the bowl carved with the initials “J.A.” on its side.

  Isaiah took in a shuddering breath. The ship felt suddenly close, its air stifling.

  Then he remembered the man on the beach.

  Isaiah rushed from the cabin and down the corridor. He plunged out of the salon through the doors and out onto the deck. The full force of the storm had not abated and struck him as he skidded onto the wet, sloping deck. He tripped in his haste to cover the length of the debris-laden planks, felt the ship groan again beneath him and came at last to the railing. Without hesitation he gripped the rope, moving too quickly down its wet length and losing his grip. He fell heavily onto the sand and staggered to his feet.

  “Sir! Might I have a word with you about—”

  Isaiah could see the impression in the sand, filling with the deluge of rainwater from the sky, where the man had lain.

  But the man was now gone.

  “An outsider,” Isaiah muttered into the storm. “Just like me.”

  10

  OBSCENITY

  With no appetite for food or company Ellis softly climbed the stairs and silently shut the door to her room. Perhaps I will awaken knowing everything again, she mused. Hope lit momentarily in her soul and passed on like the lighthouse beam that passed over her form through the windows of the French doors that overlooked the harbor. If not, she promised herself, there will be adequate daylight to shine on all the mysteries in the morning.

  She wearily tugged the sheer curtain panels from beneath the heavy velvet ones across the glass doors. The wash of light from the lighthouse was softer and diffused as it spilled across the room followed by its withdrawal. Its slow but regular pulse was soothing, much like an ocean tide in its ceaseless rhythm. Outside, the storm had broken over Summersend. The wind rattled the panes, moaning as it picked up and swirled around the gingerbread ornaments under the eaves. Still the constant pulse of the lighthouse was calming to her. Weariness fell over her. She took off her shoes and silk stockings, lay down across the bed and fell asleep before she finished undressing.

  She became aware of the sound of a persistent tapping against the French doors. Moths fluttered against the panes of glass, their silhouettes creating patterns against the organza sheers. They were a shadowy kaleidoscope, ornate and exotic, bobbing and weaving against the glass.

  Moths in the storm? Ellis could not comprehend it. The gale outside was accompanied by the hiss of driving rain against the windowpanes. The latch gave way and in an instant the doors flew open. The banshee keening of the wind filled the room.

  The darkness around her bed fluttered. Ellis’s heart skipped a beat as she sat up and the night shattered into a thousand dark wings.

  Wings gently caressed her neck, brushed her hands and skimmed along her eyelashes. She strained her eyes to see, peering into the darkness of her bedroom. The French doors lay open and without warning the blinding beam of the lighthouse lit the room like lightning. She closed her eyes and reopened them. The lighthouse beam slowed in its traverse and spilled across the floor. She was not alone. Hundreds of moths with wings of silky black and luminescent surrounded her. Delicately, gently, they slid in the air about her. Terror and excitement warred in her b
reast as she watched the graceful winged creatures. She could not help but think of the little boy chasing the pink moths. But these things had come to her.

  She tried to cry out for help, but as she opened her mouth a moth flew in, and she inhaled and she swallowed it. She gagged, coughed and struggled for air. Her stomach felt as though it would lose its contents. She sat shivering, though she wasn’t cold. She parted her lips to scream but could not utter a sound.

  Her unwelcome visitors became larger and larger, crowding her room, beating her with their huge wings, sucking out the air. Ellis struggled to take a breath. She covered her eyes as the lighthouse beam canvassed her room. She looked up and the moths had gathered into a single form. It enfolded itself tightly in its huge black wings. The wings fell back as a many-layered greatcoat. A male form became clearly outlined, darkness against the moonlight now streaming through the window at his back. His silhouette was tall, with broad shoulders and slender hips. The ribbons upon his chest glistened in the moonlight, head bent low, face hidden in the shadows.

  A soldier.

  He closed the French doors against the storm, then strode forward and knelt at her bedside, where she sat huddled in the coverlet. Her heart pounded so that she thought it would burst from her chest.

  “Ellis…”

  He whispered her name simply and yet there was a rushing wind in his breath that spoke of green summer, bitter winter, resigned autumn and a thousand glorious springs.

  Ellis licked her lips but still could not utter a sound.

  “Dear Ellis.” He sighed. “Do you know me?” She could see the set of his jawline was earnest in the darkness. Almost imperceptibly she shook her head no.

  “I am yours, Ellis.… I have always been yours.” He knelt by her bedside and gently slid one hand up the coverlet, clasping in it both of her hands, which were clinging to the quilt. Ellis stared at the hand that held both of hers. He had long, tensile fingers. The pads of his fingertips were roughened as though he was no stranger to work. His strong hands were warm against her cold skin. “I came for you as I promised I would.”

  Ellis trembled, trying to speak.

  “Be mine again, dear Ellie.” He proffered a single white rose that he laid across her coverlet. As the lighthouse outlined their forms he held up his head and faced her. The flash of fire in his large gray-green eyes caused her throat to constrict with longing for something, something she didn’t quite understand or remember. It seemed as though a memory belonging to her played deeply in those wonderful eyes. Her gaze fell to his mouth as a small sigh escaped his lips. He leaned in and slipped his arm about her waist, pulling her into his chest. Tilting his head down, he took possession of her lips, kissing her mouth slowly, deeply, knowingly. Ellis’s eyes flew shut as thoughts flooded her mind. She wanted to flee and be still all at once. Images came unbidden, both sweet and shocking, of the pair of them intertwined in a way no maiden could understand.

  But Ellis did understand.

  The soldier’s hand slid beneath the hem of her crumpled dress, lightly caressing her leg, sweeping softly up her bare thigh.

  She broke free, pushing at him. He released her, standing and stepping back from the bed. His head fell to his chest, his breathing heavy. He lifted pleading eyes to hers and leaned toward her again, but the spell was broken, the moment had passed and she took in the view of his whole face.

  Ellis recoiled from the sight that met her eyes. Around his right eye there was a large blue marking in the shape of a paisley. It wandered up his forehead and into his hairline. It looked like a half mask that was starting to fade. It made everything in the sweet and terrifying moment before ugly and wrong.

  She jerked backward and he snatched her hands into his again and held them fast. Her breathing was ragged as she stared.

  “Am I so loathsome to you?” he asked worriedly.

  “Please go!” she whispered hoarsely.

  “I’ve come so far,” he begged. “Don’t send me away.”

  “Go!” she shouted, finally finding her voice. As she spoke, a breeze stirred the room. “Go away!”

  “I brought you a present.” His voice was like the keening of the wind outside. The soldier with the marred face transformed in the darkness, rapidly reducing in size and again becoming a delicate black-winged creature as the lighthouse beam searched Ellis’s room. She heard a final whisper through the gale. “Widow’s walk.”

  The French doors burst open again with a gust of the raging storm. With a shriek the creature flew on black silky wings out of the French doors and was whisked at once into the fury of the storm.

  The lighthouse beam flashed again into her room and she fell to the floor before its brilliance.

  * * *

  “Ellis, are you awake?” Jenny’s voice pierced Ellis’s thoughts.

  “Jenny?” Ellis groggily clawed her way back onto the bed, exhausted. The terror of a moment before washed away as tears trickled unbidden down her cheeks.

  “I heard you yelling. What’s the matter?”

  “Turn up the lamp, please,” Ellis said weakly as she smoothed the covers. Ellis’s muscles ached as though she’d been doing hard work. She glanced at the French doors, which were open, and the sheers were soaked through and flapping in the driving rain.

  “Didn’t I shut those doors?” Ellis asked.

  “It seems not.” Jenny adjusted the gaslight next to the door. Both the girls squinted in the sudden brightness as the flame flared to life.

  Jenny crossed to the French doors and closed them, pushing home the bolts into the top of the frame and the matching set into the floor below. “With the curtains open doesn’t the lighthouse light keep you awake?”

  The statement in its ordinariness comforted Ellis and brought reality closer.

  Ellis felt relief flood her body as the familiarity of surroundings washed over her. The dresser with its crocheted runner, the closet with the door slightly ajar, her mirror, the armoire, the washstand with its china pitcher and basin were all just as they should be. She let a sigh escape her lips and turned to Jenny.

  “You fell asleep in your new dress? It’ll have to be ironed,” Jenny pointed out as she took in Ellis’s disheveled form.

  “Someone was here.”

  Jenny’s hand flew to her throat. “Who?”

  A few moments before it had all seemed so real. Now, with the light filling the room, Ellis doubted it. A sick feeling stole over her. Is this part of my illness? It felt like more than a dream and yet it was too strange to be anything else. She paused and chose her words more carefully.

  “It just seemed so real.” It felt like a lie in her mouth, but she did not know if it was.

  “A dream! Oh, please tell me about it!”

  “I don’t know where to start … with the moths, I guess. Well, they weren’t really moths.…” She wiped the tears away quickly as Jenny stepped forward to dab at them.

  Jenny tilted up Ellis’s chin. “Are you really awake, Ellie? You’re not making any sense yet.”

  “Well, sometimes dreams don’t, you know.” She smoothed the front of her dress, trying to decide how to continue. As she sat in the light the strangeness of the night receded.

  “Today was too much. The doctor was right. I’m taking you to see him immediately. You are obviously distressed, unwell.” Jenny looked over Ellis with some concern.

  “No, don’t be silly. It had to be a dream.” Ellis straightened up and wiped her final tears away. “I’ll be fine in a minute or two.”

  “Maybe you’ll feel better if you tell me your dream,” Jenny prodded.

  Ellis didn’t want to share with anyone what she’d experienced. The daytime restraints of her rumpled dress felt itchy and tight in this late hour of the night. She decided to change into her nightdress. She was grateful to be busy and not to have to look Jenny in the eye as she spoke. She stood and busied herself finding her nightgown.

  “Well, there were all these black moths making patterns against the she
er curtain panels. And then they rushed into the room. They were all around me. There were so many I felt like I couldn’t breathe and then I swallowed one.”

  “You swallowed a moth?” Jenny asked, a look of revulsion on her features.

  A wave of nausea covered Ellis again. “It made me feel so sick. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Was there more?”

  Ellis shrugged her shoulders, trying to sound nonchalant. “One stayed when the others left. It got bigger and became a man.”

  Ellis noted that Jenny’s eyes lit up at the mention of “a man” and thought that she was too interested in boys and men altogether.

  “Go on!” Jenny’s voice warmed with interest.

  “Well, I guess he was a soldier.”

  “A soldier? How dull. Go on, please.”

  “He knelt by my bedside and begged to be my suitor. He had very warm hands—”

  “He touched you?”

  Ellis swallowed hard. She hesitated to tell Jenny all the details of her dream, uncertain that she could explain it to herself, let alone speak of it aloud. Yet she needed to tell someone. Jenny was the only person she could trust.

  “He…” Ellis hesitated, uncertain of the words. “He put his hand under my dress … slid his hands up my thigh. Oh, Jenny, it’s hard to explain, but I didn’t want him to stop … but I couldn’t let him go on! Understand?”

  Jenny’s eyes were the size of saucers as she nodded yes and then shook her head no. She did not really understand but was fascinated, breathless, as she spoke. “What happened then?”

  “And then I saw his eyes.” Ellis hung the blue dress up in the closet, slipped on her nightgown and sat next to Jenny on the bed.