After the Storm

by Chrissy Munder

  “I’m sorry Caleb’s dead,” he yelled, uncaring at the harshness of the words. “I’m sorry you’re dead, but that boy’s still alive, and we have to try to keep him that way.”

  Vincent grabbed at the captain’s arm in frustration, trying to shake some sense into him, trying to find some remnant of the humanity the captain had showed him over the last several weeks. Only his arm passed through nothingness as the ghost began to retreat from him and the bitter reminder of his past.

  “I have to try,” Vincent yelled above the roar of the winds. “You, of all people, know I have to try.”

  He stumbled through the wet sand, feeling the rain increase, his hair and clothes plastered to his body. Vincent panted a bit for air, coughing as he leaned against the small wooden boat.

  It was a struggle to flip it over. He couldn’t believe it when he found the oars safely stowed inside and began to push and tug it to the water’s edge. He wrestled against the wind and the weight of the boat, trying to find the strength within to do this one thing.

  “Don’t be a fool, man!” The captain’s voice was loud in Vincent’s ears. “Yeh can’t do it alone.”

  Vincent ignored him, continuing to battle, cursing his weakness as he bent a thumbnail back, tearing it until it bled. He was almost at the water; the captain was wrong, he could do this.

  The sucking pull of the currents took him by surprise, ripping the boat out of his grasp and leaving him stranded on the shore, sinking into the retreating sand. Vincent threw himself inside, grunting as his ribs hit the wooden seat, almost swamping the craft until he found his balance.

  The lake had become an alien landscape, wild now, something to be feared; he wrapped his hands around the unfamiliar shape of the oar handles and began to pull.

  At first he couldn’t find a rhythm, a synchronization of strength and will that could propel him through the fierce wind and waves, but he just grunted and strained until something clicked within and he began to make small but discernable progress towards the sailboat.

  Vincent was soaked, both from the waves crashing over the bow of the small dingy and the rain that continued to pour down from the sky. He was shaking with the cold, teeth chattering, and he couldn’t feel his feet after a few moments as the water collecting in the bottom of the boat soon covered his ankles.

  That was a good sign, right? he asked himself. If there wasn’t any water in the bottom of the boat it meant the boat was leaking. Lots of water meant no leaking.

  He tried to laugh at his fears even when another wave swept over the sides and hit him in the chest, the force knocking him back off the seat for one brief and scary moment.

  His hands felt warm and he looked to where they continued to grip and move the oars without his conscious direction. Rivulets of diluted crimson ran down the wood to mix with the churning water of the lake. Was that enough of an offering? His blood for a life spared? Or would the lake demand more?

  So this is what the captain felt that horrible night. This was just a small part of the agony he went through. Vincent could only imagine how much worse it would be to know that the only person you loved was out there, waiting for you: his only hope. What was a blister or two compared to that? What was any measure of physical discomfort worth against a person’s life?

  His legs cramped, his back screaming at the unexpected strain, and he had a hard time catching enough breath to power each painful sweep of the oars. He hadn’t imagined this when he’d listened to the captain; he could never have imagined this. Vincent could only wonder where the men of that long ago age had found the strength to go through this time after time.

  Looking up into the driving pellets of rain, closer to the sailboat now, he could see the fear in the wide eyes of the sailboat’s lone occupant and it gave him new impetus in his efforts. The youth didn’t look any older than his son. What was he doing out here by himself?

  Finally he was close enough to yell, to get the young man to try and grab the side of the dinghy. Vincent couldn’t spare a hand from the oars as he battled against the water. The captain was right; the lake really did have a life of its own.

  Just like the pain that roared through his gut and tried to sap his focus, the water had its own agenda, its own plans. They didn’t include the hopes and fears of a puny human or two.

  With the young man in the small craft there was a little more balance to be had, even if the extra weight made it harder to maneuver. Vincent rested the oars in the locks for a moment, ends held close as he tried to inhale through the fire in his chest, gasping through airways lined with what felt like cut glass.

  Was it easier heading back to shore? The waves helped push him along, but those same swells also tried to push him sideways and back out, away from safety. Vincent tried to smile reassuringly at his passenger, but he knew it was more of a grimace. The scared eyes just stared up at him. Shock. The young man had to be in shock.

  Vincent couldn’t tell if it was tears or rain running down his face, but whichever, it was frozen now. He was so cold; sweat ran down his back and chest, freezing before it could warm him. He began to think his whole body was encased in ice.

  Just when he thought they were going to make it, a series of swells ripped one of the oars from his numb fingers and out of the lock. Vincent made a futile grab for it, rocking the small craft and leaving it off balance. The next wave took care of the rest, somehow getting under the already disturbed center of gravity and pitching him and his passenger into the bitterly cold water.

  It wasn’t fair! Vincent wanted to scream through the choking mouthfuls of water. They’d almost made it.

  There was no time to think, just reacting and reaching out, somehow grabbing hold of the jacket of the young man and pulling him close. A searing rush of pain tore through his guts and he instinctively tried to curl up, the move to a fetal position pulling his head under the water and relaxing his grip.

  No! Vincent flailed, spitting and swallowing as the water tried to pull him down, reaching out again and trying to see life in the small, pale face before him. Despair rushed in like the next wave; the captain was right, he couldn’t do this alone. And here, in the lake with only the storm as company, he was more alone than he’d ever imagined being.

  It was then, in his darkest moment, accepting his failure, that Vincent suddenly felt himself supported, lightly bobbing like a cork instead of being pulled down into the depths.

  “I’ve got yeh. Just hold on.”

  The rough voice made Vincent want to cry but he knew he was already, the tears mixing with the spray and the rain. The captain had come back for him. He wasn’t alone. Vincent almost smiled; if anyone could save the young man’s life, it was this cursed spirit who had saved so many in his time before.

  “Take the boy,” Vincent called out to the ghost who had spent his life battling this lake.

  “I can’t save yeh both.” The words were harsh and despairing, angry at the choice being forced.

  There was a sudden silence. The roar of the storm and the sound of the waves vanished before this strange new calm that swept through Vincent. His voice was soft when he spoke, yet he knew the captain was there, somehow in the bubble of silence within him.

  “We know I’m gone. If not now, then soon enough. For Caleb’s sake, for my sake, save the boy.”

  Epilogue

  THE storyteller took a deep breath, pushing aside his emotions to continue the tale.

  “After the storm, they found the young man on the beach, safe and alive. He didn’t remember what had happened or how he’d ended up there. The only thing he could remember was being terrified and alone in his little sailboat, watching as the artist struggled across the storm-tossed waves to reach him.”

  His voice lowered once again to a somber hush, barely audible over the soft brush of the lake against the sand of the shore. The cool wind blew over the boys, making them shiver and move their small group closer to the dying fire.

  “They never did find the body of the ar
tist who had rented the old Lighthouse Station and rescued the young man in the sailboat from the wrath of the storm, even though they searched for days. What they did find, though, continues to mystify the residents of this small coastal town to this very day….”

  Here he paused once again, swallowing before he continued, his voice throbbing with feeling.

  “No one knows how they got there or where they were from, but washed up on the shore were found the bodies of two men dressed in rough and old-fashioned clothing. In each other’s arms they were, locked together with a grip that defied death and refused to be broken or let them be separated. One of the men had hair as dark as the very lake depths and carried a strange marking on his cheek; the other man had hair as gold as the sun.”

  One of the smaller boys sniffled and his friend nearest to him nudged him in the ribs, earning a piercing glance from the storyteller who reached out and brought the younger boy closer, patting him on the back as he did so.

  “They were buried together, and if you go into the town cemetery you can see their grave there still, marked by a simple stone paid for by the young man’s family. They didn’t know what names to put on the stone so they settled for an inscription. It simply reads ‘and the greatest of these was Love’.

  “The artist had a few friends and family that came looking for him, once the story got out. They visited the station and collected the works he’d left behind, a legacy of sorts, not of his life, but of the way he chose his death.”

  The storyteller reached out with his stick to prod at the fire and convince it to flame once again. The young boy sitting closest looked at his wrist, squinting in the firelight to see the small mark better.

  “Is that a J?” he asked.

  The storyteller touched the marking softly with his other hand and smiled.

  “Well, now that’s another story…”

  Before the boys could plead to hear it, the sound of a mother’s voice could be heard, calling them back to the campsite for the night. They rushed towards her, eagerly telling her of the storyteller they met on the beach and the stories he told them as they sat around his fire.

  With a mother’s concern, she spoke to her husband, and he and another man went down to the beach, looking for the stranger who sat by a campfire and told tales to the children who wandered past.

  But no stranger was there and all that they found was the remnants of a fire long smothered and cold.

  But then, that’s yet another story.

  About the Author

  The joke in CHRISSY MUNDER’s family is that she was born with a book in her hand. Even now, you’ll never find her without a book or seven scattered about. Forced to become a practicing realist in an effort to combat her tendency to dream, her many years of travel and a diverse assortment of careers have taken her across most of the United States and shown her that there are two things you can never have enough of: love and laughter.

  Visit her web site at http://www.chrissymunder.com/ and her blog at http://chrissymunder.livejournal.com/.

  The novella After the Storm was originally published in the Dreamspinner Press anthology Desire Beyond Death.

  Also by CHRISSY MUNDER

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Copyright

  After the Storm ©Copyright Chrissy Munder, 2010

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  4760 Preston Road

  Suite 244-149

  Frisco, TX 75034

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the

  authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Mara McKennen

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is

  illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon

  conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No

  part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. To

  request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite

  244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  Released in the United States of America

  April 2010

  eBook Edition

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-397-1