“Lard bless yer Grams... She was some smart.” He whistles. “Don’t know how, but that woman knew this day’d come. Knew it right then, when it was fresh done and we were first after the troubles, she said it: We’d best keep our pitch hot, lest the Devil come for his pay. And she was right.”
Aaron didn’t quite follow, but stayed quiet. Not wanting to risk stopping his grandfather before he’d started.
“We’d all of us been there. Seen our share. Didn’t think we could ever forget a speck. But we had nothing to show, even then. Nothing but scars and memories. And yer Grams knew the day would come when that wouldn’t be hardly enough.
“We’d start the Shore Watch with men what’d been there. But not too long after, we’d be needing new blood. We’d tell ‘em what we was up to and why, and they’d have to trust that we were telling true. Simple enough to believe when there was still a right lot of us. But the years’d pass and the men would drop, until nare a’ one remained who’d borne witness, and the scarce piddle that might survive would be our stories, but only that if we was willing to tell ‘em. And none of us was ever wont to talk about any of it.”
He grabs Aaron’s arm. Squeezes.
“We weren’t keeping secrets, mind. Just we didn’t want even the thought of it in our heads after. Yer Grams knew it, and she knew we’d start to forget after a while, us old cocks. And that ya shiny-new young’uns wouldn’t be like to believe without hearing all a’ what went on.
“So she done herself up like a stick of gum in a silver wrapper, and we mucked off together. House-by-house. Man-by-man. Took ‘long a bottle and got ‘em in a right state, until they were all blabber-tongue. That woman had them talking up a storm, bless her. Grilling them with questions. Taking down their stories. It took a good while, but she got ‘em all. Every part of every tale from anyone who’d been part of fighting the troubles off.”
“Wait. What happened to these stories?”
“She bound ‘em all up into books, so new recruits could know what had gone on. Every man to join the Circle, she’d bring the books. Make sure they’d read or heard at least some of ‘em. Enough to understand what they was up against. She made it her job to be our historian. To carry our stories and see they weren’t forgotten.”
“But, Grampy... Where are they now?”
“Before she passed, she gave ‘em all to yer mother. Wanted her to follow in her steps. Take the job of Circle historian. But yer ma never saw it that way. Thought yer Grams was trying to keep her away from the action. And who knows? Maybe that was part of it.
“So she took the books. Put ‘em away someplace. Best I know, she’s never brought ‘em out since. I tried talking to her once about it, but all she’d say is that her ma entrusted them to her, and she was making sure they stayed safe.”
“And you’re telling me, because...”
“You said it yourself, b’y. No one believes anymore. We need those stories. Eyewitness testimonies. They’re as close to proof as we have. It’s time people started hearing ‘em again. The way yer Grams intended.”
He starts back through the graves toward the car. His step heavier. Limp more pronounced. Badly in need of the cane he always leaves behind.
“If yer ma’s not gonna do it, we’re gonna need somebody to be Circle historian in her place. That somebody, Aaron, is you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You have reached your destination.”
The SUV follows a curving dirt lane away from the main road. Slows to negotiate the twists and turns through a bower of elm trees. Its destination has yet to present itself.
Dawn leans over the wheel. Squints through the trees. Worried the GPS may have misdirected her. Wouldn’t her father love that? If she couldn’t find her way after that oh-so-cocky departure.
But as she emerges from the elms into a grassy valley, Dawn sees it: Her island home.
The Talbot Inn is a converted farmhouse and barn. Red with white trim. Freshly painted in the spring. Matching cabins are scattered almost randomly about the property. A handful of dice rolled from a cup. Allowed to remain wherever they landed.
Idling in front of the inn: That mud-covered green Jeep. Dawn pulls up behind it, leaving as much space as possible to avoid sitting directly in the cloud of smoke billowing from its exhaust pipe.
She shuts off her engine. Climbs out.
Stretching, Dawn smiles at a pair of senior citizens resting on lawn-chairs on the Inn’s porch. They have no response. Eyes hidden behind impenetrably black sunglasses. Entirely motionless.
She pauses. Weirded out. Do they see her? Are they asleep? Alive, even? The pair are as still and silent as waxworks. She raises her hand to wave at them, then thinks better of it.
Shivering, Dawn climbs the porch steps. Passes between the lawn chairs, one on either side of the entrance. Wanting to look more closely. Trying not to stare. Even this close, she can’t tell the condition of the elderly couple.
Dawn pulls open the Inn’s heavy spring-loaded screen door. Before she can enter, the tattooed couple push roughly past. Forcing her back outside. Without apology or the slightest acknowledgement.
“Hey!” Dawn whirls. Stomps to the edge of the porch. “Watch it!”
Almost at their Jeep, the tattooed couple stop. Look back at her. Curious. In the way a child with a magnifying glass might be curious about an ant.
Dawn regrets her impetuous shout, but holds her ground. “That’s right.” She weakly points a finger at them. “Try showing some consideration next time.”
Bemused, the pair look at one another, then continue on their way without another glance in Dawn’s direction. They climb into their Jeep. Roar away down the lane towards one of the more distant cabins.
Dawn can’t quite tell whether that counts as a win or draw, but at the very least it’s not a loss.
“Some people today seem to have no manners whatsoever.”
Dawn jumps at the voice from behind her. Turns to the old woman, who must be, in fact, alive.
“I know! It’s one thing to run into someone, but to not even apologize? That’s just...” Dawn trails off. She looks from the old woman to the old man. As far as she can tell, neither has moved. Aren’t moving, even now.
“All right... Well... I’d better go check in.” She gives the pair an extended opportunity to reply. Watching each carefully. When they appear to decline, she pulls open the screen door and steps inside. “Nice talking to you.”
As the door closes behind her she hears:
“You too, Dear.”
~
No one sits in the sitting room.
Dawn cannot blame them. Without even the thinnest of cushions, the white wicker love seat and chairs look about as uncomfortable as any furnishings she’s ever seen. Better suited to loosening an enemy’s tongue than lounging while on vacation.
She looks around. The room is empty. The front counter unmanned. A mostly boiled-off pot of coffee and two dry-looking bran muffins all that remain from the continental breakfast. Somewhere nearby a television can be heard murmelling to itself, punctuated occasionally by condescending canned laughter.
On the counter: A shiny bell. Its surface buffed to mirror-reflectivity. Unmarred by fingerprints. She reaches an index finger over its button. Lets it drop...
...onto the back of someone’s hand. Which has suddenly materialized to block the bell from being rung.
“Oh!” She looks up. Finds herself facing a pale young man in a light suit and a long-suffering deadpan expression. His nametag identifies him: Graham. The concierge. He shifts the bell well out of reach before addressing her.
“And how may I help you?” The emphasis leads Dawn to believe Graham might be happier helping almost anyone else.
“I’d like to...” She pauses. Smiles. “Can you just tell me: The elderly couple outside. Are they--”
“Don’t you worry about them!” Graham’s face boils red. “They’re not hurting anyone!”
Dawn recoils in surpri
se.
Graham clenches his eyes shut. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Calms. Composes himself.
“Naturally, one might wonder what they’d done to warrant such an outburst. You’d be well within your rights to hold it against me. But I ask you to consider the possibility my brusqueness is entirely unrelated to your presence. Perhaps I’ve slept poorly the last few nights. Or recently suffered a disappointing personal setback.”
He leans forward, as though to underline the following: “Or possibly, I’ve just encountered a person - or a pair of persons - whose behavior toward me was exceedingly rude. And now - unintentionally, of course - I’ve taken out my resulting aggressions on you. An innocent bystander.
“Admittedly, there’s no justice in it, but I’m sure you can sympathize. Such shoddy treatment can’t help but have an impact and in turn, affect how I will approach those with whom I interact subsequently.”
Dawn blinks as Graham pauses. Is it her turn now? No.
“All this by way of apology: If I should now extend to you anything less than the simple courtesy and good humor you deserve, I hope you’ll grant me the benefit of the doubt. Please assume external factors are impacting on my behavior and that I intend you no personal slight.”
Now he’s done. He even manages a thin smile. Dawn gives him a moment more, just in case. He waits patiently.
“Could I just check in, then?”
“But of course.” He spins the Talbot Inn registration book on its lazy susan so it faces Dawn. With a fancy pen, he points to each blank in the next available entry. “Name. Point of origin. Make, model and license plate.”
He extends the pen.
Dawn takes it. Starts to fill in the blanks. But as she does, she reads the previous entry. The couple in the green Jeep.
Mr. and Mrs. Hunter.
Their point of origin? From Away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The living dead wander the grounds of the Elysian Convalescent Home.
They dot the landscape. Supported by walkers, canes and rolling IV stands. Making endless circuits of the paths laid out for them. Through gardens. Crossing flat bridges over shallow streams. Pausing here and there to stare off into the past awhile, before continuing on. Completing laps. Waiting out the clock.
More commonly referred to by locals as simply ‘the Home,’ the Elysian eventually becomes the final lodging place for nearly every Islander fortunate enough to survive to the point where they become a burden to their offspring. Almost a required stop before continuing into the Great Beyond.
All heads seem to rotate mechanically towards the squad car as Ren emerges. Staring baldly with undisguised hunger. Coveting every new visitor for themselves. Desperate for someone to take an interest.
He doesn’t remember the place being like this. It was never cheery, but neither was it so grim. Maybe people are just living longer. Left with more time to ruminate. To regret. Or maybe he’d just come that much closer to it himself. He no longer had the distance required to pretend it was a lovely place to spend your twilight years.
Netty heads for the entrance. Keeping her gaze forward. Not chancing any eye contact that might accidentally invite a conversation. Ren follows her lead, but can’t help glancing over at a cadre of highly trained and experienced smokers, well-advanced in their mission to destroy the world’s supply of cigarettes through burning. Their butt-surrounded bench altogether too close to the front doors.
One notices his look. A foggy sort of recognition clouds her face. She plants her cane. Rises. Shuffles into position, blocking the front doors.
Netty slows down, trying to navigate around the unavoidable old woman. Gesturing towards the doors. “Pardon me, ma’am.”
The woman ignores her. Frowning up at Ren, as though in the midst of an impossibly complicated calculus problem. Reaching palsied fingers towards him. Ren stops short. Not sure how to react - not wanting to offend - backing away from her touch.
Slow clarity seeps into her eyes. The vague confusion evaporating. Her soft demeanor solidifying into something hard and implacable.
“Ya’ve got a right nerve on ya, showing yer gob around here again, don’tcha?” Suddenly aggressive. Confronting him through thick glasses that warp her own eyes into giant googly spheres. “T’ain’t bad enough ya went. Now yer back and lookin’ to see what new unholy mischief ya can stir, I’ve no doubt.”
Netty intervenes. Takes the woman gently by the wrist. “I’m sorry ma’am. I think you might be confused.”
“The hell I am, Ducky.” She yanks her arm away. Not about to be swayed from speaking her piece. Taps Ren’s chest with the handle of her cane. “I knows ‘im from a pup and make no mistake.”
She looks him up and down. Disgusted with what she sees. “Wish to God above it weren’t so, but I knows ya, I do. And what’s more I knows how ya kilt yer ma.”
“Hey!” Netty’s had enough. She’s going to put a stop to this.
Ren holds up a hand. “It’s okay, Antoinette.”
“Goin’ off like ya done? Turnin’ yer back on ‘er? On us all, like we was neither kin nor kind? Broke that poor woman’s blessed heart and kilt her dead-away.”
“Mrs. Appeldoorn?” A nurse approaches. Nervous. Trying to prepare himself for any eventuality. “Everything okay over here?”
“Naw, it damn well ain’t, neither. But it’s none of yer affair, anyhow.”
“I think maybe we’d better get you back inside, ma’am.” The man braces her. Takes hold of an elbow. She knows better than to struggle against him.
“Ya’re not to stick yer nose in it. It’s Circle business. Outside yer ken, lad.”
“I know better by now than to ask after Circle business, believe me.” He rolls his eyes. Throws back an apologetic look as he leads the old woman away.
Ren catches the door as it closes. Holds it open. “She wasn’t confused.”
Netty nods as she enters. “No, I know.”
~
Tall. Heavy. The oak door to the Oceanus Conference Hall slowly opens.
Sylvie escapes. Leans back immediately. Forces the door closed behind her. Trying to contain the darkness within.
She pulls open her blazer. Gropes at her collar with awkward fingers. Pops the top button of her blouse. Struggling for breath. Eyes shut tight, she takes a tattered handful of tissues from her pocket. Mops the sweat from her brow. Frustrated with her own weakness. Knowing she has no time for such nonsense. With no other choice but to wait it out.
A strong, confident woman. In the midst of a nearly debilitating panic attack.
She inhales a ragged breath. Holds it as long as she can. Lets it out slowly. Haltingly. Repeats. Gradually, gets herself under control.
Sylvie opens her eyes. The corridor is empty in either direction. The whole wing avoided by (forbidden to?) the average resident. Exclusively reserved for the activities of the Old Men alone. Nice work if you can get it.
She pushes off from the door. Keeping one hand against the wall for guidance and support. Counting on momentum to carry her. Aiming slightly wobbly heels toward the Home’s main hallway. Steadying. Strengthening with every inch of distance from that room. Building up a head of steam. Nearly speedwalking.
Moving far too quickly to avoid collision when someone unexpectedly comes around a corner. They crash together with a boneshaking thud.
The impact knocks her back. In spite of her ungainly heels, she catches herself. Stays upright. Only then finding herself face-to-face with Ren.
A few steps behind, Netty catches up just in time to see their faces harden in recognition of one another. She speeds up, hoping to provide shelter from the coming storm. “Uh... Sylvie, you should probably--”
Sylvie slams into Ren shoulder-first. Hard. Low. Fists flying.
He locks an arm around her. Holding her in place. Pounds her kidneys.
Locked together, they trade body-blows. Real rib-crackers. Until--
“Woah! Guys! GUYS!” Netty forces herself between the
m. Pries the pair apart. Sends them to metaphorical corners. Red-faced. Panting. Ren holding his ribs. Sylvie wiping her bloody nose on the back of her hand.
Netty looks from one to the other. Angry. “Where are you? Are you thinking at all? The Home is not the place to--”
Sylvie pushes past. Storms away as fast as her shaky heels can take her.
“That was stupid.” Netty shakes her head in disbelief. Looks back at Ren. “You’re stupid. The both of you.”
He doesn’t argue. Re-tucks his shirt. Finger-combs his hair. “Yeah, well. What did you expect?”
“I dunno, I’ve never had a sibling of my own, but maybe... Not a fight to the death?”
Ren continues down the corridor, wincing at the pain in his side. Ahead, the door to the Oceanus Conference Hall releases a young woman. A nurse. She closes the door behind her. Turns to address Ren with a bright smile.
“Mr. Lesguettes?”
He crosses his arms. Stares at her until her expression falters. Uncertain, she looks to Netty for help.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Ah.” Her smile returns. She extends a crisp white card towards Ren. “Regretfully... Your meeting has been postponed until later this afternoon.”
“Of course it has.” He doesn’t take the card. “That say anything else?”
The nurse unfolds it. Scans the contents. “They’re very sorry to have missed you.”
“I bet.”
Mission more-or-less accomplished, the nurse scurries away. Ren doesn’t wait for her to round the corner before trying the door. It won’t budge. Locked.
He lets his head thunk against the oak.
“So...” Netty checks her watch. “You still like Lebanese?”
“You go ahead.” Ren turns his back to the doors. Lowers himself to the floor. Crosses his legs. Ready to wait.
Netty debates her options. Sighs. Plops down next to him.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK ONE Page 8