by Rio Youers
Nolan broke his train of thought. “Untie us there, friend,” he said, indicating the line looped over the mooring post. And perhaps it was that Martin’s caution had spiked, but he thought he saw something in Nolan’s eyes—there and gone in a moment—that felt a little … off, somehow.
Martin untied but held on to the line. The boat bobbed and pulled as if willing him toward the island, but he held fast.
“You ready?” Nolan asked.
The girls looked at him, lifejackets fastened, their faces pale and trusting. Martin thought of Edith saying that she just wanted to be safe, and Laura—beautiful Laura—lying in a coffin for no other reason than that she turned up for work one morning. Yesterday’s news printed headlines across his mind: an unexploded bomb found in New York City, a drunk truck driver killing twelve on the Massachusetts Turnpike, riots across the South after police shot an unarmed African-American youth in New Orleans.
Martin looked out through the boathouse and across the lake.
“I’m ready,” he said, and stepped aboard.
18
The island came into view after only a moment, appearing to emerge from the lake, first a knuckle, then a fist. The finer details were filled in as they approached, as if it was being painted and all the depth and texture added last, from the bright fringe of wild flowers to the PRIVATE LAND and NO TRESPASSING signs. They pulled alongside a small dock, all of them shivering. They’d been almost half an hour on the water. It was exhilarating but cold. A small, thin man put down his fishing rod long enough to help them tie off.
Nolan introduced them as they disembarked. The man was Jake Door and his job was to fish off the dock and shoo away inquisitive boats.
“The signs do most of the work,” Jake explained, smiling beneath an unkempt mustache. His cheeks had the ruddy, roughened look of a man who’d done some hard drinking in his time. “I just give ’em the beady eye.”
Nolan chuckled and asked, “What’s on the menu tonight, Jake?”
“We got some salmon. Some steelhead.” Jake pointed at a large cooler that doubled as a stool. “Enough for everyone.”
Small birds flitted and chirped ecstatically as Nolan led them through a patch of green woodland. Martin filled his lungs—it seemed he could breathe even deeper here—and smiled. The only sounds were the birds and the wind in the branches. No traffic hum. No cogs or grind. His uncertainty faded, leaving a residue of something not unlike a bad taste.
Nolan pointed out a few small farm plots, a storage barn, and a path that led toward one of the wells and the recreation hall. He promised a comprehensive orientation later. “I need to introduce you to someone very special first,” he said. They followed a broader path past an open, grassy area—the meadow, Nolan called it—and numerous huts and cabins. Several people introduced themselves along the way, all with handshakes, smiling faces, and nothing but love for Halcyon and the lifestyle. “Every day is a gift,” a woman named Gilda said. Like Jake Door, she had a broken-but-mended look, a suggestion that her ghosts were never far away. “Halcyon has done so much for me.” Another woman—her name was Alyssa—pointed at Edith’s guitar case and asked if she played.
“A little,” Edith replied quietly.
“She’s actually very good,” Martin said.
“I play a little, too,” Alyssa said. “Maybe we can start a band.” Her smile was beautiful. No other word for it. She shared it first with Edith, shaking her hand warmly, then Martin. “Welcome,” she said.
There were a number of larger cabins toward the end of the path, sheltered from the elements by a backdrop of swaying pines. Most were basic post-and-beam construction with wood siding. A few were sturdier log cabins, probably built before Halcyon was founded. They headed toward the largest of these, set back between the trees. Before reaching the front steps, Martin stopped and looked around. His lungs ballooned again, full of nothing but clean air. A huge smile stretched across his face.
He stopped the girls and had them look, too.
“Isn’t it pretty?”
Leaves tumbled everywhere, brown and gold. Birds played in the wind and sang. The meadow was as inviting as a lagoon and the islanders busied themselves beneath a sky the color of old silver. Martin looked for the mainland but saw only glimpses of the lake where the tree cover was thinner. He felt the separation then, and it was greater than eleven miles of water. It was like closing a window on a loud noise. The idea of not seeing a car, or a computer screen, or a cell phone for at least six weeks filled him with bewilderment and awe.
I made the right decision, he thought. His uncertainty faded even more, and something in his chest—a tightness that had lived there for months, maybe even decades—let go, not all at once, but enough to draw a trembling sigh from him.
The door of the cabin opened before Nolan could knock and a woman stepped outside. She was in her fifties, with auburn hair, silver at the temples, swept back from her forehead, and perhaps the kindest face Martin had ever seen. Her smile was as welcoming as an open fire in December, and her eyes—a deep, shining green—lifted Martin to the balls of his feet.
When she opened her arms, all three of them took an involuntary step forward.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she said.
The trees trembled in agreement and for just a moment the birdsong was deafening.
* * *
“For fifteen years I worked for a wonderful lady named Victoria Platt-Mellor. She and her husband bought this island from the Rockefeller family back in the 1950s, and spent many of their summer weekends here. After Bernard died in 1984, Victoria decided to live here permanently. She’d had her fill of the mainland—the devil’s garden, she called it. Bernard was a wily businessman and I guess she saw enough of his dealings to know she wasn’t far from the mark. Victoria hired me as cook and cleaner, my then-boyfriend Pace as groundskeeper, and the sweetest young girl—Peachie Pie, we called her, on account of her being from Georgia—as nurse. We all lived together for a few years, then Peachie Pie went back to Atlanta, and Pace … well, Pace died. So it was just me and Victoria. She was in her late seventies by this time, not bedridden but not exactly light on her feet. She needed a lot of taking care of and that all came down to me. I kept her clean and fed, kept her warm in the winter. Heck, I’d be out there splitting wood with the snow falling around me and my hands so cold I could barely hold the axe. I fetched her prescriptions from across the water, cleaned her sheets, read to her. I did it all. As the years wore on and Victoria became more infirm, I tried to persuade her to go back to the mainland. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted to die on the island, she said, and that’s exactly what she did—the day before her ninetieth birthday, in fact. She was sitting up in bed, bright as a penny. I turned to put a log on the fire and when I turned back she was gone.”
Martin, Shirley, and Edith sat together on a long, comfortable sofa. Mother Moon sat opposite in an armchair, speaking through her smile and regarding each of them in turn with her beautiful eyes. She had introduced herself as Valerie. “But most people call me Mother Moon.” And Martin thought this moniker just perfect. She was motherly. Grandmotherly, too. She effused warmth and grace. She smelled woody and strong.
“I returned to the mainland,” Mother Moon continued. “Got a job arranging flowers, but I found it difficult to settle in after spending so much time away. That’s when I heard from Victoria’s lawyers. She’d left her children her money and mainland properties, but bequeathed the island to me. I was shocked, to say the least. But then I considered how we’d lived here for fifteen years together, and for twelve of those years it was just the two of us. We had a closeness to one another and to the island. It seemed only natural—and right—to leave it to me, and I had no problem seeing my name on the deed.”
Martin sipped the homemade apple juice that Mother Moon had poured for him. It was cloudy but delicious. He thought that was how it would be with most things here—rough around the edges but ultimately fulfilling. He looked ar
ound the cabin, comprised of three rooms: a living room–cum–kitchenette, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The walls were clad with pine, draped with warm artwork. There were thick rugs across the floor, plush pillows on all the seats. It was cozy and comfortable, the kind of place Martin had often thought about escaping to with Laura—a whole week of breathless sex, good books, and drinking wine by the open fire. Nothing plugged in but their souls.
“The early part of my life was extremely tough,” Mother Moon said. Her smile faltered, but only for a moment. “No details necessary. Suffice to say the island provided an escape from all of that, and I wanted to give other people—other sufferers—the same opportunity. So I established Halcyon, a sanctuary of sorts, where people could get away from everything for a while, where they could feel safe and respected. We started out small. Just a handful of us, growing crops, building shelters. Then the towers came down and I was turning people away.”
“I bet,” Martin said. He recalled reading an article about how bunker and panic room sales had gone through the roof in the weeks after 9/11. A picturesque island in the middle of Lake Ontario—for those who knew about it, and who wanted to escape—would be an appealing alternative.
“We went from a few people picking berries and meditating to a community, and it soon became apparent that we needed structure … rules.” Mother Moon hunched her shoulders and shuddered. “I do not like the R-word but there it is. Now, we have finessed those rules over the years—a lot of trial and error, let me tell you—and developed a system that protects Halcyon and everyone living here. It’s been a community effort. We all respect the rules, and for as long as you’re here we ask that you do the same.”
“Of course,” Martin said.
“Everywhere has rules,” Shirley said. She finished her apple juice and leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees. “Schools. Libraries. The workplace. Without rules, everything collapses.”
“What an amazing young woman,” Mother Moon said, looking deep into Shirley’s eyes. “And yes, you’re absolutely right, but we pride ourselves on our free-spirited approach. So, in many ways, rules contradict what we stand for. Unfortunately, they’re essential. It’s a balancing act, and that’s why it’s taken so long to get right.”
“Nolan ran through them with me,” Martin said. “He also sent me a list: The Keys to Halcyon’s Success. I showed the girls. I think we’re good to go.”
Shirley nodded. Edith slouched deep into the pillows and looked at Mother Moon over the rim of her glass.
“It’s not a long list,” Mother Moon said. “But I do want to draw your attention to one particular rule, or key—which, to Nolan’s credit, is a much better word.”
“Okay,” Martin said, and took another sip of juice.
“We do not share our pains with others.” The smile had dropped from Mother Moon’s face but the warmth was still there. “You’ve all been through a terrible trauma. So has everybody else on this island. I would never expect—or want—you to keep your pain locked up. This is a healing place, after all. But please refrain from talking to others about it. There are a lot of fragile people here. Some of them are working very hard to keep themselves together, and it doesn’t take much to break them.”
“Sure,” Martin said. “That’s a straightforward request. And it’s not like I was about to divulge my grief to a bunch of strangers.”
“They won’t be strangers for long, they’ll be friends. But they’ll always be fragile friends.” Mother Moon looked to the window, where the clouds had broken up to show patches of cold blue sky. “I compare sharing your trauma to drinking in front of an alcoholic.”
“We got it,” Martin said.
“But isn’t talking supposed to help?” Edith asked. It was the first thing she’d said since they’d all taken their seats. “That’s what a support group is, right? Strangers talking about their sadness.”
“Another amazing young woman,” Mother Moon announced. She clapped her hands and looked at Martin. “My goodness, Dad, you must be very proud.”
“I am.”
“And yes, Edith, you’re right. But a support group is a controlled environment with counselors and sponsors. I’ve been to many in my time and believe me, they can get out of hand in a hurry. We’d like to avoid that. You will need to talk about your sadness—about the incident. And when you do, I want you to know I’m right here. I am now and will always be someone who’ll listen and offer comfort. There’s a reason they call me Mother Moon.”
“I wish I’d met you sooner,” Shirley said. She looked at the older woman and in that second something passed between them. Martin couldn’t say what, exactly, but it was there. Some kind of intuitive understanding, he thought.
Edith, still slouched, said, “Is your second name Moon?”
“No, sweetie.” Mother Moon’s eyes lingered a moment longer on Shirley, then drifted to Edith. “It’s because I believe in a place—a special level of happiness—called Glam Moon. We’ll talk more about that another time, but for now I’ll just say that Halcyon is like the opening act.”
There was a polite knock on the door, then it opened and Nolan came in. “Sorry to disturb you, Mother Moon. I just want to let our new friends know that their luggage is waiting for them in their cabin.”
“Wonderful.” Mother Moon beamed and turned her attention back to Martin and the girls. “Now, don’t expect the Taj Mahal. It’s basic, but comfortable. There’s hot water and electricity, but we ask that you use it with consideration. Nolan will show you where the laundry facilities are—and again, be considerate. One full load once a week should be adequate.”
“Okay,” Martin said, thinking how the washing machine had run on a constant basis at their house. There would be many such adjustments, he was sure, and all of them steep.
“You have a kitchenette in your cabin, but everybody convenes in the canteen for their evening meal. It’s usually served around sundown this time of year. Our chef, Joseph, does the most wonderful things with basic ingredients.”
“Sounds great,” Martin said.
“Nolan will give you a tour of the island and introduce you to anybody you meet along the way. Everybody is lovely here, without exception. We’ve had some bad apples in the past but they don’t last long, do they, Nolan?”
“Not long at all.”
“Take some time to settle in—to adjust to what will be a different, but rewarding, lifestyle. We’ll get you working for your keep within a few days.” She smiled magnetically. “Most non-skilled jobs are on a rotation basis, to keep it fair. Now, we recently lost one of our tutors, but Brooke is still here and she’s excellent. We’ll get you girls set up with her as soon as possible. And Martin, education isn’t limited to our younger islanders; if you ever want to brush up on your math, or if you’ve a desire to learn French or Spanish, Brooke is fluent in both and she can teach you. We also have Alyssa, who plays guitar and piano, and loves to give lessons.”
“Wow,” Martin said.
“Shirley,” Mother Moon continued. “I need a bright young person to help me with some small tasks. Not just yet, but in a few days, after you’ve settled in. What do you say?”
Shirley grinned. She looked at Martin and he saw her chest swell. Very different from the dark, damaged girl he’d found sitting by the well just a few weeks ago. It seemed Halcyon—or Mother Moon, to be more precise—had had an immediate effect.
“I’d be happy to help,” she said.
“Excellent.” Mother Moon’s gaze lingered on Shirley again, then took in Martin and Edith, too. “Okay, I think we’re good. Are there any questions?”
Shirley shook her head. Martin shrugged. “I don’t … no … just, thank you, Mother Moon. Thank you for—”
Mother Moon waved him off, still smiling, then Edith emerged from the soft pillows and asked:
“Is it true there are no clocks on the island?”
There was a brief silence, during which Mother Moon’s smile flickered and she narro
wed her eyes—not unkindly, but as if she were trying to get a read on Edith, perhaps sensing some of the mystery that Martin and Shirley were all too familiar with.
“It’s true,” Mother Moon replied. “We’re not governed by time. It’s all part of that free-spirited approach I was talking about. There is, however, one watch, although it’s more of a symbol than a timepiece.”
She got to her feet and walked to a table beside the sofa that Martin and the girls occupied. On it was a plain mahogany box—a trinket box, perhaps. It was small but quite deep, with a brass-lined keyhole in the front. Mother Moon picked it up and drummed her fingernails across the lid.
“You keep it locked in there?” Martin asked.
“We keep it as a reminder of the mainland,” Mother Moon said, not really replying. “All that tick and tock. All those busy little cogs working hard but getting nowhere. If you ever feel homesick, or if you just want to see it—”
“I want to see it,” Edith said, and this time the silence was longer and edged with awkwardness. Nolan shuffled his feet and made a sound in his throat. Mother Moon frowned again.
“Most people are here a little longer before they ask,” she said.
Edith’s eyes were wide and innocent. Mother Moon looked from her to Martin, perhaps to see if he would step in, but Martin had always encouraged the girls’ independence. He and Laura had never subscribed to the proverb about children being seen and not heard. Besides, he was curious to learn what kind of watch would be kept behind lock and key.
“I’ll be right back.” Mother Moon’s frown disappeared and she smiled again. She set the box down, then walked from the living room into the bedroom. Martin heard a drawer open and close—it stuck a couple of times on closing, from the sound of it—and she returned holding a small key. She slotted this into the front of the box, turned it, and lifted the lid.
Martin and Edith leaned forward. The watch was the only thing in the box, which wasn’t as deep as it looked from the outside. Mother Moon took it out, not the rare or antique timepiece that Martin had expected, but a basic, albeit handsome wristwatch with a gold-plated strap and zircon inserts at the numbers. The hands pointed to nine o’clock. It didn’t even keep good time.