Beyond the Storm (9780758276995)

by Pittman, Joseph

  “Sounds like we could be unleashing Pandora.”

  “Now who’s the cynic? Maybe it’s just the opposite,” she said. “Not everything in life has to turn out badly. Not that I have much experience in that, but hey, all those storm clouds outside, perhaps one of them has a silver lining?” She paused, watched as the sky above them darkened, the light fading from inside the cupola, barely leaving them with their shadows. She shivered once, wrapped her arms around herself. “Look, Adam, the two of us are here—alone—and the world seems to have halted on its axis. Or at least, that’s the way it feels. Let’s go with your gut instinct and find out what all this means.” She paused, and her eyes connected with his in a way she’d never before felt with another soul. Like their eyes truly were windows to the outside, and they’d just opened them to something new, something amazing. Adam still hadn’t spoken a word, and so Vanessa said with more drama to her voice than she intended, “Go ahead. Open the trunk.”

  There was no lock on the front of the trunk, making its contents available to anyone who dared to open it. So Adam bent down on one knee and unlatched the metal clasps. They were rusty, the hinges squeaking from rusted neglect. But finally they popped open and the trunk lid jumped up a few inches, like a spring uncoiled. Outside the cupola’s windows came a streak of lightning, thunder rumbling across the sky seconds later. Was the storm on its way back, coming for them? Both Adam and Vanessa looked upward, suddenly wary.

  “Coincidence?” he asked.

  “I think the universe is telling us something.”

  “Yeah, but was that encouragement—or a warning?”

  In a move of solidarity, Vanessa sat beside Adam, and again they looked at each other, as though confirming their next step. Words went unspoken but somehow they were still in sync, communicating, urging the other to take that next step. They did so, together. Four hands lifted the lid of the wooden trunk, again a creaking sound swallowing up the room. Darkness gave way to light as the contents of the trunk were exposed. Vanessa took a deep breath and then spoke.

  “Look at these,” she said pausing, her fingers gliding over the bundles before them, “letters, stack of letters. There must be hundreds of them, sealed in envelopes and wrapped in red ribbons. Look, they all have dates on them. Someone was a very busy writer.”

  Adam lifted one bundle to further examine the letters.

  “That’s curious, they’ve never been opened. They’ve never even been mailed.”

  Vanessa pointed to what was written on the envelope. “Adam—look?”

  It was a name, written in a handsome script. Still, the name was unmistakable.

  “Venture,” he said, his voice almost reverent.

  “How strange . . . what kind of name is that, and why does it sound . . .” Vanessa began to ask, her whispered voice trailing off as soon as they passed her lips. She felt cold rip through her body. After hearing the name grace Adam’s lips, she felt as though her feet had lifted off the ground, her body floating high into the air. Into the rumbling clouds. She felt disoriented, and reached out to steady herself. Then . . .

  That’s when the world went black and she fainted.

  INTERLUDE

  BEFORE THEN

  He knew he had to write to her one last time. A final letter, but hardly a final good-bye. Knowing time was of the essence, the old man set about his weekly ritual.

  Appropriately enough the cool rain was falling hard from the dark sky, the wind tilting its droplets sideways. The kids on the far side of the street would think him crazy going out in such weather, but traditions were called such for a reason, and he was not the kind of man to be deterred by the whims of Mother Nature. Especially not at this last stage of his life, when every day, nearly every hour, seemed precious and fleeting and special all at the same time. First thing he did was seek out his yellow rain slicker and hat in the front closet, thinking with a smirk how the protective gear transformed him from hobbling old man to a fair imitation of that guy from the seafood commercial. Trust him, trust yourself. He even had the thick white whiskers to go along with the classic image. The only difference being that this man was not fiction, he who ascribed to his daily ambitions with earnest zeal. He was a sailor who had lived his life upon the churning seas or somewhere near where the water could offer him comfort. Always . . . the water was there. Like it called to him, a gurgling whisper.

  But that had been a long time ago.

  Almost another life.

  Almost.

  His name was Aidan Barton, and for forty years of hard, honest living, the expansive Great Lakes and the roiling oceans had been not just his mistress, but his temptress and the only love to which he could cling, and only then was its hold tenuous at best, slipping through his fingers with the crush of a wave. She was untamed, much like the spirit of the woman he’d once anticipated sharing a life with. Alas, life had seen fit to explore other plans, seek out other paths, other ideas, and so the man named Aidan went about his days and his nights alone, at least when it came to the piercing matters of the heart. That was the thing about a life at sea, you had to have patience on your side as much as luck; no one could rush anything and achieve success. Patience taught his lonely soul that he would one day see his beloved Venture again, on a day when the world gifted them the chance to become entwined as it always should have been. Now, at seventy-four, retired nearly fifteen years from all he’d known, he had retreated to the big farmhouse on the hill, where the breeze off the lake kept him in good spirits, allowing him the chance to relive both those charmed moments he’d been afforded, the tragic ones too.

  He’d created his own moments too, upon setting up home in this rambling old house.

  The letters. Always the letters were there to keep his mind occupied.

  Today, this late Friday afternoon in late August, while the sky darkened with the onset of the summer storm, Aidan knew he had to endure the travails of this journey. Would it be his last? Only time and God knew and neither was giving up answers, but he was practical that the day was soon upon him. He mustered up enough strength to walk across the wooden floor, turn the knob of the front door. Once outside on the porch, he saw the rambling old truck turn into the driveway. His ride, perfectly timed.

  “Good evening, Mr. Barton.”

  Aidan smiled. Mr. Barton, indeed. As much as he insisted that she call him by his first name, she absolutely refused. Her mama had raised her to respect her elders, and she held dear to such traditions, just as much as her charge did. As a man steeped in tradition, Aidan Barton had no choice but to appreciate her dedication. Her name was Myra Ravens, she was a local girl. Raised in Danton Hill, one who never felt the gravitational pull of the outside world, content to finish her studies here, learn her craft, devote herself to helping others. She was a nurse’s aide, she had been coming by to see “Mr. Barton” for well over a year now, and the two had grown close. Aidan might be in his seventies and Myra only in her late twenties, but they had forged a bond that traversed decades nonetheless. It was six months before she was privy, though, to his one secret, the letter writing.

  That’s when she started showing up during her off time, to assist him.

  She knew how important his errand was, and she was determined to never miss one.

  Tonight was one such errand, perhaps his last, if you were to believe his crazy talk.

  “Stop that nonsense,” was how Myra responded to such an idea.

  Now, Myra Ravens, pretty but not beautiful, with thin blond hair that never stayed over her ears, emerged from the dry safety of her truck and bounded toward the steps of the porch. Aidan was already attempting the first step down, his aged hand clutching the rail as firmly as he could.

  “Nasty night for going out, Mr. Barton.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” he assured her.

  There was truth to his words. Summer storms here in the lake-soaked land of Danton Hill were infamous, especially in the oppressive late days of August. Aidan had lived through his fair s
hare of those. So that’s why he took her comment with a grain of salt, and she just accepted things as they were. She knew the importance of this brief trip.

  She helped him down the remainder of the stairs, neither of them bothered by the falling rain, and finally she got him settled into the passenger side of the cab. The step up was the hard part, but Aidan, with a steely, deep breath, was able to manage the feat. Determination had that effect on him. Myra joined him on the driver’s side, turning up the blower to fight off the condensation building across the windshield. Then she looked at him.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Chatter only delays our mission. Let’s just go, my dear,” he said with a gentle nod, and then he paused and she looked at him because both of them knew some worldly piece of wisdom was forming on his tight lips. “The clock runs on its own time, and we are merely slaves to its endless revolutions. Time doesn’t end, only those who lived by it.” Myra smiled sideways at him while Aidan stared forward, and then they were off, wipers battling the rain so they didn’t have to.

  The treacherous drive along winding, country roads to the shores of Lake Ontario took fifteen minutes. Danton Hill’s lakeside, once wild and free, had now been claimed by the State Park Service of New York, and as such you had to pay to get in. “Even for a quick ten-minute visit?” Myra, rolling her eyes, had asked the first time she’d taken Aidan here, but he’d merely waved away her concerns and handed the woman working the booth the seven-dollar admission fee. Today was no exception, and Myra, still with that roll of her eyes, quickly passed the money along before resuming her drive into the deeper regions of the park.

  Few cars were parked in the lot; the rain had been long predicted today and served to keep away most summer revelers. Once they parked, Myra helped Aidan out of the truck. He took in a deep breath, allowing the brine of the sea to infiltrate his insides, fill his lungs with the familiar scent of his life. Then he started forward across the wet, green lawn, determination again written across his handsome, weathered face. Myra followed close behind, bypassing abandoned picnic tables and damp grills, the beach their obvious destination.

  Aidan made his way across the sand, his eyes focused on the line of the horizon way out in the distance. The gray sky above limited just how far you could see, but his mind had plenty of images from over the years, taken both from this beach and beyond, out on the calm waters. To his left was the rock-lined jetty used today by fisherman and young children wishing to brave the slippery stones in search of a day’s catch. Aidan had no business there, even if his footing was secure. It was that rocky pier that had led to his Venture being taken by the sea, which in turn had led him to these weekly visits, as forced upon him as the grief he’d felt upon his return all those years ago. Encroaching upon the water’s edge, Aidan withdrew from his pocket a small glass vial and unscrewed the black top. He bent down, knees aching, and placed the object in the lake. Water gurgled in quickly, and just like that it, the vial was full, his mission completed.

  He turned back to Myra, who was waiting just a few feet away.

  “You loved her that much,” she said.

  A twinkle sparkled from his eye, the only light in an otherwise gray day.

  “And now, my dear Myra, I have many thoughts to jot down, a very pressing letter.” He held up the vial of lake water, a broad smile crossing his face. Yet again he’d captured a part of Venture’s spirit, a necessary thing to have at his side as he sat down to his old desk.

  The water connected him to her, it was where she’d gone to rest.

  Except he didn’t believe she had ever found peace.

  Venture, even in the afterlife, surely lived up to her name.

  My dearest Venture:

  The clock ticks toward midnight. It is August 18th and the languid days of summer are in full swing. I write this letter to you—a final one, my love—in the comforting glow of candlelight, which flickers against the walls. Shadows act as my companions, as they always have since you left me, bouncing off the walls like young children in need of discipline. These shadows, though, they are silent and allow me my meditations, my mind’s musings before I set words to paper.

  You are in my thoughts, of course. You always are, but today is different. For so many years we have been separated, and I feel the time is fast approaching upon our reunion. That is my hope. That is the faith I keep clenched inside my heart. Life is a mystery, for certain, and death is perhaps its ultimate secret. What will I know once I pass? What will the universe reveal to me? Only time will tell, goes the old expression. The clock’s bell will toll for me.

  I think back to that day I returned from my journey upon the sea, waiting to sweep your lithe self into my arms. Instead it was the great waters of the lake that swept you away, taking you from me. Those days after when I sought solace at the edge of the lake, when I felt I had lost everything, I wasn’t sure how I could go on. How cruel could my lifeblood be, taking from me all I worked for? What would I do? You, of course, know all this, I’ve detailed it over the years in my letters. The anniversary of the day you were taken from me, on your birthday, the day on which we met, they all served as constant reminders of all I had lost.

  But know this, my Venture, it was that day on the beach when hope defined itself. I knew you’d sent me a message. You weren’t fully gone from this world, and you were waiting for me to join you. When your lovely dress came ashore, the one you were wearing when first we met, practically wrapping its entrails around my legs, your presence was felt. The dress remains with me, stored inside this old trunk along with the letters I wrote to you over these many years. If the universe allows it, we will one day return to the farmhouse I built for us, and together discover the precious contents of this trunk.

  We may not recognize our meeting immediately, for how could we? I will not be Aidan, you will not be Venture. We will, of course, be other people in another time, but our souls will remain ours, buried inside until such is the time for our reawakening, our destined reunion. For now, I just await that time. The clock ticks again, midnight has come and gone and a new day has arrived. Darkness still swirls, the sun hours from rising. Time is short. Our time is coming.

  Good night, my sweet, dearest Venture. Know that you share my whole heart and possess my soul, now and always, in the light of day and under the cover of darkness, in the calm of a moonlit sky or in the throes of the deepest, darkest storm. Forces of nature are unstoppable, and I knew from the moment I met you that we were one. Venture, you were a true force of nature the world could not contain. Your soul may have left us that day, but your spirit remained. I feel it now at my side.

  You blessed my life. Bless me once again, Venture, in my looming death.

  I remain, forever yours,

  Aidan

  He set down the quill pen, knowing he would never again dip its black tip into the inkwell. What followed was as much a part of his tradition as anything: the sealing of the envelope, its intent clear, and his motions symbolic. First, with difficulty because of his aged fingers, he folded the sheets of parchment into thirds, paying particular attention to the sharp creases. Once they were smoothed to his satisfaction, he gently slipped the letter inside the thick, ivory-colored envelope. Laying the envelope down flat on his desk, its back flap sticking up, Aidan reached over with shaking arms and took hold of the small bottle of water. Sprinkling a bit of the lake’s tears onto the strip of adhesive, the old man with the heavy heart then folded the flap down, pressing it tight against the envelope. There he sealed his words from the world, allowing them to be discovered only by its intended. It was as though with this action, her spirit locked his heart inside.

  One final touch awaited him.

  Turning the envelope over, he took hold one last time of the quill pen, for certain this time. And with his hand unsteady, he still somehow managed a perfect scripted word: Venture. He underlined the name with a flourish, and then, staring at it, feeling tears well up in his eyes, he bent down and pressed his li
ps to it, letting them linger. The ritual over, he placed the letter atop a small bundle of other envelopes. He’d written one letter each week since Venture had left him, all of them gathered here inside this trunk. And beneath them, a small package wrapped in protective plastic contained a dress that had not been worn since that fateful day just after the turn of the last century. More than fifty years had passed, the world had moved on, except for one man and his memories of a love that had defied time.

  The man named Aidan Barton rose from his rickety chair, taking hold of the candlestick as he did so. His movements were slower now than they had been over the years, this was natural, all of time was an unstoppable, forceful progression. Using one hand to assist him with the handrail, he made his way down the crooked steps from the cupola and into his bedroom. He set the candlestick on his nightstand and blew the flame until all that remained were smoky entrails. With only fresh moonlight guiding him, Aidan shucked his bathrobe and got into bed. Once under the covers, his head comfortably resting against the pillows, he let out a heavy sigh. Today had been a busy day, the preparations he had taken care of all day, the trip up to the lake, the strained writing of Venture’s letter. They were the hardest part, translating thoughts into words. Sleep would come quickly tonight, and he felt in his tired bones that eternal sleep was not far behind him. His breathing had grown shallow, his heart no longer strong. He’d shunned doctors lately, knowing that what he needed could only be called nature’s cure, one prescribed by the universe and not by some educated professional.

  He was still smiling when he drifted off.

  If he awoke tomorrow, fine, such was the way of the world. If not, he was content with the life he had lived, the dedication in which he had served his fellow man, and the one woman whose spirit filled his soul. For now, though, he’d ensured his future way beyond this concept called death.