The Quill Pen

by Michelle Isenhoff

  He paused, and she gave him time to consider.

  “Maybe I won’t even grow to adulthood. Maybe I’m frozen at twelve years old.” Her eyes burned into his. Above them, the branches had returned to an unnatural stillness.

  “Will people treat me differently? Will I have to keep moving? Will I be able to make friends? Will I—will I outlive the end of the world?” Her voice rose pleadingly. “Micah, what’s going to happen to me?”

  He shook his head. “I—I don’t know.” His mind was just beginning to grapple with the difficulties she had recognized so quickly. “Your father must ask those same questions. I guess by keeping his secret, he’s been protecting you all these years.”

  Silence fell between them. A hideous, monstrous silence that devoured the last of his enthusiasm.

  “Micah, you need to destroy the pen.” Gabby’s earnest words slapped him out of his reverie.

  His eyes popped open wide. “Destroy it! Are you insane?” He’d begun to pin his hopes to it, to depend on it. It was the source of strength he needed to stand up to his father.

  “It’s too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Every time you write something, consequences evolve that we could never dream of.”

  “My pen didn’t cause your father’s secret,” he protested. “It happened long before I found the feather.”

  “Granted, but it spread the curse to me. And there have been other consequences.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Yes, it is. Micah, I read the journal. When all those bonnets appeared, you had to spend a day selling them.”

  “That was only because my father learned I skipped out on work.”

  “But it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t used the pen,” she countered.

  “He would have come up with something else.”

  “Fine. What about the next time? The luncheon. Because you wrote what you did, the captain and the widow have severed a lifelong friendship. Then your father nearly died after he got kicked in the head by a horse. We’re soon to be wanted for bank robbery. And the tattoo? We can’t even comprehend the magnitude! Don’t you see, Micah? Consequences follow every time.”

  He chose not to mention the scrap of smoldering paper beside the widow’s burn pile.

  “We’ve underestimated it,” she prompted. “This…power…is beyond our understanding.”

  An abrupt vision of Sanjay fishing on the edge of the lake sideswiped Micah, along with the memory of his cautious wisdom. “No, Micah,” the man had said, “I don’t think I would want to take chances with something I didn’t understand.”

  Reluctantly, Micah found himself agreeing.

  Gabby stared at him a long time. “Micah, this is too treacherous to tamper with. Please,” she pleaded. “Destroy the pen.”

  Dawn was glowing through the trees and painting the woods pink. He spread his hands and looked up into her earnest face.

  “How?”

  ***

  Micah stumbled into town well after daylight. His trousers were torn and muddy and his hair was full of soot, but he didn’t dare go home. The quill pen pressed heavily on his mind. He and Gabby had covered the coins with dirt and debris until they could figure out what to do with them. Meanwhile, he felt irresistibly drawn to the unfinished attic. Everything had begun there, and he felt an urgent need to go back.

  He couldn’t destroy the pen. Not yet.

  He turned onto Water Street and stopped at a rundown shack. Nancy opened the door already dressed in her maid’s uniform. “Micah!” she exclaimed. “I was just on my way to your house. Is something wrong?”

  “Yes. Nancy, I need your help,” he pleaded. “My father is probably looking for me, but I can’t go home until I speak with Mrs. Parsons. Will do something for me?”

  “Of course, Micah. Anything.”

  He handed her the golden feather. “Take this and hide it in my desk drawer.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It’s extremely important.”

  She nodded her understanding. He heaved a sigh of relief and continued on until the widow’s walk rose above the trees. Mrs. Parsons opened the door before he knocked. “You look like the earth chewed you up and spit you back out. What in blazes happened?”

  With a few significant omissions, he told her the story of his night in the swamp.

  “Was anyone hurt?” she inquired.

  He shook his head.

  “Could you identify the leader?”

  He’d been asking himself the same question all morning. Of course it wasn’t Magnus, though he suspected the boy had been on the fringes of the mob. And it couldn’t have been the big-bellied doctor. Nor was it either of the roughnecks from the alley. There was something so frustratingly familiar about the figure, but he simply could not place it.

  “No.”

  “Too bad,” she said. “But it sounds like Mr. Ramesh took care of himself quite well. I doubt they’ll come around again. In the meantime, you look like you could use a sandwich and something powerful to drink.”

  “My father will skin me if I try spirits.”

  “Who said anything about alcohol? I have my own remedy.”

  She cut thick slices of bread and layered them with cheese. Then she poured a greenish liquid into his cup.

  He took a doubtful whiff. It smelled foul.

  “Drink it,” she ordered. “It’s tea.”

  The brew burned all the way down. He threw a furtive glance into the corners, half expecting to find a cauldron.

  “Have you been home at all?” the widow asked.

  “No,” he answered, gulping down the food. “And if I go, I’ll never get back here. If you want your attic finished, let’s do it now.”

  She considered momentarily and gave in. On the way upstairs, she spoke over her shoulder. “You know that I despise boys, don’t you, Micah?”

  “I believe you’ve mentioned it once or twice, yes.”

  “They’re dirty and cheeky.”

  Micah looked himself over and shrugged helplessly.

  “But the very first time I met you, you told me something in no uncertain terms, and you’ve proven yourself right. You and your father are of different molds entirely. And that’s no compliment to him.”

  Micah felt an unexpected glow of warmth.

  She continued, “Now that we’re almost done here, I want you to know, just in case we never meet again on God’s green earth, that it has been a pleasure knowing you.”

  He sighed, too weary to chuckle. “Mrs. Parsons, you’re not going to—”

  “You’re mumbling, boy! I can’t abide mumbling!”

  The heat and humidity multiplied in the attic, but the large areas of open space nearly caused him to weep with relief. A few keepsakes were stacked in neat piles, and only one corner held a small jumbled heap that had not been worked through yet. As he stumbled toward it, a swath of light cut across his path.

  The widow was throwing back all the curtains, opening the room to a panoramic view of the ocean. Micah gawked at the sight.

  “This used to be my favorite room as a girl,” she told him. “I would come up here and poke through all the old boxes by the hour. Or I’d sit on the balcony, soothed by the sound of the waves.”

  She opened a door in the glass wall and cooler air refreshed the room.

  Micah followed her outside. A railing that had once been white extended across the entire back of the house. Behind him, a narrow, rickety stairway rose to a higher balcony. One that rose over the tops of the trees.

  The widow’s walk.

  “That was before I understood the significance of this place, the heartache it caused generations of my mothers. Now I prefer to visit only in the fiercest weather. Much more fitting, I’d say.”

  So Mrs. Parsons had been the figure he’d seen on the balcony! Micah recalled the violence of the storm that had crashed against the shore that night. What a contrast to the serene expans
e of ocean spread before him now. He could hardly even imagine grief in the face of such beauty.

  He walked out farther and leaned over the railing, looking to the ground three stories below.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Do it!”

  “Do what?” Did she want him to jump?

  “Spit, of course.”

  He grinned. “Are you serious?”

  “Child, I’m always serious.”

  “Well, all right.” He leaned back and sent a wad flying as far as he could.

  She cackled behind him. “Even I used to do that when I was young.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Since I spit off the balcony? Land sakes, child, at least seventy years!”

  “That’s far too long,” he urged, pulling her to the edge.

  “You want me to spit, boy?”

  “Well, why not? I won’t tell anyone.”

  Her face split into a grin, deepening the maze of wrinkles. She leaned over the railing and dropped some spittle straight down, watching it fall all three stories. She cackled again. “I’d forgotten how fun that is.”

  She settled on her elbows and peered out across the water. Waves of heat rose from the sand, melting the horizon in a fuzzy red haze. The air remained oppressively still.

  “Sure is hot,” she commented. “Such unsettling weather.”

  She straightened abruptly and glowered at Micah. “Those boxes won’t evaporate, you know. Let’s go.”

  As they reentered the attic, he heard her grumble, “Boys. Always shirking their chores.”

  They were in the final stretch. Micah pulled several boxes close to the windows for the old woman to rummage through. Sheets were shaken, folded, and stacked. Clothing sorted, books gathered for the library, and one old fainting couch shoved against the wall. A few broken furnishings, one empty crate, and half a dozen armloads of debris found their way to the burn pit. And then, at long last, only one item remained to be uncovered.

  With a flick of his wrist, Micah pulled the sheet off a timeworn painting. In the portrait, a sea captain in full dress uniform stood behind a beautiful woman, presumably his wife. The woman looked into the viewer’s eyes with a gentle smile, but the stern-faced captain stared off to his left, as though gazing across the sea from his ship.

  “Ah, my great-great-great grandparents,” the widow declared. “The ones who built this house. Leave that there, against the wall between the windows. I think I’d like to hang it up.”

  She moved away toward the door, spinning once in the empty room. “We’re finished. I have only one more errand to attend to before I can depart in peace, but I’ll do that later. Right now, let me find my coin purse.”

  Micah set the picture on the floor. The sun shone full on the couple’s faces and illuminated a tarnished brass plaque fastened to the bottom of the frame. Scratching at it, he could just make out the words:

  “Captain Nathaniel Cochran and Lady Christine.”

  18

  _______

  Micah stared hard at the unyielding face on the canvas. This was the man Sanjay wanted to know about in connection with some story. And Lady Christine was the name of the unlucky ship in his tale. Could there be a connection? Could the legend be true?

  A rush of adrenaline heated his veins. He needed to talk to Sanjay immediately!

  He made a quick stop at the bank to deposit his pay. On pulling the door open, Magnus charged out, nearly bowling him over. His face was scratched, as if whipped by an unseen branch.

  “Watch it, Randall!”

  Micah could spare him no time or interest. He slipped around the bully and entered the building.

  “Micah,” Mr. DeWitt exclaimed, surprise etching his pleasant features. “You look a little agitated. I hope Magnus didn’t bother you. I’ve observed that he can be rather mean-spirited.”

  “Finally, someone’s noticed! You should tell my father.”

  “That reminds me, he was in here looking for you. Word is he’s been searching all over town.”

  “I know, I know. But I have an important errand to run first.”

  The banker frowned in concern. “Micah, is everything all right?”

  “Oh, fine,” he answered, waving him off. “The world may be turning somersaults, but I’m fine. Really.” He smiled unconvincingly.

  “Does this have anything to do with your departure?”

  Micah groaned. “There’s that too,” he said and turned for the door.

  “Let me know if I can be of any assistance!” the banker called as Micah left.

  Micah just waved.

  The thick air stirred to life as he hoofed it out to the swamp. Not gently this time, but all at once. One moment there was no movement to ease the unrelenting heat. A heartbeat later, the wind snaked back into motion and twisted among the trees.

  Micah found Sanjay poking through the ruins of his shed. In one hand he held a metal compass, melted and twisted beyond repair. In the other he clutched the now blackened rope-working fid. Micah recognized these bits of the old sailor’s nautical collection, the treasures he enjoyed. So many of them were gone, along with the beautifully carved end table.

  “Hello, Micah. It seems you were right yesterday.”

  “Seems so,” Micah answered sadly. “What are you going to do?”

  “Rebuild, of course.”

  Micah kicked at a burned timber. “Sanjay, I have to talk to you.”

  “Can it wait? I’d like to salvage as much as I can.”

  Micah watched him closely. “I found Nathaniel Cochran.”

  Sanjay’s shoulders gave an involuntary jerk. “What do you mean?”

  “I found a painting of him and his wife tucked away in the widow’s attic. He’s her ancestor. And his wife’s name,” he added significantly, “is Lady Christine.”

  The old sailor fumbled the compass.

  “Sanjay, come clean. Your tale was no legend, was it?”

  “I’m still researching it,” Sanjay hedged. “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Parsons.”

  “I was here last night. I hid right there,” Micah pointed. “I saw the mob. And I saw the gunshot.”

  Sanjay’s shoulders slumped and he suddenly looked very, very old. “All right, let’s walk.”

  They wound out of the swamp, climbing the rocky arm on the north side of the harbor. Exposed as they were, the unnatural wind hit them full in the face. Across the bay, the roofs of the town spread out, but Sanjay didn’t stop walking until he reached the ocean.

  The waves were agitated, whipped up by the strong gusts, and the beach was void of life. The gulls had flown inland and the fish sought shelter deep below the turbulence. Not even a ship could be seen. Micah and Sanjay were alone.

  Micah watched as the sea gathered and dashed itself against the rocks, throwing foam and spray high into the air. The water ran off the boulders, off the sand, recollecting only to throw itself again in renewed fury, over and over.

  Misty droplets clung to his face and hair, and he wiped them away with a corner of his shirt. Like the angry, rolling water, he was a jumble of confused emotion, his thoughts as fragmented as the surf. How many times could the waves pull themselves back together after each crash?

  How many times could he?

  At last, Sanjay spoke. “There was a ship called the Lady Christine. Nathaniel Cochran was the captain—and I was the ship’s carpenter.”

  Micah jerked his head up, turning his full attention to the old sailor.

  “The journey happened just as I told you. We stayed many days in Mordolva, the captain and crew bewitched. Only I stayed on the ship, never setting foot on the island. When the native man snuck on board, I was the only one who recalled the curse. I was the only one alarmed over his treasure. I told the captain it was foolhardy. I pressed my opinion nearly to the point of mutiny.”

  “Did you see the treasure?” Micah ask
ed.

  Sanjay shook his head. “Only the wooden tube. I have never seen what it contained.”

  “But you know.”

  “I know.” He paused darkly. “It’s the tail feather of a phoenix.”

  Micah sucked in his breath.

  “Anything written with it comes true, but because the phoenix was slaughtered and never allowed to renew itself, the quill writes in blood. It’s a reminder that the bird will always demand tribute for its magic. When the blood meets the page at the hand of man, there are always consequences. Eventually there can be only one outcome. Someone is going to die.”

  Micah felt his throat tighten at the word.

  Sanjay shook his head sadly. “I don’t believe Captain Cochran had any idea what he was doing when he used it.”

  Micah brought his hand up to massage his aching neck, but Sanjay seemed not to notice.

  “The captain raged at my insolence. He locked himself in his cabin and used the feather to write in his log. The words brought doom on us all, but I wouldn’t understand it until many years later.

  “I was to be flogged that evening for my insubordination, but you know what happened. It was the worst storm I’ve ever seen. The crew was terrified! We knew for certain we were going to die.

  “I was knocked unconscious by a loose spar, and when I awoke there was no sign of the ship. I was alone in the ocean, draped over the captain’s trunk. I have no idea how I got there. I also found a strange tattoo on my leg.

  “I floated for fifteen days without food or water until a passing ship, the Pontius, picked me up. They didn’t believe my tale. They thought I was confused, that I had miscounted the number of days. But I know. I scratched a line in the trunk each evening at sundown.

  “I recovered and signed onto another ship. The captain’s trunk was sent to the British Admiralty and I never saw it again. But as the years passed, I started noticing something unusual. One by one my mates all aged and died, but I didn’t change at all. I didn’t look a day older than I did when I shipped off that island.

  “Others began to notice, too, so I moved around a lot. And I recalled my fifteen days at sea. No one could survive that long without water. I suspected I’d been cursed, and I began a quest that would span several lifetimes. But by this time, many years had passed. I asked questions at every port, but no one remembered the name Cochran or the Lady Christine, and no one had heard of Mordolva, its curse, or its treasure.