Interstellar Pig

by William Sleator

  InterSteller Pig

  By William Sleator

  1

  “I'm telling you, there's more history to this house than any other place on Indian Neck, and that's the truth," Ted Martin said, and took a long swallow of beer. He had just finished installing an outside shower, and his forehead was streaked with grime.

  "How fascinating," Mom said politely. She was rinsing glasses at the sink. I knew she wasn't very interested in Ted, who had no social importance.

  "What kind of history?" asked my father. Ted was the caretaker of the beach house we were renting for two weeks in July. We had been there for one week already, and had heard nothing unusual about the house.

  "This was a Captain Latham's house. I heard there was even an article written about the tragedy here." Ted chuckled. "They even used to say it was haunted."

  "Haunted?" I asked him. "What do you mean?" I had been hovering in the doorway in my usual indecisive way, but now I took a couple of eager steps into the kitchen. I had not been enjoying this vacation on the beach. The house was far from the village. There didn't seem to be any other kids my age—which was sixteen—in the area. We were surrounded by nature reserves, and I wasn't big on nature. I wouldn't even be able to go home with a tan, since I can't lie in the sun for fifteen minutes without burning miserably. A supposedly haunted house might be a welcome diversion from the science fiction books I had been reading.

  "What do you mean, haunted?" I asked Ted again. "What kind of tragedy?"

  "Captain Latham had a trading ship in the last century, out of the harbor here. Dunstable was almost as important a port as Boston, in the early days, you know. Used to sail from here to China and places." Ted paused to make sure this important piece of special information would be fully appreciated. "He had a younger brother, this Captain Latham. He was a sailor on Captain Latham's ship. Never was too bright. And after what happened, his mind went completely. Off the deep end, you know. The captain kept him locked in the front bedroom here for twenty years."

  This was getting really interesting—I slept in the front bedroom.

  "After what happened?" I said.

  led took another long, slow swallow, then studied the label on the beer bottle approvingly. "Good stuff," he said. "Where'd you pick it up?"

  "In Boston," said Dad.

  "First-rate suds," Ted said. "Can't get it around here."

  "Come on, tell us about this tragedy," I said, really curious now.

  "Well, Captain Latham's ship was out in the South Pacific somewhere, and they picked up this shipwrecked sailor. Nothing left of his ship but the timber he was floating on. There wasn't much room on those traders, you know, and the guy they rescued had to bunk down with somebody else. The captain's brother got him. The next morning the stranger was dead. Kind of too bad, after he got out of his shipwreck alive. Strangled. Ever see somebody who was strangled? Red marks on the throat and the eyes popping out and the tongue all black and swollen and—"

  "No. I never have," Mom said, putting a hand on her pink neck.

  "Well, it was the captain's brother that killed him, everybody could see that. Didn't even try to deny it. Must have been a little embarrassing for the captain."

  "They were drinking and had a fight, I suppose," Dad said, trying to prod Ted along.

  "No drinking, no fight. The brother just strangled him. Quietly."

  "But there must have been some reason," I said, sitting down across from Ted.

  "I told you, the brother never was too bright. They had a kind of trial, like they did on those ships, and they asked him why. And he just raved a lot of nonsense, nobody could get any sense out of him. All about the stranger being the Devil, crazy stuff like that. Brother must have just had a bad dream, and didn't know what he was doing, that's the only explanation they could come up with. So Captain Latham, he was in a real dilemma, since he had to see that justice was done. But he couldn't really stomach hanging his own brother. So he sentenced him to be keelhauled."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "They tie a rope to him. And they tie the other end of the rope to the back of the ship. Then they toss the guy off the front of the ship. So you know what happens then?" Ted sat up in his chair and leaned forward with enthusiasm.

  "Go on," I said impatiently. "What?"

  "He gets dragged underneath the ship, for the whole length of the ship.

  Dragged across all the sharp jagged barnacles there. The brother was sliced up real bad. Most of the time a man drowns, since he's under the water for a while. But sometimes they don't drown. There's always that chance. That's why the captain preferred keelhauling his brother to hanging him." Ted paused to finish his beer.

  "And he didn't drown, is that it?" I said. "The captain and his brother were lucky in the end?"

  "That depends. He was alive, all right, when they pulled him out. But he was under there so long without breathing that he got permanent brain damage. Lack of oxygen to the brain cells or something. He was a raving lunatic from then on. Never said another sensible word in his life, locked up in the front bedroom here. Didn't do nothing but mew like a sick cat and claw the walls. You can still see the scratch marks all around the windows."

  2

  "Whose car is that coming up the road?" Mom asked. She was usually a little suspicious of strangers and tended to avoid them until she was sure of their reputation.

  Ted turned slowly to glance through the window behind his chair. "Oh, that must be them, the ones who rented the cottage next door. They were supposed to show up an hour or so ago." He chuckled and shook his head. "This here's the place they wanted, but they were too late. Already rented it to you folks.

  Man, were they ever disappointed. Never heard anybody get so upset about a summer rental. They even tried to bribe me, but I have my ethics. And they wouldn't take it for August, it had to be now. Tried to tell them the cinder-block cottage had a better view, and finally they took it."

  "I hope you made sure they had proper references," Mom said. "That cottage is so close."

  "Sure, sure," Ted said lightly. "But man, I thought I was gonna hear grown men weep when I wouldn't let them have this place. Just didn't make sense the way—"

  "Well, thanks for the shower, Ted," Dad said, standing up and extending his hand.

  "Guess I better be heading next door," Ted said, rising and making a brief salute. "Thanks for the beer."

  I followed him out of the kitchen. I had noticed the scratch marks around the windows of my room, and I was more curious than ever now. "But is that the whole story?" I asked him. "They never found out why he killed the sailor?

  Nobody knows why he made the scratch marks, or what they mean? How long ago was it? Was he really there for twenty years?"

  "Hey, don't you ever stop asking questions, kid?" Ted said, suddenly in a hurry. "I got to see to the new tenants."

  "What about that article you said was written about this place? Do you know the name of it, or the author or anything?"

  He shrugged and lifted his hands. "Never read it. Somebody just told me about it once. Got to take care of your new neighbors now. Don't want them making another fuss. Never heard three people so upset about not getting a summer place, and at the last minute, too. Don't they know places on the beach get taken way ahead? They were lucky to get the cottage when they wanted it. Kinda nutty themselves, if you ask me." He let the screen door slam behind him and loped across the wooden porch.

  I waited a moment. Then, opening and shutting the door quietly, so I wouldn't be noticed, I stepped outside.

  3

  The old gray shingled house we were renting sat on the top of a hill and faced directly out toward the small island about a mile offshore. A fat orange sun was sinking behind the island
trees, and restless scribbles of gold danced over the dark water. A mockingbird warbled aggressively from a stunted pine that swayed in the evening wind.

  A little gravel road sloped steeply down our scrubby front lawn and wandered off toward a small private beach, several hundred yards to the right. The view was almost perfect, for we were very isolated—the hill the captain had built his house on was the only solid land in the midst of a velvety green salt marsh, on which no houses could be built. Unfortunately, Ted's family had added another house to the top of the hill, to increase the income from their property—a squat cinder-block cube painted a revolting shade of pink, only ten yards to our right. I kept out of sight behind one of the pillars of our porch and watched a woman and two men emerge from the purple

  --

  Volkswagen convertible parked between the houses.

  "God, I thought we'd be in that brutal traffic all night!" the woman cried, flinging her long arms above her head in an impatient, almost violent gesture.

  Then she saw Ted, and her manner suddenly became demure. "Ted? You must be Ted. Thank you so much for waiting for us," she said, taking his hand. "The voyage took much longer than we thought it would." She was a little shorter than Ted, with a thick mane of black hair. She wore a halter top and denim cutoffs, an outfit that showed her spectacular figure to great advantage. Ted, who had been so talkative a moment before, now seemed tongue-tied as he stared at her.

  "Cars were expiring all around us," the woman went on. "If that had happened to ours, I think I might have just left it there and hitchhiked." She smiled sweetly up at Ted.

  "You probably wouldn't have had much trouble getting a ride," Ted said.

  "Nice domain you got here, Ted," said the man with the brown mustache. "A prime piece of domain, no doubt about it. Prime."

  "Well, we do try to take good care of it," Ted said, sounding pleased with himself.

  "Our little lodgement does seem to have a better view, just like you told us," said the other man, who had a blond beard. "Even though it's not quite as picturesque as the captain's house."

  "The captain? How'd you know the story about the captain?" Ted demanded, as though the house's history were his own personal property. "I didn't say anything about it over the phone."

  "Oh, no one told us any kind of story about it," the woman quickly explained, with a glance at the blond man, who pressed his lips together. "We don't know any story. That's just what the agent called it—the captain's house, whatever that means." She turned toward our house, and I squeezed back behind the pillar. "But it did make us a trifle curious. And you seem like such an accommodating person, Ted." She smiled at him _again, and her voice took on a husky, cajoling quality. "And I was just wondering ... if those people didn't arrive yet, do you think you could guide us around inside? We'd be so engrossed. I'm sure you've taken wonderful care of it."

  "They've been here for a week," Ted said. "Much as I'd enjoy showing it, I don't think they want company now. But there are some things I should tell you about your place. . . ." His voice faded as he moved with them toward the front door of their house. I went quietly back inside.

  4

  The two windows in our dark, pine-paneled dining room faced directly toward the cement patio in front of the cinder-block cottage. Mom and Dad sat at the ends of the table, and I sat on the side, opposite the windows. We all had a perfect view when the neighbors emerged in their swim-suits with a tray of bottles and glasses.

  Mom was the first to look away from them. "Why, Barney, you haven't even touched your burger," she said.

  I quickly took a bite. But I also kept watching. It wasn't just that all three of the neighbors had the bodies of athletes. There was also a casual, animal grace to their movements that attracted the eye simply because it was so unusual. I knew they were just three people—but somehow I felt as though I were watching three lions.

  "That's really an adorable bikini she's wearing, don't you think?" Mom said. "Only the poor dear should know better than to show herself in something that skimpy at her age. She just doesn't have the figure for it anymore."

  I choked on a sip of milk, and Dad gave Mom a puzzled glance. The woman's figure was as flawless as any movie star's. "Her figure looks all right to me," Dad said, making a gross understatement.

  "It's especially unflattering on her in comparison to those two striking young men," Mom said, as though she hadn't heard him. "They could be models or something."

  "Models?" Dad said. "Those ordinary-looking guys? They're a little on the puny side if you ask me."

  I had to laugh. Mom and Dad, who were middle-aged and out of shape, were trying to rationalize their way out of being compared unfavorably to these perfect physical specimens. It seemed rather childish.

  "I wonder what it is they see in her," Mom said. "Maybe she has money. That would explain it." The idea seemed to satisfy her.

  "Maybe they just like her for herself," I said. "Maybe they're all just good friends."

  "Well, they're certainly having a good time," Mom said, her eyes resting on the neighbors again. I wondered vaguely why she was paying so much attention to them. She usually made a point of ignoring other vacationers, unless they had connections with her own set. But now she smiled wistfully at them. "It's nice seeing people enjoy themselves so much, isn't it?" she asked.

  The neighbors had arranged lawn chairs in a row facing the bay. They seemed fascinated by the sky and the water, pointing and gesturing, talking animatedly, sipping their drinks, frequently laughing. Their skin had a purplish cast in the fading light. I began to wonder, as their shapes grew indistinct, why they kept looking more and more often toward our house. Were they talking about us?

  It was several hours later, Mom and Dad were watching television and I was rereading The Puppet Masters, when there was a knock on the front door.

  "Maybe that's the people from next door," Mom said.

  The cottage next door was the only other house on this stretch of road. "Who else?" Dad said, pushing himself out of his chair. I got up too, but he beat me to the door.

  The woman from next door was wearing a sleeveless lavender cotton dress, and her hair was pinned up into a bun, exposing her long slender neck. Now, face to face, she seemed much taller than she had at a distance, several inches taller than me.

  A smile hovered around the edges of her wide mouth, and in the dim porch light her eyes seemed as deep a shade of lavender as her dress. "Hello, I'm from next door and I'm sorry to bother you like this," she said. I couldn't place her accent. "I feel terribly genante. It's just that we're trying to light a fire, and they don't seem to have provided us with any . . . what's the word?

  Oh, yes, tinder. We were wondering if you might have any surplus, which we could burn just for tonight. We'll be sure to repay you in full tomorrow." She didn't meet our eyes as she spoke, but peered around us, as if she were trying to see as much as possible of the interior of our house.

  "We have lots," Dad said. As he started for the fireplace she stepped quickly into the house, almost bumping into me in her haste to get a good look at the living room

  "Good evening," Mom said, standing up and nodding pleasantly at the woman. "Barney, why don't you be a gentleman and carry the kindling over for her? Maybe they need some help settling in."

  "Sure," I said, wondering what the matter was with Mom. Usually she would have been a little cold to a stranger barging in on us like this. Now she was actually sending me over to fraternize with the neighbors.

  "Oh, thank you. And you wouldn't happen to have an extra one of those tide charts, by chance, would you?" the young woman asked, her gaze wandering toward the stairway.

  "Yes, I'll get it," I said, forgetting to be shy. She was looking at me now, and my eyes slid away from her. "That would be so gentle of you," she said warmly.

  I got the tide chart, filled my arms with prickly kindling and pushed open the screen door. I waited while she remained inside for a long moment, then followed as she came strid
ing out. In the darkness, the light from the cottage's picture window made a pale oblong on the sloping lawn. A crescent moon hung over the invisible black water.

  "We're in fortune," the woman announced, holding open the screen door of the cottage as I stepped cautiously inside. Compared to the heavily curtained, overstuffed interior of the captain's house, the main room of the cottage seemed empty and bleak—bare white walls, gray linoleum floor, unmatching plastic furniture, with two metal floor lamps providing the harsh illumination. The men sat drinking wine at a wooden table in the center of the room. The debris of a meal had been pushed aside, and some kind of a game seemed to be in progress. A board had been set up on the table, with movable pieces and colored cards and envelopes. A succulent, spicy smell lingered.

  "That's a bonanza," said the man with the brown mustache, getting up to accept the kindling. I was aware, as he came toward me, of how large and powerfully built he was. "Thanks extremely," he said and lifted the big load of kindling from my arms as though it were a couple of match sticks.

  "Hi," said the man with the blond beard, who was slenderer than the other, but wiry. "Did you get inside?" he asked the woman. Then he said "Oops!" and gulped down some wine.

  Three pairs of lavender eyes watched me curiously now. And at that moment I noticed, in the corner by the fireplace, a pile of kindling. Why had they lied about it and borrowed more from us? Their strangeness intrigued me. "Anything you'd like to know about the area?" I asked, wanting an excuse to stay. "Or maybe I'm interrupting your game?"

  . "Of course you are, but please stay anyway," the woman said, smiling.

  "You're the only people around and we're wanting to find out about this quaint seacoast locale. Aren't we?"

  "Yes, have some vino," said the blond man, reaching for the bottle.

  "It's your tinder, stay and enjoy the fire," said the Other man, kneeling at the hearth.