The Tale of Halcyon Crane

by Webb, Wendy

  “It’s better spoken of in person,” he said quickly. “I’m only bringing it up now because of the fact that you and your father are alive—”

  I interrupted, choking on the words. “My father passed away. His funeral was yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Silence for a moment. “I’m so sorry for your loss, and for . . . well, the timing couldn’t be worse. I thought it was difficult when Madlyn died before she contacted you. But your dad dying, too? This puts a whole new level of awful into the mix.”

  His kindness touched me. “I’m getting through it,” I said, fighting back the tears. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger; isn’t that what they say?”

  “I’ve always thought that was a load of crap,” he said softly. It made me smile. “Are you sure you want to come here now? The island isn’t going anywhere. We can wait.”

  “I think it’ll do me good,” I told him, understanding fully for the first time myself. “Getting away, seeing a new place. It’ll take my mind off the emptiness that has settled around me here.”

  “Okay, then,” he said. “But I need to ask one thing. Please wait until you speak with me before divulging the true nature of your visit to anyone here on the island. Believe me, it’ll be easier that way. You don’t want to be answering questions before you have all the facts.” He went on to give me a list of practical things I should pack for my visit—sweaters, jeans, hiking boots, a warm waterproof coat—and even offered to make reservations for me on the ferry and at a local inn. “I’ll have you picked up at the ferry dock as well.”

  And it was done. I was really going. “Thank you, Mr. Archer. I appreciate everything you’re doing on my behalf.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you on Monday,” he said, and I hung up the phone.

  I stood there holding the receiver for a few moments, wondering what I had just talked myself into. I hadn’t noticed Richard standing behind me.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and pouring some steaming coffee into a mug.

  I opened the refrigerator and handed him the skim milk. “Sugar’s in the tin on the counter.”

  “Nice deflection, but I asked you a question.” He smiled as he stirred his coffee. “You’re going to Grand Manitou Island, aren’t you?”

  I poured myself a cup and sank into a chair at the table. “I’m flying out on Monday,” I admitted.

  “Are you sure that’s wise right now? After all you’ve been through? She’s not there anymore, Hallie.”

  “I know that. But she lived there all these years. I lived there, Richard; so did my dad. Maybe . . .” I didn’t know what else to say. The truth was, I wasn’t quite sure why I was going.

  He reached across the table and took my hand. “If you’re determined to do this, I’ll go with you. I can change my plans.”

  “It’s tempting.” I smiled at him, wanting what I knew I couldn’t have. “But I think I need to do this alone. I have no idea who I really am, Rich. Everything I was told about my childhood has been a lie. Maybe this trip will help me find out the truth. I won’t ever meet my mother, but by going to the place where she lived, I’ll get to know her a little. I’ll see her house and her town and where she bought her groceries. I’ll walk the streets she walked and meet her friends. I know it’s not much, but it’s something.”

  He took a long sip of coffee, looking at me over the rim with concern in his eyes.

  “There’s another reason for me to go,” I went on. “What was so terrible about our life with Madlyn Crane on Grand Manitou Island that pushed Dad to take me away and move all the way out here? There may still be some people on the island who know. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Richard warned, wagging a finger at me. “You might not like what you unearth. Whatever the reason was, it’s not going to be pleasant.”

  I sighed. “It might not be pleasant, but at least it will be the truth.”

  It sounded convincing enough, but the tightness in my stomach told me I wasn’t so sure this was the right thing to do. And as I stirred my coffee, I thought I saw storm clouds forming in the cup.

  · 4

  After an exhausting day of travel—two hours of driving with Richard to the airport in Seattle, the long flight to Minneapolis, the white-knuckle ride on a puddle jumper to Saint Barnabas, a small mainland town across the lake from Grand Manitou, and finally the taxi to the ferry dock—I arrived with just moments to spare. As soon as the ferry shoved off, I stumbled out onto the deck to get a whiff of Great Lakes air, but the icy burst of spray hitting my cheeks made me wish that I hadn’t. I held on tight to the railing as the boat dipped and tossed from side to side. As I was inching my way back toward the cabin, something in the distance caught my eye.

  A wide expanse of open water lay ahead, but as the ferry turned, the island appeared, seeming to rise from beneath the surface of the lake. It looked like a great turtle’s nose poking into the air above the waterline, followed by the hump of its shell. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain, cells that hadn’t been called upon in decades sputtered and choked at the sight. Yes, I had seen this before, been here before. I couldn’t quite capture the full memory, though. It hung just out of reach, like a carrot in front of a horse, drawing me forward.

  “Miss?” I turned and saw a man in uniform, his gray hair blowing in the stiff wind. His weathered face spoke of years of exposure to the elements, but kindness radiated from his eyes. “Why don’t you come up into the pilothouse? Your bags are safe here. The view from there is just as clear and you won’t be so cold.”

  A very good idea. I followed him upstairs.

  “We don’t get many tourists this time of year,” he began, as he ushered me into the cramped cabin, looking at me too hard, too long. I pulled my purse into my lap and encircled it with my arms as I settled into one of the high chairs.

  “I’m not a tourist. Not exactly.” He waited for me to continue. “I’m seeing William Archer on a legal matter.” It was, in fact, the truth.

  “Ah. Good lawyer, that one.”

  He stroked his beard and looked at me deeply. There was that uncomfortable feeling again. One thing I didn’t want, as the only woman on this ferry in the middle of an angry lake, was to be the object of intense interest. This captain seemed nice enough, but I had no idea who he was.

  “You know I won’t be making a return run to the island until Friday?”

  I nodded. “I’ve planned to stay until then.”

  “First time on the island?” He turned his gaze out toward the water.

  “No,” I replied, fidgeting in my chair. “I was there as a child, but I don’t remember much about it. I’m anxious to look around. Again.”

  He smiled, finally. “It’s a beautiful place. Pity you couldn’t have seen it in summer, with everything in bloom. Tourists flock to Grand Manitou in the spring and summer, but after Halloween things die down considerably. Do you know why they call it Grand Manitou?”

  “It’s got to be a Native American word, right?”

  He nodded. “Means great spirit. They believed that the Great Spirit himself, the creator, lived here. This was the gateway into his world.”

  “Sort of like the Mount Olympus of the Great Lakes?”

  “Something like that, yes.” He chuckled. Then he pointed out the window. “Look, you can see the town coming into view now.”

  We chugged slowly past the shoreline. Even though I had seen photographs of this place and read about it in a guidebook, I was not prepared for what I saw: Enormous Victorian-era houses with grand front porches and turreted roofs lined a high cliff that gave way to a rocky shore. Each house was more magnificent than the next, each porch larger, each yard more meticulously manicured.

  “Before the turn of the last century, wealthy people from Chicago and Detroit and Minneapolis built these ‘shacks’ as vacation homes,” my de facto tour guide told me. I had the feeling he had given this speech many times
before. “They came for the clean air and the cool summers.”

  I couldn’t imagine having the kind of money it would take to build one of those grand homes at all, let alone as a summer place. “Are these houses mostly inns now?” William Archer had made arrangements for me to stay in one of the island inns. Perhaps it was one of the houses I was seeing.

  “Some of them are,” he told me, nodding, “but some are still in private hands.”

  The captain took the helm then, guiding the ferry into the dock. I prepared to gather up my bags, wondering what I would find when I set foot in my mother’s world.

  “Is Will meeting you at the dock, then, miss, or are you needing a ride?” the captain wanted to know. “I can arrange a cab for you before shoving offfor the mainland.”

  “Thank you so much for the offer, but Mr. Archer is sending a car for me,” I called over my shoulder, dragging my heavy bags down the ramp and onto the dock as the ferry workers scrambled to unload the rest of the cargo. I noticed that several people, along with horses pulling flat wagons, had arrived to pick up food deliveries, mail, and other supplies brought by this twice-weekly ferry. It struck me as odd: horses? Then I remembered. I had read in the guidebook that—like its counterpart, Mackinac Island—Grand Manitou did not allow motorized vehicles, with the exception of an ambulance and a fire truck or two for emergencies. Tourists parked their cars at the mainland ferry dock and got around the island either on bikes, on foot, or in horse-drawn carriages that served as taxis. Residents did the same. Even the police were on horseback.

  The gray November sky hung low and the wind swirled around me, so I buttoned my jacket all the way up to the neck to ward off the chill. An unsettling emptiness permeated the air. Apart from the bustle of the ferry dock, I didn’t see another soul. I looked up and down the main street but heard no sound—no cars backfiring, no radios blaring, no people talking—only the wind whispering in my ears. Used to city noises as I was, it seemed deathly quiet.

  This was the town where I was born, where I lived until I was five years old, and yet nothing seemed familiar. Both sides of the street were lined with buildings, some wooden and painted in bright colors, others red brick, none more than two stories high. A slightly raised wooden sidewalk ran in front of all the buildings as far as I could see. Colorful shingles swayed in the wind, advertising the businesses, many of them no doubt closed for the season: a fudge shop, an ice-cream parlor, a bakery. Like a movie set, nothing was amiss; there was no garbage on the street, no paint peeling from the walls of any of the buildings, nothing faded or bleak, only the perfection that might result from careful stagehands touching up the entire town between scenes. It was like Main Street at Disney World come to life—old-fashioned, idyllic, quaint.

  Behind me, I heard a soft clop, clop, clop coming down the street, and I turned to see a horse and carriage approaching. It wasn’t the open-air type you see in New York’s Central Park but rather a more sensible enclosed vehicle, the likes of which you might imagine passengers using in their daily travels around the turn of the last century. Mr. Archer had said he would send a taxi for me, and here it was. Even though I knew there was no motorized traffic on the island, I stupidly had had the idea in my head that I’d be met by the kind of taxi with four wheels and an engine.

  Perception and reality collided when the two chestnut-brown Clydesdales stopped in front of me and the coachman, an elderly man with a shock of white hair, said, “I assume you’re Miss James. I’m here to take you to the Manitou Inn.” He groaned as he clambered down from his seat to gather up my bags.

  “I’m supposed to be meeting William Archer at his office.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope, which he held out in my direction. “I’m to give you this by way of explanation,” he said. I opened the envelope and read the note inside.

  Dear Hallie,

  Please forgive this change in plans. A last-minute urgent business matter cropped up just about the time your ferry pulled in. Rather than meeting at my office as we discussed, I’ve instructed Henry, the coachman, to take you to the inn.

  I’ve taken the liberty of rescheduling our appointment for 9 a.m. tomorrow. If this doesn’t work for you, please phone me from the inn and let me know a better time.

  Again, please accept my apologies for any inconvenience this might cause.

  Most sincerely,

  William Archer

  A handwritten note? Why hadn’t he just called my cell with the change in plans? “I’ll just give him a buzz to confirm,” I mumbled, fishing my phone out of my purse. As I stared at the no service message on my phone’s display, I realized why Mr. Archer hadn’t made the call.

  Henry shrugged. He was probably thinking: Tourist.

  I dropped the useless phone back into my purse. “I guess I’m going to the inn, then.” I smiled as he held out his hand to help me up the two steps into the carriage.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever ridden in something like this,” I said to Henry, who hadn’t heard me. I settled in, and with a slight shaking motion we were off. The soft sound of the hoofbeats was mesmerizing: clop, clop, clop. I looked out the window at the town passing by—a diner, the bank, a bar, yet another fudge shop—settled back against the carriage seat, and exhaled. A feeling of peace washed over me. I supposed it came from the lack of anything motorized—no cars, no buses, no exhaust fumes, no booming car stereos, no cell phones—to interfere with the quiet beating of my own heart.

  We turned from the main street and began climbing a long hill lined with more Victorian-era houses, not quite as opulent as the mansions I saw from the ferry but certainly nice enough, each with a front porch and a well-maintained lawn. Had my mother lived in one of these houses? Had I? I tried to search the closed compartments in my brain for any hint of recognition, any flare of familiarity. I had walked these streets as a child, played here, lived here; surely there must be some imprint left, some ghostly residue of my life. Yet it was as if I were seeing it all with entirely new eyes.

  Up the hill we went, finally stopping in front of a massive yellow wooden house with a porch that snaked from the front all the way around to the back. A brightly painted sign swung noisily from the eaves: manitou inn.

  As Henry retrieved my bags, I climbed the steps toward the front door but stopped in my tracks because of the view in front of me. From the porch, I could see across the wide expanse of water in all directions, the island’s rocky coast, and even the mainland on the opposite shore. In the distance, I could make out the ferry chugging along on its return trip; from this vantage point it looked like a tiny toy boat. I held my breath. I could easily imagine why wealthy people from the past built their summer homes on this spot.

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Henry was grinning broadly.

  “It really is,” I agreed. “I could stand here all day.”

  The door opened and out came a woman wearing jeans and a cream-colored fisherman’s-knit sweater, bright red bifocals hanging around her neck on a silver chain. Long graying hair softened her angular face; I couldn’t tell if she was about my age and prematurely gray or a phenomenal-looking sixty. The innkeeper, I assumed. I knew she was expecting me—Mr. Archer had made arrangements for me to stay here—yet she just stood there in the doorway for a moment, eyeing me with what seemed to be suspicion mixed with surprise. I didn’t quite know what to make of the cool reception, so I broke the silence between us.

  “Hi!” I smiled the brightest smile I could muster, extending my hand. “I’m Hallie James. I believe I have a reservation?”

  She nodded, her suspicious glance melting into a grin as she took my hand. “You sure do, Hallie. Welcome, welcome! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Come in, for heaven’s sake, out of this wind.” She turned and called her thanks to the coachman before ushering me inside.

  The house had a comforting, welcoming aura. Its shining wood floors were covered with oriental rugs; colorful oil paintings of island sc
enes hung on the walls; photographs lined the fireplace mantel in the living room. The overstuffed couch and love seat looked like inviting places to curl up and read. Through a doorway, I could see a study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  “I’m Mira Finch,” she said, leading me up the stairs to the second floor. “Your room’s up here.”

  “I was so glad to learn that you’re still open for business.” I was chattering, nervously. “I understand most inns are closed this time of year.”

  She opened the first door at the top of the stairs. “It’s true, the weather can get pretty nasty here in November,” she said, nodding. “I don’t have any other guests, haven’t for weeks. But I’m a year-round resident, so I’m happy to put you up for as long as you plan to stay. This is your room, the Mainland Suite.”

  “Wow,” I murmured, looking at the enormous bay window. Its cushioned seat was covered with multicolored pillows; a couple of afghans were folded in the corner next to the wall. I saw the same view as from the front porch: the great expanse of choppy water below and the flickering lights of the mainland beyond. A king-sized bed held a down comforter, and a wood fire crackled in the corner fireplace. “This is absolutely beautiful.”

  “It’ll do.” Mira’s smile broadened, warming somewhat. “Your keys are on the nightstand. One opens the front door—which you’ll rarely find locked—the other is for your room. Coffee and some sort of breakfast—muffins, scones, eggs, whatever—will be available in the kitchen after seven o’clock, but I’m usually up earlier if you want something before then.”

  “Hey, please don’t trouble yourself on my account,” I told her. “Coffee and a little something to munch on would be great, but I’m not expecting the full treatment, it being off-season and all. You’ve got no other guests; I really don’t want to be a bother.”

  Mira patted my arm; I was grateful to be melting her somewhat icy exterior. “How about we say this: I’ll make coffee in the morning. After that, the kitchen’s open. I’ve got cereal, oatmeal, bagels, eggs. Help yourself to whatever you’d like.”