In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” she said, “it’s okay. You just had a bad dream. Mummy’s here. It was just a dream.”

  Samantha pressed her face against Diana’s shoulder. “I want him to leave.”

  “Who? Daddy? Daddy was being nice—he just wanted to protect you.”

  “It wasn’t me, Diana,” Ford said. She could hear the resentment, anger, rising in his voice. “For chrissakes, I had it all taken care of.”

  “No, not Daddy.” Samantha wiped her nose on Diana’s shoulder. “The man.”

  Diana glanced at Ford, his outline in the dark. His eyes dark shadows. He was sitting completely still, looking at them, staring.

  “There’s no man,” said Diana. “It was just Daddy. You just had a bad dream. You were asleep.”

  “No,” said Samantha between sobs. “No, I was drawing a picture.”

  Diana looked down at the bed. Children’s books, paper. Crayons. And three magic markers without covers. Everything blue in the light of the moon. None of it had been there when she tucked her in.

  “I think you probably fell asleep again while you were coloring,” she said.

  “No, I wasn’t asleep. I woke up. He was in the doorway, and he started walking towards me, and then the lights went out, and everything was dark.”

  “Maybe it was Cassie,” Diana said, trying to divert her.

  Samantha pressed her face tighter against her. “No. It was the man.”

  The lights flickered then, suddenly coming back on. The red digits of the little girl’s alarm clock, blinking. All the power. Diana held the little girl tighter, and looked out the window. No rain, wind, lightning. Nothing.

  Ford turned his head and looked toward the window.

  28

  March 23, 1872

  I have been to Edgartown to see the medium, the trance lecturer Paschal Beverly Randolph. Hiram left on a Wednesday and did not return until the following Monday. I offered to accompany him down to the ferry despite the early hour and the sun not yet risen, but he refused, saying it would do no good for the fellow islanders to see me returning to the house on my own. Furthermore, he said, I was not to leave the house except to care for the animals in the barn while he was gone. I was not to be seen.

  The lecture was on Saturday. I hired a boy who sleeps in a room above the stable down near the wharf to tend to the animals—telling him it would be our secret—and then I hired a carriage to transport me as planned, taking the new road along the beach and past Sengekontacket Pond. As the sun had already set I saw few fellow travelers en route, and it was not until I arrived at the lecture hall that I encountered any familiar faces. I was secretly hoping that I would not recognize anyone, nor they me, and perhaps the audience would be small. But in reality it was quite the opposite. The hall was crowded, heads bobbing as they searched for seats and voices rising into the emptiness above us, and I immediately recognized both Mr. Pratt—the Mr. Pratt of the Oak Bluffs Land and Wharf Company—and Dr. Mortimer and his wife. I prayed that neither man had seen me, and being that they were on the floor, near the front, I quickly moved to the balcony just as the lights began to dim.

  I took a seat beside an elderly couple in the third row. I recognized neither the man nor woman, and I don’t believe they recognized me. The red velvet curtains were still closed, and the crowd was whispering, but the noise soon dropped like a curtain. A sudden sea of silence. And then the lamps lining the walls of the theater began to dim and we were all left in a room of complete darkness. I heard several women gasp, and then someone lit a candle on a table in the center of the stage. I heard no footsteps nor saw anyone retreating after the candle was lit, but there it was, nothing else, and the entire audience, still silent, stared at it, the tiny flame quietly flickering, in anticipation of what was to come. And then, from the left-hand side of the stage came a voice, a man’s voice, deep and severe.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  Paschal Beverly Randolph. The name still rings like poetry coming off my tongue. He is a tall man with dark eyes, his hair combed back neatly and his beard fashioned into a goatee. He was younger than I imagined, and I placed him at maybe forty. He remained silent again for a moment, his eyes trained upon the audience, and theirs upon him, before he once again spoke. I have read that he is of mixed race—his mother, a descendant of Madagascan royalty—and I must admit he appeared quite dark, but I had also read that he is a trained physician, which he soon went on to confirm. Also before the war, he was quite involved in the abolitionist cause. He is many things—a sailor, a scientist, an orator, an author, a magician, and a gentleman—but tonight he was with us as trance medium, he was with us, he said, to tell us of the other world, the one waiting for us beyond this one, and of course, to speak to the dead. He raised the water glass, chest high, and gazed out into the darkness, up into the balcony—although it is questionable as to whether he could see any of our faces—hesitated a moment, and then he sipped.

  “Noepe,” he said. “The name the aboriginal people, the Native Americans—the Wampanoag people—gave your little island, before the white man arrived. Noepe. Translated it means ‘In the midst of the sea.’ I have spent a great deal of my life at sea, traveling to far-off lands, communing with different cultures, learning their ways and respecting their traditions, and they are all so very, very different, so unique, except for one thing. “He held up a finger. “There is one thing they, we, all have in common.” He paused, sipped again. “And that is … the belief in the spirit world. The belief in the afterlife.”

  He paced the stage, his chin down, and his hands folded behind his back, a man in the midst of great thought, great contemplation.

  “The sea is awash with spirits,” he said. “I have seen them off the coast of Africa, and I have seen them while in port at Shang Hai. In the San Francisco Bay, floating through the wondrous Golden Gate, and in Trinidad. In New York,” he said. “Boston. I have seen them, heard them, and felt them, and it is no wonder there should be so many alive out there knowing that so many souls, many we have known—whalers, sailors, fisherman, and pilgrims—have been lost at sea. I have contemplated this a great deal, especially at night, aboard a lonely ship, adrift in the middle of the Atlantic, with no noise except the wind, the mainsail flapping, a whale sounding, and what could only possibly be the cries of the distant, drowned sailors.” He stopped, lowered his chin, and looked out upon us from under his brow. “I have contemplated this, and then I have asked myself, is it all so different on land? All so different anywhere? For what are we there, here? On the water or in the Catskills, on the soil of this great young land, or on the soil once roamed by the ancient Egyptians, but a family, a sea, of souls. All bound together by one thing.” He raised his finger again. “One thing. And that is that we will be together in the afterlife. We will all move to the next realm. The spirit world.”

  He spoke more at length, now and again causing a ripple of hushed whispers, and then he removed his coat, down to his vest, and he rolled up his sleeves. He repeated again that we would all be together, for though he himself a Christian, he said, he does not believe that neither faith nor works during this brief lifetime are enough to assign a person to eternal bliss, or eternal damnation. No, he said, there has to be more. More experiences, more challenges, and some might say, he said, more chances. There are many spheres we must ascend through following our time in this one. The afterlife is not a static place, but rather one where the spirit evolves, learning and growing, and then moving on. His assistant came forth with a silver pitcher and refilled his water, and then Paschal Beverly Randolph took a seat at the table.

  The gentleman to my right was soon fast asleep, his lips sputtering as he snored, but his wife appeared enthralled, hanging upon each of Mr. Randolph’s words, gasping when his lecture grazed the periphery of polite conversation, alluding to the acts of a man and wife in the marital bed, and describing how such acts can prove to be both a “metaphysical and holy ritual.” There was much shuffling fol
lowing this, and several audience members rose to depart. I could not see who due to the low lighting. Mr. Randolph made no acknowledgment to these sudden departures until the room was once again quiet, and then he stated that he bore these people no ill will, and that as much was to be expected. Not everyone is ready, he said, to hear the truth.

  He stood again then, stepping closer to the foot of the stage and asked if there was anyone in the audience who had a loved one, now deceased, whom they would like to speak to. He waited, staring intently, his eyes deep, dark pools, and when there was still no answer, he waited some more. Then after a moment, a hand rose in the fifth row. Mr. Randolph nodded and motioned for the volunteer to come forward.

  A woman approached the side of the stage, and Mr. Randolph greeted her there, offering her a hand as she ascended the stairs. She was a heavyset woman in her middle years of life, and she did not look familiar. Mr. Randolph asked her name, and she said it was Rebecca Cushing, and that she came from Nantucket, the wife of a whaler. It was her husband, Jacob Cushing, she said, whom she wished to speak with, and then she started to cry. Mr. Randolph offered her a chair, and then he offered her a glass of water.

  “It is a sad thing to lose a loved one,” he told the woman, “but the important thing to remember is that even when they are lost—at least to us, beyond our sphere—they are never really gone. And although our sphere may not incorporate theirs, their sphere incorporates ours, and although, they may not be with us, we are with them. They can see, feel, hear us, and if it is a spouse, we mourn, they can lie beside us as we turn the lights down before slipping away to our dreams. And sometimes, he added, it is within our dreams that we meet them. He asked her in what year she lost her husband, and how it came to be. 1858, she said, and he had, as far as she knew, been one of those of whom Mr. Randolph spoke, one of those lost at sea. His ship had been gone for three years, due back in 1857, but by 1858, it had still not returned. No wreck, no word, no nothing. The ship had last been seen rounding the Cape of Good Hope.

  1858, I thought, and still she grieved. I wondered what it would be like to have a husband whom you could love so much, miss so dearly.

  “The Cape of Good Hope,” said Mr. Randolph, and then for the first time since his lecture began, I saw him smile. “Lost like the Dutchman. But is he lost? Or is he in this room with us now as we speak? Watching your tears, his heart breaking as he does, but unable to reach out to you, speak to you, soothe you. He may be lost to you, for now, but I assure you, my good woman, you are not lost to him.”

  His trance, Mr. Randolph said, was not exactly like that of other mediums. For he believed strongly in the concept of “will.” Most mediums, he said, abandoned their will while in the trance state, and so left themselves open to be influenced by countless entities around them, and as such, their results could often prove unreliable, sometimes even, contradictory. But his method involved what he termed “blending.” While blending he would not lose himself completely to the trancelike state, but rather would identify with the soul of the departed while still exerting his own personal will. This would result in a “knowing” without a vacation of self, of will.

  The gas lamps came on at either side of the stage then, the lights still low and bathing the stage in what I can only describe as a distant shade of yellow, and then Mr. Randolph turned to the audience and asked for two more volunteers.

  “Witnesses,” he said.

  Several hands rose, and after carefully scanning the crowd, he quickly made his decision. One was a woman, probably in her late twenties, not much younger than me, and one, shockingly, was Mr. Pratt. The woman gave her name as Eleanor Mayhew. She was a pretty woman with a long-lipped smile and rosy cheeks, and she stated her occupation as a seamstress. Mr. Pratt stood off to the side until Mr. Randolph turned, seemingly sizing him up just a little bit more, and shook his hand, asking his name and occupation.

  “Samuel Pratt,” he said. “Architect.” He cleared his throat. “And builder.”

  Mr. Randolph paused. “The Samuel Pratt?”

  Mr. Pratt nodded. “That’s right.”

  Mr. Randolph made a small side nod with his head. “Excellent.”

  His assistant brought forth two more chairs, and he asked Mr. Pratt and Miss Mayhew to have a seat at the table with Mrs. Cushing. Miss Mayhew sat at the center of the table, facing the audience, and Mr. Pratt sat across from Mrs. Cushing. Mr. Randolph then explained that he would remain standing a short distance from the table and all that may transpire. He wanted the audience to be comfortable with the fact that there would be no trickery. As he said this a long horn, attached to a wire, descended from above, stopping short a few feet above the heads of the volunteers, its mouthpiece angled. A spirit trumpet. I have read of them.

  “It is not common that we engage deeply enough to receive actual voice transmissions from the dead,” said Mr. Randolph, “but it is also not unheard of. More often than not, the spirits, if they speak at all, speak through me, but there has been occasion …” He paused. “Yes, there has been occasion …”

  The lighting of the stage appeared to enhance his features even more. I hadn’t quite realized just how handsome, commanding, and confident, he really looked. Miss Mayhew seemed to have realized it before I, however, and she kept looking over at him, shyly, blushing. He seemed to pick up on this rather quickly.

  “Now I am going to need your full concentration, young lady,” he said. “Indeed, the full concentration of everyone present.” The woman beside me gave her husband a subtle elbow. He shuddered a little, but then went right on sleeping.

  “The souls in the next realm are much like the souls here in this room,” continued Mr. Randolph, “composed of energy, and for the energy to come forth the receiving area must be focused, and of course—and this is a big of course—welcoming. We all must focus on thoughts on whom we are looking for, and why.” He paused again. “We are looking for Mr. Jacob Cushing.”

  He asked the volunteers at the table to hold hands, and if comfortable, for each of us in the audience to take the hand of our neighbors beside us. The woman beside me did not look at me, but she reached over and placed her hand over mine, taking her sleeping husband’s in her other. Mr. Randolph said he needed everyone present to close their eyes and to take a deep breath, hold it briefly, and then exhale. We did this several times, with Mr. Randolph, speaking in a calm, soothing manner as we did. He wanted us all to think pleasant thoughts, he said, to imagine ourselves somewhere pleasant, somewhere warm—perhaps even summer right here on our private little paradise, in the midst of the sea—somewhere relaxing. He wanted us all to feel relaxed, to feel it in our fingers and in our toes, flowing gently through our bloodstream, down our arms, legs, moving gently in our chest, up through our necks, and settling, peacefully, in our heads, soothing our thoughts. We were all at peace, he said, as were our visitors, at peace. All one, our spheres separated by a thin membrane. Our world theirs, and their world ours. Peace, he said again, relaxed. Breathe. In. Out. Feel our chests rising. In. Out. Breathe. Relax.

  “Mr. Jacob Cushing,” he said. “I’m looking for Mr. Jacob Cushing. Your wife is here, Mr. Cushing, in this room, on this island not far from your own, and she misses you. She misses you dearly.” He paused, waited. Everyone, he said, could open their eyes, and then he continued. He still had his eyes closed. “I can feel you,” he said, “But I cannot hear you. I would like to ask something of you if you would be so gracious to help us, help your wife, here this evening. I would like to ask you some questions and if you can, if possible, I would like you to answer these questions with a knock, a rap upon the table or floor. Once for yes, twice for no. Can you hear me?” Mr. Randolph paused again, and I must admit my heart had begun to flutter, my mouth dry. “I said, can you hear me, Mr. Cushing?” Still nothing. Mr. Randolph took a deep breath. “Very well, I shall proceed regardless in hopes that we have in fact made contact. I can feel something, a change in the room, but I would like to be sure that it is in fact
you.” He took a step forward then, turned his body square. Facing the audience, his back to the volunteers.

  “Your wife says she believes that you were lost somewhere near the Cape of Good Hope. She says you were a crewman aboard a whaling vessel. The whole ship, she believes, was lost. Is this true?”

  Mr. Randolph waited, his hands behind his back, and standing perfectly still. His eyes remained closed, but as I watched his face began to change, subtly, a shifting in his pallor, his beautiful bronze skin suddenly draining of color, and then once again shifting, gray, then blue. He himself nearly looked like a ghost. “Mr. Cushing,” he said, again, and then it was not just he that was changing, but the entire room around us. It was suddenly remarkably cooler, the temperature dropping. I felt a shiver run up my spine, and the old woman beside me let go of my hand to adjust her shawl. People throughout the audience were shifting about, silent but unsettled.

  “Mr. Cushing,” Mr. Randolph said, “Were you lost upon the Cape of Good Hope?”

  There was something then. A small sound, distant and unsure, but carrying enough power to break apart the room. It was a knock, and the sound came from the stage. I am sure of it. A woman down near the front gasped again, and the old woman beside me blessed herself in the sign of the cross. I myself felt my heart rising in my throat, the hairs on my arms standing on end, but Mr. Randolph did not stir.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cushing,” he said. “I can hear you clearly, here on stage, but I fear that some others further back may not be able to hear you quite so well. Would it be too much of an inconvenience if I asked you to respond a bit louder? If at all possible, of course.” He waited again. Another knock. One. Louder.

  The young woman at the table, Miss Mayhew, let out a cry, and jumped from her seat. “It came from the table,” she exclaimed. “Someone knocked on the table!” Mr. Pratt moved quickly over to her, a hand on her shoulder and a whisper in her ear. Something comforting, I would have to assume. The woman shut her eyes, and nodded a little, and then again took her seat.