The Seeker: A Mystery at Walden Pond

by R. B. Chesterton

A deep exhaustion bored into my bones as soon as I entered my cabin. My actions had cost me Joe, and there was no undoing it. I’d come to rely on him, on his presence during the dark nights, the weight of his body a wall against fear and danger.

  Depression fell upon me like a suffocating blanket. Sleep, the joy of escape, beckoned me, but I was afraid. Patrick haunted my dreams, and I didn’t know if my heart could take a second go-round with him.

  I picked up the crumbling journal and stowed it under the bed. Just in case Joe came back, though I knew he wouldn’t. Why I wanted to hide the journal from him, I couldn’t say. I’d hoped, what seemed like a million years ago, to build a life on my aunt’s writing. I’d viewed the journal as solid gold, a key to the kingdom of academia. Such thoughts were laughable. Now I couldn’t think about my future. I doubted I had one.

  My sense of duty said I should go to the front desk of the inn and make sure the messages on the answering machine were returned and business attended to. But I couldn’t. My muscles had no strength.

  I opened a new bottle of wine, topped off a glass, and drank it too fast. I poured another glass and went to the medicine cabinet in the tiny bathroom. The prescription sleeping pills were there and I shook two into my palm. If I slept deeply enough, I could avoid Patrick. I sought unconsciousness. I hoped to embrace near-coma, not dreams.

  Even though it was only mid-afternoon, I took the medicine, finished the second glass of wine, and crawled into my bed. The sleeping pills tugged at me almost instantly, but when I yielded to sleep, it was Morpheus who courted me, and the lid to the Devil’s toolbox opened. I found myself reliving memories of the time when my mother was alive and my father delivered the mail at Coalgood.

  My mother wore red lipstick, and she moved with quick, sure energy. She was like a butterfly, here and there, so beautiful in the mountain sunlight. She’d planned to be a nurse, but she’d married Daddy and gotten pregnant with me and then my brother. She said having us was better than wearing white stockings and ugly shoes and wiping peoples’ bums. She said that I made her life complete, but several times I found her thumbing through catalogues for nursing school.

  I remembered the house in Coalgood. Every memory was filled with sunshine. My room was purple and white, and my bedspread had Tinker Bell on it. We picked berries and wild plums and swam in the cold creek not too far from town.

  I saw my mother standing in the yard in her cut-off jeans and a red T-shirt that matched her lipstick. Her dark hair curled down her neck and she laughed at me, beckoning me to follow her to the creek. More than anything I wanted to walk beside her, to feel her hand on my shoulder or stroking my hair.

  She carried a bucket for the dewberries we would pick for jam and pies. I loved for her to bake. She sprinkled scraps of piecrust with sugar and cinnamon and baked them like cookies for me. And when the pies were cooling, she’d make homemade ice cream to melt on top of the cobblers.

  “Let’s pick berries,” she said.

  I ran after her into the woods, needing nothing more than to be in her presence.

  As soon as I entered the shadow of the trees, she disappeared. So did the sunlight. The green of the forest faded to black and gray. I was alone. In the distance I heard a low roar. A waterfall? Whitewater? I realized I was lost. Not a single landmark told me anything about my surroundings.

  “Aine!” My mother called to me, but I couldn’t see her anywhere. “Run, Aine. Don’t stay there. Run! She’s coming!”

  Fear propelled me forward, and I was no longer a child. I was grown, my tennis shoes grabbing the rocks and roots of the trail as I hurried downhill, toward the dull roar.

  “Mama!” I called to her, but there was no answer. So I ran harder.

  The trees thinned and the water sound grew louder. It came in waves, a loud crash with a shushing whisper. I broke from the trees into acres of wild rose bushes. There was no help for it. I had to go through them.

  Thorns tore at my clothes and skin. Blood drops rose along the path where the stickers pierced me. Tiny drops of blood covered my arms and legs with thin whip lines. But I could see the water, and I wasn’t far from the strip of sand that marked the edge of the ocean. Somehow, I’d made my way to the place where life began.

  At last I gained the sand and a pier that reached far into the ocean. My sneakers slapped the boards as I sprinted down the endless pier. At the end, I stopped, heaving for breath. The small wooden platform was miles from shore. The waves rose around me, mountains that crested and fell in all directions, but none swamped the tiny platform where I stood.

  “Come home, Aine.”

  I heard the voice from the depth of the water. “I’m not of the sea,” I replied. “I’m a mountain girl. The land.”

  A giant eye blinked at me beneath the blue water. Terror filled me, but I didn’t retreat. “Who are you?”

  The eye rose to the surface and I saw that it was part of a huge whale. A white whale. “I’m your past and future,” the whale said.

  “Moby Dick.”

  The whale’s laugh was merry. “No such creature ever existed.”

  “I never harmed you,” I pointed out.

  “It’s in your blood.” The whale was pensive now.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I never harmed you at all. I wouldn’t. That was a long time ago.”

  “Blood stains your hands.”

  “No.”

  “I could swallow you.” The whale opened its mouth and the sun and sky were obliterated. There was nothing but the darkness of its maw.

  I knew then that darkness was my destiny. Sucked into the belly of a whale. Like Jonah.

  “Out of the darkness ye shall rise,” the whale said as it slowly sank back into the ocean. “Remember, the dead never rest.”

  43

  A hard knocking at my door woke me from the dream. For a moment I felt as if I were being held underwater. When I broke the surface, I called out and the knocking ceased. I’d gone to bed in my clothes, so I straightened them as best I could and went to answer the door.

  Chief McKinney stood on the small porch, his hat in his hand. “Miss Cahill,” he said. “May I come in?”

  I checked behind me to be sure the journal was put away and then stepped back. “I was asleep.”

  “Sorry to disturb you.” He followed close behind me and I imagined his breath on my neck.

  I considered asking him if Joe was too afraid to come for my arrest, but I didn’t. I pointed to the desk chair and the rocker before the dead fireplace. Without Patrick or Joe to bring in the wood and keep the fire stoked, I’d let it go out. “I should get some wood,” I said. Dusk had fallen and the tiny warmth the sun gave had disappeared. It would be freezing cold in another hour.

  “Not on my account,” the chief said. “I won’t be long.”

  I couldn’t read intention in his expression, but his next words made my heart thud.

  “We’re worried about you, Aine. Joe’s expressed his concern, and Dorothea, even distracted as she is, thinks you’re under too much stress. Since the night I found you in the snow, you’ve been … peculiar.”

  “How so?” I folded my hands in my lap to still their trembling. The cabin was cold, and I shivered. My quilt had fallen to the floor earlier, and I picked it up and spread it over my lap.

  “Since you’ve come to town, we’ve experienced two murders—”

  I didn’t let him finish. “And you think I’m responsible for Karla’s and Patrick’s deaths?” My voice rose. “You think I’m a killer?”

  “No, Aine,” he said patiently. “You’re a young woman whose past doesn’t check out. That’s what I’m here about. I need some straight answers.”

  “My family is my business. I shouldn’t have to drag their reputation behind me.”

  “I called the school. Brandeis doesn’t have you registered as a doctoral student. They said you dropped out of the program last year when you had an altercation with a professor.”

  “So? When I finish my d
issertation, I’ll sign up for the final classes. Why should I have to pay them while I’m writing?” I resented his implications. He was calling me a liar.

  “You told Dorothea you would present your dissertation in the spring. You can’t defend unless you’re enrolled in the doctoral program.”

  “I’m a student. Classes don’t begin until the middle of January. I have to go in and sign up. That’s all. I planned to do it the sixteenth.”

  “I need a contact for your relatives.”

  “My granny is dead and so is my father. My mother died when I was a child.”

  The litany of losses brought no sympathy from the chief. “Who is a contact for you?”

  “My uncles, aunts, and cousins are engaged in criminal endeavors. I haven’t spoken to any of them since my grandmother’s funeral. The Cahills. Look them up and call them if you want. They won’t remember me. And I sure don’t want to remember them.”

  His shoulders relaxed a little, and so did I. It was only normal for the law to question the stranger in town. It was a part of great literature.

  “Have you seen anything strange around town?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Was it possible the chief had seen something unusual?

  “A stranger in the woods around Walden Pond.”

  “Like who?” I couldn’t risk too much.

  “The night you were caught in the blizzard, you said something about a young girl. You were nearly frozen to death and incoherent, so I didn’t put any credence in it. I’ve changed my thinking. Aine, is there someone in the woods?”

  I couldn’t be certain if he meant to trick me or not. I couldn’t risk it. Mischa was my cross to bear. “It must have been the fever talking. I don’t know what you mean.”

  He sighed. “Very strange things are happening in Concord. A woman was beaten to death and now a young man is poisoned. Both are connected to you. Both are connected to Joe.”

  I couldn’t disagree with his assessment, so I said nothing.

  “When was the last time you saw Patrick?” he asked.

  Here it was. I had to be careful. “The day he died. He came to the cabin while I was putting on my makeup for the Christmas Eve party. He brought some logs for the fire and banked it so I would have warmth when the party was over. He did that every day.”

  “Was he upset?”

  No way was I going to explain about his crush. “About what?”

  “About you.” He was like the crow, smart, alert, and I knew Joe had told him about my fling with Patrick.

  “No, he wasn’t upset with me in the least. I failed to make Joe understand that Patrick enjoyed flirting with all the women staying at the inn. Including me. Dorothea pretends she doesn’t know, but that’s a social convention. Patrick was funny and fun. He was popular with the ladies, but it didn’t mean a thing. Our affair, if you can call it that, was casual. It was a fling.” I flipped my fingers. “It was a momentary thrill for both of us. I’m sorry if that offends your sense of morality, but that’s what it was. We were both consenting adults.”

  “Morality isn’t my business. Murder is.” He sat forward. “You’re keeping things back, Aine. I don’t know what, but I sense it. I promise you, I’ll find out. It would be best for you to tell me now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I kept my expression calm even though my heart thundered like pounding horse hooves.

  “You have information about both these deaths. I’m not accusing you, but I know you’re not completely innocent.”

  “If I knew anything, I’d tell you. I’d tell Joe. I’m in love with him.” The words surprised me as much as McKinney.

  “I’m not sure that’s good news, Aine.” He stood up. “Don’t leave Concord.”

  “I have to go to Brandeis to register for my classes.”

  “Check in with me before you go. I mean it, Aine. I won’t be happy if you drive out of Concord without clearing it with me.”

  “Am I a suspect in Patrick’s death?”

  “You’re a person of interest.” He opened the door and closed it firmly behind him, but not before I’d seen night slipping toward the cabin. Soon darkness would swallow me, and I would be all alone. Except for the child in the woods, the creature who wanted to lay claim to my soul.

  44

  New Year’s Eve blew into town indistinguishable from the preceding week. Cold, alone, swaddled in blankets, I tried to sleep but couldn’t. So I counted the minutes until the end of one year and the beginning of the next. There was no knock at my door, no Auld Lang Syne. No call from Joe. Not even Dorothea came to wish me a happy new year. The sentiment of my friends came through loud and clear. I was suspect.

  Mischa, too, left me alone. She was sly, letting me twist in my loneliness. She could have come inside any time she chose, but she lurked about the forest instead. I sensed her there, watching for any sign of weakness from me.

  But I could be sly, too. By refusing to look out the window or door, I refused to acknowledge she was near. I had no doubt she had plans for me, but I wouldn’t play into her hands. The cabin didn’t protect me, but it worked as cover. At least for the moment.

  I wondered how long it would be before Chief McKinney returned to arrest me for crimes I hadn’t committed. Each breath I took felt constricted. Things were closing down around me.

  When the small bedside clock showed midnight, I pulled Bonnie’s journal out from under the bed. I turned on the lamp at my desk and sat down. This time I wouldn’t be stopped. I would find the truth.

  I flipped to the back of the journal. The last page was new, the beautiful script clean and undamaged, as if it had just been written.

  There is great mischief afoot in the woods at Walden Pond. The child I’ve worked so hard to befriend is not a child. She is something old and evil. The Sluagh do her bidding, and they have been spying on me. Even the friendly warbler who sings so sweetly each morning takes his orders from the child. The woods are bleak and dark, and things I fear roam about freely.

  Tonight I will call forth the old spirits, the women of Salem, the crones of the Iroquois, the women of Bedford who watched their men sail away with no hope of return. I will bring their spirits to me in the woods and seek a remedy for this evil child that slips through the trees laying traps and plotting against me.

  In the past week, she has killed an elderly woman, Mary Shoats, on the outskirts of Concord. A woman I was known to visit. A woman already under suspicion because she knew the healing herbs, and also those that can make a woman slip a child. Mary was a good woman who knew that sometimes there was no food for another mouth. One child unborn or five already living who might starve. Mary was kind in the way of nature, the way a mother cat will kill a malformed kitten. But she’d drawn attention to herself, and there was talk against her.

  She was found dead Monday, her head bashed in where she sat at her kitchen table. The bloody rock was discovered in my basket behind the livery stables in a pile of old hay. My basket was stolen the week before, but there are those who don’t believe me. They think I killed old Mary.

  My vision blurred and I covered my eyes for a moment. My aunt Bonnie had been framed for a murder, just as I had.

  My pointer finger traced the crisp writing and I read on.

  This tragedy has called attention to my living arrangement with Henry. I have become quite scandalous, I fear. Funny how the mark of shame rests only on me. Henry is not accused, because it is believed that I somehow cast a spell over him and dragged him, unwilling, into sin. I am his Eve.

  He is unhappy, and I know that his family is disappointed in him, because he’s chosen to live outside the bonds of marriage. While they are saddened by him, they find me to be the harlot. Henry is an innocent victim of my conniving ways. I have corrupted him, at least in their view of it.

  He spends more and more time alone in the woods, and now I have begun to fear the child will harm him. She will do anything to spite me. I am not certain why, but I since
rely believe she hates me.

  So I will call up the spirits of those wise, dead women to help me. I will find a way to banish the child from the woods. To rid my life of her. I have determined to do whatever is necessary to end her.

  A crash against the window made me jump and scream. It had to be a bird. One of her spies, watching me. She knew every move I made.

  There were only a few more pages to read. Bonnie’s words—these new words that had never been in the journal before—showed me a bleak future. Whatever help she’d obtained from the sage crones of the past, it wasn’t enough to fight Mischa. The child was older and wiser than the combined knowledge Bonnie consulted. In the end, Bonnie died. Whether by her own hand, murdered by Thoreau, or killed by the very child she’d once befriended. What chance did I stand against the darkness inside Mischa?

  I clutched the journal to me. If I packed up and left Concord today, would it save Joe? Would Mischa chase me around the globe, murdering those who dared come close to me? My aunt had been haunted by this creature nearly two hundred years before. Had the cunning Mischa merely waited for another Cahill to fall into her web? Was it my bloodline that stirred her from her sulphuric slumber? Without the answers to those questions, I wasn’t certain my departure would stop her here in Concord.

  And there was the little matter of Chief McKinney ordering me to stay in town. If I chose to go home to Kentucky, though, he would never find me. There were hollers in the mountains only my relatives knew how to find. Thus their success as moonshiners.

  A sudden homesickness for the mountains sent me to my feet, still holding the journal. The night was still and dark, but in my imagination I went to the rocky ground and sunshine of May in the Kentucky mountains. The wild phlox and wood poppies flowering blue and yellow. The electric green of the new leaves on the trees. A land of sun and warm breezes, nothing like the bone-rattling cold of January in Massachusetts.

  I had not cried for the mountains. Not ever. I left for boarding school as a child, rushed away from gossip and a father who drank to deaden himself. Granny Siobhan was the only person who ever believed in me, and she was a stout oak to shelter behind in a gale. After she died, there was no yearning for home. Nothing to miss.