by Susan Wiggs
A winter gale, he thought uncomfortably, facing the brooding steel-gray sky to the west. The clouds had rolled in, bringing the dense, weighty look of heavy snow. By nightfall, Isle Royale could well be blanketed, the harbors impassable. Ice crackled as the bow broke through the thin sheets. Within a few days, ice-up would be complete, and the island would slumber, undisturbed, until spring.
He put the glass to his eye and recognized Deborah by the funny purple hat she had insisted on finishing the night before. Aboard the Koenig, she sat astern in the shelter of a canvas tarp, but a moment later she went below, disappearing from view.
Tom swung back to scan the shoreline of the island. How desolate it looked from this distance, the crust of ice a white, jagged necklace around its rugged periphery. It had been his home since time out of mind, but in winter it looked as forbidding as an enemy fortress.
Just for a moment, he thought he detected a flicker of movement at the edge of the settlement. Then the boat hit a roller. He lurched back and nearly lost his footing. When he looked again toward the island, he saw only emptiness. Bare rock, bare trees, bare earth.
Bye, Asa.
He knew it wasn’t logical, but he felt disloyal leaving like this. For the past six years he and Asa had left the winter island together. Now Asa was left behind in a cold grave where Tom could never reach him again. Never touch him, never ruffle his hair, never hear the sound of his laughter.
Tom gritted his teeth. He tried to make himself think of anything besides the boy and the fact that Asa would never again see the springtime. He forced himself to scan the lake through the spyglass as if there were something for him to see.
Having Deborah around had kept him from brooding about Asa as much as he had before going to Chicago. She was no substitute for the boy he loved, the boy who gave shape and meaning to his life, but her presence had given Tom something to think about besides the powerful hurt of knowing Asa was gone.
Watching her discover the island for the first time had been like seeing Isle Royale all over again, through the eyes of a child. Her sense of breath-held wonder at the grandeur of the wilderness reminded him of something he hadn’t thought about since before losing Asa. The world was a beautiful place. Life was worth living. Ironic that it took a spoiled debutante, the daughter of his enemy, to remind him of that.
The fact that nothing in Tom’s scheme for revenge had gone as planned didn’t seem to bother him so much these days. Truth be told, the need to kill Arthur Sinclair had cooled considerably even as the city burned. Deborah had reminded Tom of something he had shut his mind to in his crazed grief and thirst for revenge: Arthur Sinclair was somebody’s father.
Apparently Sinclair had been planning to send her like a sacrificial lamb into the keeping of the prominent Ascot family, and she was reluctant to go. Tom could only imagine the way events would unfold once they reached the mainland. He figured he would take Deborah overland to Duluth, the terminus of the St. Paul and Pacific Railroad. She could take the train to Chicago—assuming all the depots in the city had not burned—and that would be the end of it.
It didn’t matter the way things turned out, Tom told himself. After she left for Chicago, he would have no reason to see her again. Ever.
Another swell hit, and a fine, needlelike spray of half-frozen lake water smacked him in the face. The air had grown so cold that by the time the wind swept the mist off the wave tops, the spray froze in midair.
It was a good wind, though it froze his bones to the marrow and brought with it the promise of a terrific blizzard. If it held steady, they’d make the mainland well before nightfall.
* * *
Panic didn’t set in right away.
Deborah was too naive to understand, the moment she reached the landing, the implications of missing the boat. When she’d finished gathering her agates, she had been filled with dismay at her wet feet and cold, drenched backside. The people on the mainland would think she looked a fright. Her mind was occupied with this thought as she picked her way gingerly down to the landing by the Wicks’ fish house.
Odd, she thought. All the boats had gone.
Even seeing this, she didn’t quite panic. Perhaps some of the fleet had departed while others had only…disappeared for a while. The Suzette had probably steamed around to Checker Point to take advantage of the big spray there in order to cleanse her decks of the spoiled fish oil. That was probably the case, and the others had not wanted to wait.
When she thought about the absurdity of that idea, her mind took another tack, turning to the inevitable thought she had been avoiding. They had somehow managed to leave her by mistake. It was an outrageous idea. Never in her life had she been overlooked by mistake or even on purpose for that matter. Yet somehow, in the frenzy of loading and leaving and people rushing from boat to boat, she had been forgotten. She was prepared to shoulder her share of the blame for that, switching between boats. It had been foolish of her to run off in search of a souvenir of her days on the island. But it was easier to look back than to plan ahead. It was an honest mistake, and if truth be told, entirely her fault.
Yet still she did not panic. It was only a matter of time before the oversight was detected. Then a boat would come back for her.
“Yes, that is exactly what will happen,” she said aloud. “Someone will come back to fetch me.”
There was no one to hear her. What a singularly odd notion. Deborah could not think of another time in her life when she had been completely and utterly alone. From the day of her birth, she had been surrounded by nurses, servants, maids and every manner of person imaginable. Yet here she was, alone on an island in the heart of a wilderness so vast and isolated that it boggled the mind.
“Well,” she said. “Well, there is no point in staying here freezing to death.” She picked up her stiff skirts and walked away from the landing. She went halfway up the hill toward town, then turned to have one last look at the horizon to the west. A northerly wind had stirred violent swells in the lake. There was no sign of a ship.
But something did catch her eye. Far in the west, the sky darkened like a wall of smoke. Until this moment, she had never actually seen a winter storm forming. The drama and violence of it amazed her; wind and darkness and snow came down from the atmosphere as if hurled from the hand of God himself. She walked backward up the hill, moving slowly, mesmerized by the sight. Blackness stalked the surface of the water, forming a vast, angular shadow on the lake. Then the whitecaps kicked up. It was a magical sight—seeing cold water boil. The thick, broken-edged ice that surrounded the island cracked with the motion, but did not break up. The majesty of the coming maelstrom took her breath away—until she understood that she would have to endure it alone.
That was when she finally panicked. A small sound came from her throat. It wasn’t a sob or a cry for help, but a strange, succinct expression of fear. Deborah knew she was not a brave person. She had never been brave, had never been required to show courage.
Now she was. And she was so miserably unprepared for the necessity of bravery that she could walk no further. She sat down on the path, hugged her knees up to her chest and shivered, gritting her teeth to stop them from chattering. Her breath came in quick gasps, making a sound like a rare breed of bird. The shivering convulsed through her in waves.
Think, she told herself. Then she said it aloud. “Think, Deborah. You’re all alone on this island and a storm is coming. What must you do in order to survive?”
She hadn’t the first idea. But she determined that sitting out in the cold, on the frozen ground, with the wind plucking at her bonnet strings, would not serve her needs. She got up and trudged the rest of the way to the settlement. The abandoned village was a frighteningly empty ghost town, all the inhabitants fled before some unnamed menace.
Deborah knew the name of the menace now. She dared to look back at the lake just once, hoping against hope that she had exaggerated the storm in her mind. It was worse, closer and more violent than it had be
en just a few moments ago.
She hunched her shoulders up against the wind and hurried for shelter.
* * *
“Parbleu, but that was ugly.” At Commercial Landing in Fraser, Lightning Jack tied up and counted coins from a pouch. “Storm was too close for comfort. We should have left last week.”
Tom nodded distractedly. He respected the power of the weather on the lake, but for some reason he had never feared being out in it. “Did you see where the Koenig is docked?”
Lightning Jack sent him a knowing glance. “Eager to see your little guest, eh?”
“I just want to make sure she doesn’t get in trouble or try something stupid.”
“Ah, but those are her specialties.”
“I know. I’d best find her.” With a pathetic whimper, Smokey leaped out of the boat and trotted at his heels. The critter had been miserable without Deborah on the crossing.
Lightning Jack tied the coin pouch to his belt. “I am going to find a woman and get roaring drunk.”
“Women love that.”
They paid the harbormaster and Tom inquired about the Koenig. It was full dark, and the dog started in on his annoying and ceaseless barking. What was wrong with the fool critter? Its voice was hoarse, almost weak. The gale force winds blowing off the lake nearly drowned its pathetic howling.
Bending into the storm, Jens Eckel lifted a lantern and motioned them to the dock. “How was your voyage?” He scowled at the dog. “Can’t you shut that thing up?”
“Nope.”
“I say we use the little yapper for bait.”
“Deborah’s the only one he minds.”
Jens craned his neck, peering through the lashing snow flurries. “Where is the girl? Did she weather the storm well aboard the Suzette?”
At first Tom felt only mild confusion. “She’s not with me. We just made port.”
“Oh.” Jens raised his voice over the rising wind. “I must have misunderstood. I thought she said she would make the crossing with you.”
“We told her to go on the Koenig,” Lightning Jack said, scratching his head.
“Yeah.” Jens chuckled. “Too bad about the oil spill.” His mirth faded and the scowl returned. “But she said she would sail with you.”
Maybe the old man was confused. “I saw her,” Tom pointed out. “She was sitting under Koenig’s spray hood—” He broke off as Ilsa appeared on the dock, a worried expression on her face…and a fancy bonnet on her head. “That’s Deborah’s hat,” Tom said. He prayed the lantern light distorted the color of the hat, but there was no denying it. Ilsa’s bonnet was purple. He felt a slow, cold crawl of apprehension starting up his spine. “Isn’t it?”
“She gave it to me as a gift.” Ilsa touched the brim. “Only this morning. She is a nice woman, Tom Silver. One of these days you will learn that for yourself.”
Lightning Jack managed to hush the dog by giving it a bit of dried fish to gnaw on. “Let us sort this out, eh? Deborah did not sail aboard the Suzette. And you’re saying she wasn’t on the Koenig.”
“She wanted to fetch something—she didn’t say what.” Jens scratched his head. “Told us to go ahead, that she would sail with you.”
All three men swore at once. Ilsa flinched and grabbed the pastor’s hand. “We must figure out where Deborah is.”
“I’m afraid everyone thought she was with someone else,” Pastor Ibbotsen pointed out.
“She is back on the island,” Jens said mournfully. “Where else could she be?”
Ilsa touched the brim of her hat. “What will we do? We can’t leave her out there.”
The mongrel dog finished scarfing down the fish and paced up and down the dock, its restless movements unnerving.
“We must check the other boats,” Henry said.
“She won’t know the first thing to do in order to survive. She doesn’t even know how to get to the lumber camp. She’ll die,” Ilsa said.
Tom said nothing. He walked away from the squabbling group of islanders at the waterfront. There were lights aglow in the town. The howl of the wind mingled with the faint jangle of piano music drifting from the boardinghouse. Ordinarily this was a night a man might savor, when the season’s work was over and it was time to hunker down for the winter. Ordinarily Tom would join Lightning Jack on the quest for strong drink and a willing woman, and they’d stay warm by the fire, replete and content long into the night.
The storm wind slashed sideways across the lake. Waves exploded on the dock and along the water’s edge, bearding the rocky shoreline with ice. The snow came on fast and thick. By morning, it would be thigh deep.
Tom couldn’t think about that. He already knew what he had to do.
PART THREE
When is man strong until he feels alone?
—Robert Browning
TWENTY
“You’re not stupid,” Deborah said. “Just inexperienced.”
Several hours after realizing she had been stranded on the island, the snow had begun coming down in earnest and she was already getting used to talking to herself. “That might mean I’ve lost my mind,” she said, balancing a stack of firewood in her arms as she staggered toward the house. “But then again, does it matter? If I’m all alone, then the standard for sanity is up to me entirely.”
She laughed at herself, but the howling wind snatched at her laughter and stole it away. She ducked her head and pushed her way into the cabin. The shriek of the wind pursued her, even inside. She dropped the logs and one of them hit her foot, bruising deeply. She yelped in pain, hopping on one foot and clutching the other. The hem of her skirt caught in the door. She was forced to open it and free herself, and that let in more wind.
She had never felt a cold quite as piercing as the cold of the blizzard that blasted across the lake that day. She had never seen the snow come down quite so fast. Perhaps that had been what Charlie Mott’s wife had seen, that terrible veil of white, promising icy suffocation.
Pushing the door shut behind her, Deborah dragged the firewood piece by piece over to the stove. Only this morning—was it just this morning?—Tom had thrown the last live embers into the yard to burn out. He had swept the stale ashes from the stove and climbed onto the roof to scour the pipe with a large wire brush. He hadn’t expected to use the stove again until springtime.
Vigorously Deborah rubbed her hands together. She opened the door of the stove and sank down on her knees in front of it. Now. How did one make a fire? She must have seen it done thousands of times. She wished she had been paying attention.
“All right, Miss Deborah, you spoiled young article,” she said, emulating Kathleen O’Leary’s brogue and borrowing one of her favorite expressions, “let’s see if this dog will hunt.”
Deborah opened the tin of matches, and they scattered all over the floor. As she gritted her teeth and leaned forward to pick them up, she felt a wave of longing for Kathleen and for Lucy, and even for Phoebe.
Life at Miss Boylan’s had been a long chain of meaningless delights. She and her friends had been willing participants in social engagements and contrived, self-important meetings of philanthropical societies, wardrobe fittings and shopping expeditions. Leisurely, chatty conversations that went nowhere. Pointless lectures and entertainments. It was no wonder, she thought, scooping up the last of the spilled matches, young women pursued the empty pleasures of society so avidly.
The alternative was painful. She knew that now. It was difficult to examine one’s own life and one’s place in the world, difficult to realize one’s worth was calculated in terms of dollars and cents, difficult to have to make one’s own way in the world. She wondered, if she had simply resigned herself to marrying Philip, how long she would have gone on in an easy, numb state of false contentment, never knowing there might be another path for her.
With her breath making cold puffs in the air, she set aside the matches and laid the fire. She wished she had paid closer attention when Tom Silver had performed this task. She had a vagu
e notion of tinder and kindling but not what to do with them.
A fire was a simple matter, she decided. You laid the wood in the hearth, and you set it on fire.
“Fine,” she said. “I can do that.”
She pushed a log into the round-bellied stove and, for good measure, put one on top of it. Then she struck a match, taking several tries before it caught. She turned her face away from the sulfurous flare and smell and touched the match to one of the logs. But the match burned down to a black curl of nothingness. Deborah dropped it just as she felt the sting of heat on her fingers. She lit another match with the same result, and then another.
“Drat,” she said, sitting back on her knees. “What am I doing wrong?”
She persisted, lighting match after match until she had only a few left in the tin. The matches were too feeble and didn’t stay lit long enough for the logs to take. The burned sticks lay in a useless heap in the stove, and the whistling wind rattled mercilessly at the windows. Deborah felt humiliatingly close to tears. This should be child’s play, yet she could not seem to start a fire.
That was the patent absurdity of her existence, she reflected bleakly. She could perform complicated Latin declensions. She could play the pianoforte, memorize lengthy epic poems and recite the peerage of England, but she was unable to build a fire to keep herself from freezing to death.
“Oh, Lucy, you were right,” she said, her teeth starting to chatter. “Women are slaves kept in the darkness of ignorance.”
Darkness. Over the past few weeks the sun had been setting earlier and earlier in the day, but with the blizzard raging outside, she couldn’t even begin to guess at the time. She found a lamp and a bottle of lamp oil. Tom Silver had been thorough in closing up the house for the winter, but he had left a few bare necessities for use when he returned in the spring.