by Cyn Balog
I expect to smell something disgusting coming from the open door, but I can’t make anything out. “Did you clean in there?” I ask.
He jumps sky high, like a cartoon character that has stuck its finger in an electric socket. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I don’t answer. “You can open a window, at least. And there’s some 409 under the kitchen sink.” I march over to the bathroom to inspect it, knowing it’ll be gross. I can already tell from the way Hugo threw his McDonald’s hamburger wrappers all over Monster that he isn’t the cleanest person on earth. Holding my breath, I stand in the doorway and take the quickest of peeks. Then I open my eyes wide.
It’s spotless.
I turn to him. He’s still fanning himself with the rolled-up magazine from the shock of seeing me. “What?” he says.
“You weren’t sick?”
“Yeah, I was. Of course I was. Why would I lie about that?”
“I don’t know. All I know is, this bathroom is sparkly clean, and you don’t strike me as the domestic type. Plus, you didn’t have any cleaning supplies, dirty paper towels—”
“Okay, Sherlock, you got me,” he sneers. “I just didn’t want to go on a crummy hike today. What about you? Why are you here?”
“I twisted my ankle,” I say, reaching down to massage it, though it really doesn’t hurt anymore.
“You didn’t want to go, either,” he says, collapsing on a leather couch. “Face it. You see it, too.”
I stare at him. Is it possible that Hugo, stupid, idiotic Hugo, could see some of the things I see? “See what?”
“Angela and Justin. Justin and Angela.” When my face is just as blank as before, he says, “In lurve.”
“What?” I start to laugh. Of course this wasn’t about the ghosts. But still, I know what he’s talking about. My laughter quickly dissolves. “What would make you think that?”
“You never noticed? They’re always giving each other looks.”
“Yeah, but they’re best friends. She’s not his type. Believe me,” I say, as much to convince myself as to convince him. “I mean, I can see where you would think that, because I’ve thought it, too. But really. It’s nothing.”
He shrugs.
“Really. They’ve known each other since they were three,” I say, thinking back to the time three years ago when we’d been making out in the yearbook office for the first time and Justin said, “Angela has nothing to do with this.” How many times have I repeated that to myself over the years? She’s his best friend, and that’s it.
Angela is my closest friend. She was happy when she found out Justin and I were a couple. Happy. She bounced around and giggled like she was on bath salts. “I always thought you’d make a great couple,” she said.
“Angela has nothing to do with this,” I find myself saying.
“Huh?” Hugo’s staring at me.
I grab my backpack and step over his legs, which are sprawled out on the coffee table. “I’ve got something to do.”
“Your poor, throbbing ankle all better?” he asks with a crafty grin. When I don’t reply, he gets down on his knees and raises his hands toward the heavens. “Praise God. It’s a miracle.”
I think about kicking him in the ribs, but in the end I just ignore him and walk to the door.
“Wait. Where are you go—” he begins, but by then I’ve slammed the door.
I walk on the right side of 201 until I’m directly across from the Outfitters, then cut across the highway quickly. That way, I avoid the sound of the river. If I hear those voices, I might get cold feet. And I need to do this. I need to put an end to the questions.
I know it’s completely ridiculous. I know I’m going crazy and seeing people who aren’t real. But they feel real, as real as Justin or Angela or anyone. And even though she can’t be over there, even though it’s impossible, I need to see. I need to prove to myself that all of this—Jack, Trey, my mother—is all in my head.
In the Outfitters, it’s quiet because the buses have already departed for the day. There’s a rather large older man there in red flannel and an L.L.Bean cap, reading a hunting magazine. I clear my throat. He looks up, startled. “Hi!” I say brightly. “I, um, saw an interesting graveyard on the other bank and I was wondering if there was a way I could get across to see it?”
He says yes with the first Down East Maine accent I’ve heard in a long time: “Ayuh.” Most people in southern Maine now are from away and don’t talk like that, which is a shame because I kind of like it. “You looking to rent a kayak?”
I bite my lip. “Well … if there’s any way to stay out of the water, I’d prefer that.”
All the while, his eyes are narrowed to tiny creases. Then he says, “Yeh the Ice Guhl!”
“Um, well …”
“Imagine that, the Ice Guhl wants to stay out of the riveh. What, the riveh got yeh good?” He’s all animated, suddenly. “Well, theh a footbridge ’bout sixteen miles upstream. At put-in. Yeh have to get down the logging roads. Gets hahd cause theh not mocked.”
I think for a second before I realize he’s saying “marked.” The roads are not marked. Great.
“Oh,” I sigh. Justin and Angela have taken Monster to get to the trailhead. Not that I would have taken it without asking him. He wouldn’t have minded, but with my luck, since it’s mud season, I probably would end up stuck on a remote logging road, never to be found again.
“That kayak soundin’ betta and betta each minute, eh?” he asks. “I’d take yeh, but I’m right out straight heh.”
I don’t know what that means, but it sounds painful.
“Yeh can still rent on a thuty,” he says.
I just stare. He writes something on a piece of paper and pushes it over the counter to me. It says $30.
“Cash only,” he says. “Dough know howah wahk those credit cah thingies.”
“Is it rough? Is it hard to get across from here?” I ask, my voice rising an octave.
“Nah. Buh yeh gah to make shaw yeh get theh befuh yeh reach the Kennebec. Gets a little hahd thah.”
I dig into my pockets for the money but stop. The feeling of dread—being on the water—washes over me. I can’t do it. As much as I want to see what’s over there, I can’t. “Isn’t there anyone else who could take me?” I ask.
He shakes his head, just as a voice calls out behind me, “I can.” I whirl around and Hugo is standing there, already holding a kayak paddle and grinning. He looks at the old man behind the counter and, in this most atrocious combination of Down East Maine and British Cockney, says, “It’s wicked calm, taint that right, govnah?”
I don’t care if he’s going to help me. I still have to smack him.
Chapter Fifteen
Hugo suddenly transforms into Mr. Athletic as he takes the kayak and fastens on his life vest.
“Do you really know how to kayak?” I ask, skeptical, as I pull a vest over my jacket and fasten the strap of the helmet under my chin.
He snorts. “Well, let’s just say I have more experience than you.”
I glare at him.
“I’ve been kayaking since I was nine,” he mutters. “Get in the boat. And don’t do anything stupid like falling out, okay? Keep your arms and legs inside the kayak at all times. And enjoy your ride.” The last part sounds like he’s a flight attendant.
I get in. The kayak is even mushier and more unbalanced than the raft. A few prickles at the back of my neck seem to be telling me to turn around, go to the cabin, and watch What Not to Wear. But it’s nothing too alarming. I can do this. I need to do this.
“What, exactly, about old cemeteries sounds good to you?” he asks as he sits in front of me.
“I don’t know. I like the history, I guess,” I say, which is the truth. When I was in third grade, we went on a class trip to Boston and I spent most of that time walking around the Granary Burying Ground. Most of the class went to the harbor, but my father asked the teacher to make an exception for me, because I was “
afraid of the water.” And back then, I was, because my father had told me so many horror stories about it—that drownings happened all the time, that there were creatures with tentacles that could pull you under, et cetera. So I spent three hours hanging out with Sam Adams and John Hancock and a bunch of other dead people. It was interesting, but I was disappointed when the rest of my class showed up and not one of them had been maimed by an octopus.
Hugo nods and pats his camera bag. “I do, too. Wanted to go across. Thought I could take some pictures. Guess that means we have something in common, huh?”
I snort. The horror.
We push off and immediately follow the flow, but then Hugo begins to paddle. He does a good job of keeping up with the current at first, and even I’m impressed. I never figured that the spindle-limbed guy would have much athletic ability. Soon we’re halfway across, in the middle of the river. Hugo groans. His rhythmic motion falters a little, and he loses his grip and slows for a second. We begin to slide downstream.
“Keep going,” I call to him. “We don’t want to—”
He picks it up again. He mutters something like “I am” and some random curse word, which I’m sure is meant for me. I deserve it; I’m not helping at all, just calling out commands like a total backseat driver. I try to bite my tongue and let him do it, but then he stops again and we’re slipping farther downstream.
I can’t help it. I say, “Watch it, we’re—”
“I know!” he erupts. “Shut it, Miss Life-is-but-a-dream-and-death-is-the-awakening.”
I straighten. So, while looking for the Absolut, he found my book of private ramblings. What else did he find? “You went through my things? You disgusting creep!” I grab my paddle and nudge it into his spine.
“Ow, you bitch!” he snarls, and it must have been such a surprise because his own paddle slips from his grasp. He leans over and collects it before it can float away with the river. Though I have a great weapon, I guess this isn’t the time to use it on him for being such a complete and utter scumbag. Because now the current is pushing us back toward the east bank. I tighten my grip on the paddle, but when I look up, I hear something, partially drowned out by the helmet over my ears and the rushing water.
Whispering.
Oh no.
I look around. There is nothing on the west bank. I turn, scanning the dark water, and finally focus on the east bank. Trey is there. He is cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling something, but the whispers have grown to a deafening buzz.
By now we’ve slipped so far down the river that I can no longer see the Outfitters or the cemetery. I fumble to get my paddle into position, but my hands are wet with perspiration and it falls out of my grip, splashing into the water. “Crap!” I yell. A lost paddle is twenty bucks. I reach down to get it and wrap my hand around the cold metal pole. But when I try to pull it back up, it pulls me. And then I can feel it moving.
It’s not the paddle after all. It’s a hand.
And all at once I know what Trey is shouting. He’s shouting that I’m a complete idiot for not listening. He’s shouting that I should have left when I had the chance.
The hand wraps around my wrist, tightening. Hugo has his back to me now, and he’s fighting to keep the kayak upright, but it’s tilting toward the water. The pressure is too much. I know I’m going, because before the hand yanks me over, the water is once again whispering its welcome. And I know that what happened before wasn’t a freak accident. Things like this don’t happen twice by mistake. Maybe I belong here, among the waves.
I’m not sure how much time passes. It feels like just a blink of an eye. One moment, I’m bracing for the shock of the cold water, and the next, I’m lying on the ground, coughing and sputtering river water all over myself. I sit up and immediately bonk my head into something hard. When I say “Ouch!” someone choruses with me.
“Damn, girl, is this the thanks I get for saving your butt twice?”
I open my eyes. Trey is there, rubbing his forehead. I try to apologize but end up coughing up some gritty black water into my hand. Gross. I wipe it on my life vest and look around. We’re back on the east bank, a little downstream from where I set off. I know this because I can see the dock and the green roof of the Outfitters in the distance. The kayak is nowhere in sight. I’ll probably have to pay for it and the paddles we lost. After all, it’s not Hugo’s fault.
I sit bolt upright. “Oh no. Hugo!”
“Relax, kid. I took care of him. He’s back at the cabin, sleeping. He probably won’t remember much of this when he wakes up.”
“How can you … I don’t understand.…”
“Yeah, you don’t. That much is clear. So now’s my time to do some explaining, I guess.” His tone is angry. He wrings out the lower hem of his old shirt, which is open to the waist, revealing his tan chest. He catches me looking and I blush.
He turns away and starts pacing the shoreline. There are thousands of jagged little rocks and pieces of debris on the edge of the river, but they don’t seem to bother his bare feet. Well, of course not; he’s not real. “I thought I told you to get. What the hell did you do that again for?”
“I want to see my mother.”
Surprise dawns on his face. I expect him to tell me that I’m crazy, that she’s dead and gone and that’s the end of it. Instead, he narrows his eyes. “You can’t see your momma. It’s impossible.”
“But she’s there? She’s across the river?”
He looks away, then nods reluctantly.
“So what Jack said was true,” I whisper.
“No. Look.” He comes up really close to me and grabs my wrist. “What that piece of slime says to you is always wrong. Don’t you ever listen to nothing he’s got to say. Got it?”
I don’t like the way he’s pulling on my wrist, almost hard enough to dislocate it. He looks down at it and remorse dawns on his face as he slowly releases it, then rubs the red welt his fingers have left.
“I’m sorry, kid.”
His fingers are rough and misshapen. There are sore-looking red circles there, popped blisters, and scabs all over his palms. I pull my hand away from him. “Are you a ghost, too?”
“I’m a guide,” he says.
“A guide for what?”
“I took your momma across. You were a kid then, so you don’t remember.”
“Of course I remember. You don’t think I remember my own mom dying?”
“Sorry, kid. Anyway, that was my job, taking her across. And it’s my job to take you across, too. When you’re ready. And you ain’t ready.”
I stare at him hard. “You … you …” And suddenly I remember it all. My little fishing spot on the river. I went out there every day during the summers. My mom bought me that expensive new pole for my seventh birthday, and she would pack lemonade for me in a blue cooler and tell me to bring home a shark. And then one day that boy showed up, that funny-talking kid. He said he was waiting on a girl. My mother died three weeks later, and I never went back to that fishing spot again. “That—that was you?”
“You remember me?”
“I remember you catching all the fish in the river and letting them go. I was so angry.” And then a realization hits me. “You … guided my mother? To where?”
“Across the river. To the place of the dead.” He thunks on his temple as if to say Where’s my head? “She—you—you are both river guardians. Royalty among the river dwellers. You probably didn’t know that. She didn’t know much about it, either, when I guided her.”
“Wh-what?” I can’t say anything more.
“The water is no place for final resting. It’s always moving, too volatile. People who meet their deaths on or near the river need someone to guide them somewhere quiet, safe. Across the river. That’s where you and your mother come in.”
“And you? You are a guardian, too?”
He shakes his head. “My only job is to fetch the guardians and do what I can to protect them. I don’t have your power. You have g
reat magical powers, Kiandra.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Like what?”
He chuckles. “Kiandra, you have no idea what you can do.”
I just sit there, numb. The idea is crazy. It’s crazy enough to be seeing these ghosts, but that my mother and I could have powers, could be tied to the water in that way? Nuts. “I think you have the wrong person. I do not have powers. I can’t even put on a wet suit. And I nearly drowned in the river. Twice,” I say, but all the while I’m thinking about my visions. About how my mother always loved the water so much, and how her skin was always clammy and smelled damp. How when she finally disappeared into the river forever, despite the horror of that event, a small part of me said, Well, of course she did.
He comes in close and sits on the bank next to me. He smells like pine needles and something spicy-sweet. “Do you need me to prove it to you?”
I nod. “That would be nice, since it’s kind of impossible to believe.”
“You didn’t have to rent a kayak to go across the river, kid,” he says.
“What? Are you saying I can part the waters? Or walk on water?” I joke.
He smiles. “Which would you prefer?”
My jaw drops. “I was only kidding.”
But his face never changes. I get the suspicion that he’s serious. “But you don’t want to go over there,” he says. “If you’re over there, you ain’t alive. And I’m trying to keep you alive. So don’t try to go over there again, okay?”
“If I have such control over water, then why did you have to save me from drowning twice?”
“Because you don’t know how to use your abilities, kid. Until you do, you can’t protect yourself from nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “You are Mistress of the Waters. That’s no small thing.”
“Mistress of the Waters?” I say the words, tasting them.
“Yeah.” Then he mutters, “Pretty much the sorriest Mistress of the Waters I’ve ever come across.”