Tesseracts Seventeen

by Colleen Anderson

  In February of 1908, rising in the morning became a good deal more difficult for Meirong. She was weak, but hopeful.

  “Maybe a baby,” she told William when he voiced concern.

  “Really?” he said with an enormous grin. “When will we know?”

  “My blood is due next week. We will know if it does not come.”

  Next week arrived and so did Meirong’s blood. She grew steadily weaker, developing a cough that left her aching. On the first of March, William hitched the horse to the sledge and bundled Meirong in every blanket they owned. The nearest doctor was near Meldrum Bay, almost three hours away.

  The doctor looked Meirong over with increasing concern. After listening to her lungs, he bowed his head.

  “It’s consumption, son,” he said. “How much English does she speak?”

  “I speak plenty,” Meirong answered. “What is consumption?”

  “It’s a disease, missus,” he said, then turned to William. “It’s in her lungs, son. It’s bad.”

  “There’s got to be some medicine.” William said. “We don’t have much but we’ll pay whatever it takes.”

  “There’s no medicine. Rest and isolation is what’s needed. Perhaps a sanatorium?”

  “I’m not sending her away. What can I do?”

  The doctor pulled William closer so that he could whisper without Meirong hearing. “Listen, son. She’s had this for some time. It hasn’t shown itself ’til now but it’s bad. When it’s this bad, folks generally don’t get better. You hear what I’m saying?”

  William held back the tears — barely — and nodded.

  “Good. Take her home. Keep her comfortable. That’s the best you can do.”

  The doctor waved away William’s attempt to press some coins into his hand.

  “I pay my debts,” William said, stacking the coins on the doctor’s table as he bundled up Meirong and headed out the door.

  They were back at Misery Bay before nightfall. Never had William felt the name more fitting.

  Over the following weeks Meirong had some good days but there was never any doubt in which direction she was heading. Eventually the coughing, night chills and cold sweats were compounded by pneumonia. Just after dawn on a mild April 14th, Meirong drew, with heartbreaking difficulty, her last breath while William held her hand.

  Wrapped in a triple thick shroud of canvas sailcloth, William buried Meirong deep. He hauled a small boulder from the lake’s edge and, finding a rusted, wood-handled chisel in the toolbox under the stairs of the lighthouse, etched her name and the date of her death on the flattest face the stone presented.

  The routine of lighthouse maintenance was all that pulled him out of bed each morning. Soon it wasn’t enough. He began to sleep in, rushing through his duties in order to get the lamp lit and the gears turning before nightfall. William knew that countless mariners depended on the beacon of his lighthouse to guarantee their safety. That’s why, when he started to drink, he never brought alcohol home with him.

  On a trip to Providence Bay, William slowed his pace in front of The Bluff’s Tavern.

  “If you’re looking for a drink,” the owner said, “I’m not allowed to serve until eleven.”

  “I’m the lighthouse keeper out in Misery Bay. I’d like to discuss a proposition with you…”

  The owner was moved by William’s tale. After a discussion with the local constable, he made a special arrangement to serve the young man all the alcohol he wanted until 1:00 pm, then feed him a meal and send him back home well before nightfall.

  Some weeks William came to the tavern every day. Some weeks not at all. The spikes and troughs of William’s misery didn’t follow a schedule.

  One morning, an oiler from a steamship unloading in Providence Bay stepped into The Bluffs.

  “You’re too early,” said the owner. “No one drinks until eleven.”

  The oiler pointed to William, leaning over a dram of rye whiskey.

  “What about him? He has a drink in his hand.”

  “He’s a special case. Mind your own business. No booze ’til eleven.”

  “I’ve never met a special case before,” the oiler said to William. “What makes you so special?”

  The oiler smelled of stale sweat and grease. His trousers and shirt were filthy with weeks’ worth of spilled oil. A tattoo peeking from beneath one rolled-up shirt cuff caught William’s attention. “Show me that.”

  He gestured at the tattoo with his glass, sloshing rye onto the table.

  “You’re wasting good whiskey,” the oiler said, dragging back a chair. “May I?”

  William nodded and tapped the cuff of the oiler’s shirt. “Show me that.”

  “My tattoo?” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing lines of blue-black ink. “It’s just something I got when I was in—”

  “China,” William said, grabbing the man’s wrist and turning his arm to reveal the character in its entirety.

  “I was on a merchant ship a couple of years ago, travelling the Orient. Nippon. Singapore. Bangkok— that’s a place lives up to its name. I got this in Shanghai. It means—”

  “Water…” William said. “Water. I know. She taught me that one…” His head lowered to the tabletop.

  The oiler looked over at the owner and raised his hands in a shrug. “She?”

  “His wife,” the owner said, placing a cup of coffee next to the oiler’s arm and filling William’s glass with rye. “Coffee for you until eleven. His wife passed away this spring. She was from China.”

  “That’s why he drinks? Why does he get his booze early?”

  “He’s a lighthouse keeper. We let him get his drinking in early and make sure he’s on his way home by two. His light always gets lit and everyone — especially sailors like you — is happy.” He ruffled William’s hair like a kindly uncle. “Or at least as happy as they’re able to be.”

  William’s vision cleared by degrees.

  “Who’re you? Oh yeah… you’re that man with the tattoo. What time is it?”

  The oiler raised a glass of whiskey.

  “Late enough that your pal over there is now serving me and, I think, about to cut you off. Listen, I think there’s something I can do for you.”

  “Something you can do for me? You don’t even know me.”

  The oiler pulled a canvas duffle bag from under the table. “While you were napping I ran back to the ship to grab my bag.” He removed a cloudy glass jar and placed it upon the table. It was stoppered with cork and sealed with wax. A paper label bore a few dozen tiny Chinese characters written in faded ink. “I want you to have this.”

  “I… I don’t know what that says. She … Meirong … that was my wife’s name … she was starting to teach me … but we never got much past stuff like earth and air—” He gestured toward the oiler’s tattoo. “—and water, of course.” He picked up the small jar and held it to the light, regarding the contents with squinting eyes. “Why do you want to give me a jar full of… full of paste?”

  “A Chinese man who sailed with me in the Orient gave me this. He’d been all over the Pacific, you know, trying to put away money so he could marry this girl he had waiting for him back home. Anyway, his father was some kind of druggist — apothecary I think they call them over there — and he’d given him this jar to bargain with if he ever fell upon hard times. You know, to sell if he ever needed a pile of money all at once.”

  “Wait… wait a minute.” William gave his head a shake. “How can anything in a little jar like this be worth a whole lot of money?”

  “Listen,” the oiler whispered. “This little jar is worth so much because it can bring a loved one back from the dead.”

  “Bullshit!” William staggered to his feet. “Leave me alone. This isn’t funny.”

  The
oiler grabbed William’s arm. “It’s not meant to be funny. The barkeep told me about your loss. I’ve carried this thing from one end of the world to the other and I haven’t found anyone who’d have a use for it ’til I got here. Take it. You don’t have to use it— just take it. If you choose to use it, you’re supposed to put it on her eyelids, then place her in the earth. That’s all I know.”

  The tavern owner approached the table.

  “Is there a problem here?” he said, turning to the oiler. “Didn’t I warn you about bothering him?”

  William waved his hand dismissively.

  “It’s fine,” he said, pulling some coins from his pocket. “I think that’s enough to pay for what I drank today. I need to get to work.”

  Halfway to the livery William uncurled the fingers of his right hand. Somehow he’d managed to grab the jar as he headed out the door.

  He should have tossed it away.

  The next morning he felt a lump in his coat pocket. William pulled the jar out and placed it on the kitchen table. Looking out the window, his gaze crept to Meirong’s grave. The flowers he’d planted at the foot of the headstone hadn’t taken. They stood, brittle, withered and dead. William glanced at the jar, shaking his head. He walked out the door, heading to the lighthouse to start his workday.

  Over the next week, the routine remained the same. At breakfast, William moved food around his plate, picking up the jar several times during each meal. Meirong could have read the characters on that faded label and told him exactly how to use the greasy ointment. The oiler had said to smear the paste on Meirong’s eyelids, then place her in the earth. There seemed an awful lot of symbols on the label for instructions so simple. William knew the character for “earth” and couldn’t find it anywhere on the label. He wished Meirong could help him decide what to do.

  Nine days after his last visit to the tavern, William stepped out of the cottage. Instead of going to the lighthouse, he strode to the stable. Walking past the square-ended shovel used for mucking out the stall, he continued to the back. His gaze settled on the spade leaning against the whitewashed wall. The last time he’d held that smooth handle was to bury the most precious thing in his world.

  He took it in hand now to dig her back up.

  Just before noon William hit sailcloth. As gently as he could, he hauled Meirong out of her grave. He thought about unravelling the three full wraps of canvas that encased her but a cursory look at the brownish-yellow stains that saturated the underside of the shroud put that plan to rest.

  William didn’t want to think too hard about those stains.

  He returned to the house and made himself a lunch of bread and cheese. It reminded him of the day they met when they shared their first meal together. The memory encouraged a smile— his first since Meirong died.

  William prepared for the afternoon’s work. He had a lot to get accomplished before dusk. The first thing he needed was a good strong knife to liberate Meirong from her canvas shroud. Using his whetstone, he honed his knife to a razor’s edge. He pocketed the stone. Three layers of sailcloth would dull any blade in a hurry. He wrapped the jar in a handkerchief and slid it into the opposite pocket. With a nod, William walked out of the cottage into the noonday sun.

  William had feared that Meirong would smell … ripe, but her scent was that of wet earth, almost pleasant … at least until he cut through the last layer of canvas. As he split the innermost layer of sailcloth by her feet, there was a kind of sucking sound. A new odor escaped. It wasn’t earthy. William turned his head, fighting the urge to retch.

  Rotting leaves, William decided, though the stench spilling from the opened shroud was nothing like rotting leaves. That’s exactly what this smells like… Rotting leaves.

  Meirong was in very bad shape.

  William knelt on the shroud, now opened around her like an unfurled chrysalis. The floral print dress he’d buried her in was melded to what was left of her flesh. When he pulled back the inner layer of canvas, a good deal of Meirong clung to the sailcloth and peeled away. William remained optimistic— most of her was intact.

  He unwrapped the handkerchief from the jar. The glass felt warm in his hands. The sunlight played upon the yellowish paste. Something in there glittered. He felt a thrum — almost like a pulse — as if whatever was in the jar was itself alive.

  Makes sense, he thought. If it could restore Meirong to life it was only reasonable to believe that the paste held within it the spark of life. It was warm … it pulsed … it sparkled. It must be alive.

  Using the knife, now hopelessly dull, William cut the wax surrounding the stopper and levered it from the jar’s lip. The paste smelled like muscle liniment and cloves. The fumes made William’s eyes water.

  The oiler’s words echoed in William’s mind.

  …put it on her eyelids…

  Well, there was a problem. William looked at the blackened, decayed ruin of Meirong’s face and swallowed. There weren’t really any eyelids in evidence. He assumed that whatever was left of Meirong’s eyes dwelt in the shallow pools of decay at the bottom of each sunken socket. He scooped out a liberal portion of the paste and filled each dark hollow.

  His fingertips tingled, sending a burning sensation into William’s hand. He tried wiping his fingers on his trousers, but the paste stuck to his skin. He ran to the lake’s edge, plunged his hand in and scrubbed it clean. The burning subsided.

  When William returned to Meirong’s side, the sparkle in the paste had turned into a pale blue glow. As both sockets pulsed with light, it seemed to William the rhythm kept time with the beating of his own heart. He took this as a good sign.

  …then place her in the earth…

  Puzzling through the oiler’s instructions, William regarded the depth of the grave. Meirong would need to free herself from the earth when she returned to life and he wanted to make that chore as easy as possible. He filled the old grave until it was two-thirds full. He curled the sailcloth under her like a blanket and nestled Meirong into the earth.

  William buried her from the feet up. Each spadeful of earth he tossed felt like it carried the weight of eternity. When it came time to cover Meirong’s glowing eyes, he faltered. Digging her up had been an almost impossible task. Tossing those last shovelfuls would cover the promise of that light…

  He dropped to his knees.

  “Oh, Meirong,” he said, palming tears from his eyes. “I wish there was some way to know that I’m doing the right thing. This sure doesn’t feel right, but … if there’s any chance at all … how can I not try? I just wish you’d give me a sign.”

  There was nothing, just that unearthly light.

  William took that as sign enough and finished filling the grave.

  He had no idea what to expect. During his daily routine, William’s gaze often drifted to the fresh mound of earth. He imagined he could see the rhythmic pulse of those eyes but that was impossible. Two feet of earth covered Meirong’s face.

  Just before nightfall, William trimmed the wick and filled the tank of a hurricane lamp with enough fuel to last through the night. After adjusting the wick to cast the most light without smoking up the glass, he placed it on the headstone. The light would keep away any scavengers and allow him to keep watch from the house. Most importantly, when Meirong came back, glowing eyes or not, William wanted her welcomed by brightness, not lonesome in darkness.

  That night he sat vigil at the kitchen table. William fell asleep waiting for the merest hint of movement, the tiniest tumble of soil.

  He awoke with a start.

  Dawn had broken. In a heartbeat he was on his feet and out the door. Halfway to the grave he came to a skittering halt. The grave was entirely undisturbed.

  “What did I do wrong?” William whispered as he knelt at the graveside.

  In anger, he thrust his hands into the loose earth.<
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  He gasped.

  The ground was warm… far warmer than the sunlight falling on it could account for.

  William resisted the urge to grab the spade and free Meirong from her grave.

  No, he thought. The heat must be from what’s going on down there, under the soil. If I disturb her now I could undo whatever’s been done so far.

  “I’m waiting for you, Meirong,” he said. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

  Throughout the day, William never ventured far from Meirong’s graveside. When he needed to be in the lighthouse, he darted in, attended to the chore, then hurried out. Every time he passed the grave, he placed a hand on the soil. Every time, the soil seemed warmer.

  As night fell, William readied the lantern with a full tank of fuel. He retreated to the kitchen for a time but as sleep came for him, he retired to the bedroom.

  A tapping at the window woke him.

  William sprang from the bed and rushed to the window. His heart sank when he saw the tree branch illuminated by the ghostly light of the moon. Returning to bed, he pulled his blanket tight.

  As he fell back to sleep the wind that moved the branch continued to tease him.

  Willllliam, it seemed to whisper as it swept past the house.

  Willlliam…

  From the kitchen window, the first thing William noticed was the missing lantern. As he sprinted out the front door, he never noticed the pair of dirty footprints on the step that his own boots obliterated in his hurry to get to Meirong’s grave. Rounding the corner of the house, William lost his footing on the dew-slicked grass and went down. He rose to one knee and saw the grave.

  The gentle mound of earth was gone. The soil that had covered Meirong was strewn about. A trail of dirt like a dotted line on a treasure map led first to the bedroom window, then to the front door and backtracked to the graveside. William regained his feet and approached the grave. He noticed another trail.