Our Last Echoes

by Kate Alice Marshall

  The fear didn’t know logic, so I gritted my teeth. My “moods,” as my last foster mother had called them, were uncontrollable. Some were backlash, but other times they came out of nowhere. Whatever this was, though, it didn’t feel like that—didn’t feel like the panic was slamming into me out of nowhere. I didn’t know why I was afraid, but the fear was all mine.

  Dr. Hardcastle’s hand remained extended. One second, two, and I forced myself to come unstuck, to reach out, because if I didn’t move, he would know something was wrong.

  But then Dr. Kapoor was striding across the beach, Lily in tow, and Dr. Hardcastle half turned, his hand dropping. I curled my fingers under, ignoring the voice in my head telling me to run. Liam gave me an odd look, but I didn’t meet his eyes.

  “What are you doing, Will?” Dr. Kapoor demanded.

  “The same thing you are?” he said, with a chuckle that suggested he knew exactly what she was asking.

  “I told Lily to deliver Ms. Ryder back to Mrs. Popova’s until we can arrange a ride to the mainland,” Dr. Kapoor snapped. “Lily says that you stopped her.” Lily looked like she’d rather be a mile out in the open ocean without a boat than here. Abby showed no such distress.

  Hardcastle ducked his head with a performative wince. “I know I shouldn’t have overruled you like that, but what’s she going to do all day? Make doilies with Mrs. Popova? If she’s with us, at least we can keep an eye on her. Maybe she can even help count some of your hatchlings.”

  “I’ll be quiet as a mouse. I won’t get in your way at all,” Abby said.

  “She’s not LARC staff,” Dr. Kapoor said.

  “Neither is Liam,” Hardcastle pointed out.

  Dr. Kapoor’s jaw tensed, but she turned to Abby. “Do exactly as you’re told, and no straying off on your own,” she said.

  Abby threw her a salute. “Aye-aye.”

  “Let’s get moving. We’ve lost too much time with this weather,” Dr. Kapoor said, as if the clouds and rain had been arranged to personally inconvenience her. The LARC researchers climbed into the skiff with practiced ease, and Abby followed nimbly.

  Liam and I stepped out onto the slick, water-swollen boards of the dock. Liam got in first and offered me his hand. With a glance at the slippery dock, I accepted the help.

  The boat rocked as I stepped in, pitching me toward him. He caught me by the arm. “Careful, there. That was very nearly the start of a romantic comedy,” he said.

  “If it was really a romantic comedy, I would have knocked us both into the water,” I pointed out.

  “And with that, my hopes are cruelly dashed,” he replied.

  I stared at him, and suddenly realized there might be a reason besides concern that I kept catching him looking at me. Could he actually be flirting with me? Boys didn’t flirt with me.

  Of course, all the boys I knew had figured out I was a freak a long time ago, and I’d done little to alter that opinion. Liam might be interested, but it was only because he didn’t know me. Still. It wasn’t the worst thing to happen since I came to Bitter Rock. I smiled at him. I was surprised at how easy it was.

  “It’s a full house, so get friendly,” Hardcastle said amiably.

  The engine started up, and my smile dropped away. We were going to Belaya Skala.

  And somehow I knew, deep in my bones, that whatever had happened, whatever I was trying to discover—it had happened over there.

  I watched William Hardcastle, sitting at the prow of the boat and chatting with Lily. I knew something else: William Hardcastle had been involved. That fear started up again, a bitterness at the back of my throat and the sound of my pulse in my ears.

  “Sophia?” Liam said uncertainly. It was the second time he’d said my name.

  I gave him a wide smile. I couldn’t be calm, but maybe I could fake it. “Sorry. I’m still jet-lagged, I guess.”

  He was looking at me strangely, and I found myself frantically cataloging every aspect of my demeanor, my appearance. What would give me away? What was the detail that would make him start to turn, to dislike me, the way everyone did in time?

  “Yeah. The sunlight messes with your circadian rhythms,” he said at last.

  We rode the rest of the way in silence.

  PART TWO

  SOMETHING RICH AND STRANGE

  EXHIBIT E

  Excerpt from the article “Lesser-Known Mass Disappearances”

  6. THE VANISHING SHIP: ALASKA

  In the fall of 1884, the residents of an island off the coast of Alaska were awakened by shouting. A Russian fishing vessel, the Krachka, had run aground on the rocks off the northern point of the island, an area inaccessible except by boat. One injured fisherman was brought by rowboat to the larger town on the southern end of the island. The rest, it was decided, would shelter with the residents of the northern side until the weather calmed.

  The island’s doctor, along with several others, made their way to the northern end of the island in the morning. But there was no one there.

  The ship was mired on the rocks offshore. The two lifeboats had been deployed. One was found on the beach. The other was never located. Several pairs of boots, along with sodden clothing, were discovered drying next to the fireplaces in empty homes. Supper still lay, uneaten, on the table; cold cups of tea sat on mantels and countertops. A broken lantern was discovered halfway up a hill. In the schoolhouse, a phrase from a Bible verse was written on the chalkboard: И КАЖДОЕ ИЗ ЧЕТЫРЕХ ЖИВОТНЫХ ИМЕЛО ПО ШЕСТИ КРЫЛ ВОКРУГ, А ВНУТРИ ОНИ ИСПОЛНЕНЫ ОЧЕЙ; И НИ ДНЕМ, НИ НОЧЬЮ НЕ ИМЕЮТ ПОКОЯ, ВЗЫВАЯ.*

  The clearest hint of what had happened was found in the captain’s log on the fishing vessel. The second-to-last entry, dated two days before the wreck, read: We cannot seem to escape the fog. Alexei says he hears music in it, and he stands by the rail to listen and will not sleep. The [damaged, unreadable] throw it overboard, but [further damage] too late.

  The final entry reads only: I see him now.

  No trace of the townspeople or the ship’s crew was ever found.

  VIDEO EVIDENCE

  Recorded by Joy Novak

  AUGUST 14, 2003, 12:14 AM

  NOVAK: There we go!

  The camera focuses on Joy Novak, who holds it at arm’s length. She sits packed into a skiff with several others, who sit behind her: Dr. Vanya Kapoor, Dr. William Hardcastle, Carolyn Baker, and Martin Carreau. The passengers range in age, with Baker, at twenty-one, the youngest, and Hardcastle, thirty-eight, the eldest. It is night, but in summer that means only a slight dimming that barely qualifies as twilight.

  NOVAK: This is the entirely illicit voyage of the . . . Does this boat have a name?

  CARREAU: The Oyster.

  NOVAK: The voyage of the Shadow Oyster.

  CARREAU: The Shadow Oyster? Really, Joy?

  Carreau’s accent is French. He keeps long, dark hair, courtesy of a Moroccan mother, tied back.

  NOVAK: We have to add something to make it more badass. We’re breaking the law, after all.

  KAPOOR: It isn’t actually illegal, just against the rules.

  She sits stiffly on the rearmost seat, looking as if she is not here entirely by choice.

  BAKER: Roughly the same thing where Vanya is concerned.

  She giggles, pushing her glasses up. She holds a silver flask in the opposite hand. It’s difficult to gauge whether she is intoxicated or simply energized by the illicit nature of the outing.

  Novak shushes them.

  NOVAK: We, the employees of the Landon Avian Research Center, being of sound mind—mostly—have embarked upon a most scientific expedition of science-ness.

  She turns the camera to look out over the front of the boat, revealing Belaya Skala.

  NOVAK: As you can see, we have arrived
at Belaya Skala. At night—if you can call this night. Technically it’s . . .

  She glances back at Carreau.

  CARREAU: Nautical twilight.

  NOVAK: It is expressly forbidden for any man or beast to linger on Belaya Skala at night or in the mist. But thanks to yesterday’s storm, all our flights out were canceled, so we’re all stuck on the island with nowhere to go. The forecast is clear, we’re leaving in the morning, the Perseids are peaking, and tonight is the first time we’ll get true night all summer. Which means that it’s our best chance to see the meteor shower with the least amount of light pollution any of us is likely to experience in our lives.

  BAKER: And it’s my birthday.

  NOVAK: And it’s Carolyn’s birthday. So we’re going to get drunk, watch rocks fall from space, and get eaten by ghosts or aliens or whatever it is out here that everyone’s so afraid of.

  KAPOOR: I cannot believe I let you all talk me into this.

  There’s a rustle just off camera. Baker jumps with a squeak of surprise.

  NOVAK: What the—

  HARDCASTLE: Well, look at that. We’ve got a stowaway.

  The camera swings around to focus on the three-year-old girl uncurling from under a tarp at the far back of the boat: Sophia Novak.

  8

  LIAM WATCHED ME with a concerned expression as we made the crossing. That, I reminded myself, was a complication I didn’t need. Relationships required vulnerability and honesty. And I couldn’t offer either.

  Our path brought us parallel to the jagged garland of rocks that connected the headland to the main island. Approaching from this angle, Belaya Skala was all tumbled grays and blacks, not the white that had given it its name. I knew from studying maps that the headland was roughly triangular, the tip of the broken crescent that was Bitter Rock. The leeward side—the side sheltered from the wind—was where the terns roosted on white rocks. Like Bitter Rock, there were no trees, and the biggest plants were low-lying bushes.

  “Does anyone live here?” I asked as the engine cut and we puttered toward a sliver of shore. I knew the answer, but I was fishing for extra information.

  “Not anymore,” Kenny replied. “There was the Landontown Fellowship, a sort of commune I guess you could say? But that, uh, didn’t last. It’s actually better land for building—lots more flat space—but for whatever reason nobody’s ever managed to stay there for long.”

  “Not enough land to keep livestock, and hardly anything grows,” Dr. Kapoor added. It was true—but I wondered if that was deliberate, the way she implied that was why Landontown had faded. “Belaya Skala is only suitable for birds, looking at birds, and getting away from people.”

  “Which is why we love it,” Kenny added, and Dr. Kapoor actually chuckled.

  We all loaded up with bags and equipment, then hiked toward the eastern side of the headland. We heard the birds long before we saw them. They’d been a constant background chatter since we launched, but the sound became oppressive the closer we got. A thousand conversations in a dialect we didn’t understand. Though maybe Hardcastle and Kapoor did, after fifteen years.

  The slight curve of the island cupped the remnants of the morning’s fog and kept the rocky hillside obscured as Kenny and Dr. Kapoor set up a pair of huge binoculars on a tripod. Hardcastle and Lily busied themselves with some kind of audio equipment—a parabolic microphone, bulky headphones, and a laptop in a waterproof case.

  “Ms. Hayes,” Dr. Kapoor said, and I snapped to attention. “You’ll be assisting with a count today. If you get bored, I don’t care. If you have to pee, I don’t care. You stand and you watch until I release you. Got it?”

  Liam swung a grin toward me, as if he was waiting to see my reaction. I just nodded. Do the job well. Don’t give her reason to question why she’s letting you stay.

  “What should I do?” Abby asked.

  Dr. Kapoor lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t wander off,” she said simply.

  We’d come around to the southeastern tip of the headland. The shore stretching north and west was concave, creating a sheltered inlet of rocky cliffs, a steep snarl of rocks that were, as the explorer in Dr. Kapoor’s story discovered, white with bird guano. The angle of the shore and the hill we stood on gave us a clear view of the whole colony.

  “Take a look,” Dr. Kapoor invited. Or rather, instructed. I stepped up to the binoculars. I could make out the nests tucked among the rocks. They were shallow bowls of twigs and grass. In pairs or singly, adult birds fussed and bobbled around chicks that ranged from grumpy-looking but cute balls of down to scraggly, skin-and-peach-fuzz creatures that looked like aliens.

  “And we’re just counting the chicks?” I asked.

  “No, I am counting the chicks,” Dr. Kapoor said. “You are standing right there and not interrupting.” She pointed toward an empty patch of grass near Abby. I shuffled over obediently.

  Kenny pulled a binder and a laminated map of the nest sites, each numbered, out of his bag and sat cross-legged on the ground. He flipped the binder to a printed chart with empty cells and waited expectantly as Dr. Kapoor scanned the landscape before settling on a target.

  “Nest nineteen,” she said. “One live chick. One egg, unhatched. Nest twenty . . . the second chick didn’t make it through the night; it’s not moving. One chick still living. Nest twenty-one . . .”

  It went on like that for a while, with long pauses as Dr. Kapoor adjusted the binoculars and checked with Kenny that he was caught up. I shifted from foot to foot to keep my circulation going. Liam had put in earbuds and found a rock to sit on. Abby paced a short distance away, her camera out and clicking away as she took landscape shots.

  Hardcastle had the headphones on, pointing at something on the laptop screen and talking to Lily. I tried not to watch him too carefully, too obviously, but I couldn’t help it—looking at him made my skin crawl, but looking away made me feel like I was turning my back on something dangerous. When he took off the headphones and looked up at me, I jerked, certain that my suspicion was written on my face.

  “Why don’t you three go explore the rest of the island?” Hardcastle asked.

  Dr. Kapoor’s head whipped up. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said.

  “Why not?” he asked. “Sophia should know the lay of the land, at least, and Liam’s gotten the tour already, so he can show the ladies around.”

  Liam popped out one earbud, looking hopeful. Abby kept her back to the adults, studiously examining her camera, but she looked as hungry as I felt to see this place.

  Dr. Kapoor considered. Then she relented. “Keep your radio on you,” she told Liam.

  “Got it.” Liam straightened up, stretching. The movement emphasized his long frame. My own build could generously be described as skeletal, but the rain shell I’d donned over my usual uniform of a T-shirt and jeans made me look shapeless.

  We left the others and tracked over the back side of a hill. It was good to move after standing still for so long, and it must have shown.

  “I thought she’d leave you stood there all day,” Liam said. “You know, if you’re lucky, maybe she’ll let you look at a bird for more than two seconds by the end of the summer. But you have to establish that trust first. Prove yourself.”

  I snorted. “I guess I was expecting things to be a bit more hands-on.”

  “In a week or two they’ll do the banding on the chicks. That’s a lot more interesting, Kenny says. But most of the action happens back at the LARC itself. Kenny’s doing something with DNA, and Lily and Hardcastle are doing this whole study on the bird calls—apparently they’re unusually varied, or something? I was sort of tuning her and Kenny out at that point, I’ll be honest. They get a bit overexcited. Tend to ramble. Then again, I seem to be rambling, myself. So stones, glass houses, et cetera.” He slanted his smile at me.

  “So can you show us around town?
” Abby asked. She’d stopped to take a picture of Bitter Rock, beyond the channel of gray water and the black fangs of the isthmus, and she hustled to catch up.

  “You mean Landontown?” Liam said with a frown. “There’s not much there.”

  “But it is why I came,” she reminded him.

  “I suppose it’s either that or an exciting tour of the island’s best rocks,” Liam said with a shrug. “This way, then. So you know about the Cole Landon debacle?” He was asking me.

  I feigned ignorance, shaking my head. “Isn’t that the guy who founded the LARC?”

  “His widow founded the LARC, actually. He was an eccentric millionaire. He had this group of what you might call followers. They were all into this idea of getting back to the land and living communally. He bought Bitter Rock and brought all his people here. They built the Landontown Fellowship.” He pointed down the hill. It dropped away for a bit, then leveled out into a plateau before the hill fell away again to the sea and a barren beach. There were only a dozen structures standing; a few more that had collapsed or burned down.

  “And they all vanished,” Abby said. Her camera clicked.

  “Right,” Liam said. “There are lots of theories. Mass suicide—they were kind of a cult. Storm. Murder. Cole Landon’s widow was the only survivor. She was visiting relatives at the time. She established the LARC and never set foot here again.”

  Above the town to the north was a short, curved concrete wall with a gap running along the center. Something metal stuck out from the gap. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Artillery,” Liam said. “Don’t worry, it’s just decorative at this point. There’s a bunker, too, right over there.” He pointed out along the hillside. A metal door was set into the hillside, surrounded by more concrete and rubble that indicated there must have once been a wall a few feet in front of the door. “There was an airstrip here during the second world war. The bunker’s flooded or something, though—can’t get in.”