Ashes Read online

  There was no storm. The waves broke on the shore in their eternal, soft wash of sound. The wind was hardly strong enough to raise a kite. But something in her voice made my heart beat faster at the same time that my blood chilled. The moon was suddenly swallowed by the high clouds.

  "Follow me," she said, turning and heading between the gravestones into darkness.

  I stood where I was, then glanced back at the three-story house where I was staying. A dim light shone there, perhaps the candle I had used for reading. When I looked back, she was gone, and though I ran some distance through the sand, I couldn't find her.

  Just then the wind gained speed, the clouds divided, and the quarter-moon's glare bathed the beach. The bay was barren and calm. There was no sign of the lady in white, not even a footprint in the wet sand.

  Somewhat disconcerted, I finally made my way back to the house. I went upstairs to the room where I had spread my sleeping bag and laid out my books and laptop. The candle had burned down to half its length. I must have been out on the beach for hours. Numb, I crawled into the bag and sought refuge in sleep, images of her beautiful face dominating my restless thoughts.

  In the morning, I laughed at my strange dreams and laid out a few more of my supplies. I opened a tin of fish and ate an apple, then spent an hour at the keyboard, typing my impressions of yesterday's debarkment. Satisfied that I had given my editor a good start for her money, I changed into shorts and a light shirt and headed into the heart of the ghost town.

  As I walked past the vacant homes and blank windows, I felt as if eyes were upon me. I even shouted once, a great questioning "Hello," still not convinced that the island was completely uninhabited. Nothing answered me but a keening gull's cry.

  I found the ranger station, but it was securely locked, the doors and windows barred with steel. Next to it was a building that must have been a general store, for it had benches and a watering trough out front, and assorted rusty hooks and hangers covered its front wall. The interior was desolate, though. I walked past the long, collapsed counter to where the rear of the building opened onto a pier.

  I pushed the door aside from where it dangled on warped hinges, then went to the end of the pier. The Atlantic was laid out before me, bejeweled and glorious, a million diamonds on its surface. I looked out across the bay to the protective cup of dunes four hundred yards away. Then I recalled the previous night, and for the briefest of moments, I saw a clipper, its bulkheads shattered, the prow tilted toward the sun, the sails like tattered ghosts. I blinked and the illusion passed. I laughed to myself, though sweat pooled under my arms.

  The day grew rapidly warm, and since the tide was calm, I removed my shirt and shoes and jumped into the water. After a swim, I returned to my makeshift studio, regretting the lack of a shower. I ate a ready-made lunch, then gathered my camera to make the four-mile journey to the island's southern tip.

  As I walked that narrow barrier island, I discovered why all the settlement was on the upper end. The land was little more than a grim cluster of dunes, with swampy pockets of trapped water scattered here and there along the interior. They weren't the vibrant, teeming swamps such as those in Florida. These were bleak, lifeless pools where only mosquitoes seemed to thrive. The parasitic insects set upon me in clouds, and I spent more time beating them away than I did finding suitable photography subjects.

  I gave up barely halfway to my destination because the scenery was so hopelessly unvarying. I decided I'd capture some sunsets and sunrises instead, to focus more on the grandly archaic buildings and the Portsmouth beaches. I slogged back to the abandoned town, hoping to write a little more before dark. But I couldn't concentrate on my work. Instead, I stared out the window as the fingers of night reached across the town, thinking of my dream woman and comparing her beauty to that of all the other women I'd known.

  Restless, I walked the beach at gray dusk. I kept to the Atlantic side, along the bay. I was nearing the old store when she came from the darkness beneath the pier. She wore the same dress that had graced her gentle curves on the previous night. Her fine hair fluttered in the wind, and rarely had I seen such a fine creature. Her pallid skin was the only flaw, the only thing that separated her from perfection.

  Once again her dark eyes searched me, silently begging. "Can we go now?" she said. "They must surely be near drowning."

  I had decided that perhaps she had lived on the island for some time. And though I had convinced myself that the night before had been a dream, a part of me had been hoping it was real, that I might have a chance to gaze upon her lovely likeness again. And there she was before me. "Where are they?" I asked, nearly breathless.

  She raised her hand and pointed across the bay to where a streak of moonlight rippled across the water. "See them, oh, what a terrible storm."

  And for an instant, I saw, waves rearing fully fifteen feet high, the rain falling in solid silver sheets, the longboats tossed on the angry ocean like bits of cork in a storm grate. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  "Please hurry, sir," she said. "My poor Benjamin is out there."

  She brushed past me, grabbing my hand. She was solid, not a mere captivating vision. My senses swirled, sound, touch, and sight all confused. I was as enthralled by her beauty and nearness as I was mortified by the vision of the storm. I let her pull me along, her hurried entreaties competing with the roar of the vicious wind. In those moments when I could take my eyes from here, I glanced at the shoreline ahead of us.

  A boat lay beached on the sand, the tide frothing around the stern. The waves grew in force, slapping angrily and reaching farther and farther up the beach. The first drops of rain needled my skin, but the sky was nearly cloudless. I didn't question any of the impossible events. I thought of nothing but the delicate yet strong hand that gripped mine, and how I hoped it would never let go.

  We reached the boat, and she made to shove off. The rain's intensity had increased, and her wet dress clung closely to her corseted body, her hair draped in wild tangles about her shoulders and back. I must have watched transfixed for some moments, because she turned to me and shouted, "Come, help me. We've not much time."

  I ran to her side, bent my energies against the bow, and felt the boat slide into the water. A tremendous wave lapped up and pulled it free of the sand. She clambered over the side, motioning for me to follow. The storm raged about us, the wind now so strong that I could scarcely stand against it. In the darkness, I could no longer see the broken, tilted ship or the would-be rescuers.

  She reached her hand to me. "Come, I can't work the oars alone. Benjamin is out there."

  I lifted my hand to take hers, then dropped it suddenly. I shook my head, more to myself than to her. This was madness. All madness.

  A great wave crashed and rolled back into the sea, the current pulling her away in the boat. The last I saw was her open mouth and startled eyes, stark against the whiteness of her exquisite features. Then she disappeared into the howling storm. I backed away from the rising waters, my arms thrown over my face to block the blinding rain. I came to the dunes and scrambled onto and over them, and found myself among the houses of Portsmouth. I collapsed in exhaustion.

  The storm abated as suddenly as it had arisen. When I finally opened my eyes again, the moon was out and the wind softly blew the tickling seagrass against me. I stood, disoriented, and looked over the bay. The water was as smooth as dark glass.

  I walked between those silent houses, back to my room. Surely I was dreaming, I would wake up and find my article half-written, a litter of empty cans and dirty clothes around me, my face stubbled and in need of a shave. Surely I was dreaming.

  Yet I awoke in clothes soaked with saltwater.

  I spent the next day wandering around the town. I forgot all about my assignment, and left my camera sealed in its bag. I told myself over and over that I only had to get through one more night, and then a boat would arrive to ferry me back to the sane, ordinary world. I wouldn't let myself go mad there in that i
solated and grim ghost town of Portsmouth.

  I came upon the cemetery and impulsively passed through its fallen corroded gates. I went to that place where I had first seen the young woman. In that brilliant light of day, the sun reflecting off sea and sand, I saw the details on the markers I had not observed on my first night on the island. The two tombstones were identical in both shape and the amount of erosion.

  The first read "Benjamin Elijah Johnson, 1826–1846." Under that, in smaller script: "Taken By The Sea." The one beside it, etched in alabaster, read "Mary Claire Dixon, 1828–1846." Hers bore a subscript identical to the neighboring marker's.

  What was most striking about the stones were the engraved hands. The hand on Benjamin Johnson's marker, though well-worn by a century-and-a-half of exposure, was clearly reaching to the left, toward Mary Dixon's marker. Mary's hand, slimmer and more graceful in bas-relief, reached to the right, as if yearning for a final touch. The poignancy was plainly writ in that eternal arrangement.

  Mary's hand. I bent forward and placed my fingers on it, lightly explored it. I knew those curves and hollows, those slender fingers, the sculptor's skill too finely honed. I had held that hand before.

  I don't know how long I stood in the graveyard. The shadows eventually grew long, the breeze changed direction, and I knew that if I didn't move soon I might be forever rooted in that spot. I tore myself away from the twin graves and raced back to my room. I would not leave it, I decided. I would remain there, in the sleeping bag or rocking chair, until my boat arrived.

  That night the clouds massed from the southeast and the wind rattled the few remaining shutters of the ancient house. I hoped with all my might that the weather would hold clear, lest my boatman lose his nerve. But as I watched from my high window, the storm raged toward the island, the wind screaming as the rain began. Suddenly a bolt of lightning ripped across the charred sky, and I saw her in the yard below the house.

  My Mary.

  She looked up at me with those familiar, ravishing eyes, that long hair darkened by rain, her comely form encased in that grand dress. My heart beat faster and my pulse throbbed with equal parts dread and desire. On a second lightning strike that followed closely on the heels of the first, I saw that she was motioning for me. I tried to pull my eyes away, but I could not.

  Though I commanded my flesh to remain by the window, my legs found a will of their own and carried me to the stairs. I went down, a step at a time, my heart racing with dreadful anticipation. When I reached the first floor, the rain had increased, and the whole house shook on its flimsy pilings. She was waiting on the porch for me.

  "Will you come?" she asked.

  "Mary," I said.

  She nodded, then, without a word, she turned and ran into the brunt of the storm.

  I jumped after her, dashing madly through the dead town of Portsmouth, shouting at the sky, my curses lost against the fury. The wind among the hollow houses sounded like the laughter of a great crowd. I ran on, toward the beach where I knew the longboat would be.

  She had already worked the boat into the water, and beckoned me with an oar. I fought through the turbulent sea, finally gaining the stern and climbing aboard. She had locked two of the oars and arched her back, dipping the oars into the churning sea. I found two more oars in the bottom and locked them into place, clumsily trying to match my strokes with hers.

  It was useless, I knew. We were two against the ocean's might, two against nature, two alone. But I didn't care. All that mattered was Mary, pleasing Mary, being with Mary.

  Lightning lashed again, and I saw the now-familiar tableau of sinking clipper and endangered rowboats. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw a man standing in the fore of one of the rowboats, waving his arms in our direction. Certainly I imagined it.

  "Benjamin!" she shouted, looking over her straining shoulders. A wave crested nearby and the salt stung my eyes and nose and throat.

  "Row faster," Mary yelled to me. "We have to save Benjamin."

  And if we did? If somehow we managed to beat the brutal sea and pull alongside his boat, if we then were blessed with the miracle of returning to shore, what then?

  Mary would have her Benjamin, and I would have nothing. I would lose Mary.

  I stopped rowing, and the longboat careened against the waves. Mary saw that I had stopped.

  "Help me," she said, those beautiful eyes confused, her precious mouth moving in silent question.

  I shook my head. "No," I said. "Benjamin's dead. You're mine, now."

  I reversed direction with the oars, working one side until I turned the boat around. I expected her to fight, to thrash her own oars opposite mine. But she released them, and they slid into the waves.

  She stood in the rocking boat, all grace and glory and the deepest beauty ever crafted. Without a word, she dove into the sea.

  I shouted, "I love you," but I don't know if she heard me.

  I waited several minutes that seemed hours, fighting the currents, watching for her to surface. The lightning struck again, and in its luminance, I saw that the clipper and rescue boats were gone, victims of the callous ocean. I imagined that each flash of foam, each breaking wave, was the lace of Mary's dress.

  But she didn't appear. I battled the oars and clawed my way toward shore, though I lost my sense of direction. All that remained was to row and row, to drag the foundering boat through the sea that desperately wanted to swallow it.

  The storm soon dwindled and died, and I found myself on the sand. As I coughed the salt water from my lungs, the east glowed with the pink of dawn. I struggled to my hands and knees and looked across the bay. No boat, no wreck, no Mary.

  I hauled myself back to the house where I was staying. It took me many minutes to navigate the stairs, then I finally made it to my room and my chair and my high window. I took up my post, a watcher, a lighthouse keeper for the dead.

  Three days, and still I keep my post.

  I hope the boatman has given up on me. As much fear as filled his eyes when he hinted at the island's secrets, I don't think he even came ashore. I wonder if he will report my absence, or if he has his own orders, his own obsessions. It may take a week or more before anyone finds me.

  Plenty of time for her to find me first, if she so desires.

  Desire is an odd thing, a destructive thing, a strangely beautiful thing. Perhaps that is the lesson of this tale, the one that has replaced the travel article on my laptop. Whoever finds this account can make of it what they will. For the story was written many decades before, the ending the only thing left in the balance.

  The ending.

  I hear her now, below me, her footsteps as graceful as the rhythm of the sea. She climbs a winding stair, closer now.

  Or perhaps it's only the wind creaking ancient wood.

  I don't know which I dread the most.

  Her arrival in lace and deceived rage?

  Or her never arriving, never again granting me a glimpse of her everlasting and non-existent beauty?

  I can almost hear her now.

  Almost.

  WATERMELON

  Ricky bought the watermelon on a warm Saturday afternoon in September.

  The early crop had arrived at the local grocer’s in late June, fresh from California, but the available specimens were hard and heartless. Ricky had decided to wait for a Deep South watermelon, and those traditionally arrived many weeks after the annual Fourth of July slaughter. Besides, that was early summer. He had yet to read about the murder and his home life with Maybelle was in a state of uneasy truce.

  But now it was the last day of summer, a definite end of something and the beginning of something else. The watermelon was beautiful. It was perfectly symmetrical, robust, its green stripes running in tigerlike rhythms along the curving sides. A little bit of vine curled from one end like the cute tail of a pig. He tapped it and elicited a meaty, liquid thump.

  It was heavy, maybe ten pounds, and Ricky brought it from the bin as carefully as if it
were an infant. His wife had given him a neatly penned list of thirteen items, most of them for her personal use. But his arms were full, and he didn’t care to trudge through the health-and-beauty section, and he had no appetite for Hostess cupcakes and frozen waffles. Sheryl Crowe was singing a bright ditty of sun and optimism over the loudspeakers, music designed to lobotomize potential consumers. Ricky made a straight path to the checkout counter and placed the watermelon gently on the conveyor belt.

  Now that his hands were free, he could pick up one of the regional dailies. The front page confined the woman’s picture to a small square on the left. Her killer, the man who had sworn to love and honor until death did them part, merited a feature photograph three columns wide, obviously the star of the show and the most interesting part of the story.

  “ That’s sickening, isn’t it?” came a voice behind him.

  Ricky laid the newspaper on the belt so the cashier could ring it up. He turned to the person who had spoken, a short man with sad eyes and a sparse mustache, a man who had never considered violence of any kind toward his own wife.

  “ They say he was perfectly normal,” Ricky said. He wasn’t the kind for small talk with strangers, but the topic interested him. “The kind of man who coached Little League and attended church regularly. The kind the neighbors said they never would have suspected.”

  “ A creep is what he is. I hope they fry him and send him to hell to fry some more.”

  “ North Carolina uses lethal injection.”

  “ Fry him anyway.”

  “ I wonder what she was like.” Since the murder last week, Ricky had been studying the woman’s photograph, trying to divine the character traits that had driven a man to murder. Had she been unfailingly kind and considerate, and had thus driven her husband into a blinding red madness?

  “ A saint,” the short man said. “She volunteered at the animal shelter.”

  “ That’s what I heard,” Ricky said. The cashier told him the total and he thumbed a credit card from his wallet. People always took kindness toward animals as a sign of divine benevolence. Let children starve in Africa but don’t kick a dog in the ribs. For all this man knew, she volunteered because she liked to help with the euthanizing.