Across The Sea (2 page)

“It’s too quick to be the
wind,” Francis said. “It’s too… human.”

Harold ran out.

And Ackley and Francis burst
out laughing.

“I love it when they do that,”
Francis said.

“That blood stained rag was a
nice touch,” Ackley added.

“Thank you. I thought we should
add a little more… authenticity.”

“What about the rubbing sound?
How did you do that?”

“I have no clue what that is.”
Francis stared up toward the hole in the ceiling. “I’ve never heard
that here before.”

“Really,” Ackley said. “Maybe
it
was
just the wind.”

“Maybe. We should
investigate.”

The rustling sounded again.

Ackley smiled at Francis.

The rustling stopped.

“Are you trying to pull one
over on me too now?” Ackley asked.

“No,” Francis answered. “I’m
being honest. I really don’t know what that is. I’m going up.” He
scaled the ladder. “Be right back.”

“All right,” he heard Ackley
say. “I’ll go make sure Harold doesn’t leave with the boat.”

Up on the second floor, there
was still a minimal amount of light which shone through from the
front door. Francis looked about the room. It was bare but for
three wood stools in no particular arrangement – and another
ladder, leading up through the ceiling to the third floor. Francis
stepped toward it.

He stopped.

There it was again: the rubbing
sound. Only it was louder. Francis was getting closer. He grabbed
hold of this second ladder and climbed up.

On the third floor, in the
increasing darkness, all Francis could make out was another ladder.
He latched onto it.

Creak
,
creak
,
creak
.

What was that?

It had come from right above
Francis’ head.
Footsteps
, Francis thought.
I have to find
out what’s up there.

He ascended the third
ladder.

Bonk
.

Francis stopped, stunned.
Something had just smacked his head. He soon realized what it was:
a closed trapdoor. He reached up with his left hand and pushed
against it. Rays of light slipped through. Francis crept up,
raising his head through the fourth floor. A leather satchel faced
him, obstructing his view. He turned to his left. The light cast
shadows on the curved wall, some of which were outlines of
furniture.

And a tall figure, moving.

Francis, careful not to let his
breathing become too loud, climbed up more to glimpse just over the
satchel.

His body quivered. He spied a
looming creature in dark robes.

The ghost…

Greying, shoulder-length hair.
Broad shoulders. A short beard. The hulking man, who had to lean
his head down just to be able to stand in the low-ceilinged room,
turned away and now had his back to Francis. Francis remained on
the ladder, goose bumps rising on every inch of his skin.

This isn’t a ghost
,
Francis thought.
It’s a real man.

Francis knew he would have to
duck soon before this giant felt his intense stare and turned
around.

The looming man was packing
clothing into a bag which sat on a table. A lit lantern sat beside
the bag.

He must be hiding here
,
Francis thought.
But from what? His boat’s probably on the other
side of the lighthouse. That’s why we didn’t see it before. He must
have come from the other side of the river. Or from farther away
maybe. Maybe from the sea.

Something caught Francis’
eye.

The creature moved to a
clothesline which hung from one end of the room to the other. He
pulled a cloak from it and began folding.

It can’t be
, Francis
thought, his body shuddering all over again.

But it was. The cloak the beast
was folding and then placing into his bag was brighter in colour
than anything Francis had ever seen in his life. It was a blinding
shade of red.

The hulking man turned.

And saw Francis.

Francis’ body froze – in fear.
The man had an oversized, wide face to match his broad, hefty
frame. His eyes, however, were rather small, and far apart, but
still, they penetrated Francis to the bone. They were grey in
colour and appeared translucent. The rims of the creature man’s
eyelids were red, as if he had been rubbing them his entire life.
Francis was not sure if the man was smiling then; his mouth was
closed, rigid, perhaps curling up at one corner; but his eyes, his
eyes exuded amusement, giving the appearance that this beastly
stranger was somehow familiar with who Francis was. That was most
frightening of all, but Francis did not know why. He still could
not budge. He was too scared that any sudden movement would make
this brutish fiend lunge straight for him.

Francis’ legs gave out. He was
not certain if he had meant for them to go limp or if it was the
fear petrifying his body that had made them so. He tumbled down the
ladder, unable to get a good hold of it again. His left leg tripped
on one of the rungs and he fell backwards, the back of his small
shoulders slamming against the third floor.

Francis bounded up and jumped
down the hole in the third floor, landing on his feet on the
second. He rushed to the hole in the second floor and did the same,
falling before the open front door and sprinting out.

Ackley and Harold looked up
from where they were standing near the rowboat.

“Go, go!” Francis shouted,
running and gesturing with both hands for them to bolt off the
island.

Ackley and Harold did not
require further explanation. They each grabbed a side of the
rowboat and yanked it toward the water. Francis soon joined
them.

“What did you see?” Ackley
asked.

“There’s a man in there,”
Francis replied, out of breath. “We need to leave now!”

Francis pushed the boat off on
the river and all three jumped in. Harold grabbed onto the oars
himself and rowed with everything he had in him.

“What did he do?” Ackley asked.
“What happened, Francis?”

“The man in there,” Francis
said, looking into Ackley’s eyes, “he’s one of the men who took my
brother.”

Francis looked back. There was
no one outside the lighthouse. He looked up at the high, broken
glass windows. No one stared back.

* * *

The sun was lowering into the
horizon as Francis ran toward his home, a lone, small, wooden house
on a green bluff overlooking the Langer River.

Francis slammed through the
front door.

Francis’ father, mother, and
little sister who had long, brown hair in curls, all looked up,
startled, from the wooden kitchen table. Their home was modest, and
sparse, without many possessions.

“One of the men who took
Michael is in the lighthouse!” Francis shouted at once.

Michael. That was a name all
three at the dinner table never believed they would ever hear again
in this house.

“Francis,” Mr. Bright said,
refusing to raise his own voice. “What are you talking about?”

“He had a bright red cloak,
Father. Just like you said those looters did.”

Mr. Bright’s mouth opened but
no sound came. He looked like a statue.

“How do you know about the red
cloaks?” Mrs. Bright asked, her long, dark hair tied back in a bun.
Francis turned to her.

And saw that her eyes wore a
thin, glittering glaze.

“I heard Father tell you that
the men who took Michael wore bright red cloaks. And the man I saw
was packing one into a bag.”

“Did he hurt you?” Francis’
mother rose and hastened toward him.

“No, I was hiding,” Francis
said, as his mother placed her hands onto his scant shoulders to
examine him up close. “I’m fine.”

“We must inform the village
council immediately,” his father said, standing himself. “Something
must be done.”

“What were you doing at the
lighthouse?” Mrs. Bright asked. She looked harried then, like she
had just received the worst news of her life.

“We were just playing,” Francis
replied.

“You could have been taken,”
his mother said, wrapping her arms around him. “We could have lost
you as well.”

* * *

Night. Lanterns held by
villagers lit the shore opposite the island and its lighthouse. All
of Langer had come out, having heard the news a pirate was hiding
inside the structure; a pirate who may have been involved in the
disappearance of seventeen-year-old Michael Bright.

The mayor of Langer was leading
an expedition which consisted of several figures of authority from
the village council and Francis’ father. Francis could feel his
mother’s anxiety as she stood behind him, waiting on the shore. It
felt like hours had passed before the mayor and the men rowed their
boats back. On the water, in the dark, they all appeared to wear
grim masks. But it was their actual faces that they wore. The grim
looks were real.

The mayor, a portly man with a
short beard, had warned Mr. Bright earlier in the evening, “Now
Richard, this means nothing. Even if there is a pirate taking
refuge inside the lighthouse, this does not mean that he was one of
the men who took Michael or that Michael…” He had hesitated then.
“Or that Michael still lives.”

These had been harsh words for
Mr. Bright to hear. They had pained him, much like a surprise blow
to the stomach. “I know,” he had murmured. “I know. I just want to
know who this man is.”

Francis had glared at the mayor
then. He had thought the mayor was looking down at his father,
believing his father foolish for pretending that perhaps his son
was still alive. But this was Michael and everyone yearned for
Michael. There should be no shame in hoping that he was not dead,
after all.

Now most of Langer stared as
the men in the rowboats returned. The villagers had waited against
the forceful, cold wind for far too long. They were ravenous for
news.

As the mayor’s craft neared the
shore ahead of the others, the mayor stood at the bow, looking up
at the crowd. “We found nothing,” he announced.

Francis felt his heart deflate
as the villagers began to mumble amongst themselves.

“There is no sign,” the mayor
continued, “that there was ever anyone hiding inside the
lighthouse.”

Francis turned to glance up at
his mother. Her face was grey, emotionless, as she held a sleeping
Margaret in her arms. That look frightened Francis. It was the look
his mother had worn for weeks following Michael’s disappearance.
Francis turned back to see his father. Mr. Bright was approaching
on one of the rowboats. He sat, staring off into space. He looked
just as despondent as Francis’ mother.

* * *

The walk home was abysmal. Not a
word was spoken.

“I know what I saw,” Francis
said, interrupting the silence. “There was a man in there.”

“Don’t talk,” Mr. Bright
replied. “We’ll just walk home without saying anything.”

“Why?” Francis asked. They were
now approaching their home on the bluff. “Why don’t we ever say
anything?”

“You’ve said quite enough
already tonight!” his father shouted.

Margaret awoke in her mother’s
arms, crying. The night had been too long and too terrible.

“Why don’t we ever say anything
about him?” Francis questioned, no longer able to hold back his
frustration. “He was my brother!”

“That man,” his father began to
ask, “in the lighthouse… did he ever exist?”

“Yes he did. I saw him,
Father.”

“Your friends never saw him.
You were the only one, Francis.”

“I did not make him up.”

“You’ve been warned before not
to play your games on unsuspecting children at the lighthouse. But
there you were, doing it again this afternoon. How does one stop
you? It’s in your nature, isn’t it… to fool people. You don’t care
how much pain you cause, as long as you get a laugh.”

Mr. Bright’s eyes targeted
Francis’ own.

“You can’t fool anyone anymore.
You’re through. No one will ever believe a word you speak again. We
all know you made up that man in the lighthouse. It’s in your
nature.”

“Maybe it is,” Francis
answered. “Maybe I even made Michael up.”

Mr. Bright’s eyes grew wide.
“You mock your mother and me. I’m sure you enjoy that.”

All Francis heard then was his
mother trying to comfort a sobbing Margaret. “There, there,” he
heard her say.

Mrs. Bright opened the door to
their home and walked in. Francis’ father grabbed the door handle
and pulled the door shut behind his wife and daughter. He turned to
Francis as they stood alone, together outside.

“You brought Michael back,
tonight,” he said, “and then you took him away all over again.”

Francis stared up at his
father, his mouth no longer able to provide words.

Once inside, Francis and his
father each walked to their respective rooms, and as his father
shut the door to his parents’ bedroom, Francis turned and saw his
mother inside, getting ready for bed. He saw tears in her eyes. The
door closed.

Careful not to make a sound,
Francis tread back toward the front door, and stepped outside.

He ran into the dark, trying
not to cry. In the fields ahead, an amber glow appeared to come up
off the ground, dome-shaped. Francis reached it, and stopped,
panting. He looked down. A long decline led down into the village
of Langer. He could see all its wood buildings from up here. The
unearthly glow was emitted from the lit lanterns in the village
mixed with the fog that had blown in from off the surface of the
river.

Francis descended, staring at
the harbour at the other end of the village. He wanted to be there.
Perhaps sit on the docks for a while.

He stepped onto a street. Apart
from lit lanterns here and there, the village was all gloom.
Francis heard boisterous men talking behind closed doors. He
guessed that the tavern at Barlow's Foot Inn was still open. He
walked down a few streets until he reached the harbour and the inn.
Murky alleyways punctured the street which ran along the
waterfront, and stacks of wooden crates lay everywhere.