Story from a fragment of a dream

The whole of Cosco Bay fetched a nasty chop with a flukey breeze that set my oarlocks under the scudding skies.  I pulled the afternoon away until a sandy nudge on the wooden hull signaled that I was finally back from my one month survey of the outer islands. After dragging the little gig above the tidal flats I donned my backpack and walked a gravelly road to Barrister Arms where I was bivouacked for the duration of my bureaucratic task.

A dim yellowish light spilled between the curtains of the proprietors home indicating that a warm bite and cold drink might still be had before turning into my own modest accommodations.   I dropped the knocker but once, lest I be calling too late, but the door opened a crack and the mistress of the house ushered me in from the cold.

“Master John is in a foul attitude today. Best not to agitate him with your business but take your vittles to your room and let him be.”

I rarely knew him in a fair weather mood so wasn’t dissuaded from looking in on his study.  Besides, I hoped that he would spare me a couple fingers of his private whiskey to shake the chill from my bones. I pushed inside the heavy cloth that served as a door to his chambers.  The bitter spunk of gun oil and the gleam from the barrel of his shotgun resting on the desk laid truth to his wife’s concern.

The room was barely lit by a single bulb lamp on the desk.  A familiar clutter of books and old newspapers covered what furniture existed in these cramped quarters. In the corner stood a narrow oak cabinet with leaded glass doors disclosing a refined taste.

“Might I join you in a splash of fortitude on this chill night, good sir?”

 All further formalities surrounding such visits between us had long since been discarded in favor of efficiency.  He sat in his wooden chair with the squeaky wheels (Why didn’t he attend to his furniture as he did with his weapons I often wondered). With a wave of his hand, permission was granted and I poured shots into a couple of glasses and handed him one.

“You’ve been away to the islands for nigh on thirty days.”

“Yes, I reserved those disagreeable regions for the final tasks of my district census work. If all goes well, I’ll be wrapping up and on tomorrow’s train to Portland”

“You seem anxious to be back in your city offices”

“Your generous hospitality not withstanding, the void of my family and colleagues back home gnaws at my heart.”

“A man’s work is no substitute for companionship”

“Indeed”

After a pause, he continued. “News was that that young lassie Becca Nightingale had not been seen for nearly a month.”

The bold statement, apropo to nothing, sliced into our conversation like the sharp northerly that fought my transit across the bay all afternoon.  My mind fled back to the last day before my departure for the islands.

There was an annual End-of-Harvest celebration and the whole town was in a froth for the evening’s festivities.  The music played late into the night and the brandywine flowed generously among young and old alike.  Throughout the ordeal, young Becca danced with all of the men and some of the women with a most conspicuous promiscuity.   The enhebriating scent of lavender in her hair, clearly a memory not sufficiently suppressed, flooded back to me.  Did her warm embrace telegraph a deeper meaning or was I just suffering a bout of loneliness from being away from home too long?  No matter, she grabbed the handkerchief from my breast pocket, tied it around her wrist with a sly smile and was off to another partner before I had time to engage in such fantasies.  The next morning, slowed by a fog on the water and in my soul, I rowed out to the first of my far flung duties.

Back in the current moment though, my consciousness was started with two observations.  The first was that my host indicated that the young temptress had not been seen since MY departure.  The other was that he specifically stated that “she HAD not been seen” implying that she HAS been seen more recently. I didn’t know how to parse the former possible accusation and so I focused on the latter bit of implication.

“So she has returned to our midst again?” I enquired.

“In a manner of speaking.  Her partially decomposed body was found washed ashore down at Browns Point just yesterday.”

Even though any number of causes could explain her disappearance, her watery return again directed suspicion in my direction.  Or was I just being paranoid?

“I’m greatly grieved to hear this! She was such a promising young heartbeat of our community.  Has the coroner completed his autopsy yet?”

“Not fully but early observations don’t indicate any foul play was involved.  Seems that she willingly went to her demise. “

This news dampened the conversation so I said,  “Well, I’ll get out of your way then and retire for the evening.”

He delayed my exit with a final question.  “One last thing about the Becca affair.  A white handkerchief was found tied to her wrist. Would you be missing such an article?”

I was now stunned with the possible incrimination. I stared at him long without a thought of what I could say.  Finally, I stuttered out “No, I don’t think so.”, set down my glass and left the room.

The next day, after settling my accounts, I boarded the train heading back south and away from this shadowy little village. As the business class compartment swayed upon the rails, I contemplated how the subterranean media of rumor, passion and jealousy rules the social justice system this far away from the city.

the end.

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-jgp