Siren's Storm (17 page)

The boards creaked again, and then Mrs. McFarlan appeared in the doorway. She was tall and thin, like a blade of grass. She wore shorts that revealed skin sagging at the knee and an old pink T-shirt. With her short blond hair that was dark at the roots, she gave the impression of a flower that had stayed too long in a vase and started to fade in the sun. In her hand was a book.

“What’s that, Gran?” Angus asked.

“This was written by your grandfather’s grandfather.” Mrs. McFarlan placed it gently on the table. “It probably belongs in some historical society, but Arthur never wanted to give it away.”

Will reached out and touched the cover with a fingertip. It was hand-pressed leather, worn to a fossil by time. He looked at Mrs. McFarlan, and she nodded her approval. Slowly, slowly, he opened the cover. Turned to a page in the middle. The next had a heading:
July 15, 1884
. The page was crammed with tight, even writing.

“It’s a captain’s log,” Mrs. McFarlan explained. “Arthur’s grandfather was lost at sea at a young age. They found his boat broken apart on a sandbar not six miles from home.”

“He was the captain?” Angus asked.

His grandmother nodded. “Rowan McFarlan, yes.”

“Have you read it?” Angus asked her.

“I read it,” she told him. “All it proves is that everyone in this family is nuts.” But her voice was hollow.

Will could hardly bear to take his hand from the book. “May I take it?” he asked.

“I think you’d better.” Mrs. McFarlan looked out the window. The light had dimmed in the room, and Will saw that dark clouds were gathering at the edge of the horizon. “At least we’ll get a break from this heat,” she said.

“We’d better get going before we get drenched,” Angus said. He leaned over and gave his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Gran.”

She turned her sharp crow’s gaze on Will. “I want that book back.”

Will nodded. “Absolutely.”

Angus held open the screen door. Will took a step toward it, but Mrs. McFarlan called him back.

“Keep an eye on that friend of yours,” she told him. “The one who heard the seekriegers.”

“I thought you said they didn’t exist,” Angus said.

She kept her eyes locked on Will. “Keep an eye on him,” she repeated.

“I will.” It felt like a promise between them.

Will and Angus stepped outside into the heavy air. Just as they settled into Angus’s battered Ford, the rain started to pour from the sky. It skimmed over the windshield in a heavy sheet. Angus looked down at
the book tucked safely on Will’s lap. “This must be our lucky day,” he said.

“Yeah,” Will agreed, although he wasn’t really sure he believed it.

Will didn’t read the book for the next three days. It simply sat, indifferent, on the top of his bureau. Will was burning to read it. But he didn’t want to read snatches here and there. He wanted to be alone with it, to study it.

But he didn’t have the time. There were sunflowers to collect. The flowers were as tall as he was, and their cordlike stems were coated in prickly fuzz that left his hands raw. He collected tomatoes in the early morning, before the sun became desperate and fierce. He picked the crisp green lettuce and the arugula that could command top dollar with the foodies, then rinsed it in the enormous stainless-steel sink. Will pulled weeds, mulched with hay, made sure the chickens were fed. One morning Will noticed that the smallest one—the one with a twisted leg—had been pecked twice. Will dressed the two small raw wounds and separated her from the rest of the flock. He built a small cage for her with wood and chicken wire, and placed a roost in the corner. He felt sorry for her, alone in her cage, watching the other chickens with the longing of a lonely child kept inside while the others played. But what could he do? If he let her out among the flock, they would peck her to death.

And he worked at the stand. It was high season,
and everything was selling. His mother’s freshly baked scones and muffins were usually gone by nine-thirty in the morning. The stack of
New York Times
newspapers disappeared even earlier. The tomatoes, dahlias, blackberries, zucchini, peppers, yellow squash, corn … Will often stood for five hours straight behind the counter. He didn’t have time to pee, so he tried not to drink anything early in the morning. Tim had once joked that he had to wear Depends on the days he was working the stand. Will was beginning to think that was a good idea.

The fourth morning, Will came downstairs early. His father was already at the breakfast table. His uncle Carl was there, too. The coffeepot gurgled and sputtered on the counter beside a mug his mother had set out for Will. A flowered china plate sat patiently on the table, a scone set neatly at the center. His mother had placed jars of homemade pear and strawberry jam on the table, along with real butter.

“Hey, Will!” Carl called, grinning hugely. “Good to see you, bedhead!”

His father sat at the other side of the square white table, eyeing him silently. He looked down at his plate, took another forkful of scrambled egg, and dipped it in a mound of ketchup. “You’re lookin’ tired,” Will’s father said.

“Slept badly,” Will said as he poured the dark, fragrant coffee into the mug.

“Didn’t sleep at all, more like,” his father said.

“Teenagers are always up late,” Carl said with a grin.

“Yeah.” Will sank into the chair across from his father’s and tore open his scone.

“Somethin’ botherin’ you?” Will’s father asked. He looked up at Will with a strange mixture of curiosity and trepidation—as if he wanted to hear what was on Will’s mind but was afraid of what it might be.

Will had a sudden desire to tell his father everything. He couldn’t explain it, but he really felt like his father was
listening
. “Dad, have you ever heard of … sea witches?”

“Witches?”

“Or … seekriegers?”

“What?” Will’s father exchanged a wary glance with Carl. Will’s uncle got busy eating a piece of sausage.

“Never mind.” Will spread strawberry jam on the scone very precisely. He couldn’t meet his father’s gaze. He sounded crazy. He knew it.

“What are you asking?” Will’s father was holding a fork in one hand, a knife in the other, and watching Will intensely.

“It’s just—I’ve heard some stories lately.” Will shrugged and gave a half laugh, trying to make it seem as if the whole thing were a joke. “Crazy stories, I guess.”

His father set his fork and knife down carefully. He took a long pull of his coffee and sat silent as a stone.

Will picked at his scone. It was still warm from the oven—moist and sweet, dotted with black currants. His mother made them every morning, along with muffins and cookies to sell at the stand. She got up
at three to bake, then went back to bed at eight for a few hours.

Will usually liked the quiet mornings with his father, and he was always happy to see his uncle. Will’s dad didn’t believe in breakfast cereal—he said it was a conspiracy concocted by large corporations to make people eat garbage in the morning. He always made himself eggs and toast, and occasionally he would fry up some bacon. They would eat in companionable silence, then clean up and get to work.

But this morning the silence made Will squirm. His eye fell on the local newspaper, and he was reaching for it when his father said, “There’s a lot of strange stories in this town.”

“What?” Will was shocked.

“I’ve heard of the seekriegers,” his father said quietly. He looked Will dead in the eye.

“And?” Will turned to his uncle. Carl looked as if he had something to say, but a glance from Will’s father silenced him.

Will’s father took his plate to the sink. His back was turned to Will when he said, “There’s nothing to those tales, Will. Just a bunch of junk for simple minds.” He dried his hands carefully and hung the flowered towel on a hook on the wall. “Come on, Carl,” he said. Then he walked out the back door without another word.

Carl downed another plug of coffee. He gave Will an apologetic smile, then shoved in his chair and hurried after his brother.

That night Will took a shower and crawled into
bed. He turned out the light and tucked his feet under Guernsey’s warm body. But he couldn’t fall asleep. The moon shone like a searchlight into his room. It illuminated the bureau, and on top of that, the book, which crouched like an animal on the corner.

Guernsey didn’t move as Will pushed back the covers and crossed the room. The book was heavy in his hands. He climbed back into bed, clicked on the small lamp on the table at his bedside, and turned to the first brittle page.