At the Water's Edge

  "Please come back!" I shouted, but the only answer was the sound of rushing water and the cawing of the crow, which was still somewhere above me.

  "I'm lost! Please!" I yelled one last time, before sinking to my knees and bursting into tears. I stayed like that for about ten minutes, sobbing like a child.

  Eventually, I pulled myself together. I got up, wiped my face with the backs of my gloves, and brushed off my coat, which was muddied from kneeling. Then I straightened my scarf and staggered forward, using the umbrella as a walking stick.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I finally found my way out of the Cover, the sight of open sky and the towering, rugged hills made me weep again, only this time with joy and a completely unexpected rush of gratitude to the divine.

  Although nominally Protestant, I'd given up prayer many years before. The last time I'd prayed for something, my request had been granted, but the means of my delivery to boarding school had apparently required my mother's death.

  Despite my dubious history with God, I was so grateful at being delivered from the Cover that I decided to stop by the church and offer up a small thanks--but only if it still felt right when I got there, and only without asking for anything specific, and only if there was no one else in the building.

  I had just climbed the steps when I saw Mr. Ross at the grave I'd found so tragic the first day I'd gone walking, the one with the young family whose members had perished so close together. He had his back to me, but I recognized his broad shoulders and unruly hair.

  After a moment he knelt and placed his hand on the granite marker. He bowed his head and stayed that way for several minutes. Then he put something on the ground, rose, and headed for the gate, where Conall was waiting. He trudged up the road toward the inn with the dog at his hip, never knowing I was there.

  I descended the steps and went to the grave. He'd left a handful of snowdrops.

  --

  "Willie the Postie came by with some letters for you. I set them by the register," Meg said when I came in.

  She was behind the bar holding glasses up to the light and then wiping them with a dish towel.

  I hung up my coat and collected the letters. There were several addressed to Hank and Ellis, which I dropped on the counter, and one addressed to me, sent by airmail. I recognized the handwriting immediately. My relief was so great I almost dropped it.

  I sat by the fire and tore it open.

  January 18, 1945

  Dearest Madeline,

  I was most surprised to receive your telegram. I can't imagine how you think I could--or would, for that matter--arrange for an airplane to save you from your "awful mistake." Have you any idea what that would entail? Clearly not. I take partial responsibility for that, having shielded you from the realities of life as best I could. You embarked on a most foolish and dangerous endeavor without affording me so much as the courtesy of a discussion, thus depriving me of the opportunity of saving you from yourself--much as you did when you decided to get married behind my back and without my permission.

  I had to learn of your most recent hijinx second-or even thirdhand from cohorts of Frederick Stillman amid rumors of nefarious and, dare I say it, arguably treasonous dealings. Until your telegram, I had no indication that you had even survived the journey. I have taken the liberty of informing the Hydes and Boyds that their offspring also survived, since you did not indicate otherwise.

  I wish you had come to me, my dear, but since you did not, I can do nothing for you. I will not bankrupt myself to bail you out of a situation entirely of your own making and that any sane person would recognize as, well, not. Whether you intended it or not, you have once again made my life most difficult.

  Most sincerely,

  Your Father

  P.S. You should probably know that your in-laws are furious, and your friend Freddie has his own fish to fry.

  P.P.S. I agree that you should stay away from the ocean. I'm afraid I think you should stay put until the end of the war. I wish you luck.

  I stared at the letter long after I finished reading it. He'd written and sent it the same day he received the telegram. I knew that it would be difficult and expensive to arrange for a flight, but it was certainly not impossible. The Germans didn't control the airspace, and military commanders flew back and forth all the time. He'd simply decided I wasn't worth saving, apparently without even taking the time to sleep on it.

  I put the letter back in the envelope and tossed it into the fire. Within seconds it was engulfed in flames--white, orange, red--and then finally was just a rectangle of black melding into the charred logs.

  I realized Meg was watching.

  "Is everything all right?" she asked.

  "No. Not really."

  She continued to stare at me, but I could not think of a thing to add.

  --

  I stayed by the fire through the rest of the afternoon and then into the evening, as the locals filed in and the lumberjacks arrived in groups. I was barely aware of them. I didn't even respond when Conall slunk over and plopped down at my feet.

  "You haven't moved in hours," said Meg, bringing me a glass of sherry. "Is there anything I can do?"

  "I'm afraid not," I said. "But thanks for asking."

  Meg stiffened. "Here they come."

  I turned to watch as Hank and Ellis emerged from the stairwell. Although they'd shaved and gotten changed, they looked every bit as sepulchral as they had in the morning.

  Meg came over immediately, bringing their mail and a letter opener.

  "Two whiskeys," Hank said, taking them from her. "Make them doubles. And keep them coming."

  --

  The letters were responses to the advertisement they'd placed in The Inverness Courier from people who'd seen the monster and were willing to be interviewed, and the excitement of that--along with the whiskey--brought them both back to life. They consulted their watches and decided that it was not too late to call. Hank waved Mr. Ross over.

  "We need to use the telephone," he said.

  "It's up the street," said Mr. Ross, stroking his beard.

  "What do you mean it's 'up the street'?" said Ellis.

  "I mean it's up the street," Mr. Ross repeated, folding his arms across his thick green sweater.

  "There's a telephone booth just a little ways up the road," I said, not exactly clarifying, but hoping to defuse. "It's not far. I think it takes coins."

  "It does," said Mr. Ross, nodding. "Do you need change?"

  "You don't have a telephone? You don't have electricity and you don't have a telephone?" Ellis said.

  "Ellis, knock it off," said Hank. "You're giving me a headache."

  Mr. Ross went back behind the bar. Our eyes met a couple of times, and after that I was careful not to look.

  I wondered if he'd always worn a beard, and what he'd look like without it. I wondered why he didn't have a wife, for there was nothing wrong with him that a little feminine attention couldn't fix. I wondered what it would be like to be married to him.

  I wondered what it would be like to be married to anyone other than Ellis. Had the coin fallen the other way, would I have let myself be persuaded that I was in love with Hank and married him instead? Probably. Either way, I'd have been bamboozled into a marriage as real as the monster tracks Marmaduke Wetherell had pressed into the shores of the loch with his hippo foot.

  I was still lost in thought when the policeman arrived, and noticed only because Hank and Ellis fell silent. The tired-looking man, in his mid-to late fifties, stopped just inside the door.

  "Bob!" Meg called from across the room. "Bob the Bobby! We haven't seen you in ages. Any news from your Alec?"

  "Some. We've had letters. He can't tell us where he is, but he did say he's flying a Spitfire."

  "Well, that's something, isn't it?" said Meg. "It's a pally ally you'll be wanting, I assume?"

  "I'm afraid not," he said regretfully. "Joanie's had me sign the pledge. Also, I'm here on official business."


  "Oh?" said Meg.

  The policeman cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "Angus, do you think I might have a wee moment?"

  "Certainly," said Mr. Ross, coming around the bar. He joined the bobby by the door.

  Hank, who had his back to them, put his finger to his lips. Ellis gave a knowing smirk, and both of them rearranged themselves into better listening positions.

  "It's about the...incident," said the bobby, dropping his voice to a whisper on the final word. "You know normally I wouldn't bother you with such things, but I'm afraid you did throw the water bailiff in the river."

  "Aye, that I did. And I'd do it again. He deserved it, speaking like he owned the place."

  "I've no doubt, no doubt at all," said the bobby, shaking his head sympathetically. "Only, he made an official complaint up at Inverness, and so I am forced to say something. And there it is. I've said something."

  "It's all right, Bob," said Mr. Ross. "I understand."

  "Only, could you show just a wee bit more restraint next time?" The policeman held his forefinger and thumb so close they were almost touching. "Perhaps in the future you could just dangle him the tiniest bit?"

  "Certainly. Next time I'll just dip his toes. His socks won't even get wet."

  The bobby laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's grand, Angus. You know I wouldn't interfere if there hadn't been an official complaint. You know we all appreciate everything you do." He lowered his voice again. "My mother greatly appreciated the bit of salmon the other day."

  "Ach," said Mr. Ross, waving him off. "That could have been anyone."

  "We know perfectly well who it was."

  Our landlord waved again and said, "If your business is concluded sufficiently for the purposes of reporting to Inverness, how about a wee dram on the house?"

  "But Joanie's had me sign the pledge..."

  "Just a wee one. And you know what they say. Always carry a large flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and further, always carry a small snake."

  "I've not heard that," said the bobby. "Who said that?"

  "Some American film guy. Has a potato for a nose. A jowly sort of fellow."

  "Well, it's bloody brilliant. But what's wrong with a potato for a nose?"

  "Absolutely nothing. And if Joanie finds out, I'll get you an adder. Or throw you in the river. Whichever sounds better at the time, in terms of needing a dram for consolation," said Mr. Ross, draping an arm across the man's shoulders and leading him to the bar.

  "Well in that case I don't suppose it would do any harm," said the bobby, a look of relief flooding his face. The men at the bar, the locals, pulled a stool up beside them and welcomed him.

  "Poaching," said Ellis, tapping his chin and staring at Hank. "That carries quite a stiff penalty, if I'm not mistaken."

  Chapter Twenty

  When the siren sounded, I knew instantly what it was. With my heart pounding, I felt my way in the dark to the chair, where I'd laid out my coat and shoes. I was pulling them on when someone flung my door open and hit me in the face with the beam of a flashlight.

  "Are you ready?" Meg yelled over the din. She was already zipped into her siren suit, which was made of black-and-red tartan.

  "Ready," I called back, hopping toward her while forcing my heel into a recalcitrant shoe.

  The siren continued its deafening wail, rising and falling. Hank and Ellis staggered into the hallway barefoot and in their pajamas. Hank was wearing only the bottoms.

  "What the hell?" he said, shielding his eyes from the flashlight.

  "It's an air raid. Come on! We've got to go!" said Meg.

  "To where?" Ellis said, rubbing his eyes and looking confused.

  "To the shelter!"

  Meg and I pushed past them and ran down the stairs. I heard them clumping after us, cursing as they navigated in the dark.

  Mr. Ross appeared at the bottom of the staircase holding another flashlight.

  "Come on," he said, waving us urgently toward the kitchen.

  When we were all at the back door, Meg and Mr. Ross turned off their flashlights.

  Meg went out first, and I could see just well enough to follow her. I stumbled and fell to my knees on the frozen earth. Someone--Mr. Ross, I realized immediately--scooped me up and propelled me forward, clutching my elbow with his left hand and keeping his right arm firmly around my waist.

  Meg had thrown the burlap flap back and was already inside. Mr. Ross held me by the armpits and lowered me in, handing me to Meg.

  "Mind your head. There's a bunk at the back," she said, pulling me in deeper and leading me to it. "There's another above it, so mind your head there, too. When everyone's in, Angus will get a light on."

  She sat beside me and leaned in close. I huddled against her and we clutched hands. It smelled damp and earthy, and was terribly, terribly cold.

  Outside, the men were shouting. Hank and Ellis were arguing that they'd never laid eyes on the shelter in the daylight so how were they supposed to know where it was or how to get in, and couldn't Mr. Ross shine the light on it for just a moment? He replied that he didn't care what the hell they did or did not know, and to get the bloody hell inside.

  My voice came out as a raspy screech: "Ellis! Hank! Get in here! It's two steps down. Climb in backward if you have to, but hurry up!"

  "Get in, amadain!" Mr. Ross bellowed. "Just get in!"

  "I would, if I could just fucking--Hey!"

  There was some kind of kerfuffle at the front of the shelter, followed by a thud, and a vile stream of curses from Hank. There was another thud, and this time I heard someone scraping toward us.

  "We're back here," I said, reaching my arms out. My hands found the top of Ellis's head, and then his shoulders. He was crawling.

  "There's a bunk right here," I said.

  "Conall, thig a seo!" Mr. Ross yelled, and shortly thereafter, he turned on his flashlight.

  The burlap flap was closed. We were all inside. Our breath curled like smoke from our mouths, and Mr. Ross's expression was so fierce that while I knew his eyes were blue, at that moment I would have sworn they were black.

  When Ellis saw that the bunk we were sitting on was made up, he grabbed the top quilt with both hands and yanked it out from under us, nearly dumping Meg and me on the floor.

  "Hey!" I said. "Was that really necessary?"

  "I'm fucking freezing," he said, wrapping himself in it.

  "Throw me one of those," said Hank, who was crouched barefoot against the corrugated wall. "I can see my goddamned breath."

  "Get it yourself," said Ellis. "I'm as naked as you are."

  "Oh, for the love of God," said Meg, and without even thinking I turned to help her rip another quilt loose, this time nearly toppling Ellis. She balled it up and threw it overhand at Hank. He wrapped it around his shoulders and made his way to the back of the shelter, climbing onto the bunk above us.

  The wailing of the siren continued.

  "You've not got your gas masks?" said Mr. Ross.

  I glanced quickly and saw that Meg had brought hers.

  "No," I said. "I'm very sorry."

  He tossed his into my lap.

  My hands shook as I tried to put it on. The smell of rubber was stifling, my area of vision vastly limited, and I couldn't get the straps over the rollers in my hair. Meg pulled her mask on in a single fluid motion and turned to help me.

  "Hold still," she said in a muffled voice. "I just have to thread the straps through...There's one...There's another...Wait...I've almost got it...And there you are. Nice and tight."

  The combination of screaming siren and having my head confined sent me spiraling into panic. It was as though I was back on the SS Mallory during the U-boat attack. I felt like I couldn't breathe, although clearly I could, because the inside of my mask was so fogged up I couldn't see a thing. When I tried to wipe it from the outside, Meg pulled my hands from my face and held them against her thigh. "It takes a bit of getting used to. Just breathe normal
ly and it will clear up."

  I closed my eyes and took deep, deliberate breaths.

  "That's it," she said. "In through the nose, and out through the mouth. In, and then out. That's better already, isn't it?"

  When I opened my eyes, the window of my mask was starting to clear.

  "What about me? I don't have a mask," said Hank, from the bunk above us.

  "You'd take one off a woman, would you?" Mr. Ross snapped.

  Hank was silent for a moment, and then added, in a tone that could be interpreted as chastened, resigned, or both, "I don't suppose there's any whiskey in this tin can?"

  Mr. Ross threw him a look of disgust and turned off the flashlight. The starry sky was briefly visible as he went through the flap. A moment later he returned and switched the light back on. He'd retrieved a rifle and was crouched with it by the opening. Just as I remembered his missing trigger finger, I realized he was holding it by his left side.

  "How long is this going to take?" Ellis asked. He was curled into a ball in the corner of the bunk, wrapped in the quilt. "I think I'd rather take my chances inside."

  Mr. Ross held his hand up for silence, listening, concentrating.

  From far in the distance, over the siren's wail, came the boom-boom-boom-boom of large engines.

  "Bloody hell," he said, leaping to his feet and pumping the rifle.

  "What? What's wrong?" said Ellis.

  "A fucking Heinkel."

  The light went off and he slipped outside with an untranslatable growl. The booming got closer and louder until suddenly it was right over us and Mr. Ross was shouting--and shooting--at it.

  "Thall is cac, Mhic an Diabhail!"

  After the second shot, the sound of the airplane changed from a steady set of booms to three followed by a gap. It continued on, limping into the distance.

  Mr. Ross climbed back inside the shelter and turned the flashlight on again.

  "Did you just do what I think you just did?" said Meg.

  He shrugged.

  "Did you just shoot out an engine?"

  "It doesn't matter if I did. He's got three more."

  "But with a rifle?"

  "The shite was right over our heads. I could have jumped up and touched--"