The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Read online

  The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie

  M. Rickert

  Also by M. Rickert

  NOVELS

  The Memory Garden (as Mary Rickert)

  COLLECTIONS

  Map of Dreams

  Holiday

  You Have Never Been Here (as Mary Rickert)

  NOVELETTES AND NOVELLAS

  Cold Fires

  Map of Dreams

  Journey Into the Kingdom

  The Mothers of Voorhisville (as Mary Rickert)

  The Little Witch

  Advance Praise for The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie

  “Awash in sea rain, ghosts and the stories they trail, the sound of submerged bells from offshore (or their echo, or their memory), Bellfairie and its denizens are M. Rickert creations through and through—meaning magical, mournful, mysterious, profoundly human.”

  — Glen Hirshberg, Author of The Motherless Children Trilogy

  “The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie is a dark, dream-like, psychologically astute novel about the outsider as threat and victim, about the power of crowds, and the betrayal of innocence, replete with uncanny secrets, signs, and symbols that echo and reverberate, intimations of an unseen, sublunary world.”

  — Douglas Glover, Author of Elle, and Savage Love

  “Fans of M. Rickert’s singular blend of the mundane and the monstrous will be drawn deep into the briny, haunted world of Bellfairie.”

  — Sofia Samatar, Author of A Stranger in Olondria, and Tender

  “The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie by M. Rickert is a powerful evocation of an imaginary place, both magical and mundane; the tribulations of a good hearted hapless giant; and a compelling mystery. Dark and humorous and deep.”

  — Jeffrey Ford, Author of Big Dark Hole

  The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie

  © 2021 M. Rickert

  Cover art © 2021 Tithi Luadthong

  Cover design © 2021 Vince Haig

  Interior design, editing, and layout by Courtney Kelly

  Proof-reader: Carolyn Macdonell-Kelly

  First Edition All Rights Reserved

  TRADE ISBN: 978-1-988964-32-4

  HARDCOVER ISBN: 978-1-988964-34-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons—living, dead, or undead—is entirely coincidental.

  Undertow Publications, Pickering, ON Canada

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Bill, because you brought me balloons when my first story was published, tissues and new pajamas when my first (still unpublished) novel was rejected, and told me I needed to send this one out into the world.

  Chapter Links

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

  14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

  27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The true poem is the poet’s mind;

  the true ship is the ship-builder.

  In the man, could we lay him open,

  we should see the reason for the

  last flourish and tendril of his work.

  – Ralph Waldo Emerson

  What emptiness do you gaze upon!

  Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air

  with the notes of the far-away song

  floating from the other shore?

  – Rabindranath Tagore

  1

  The people of Bellfairie still speak of that last morning in the diner, how everyone was struck motionless with egg on their lips and coffee on their tongues, unprepared to offer solace to the giant sitting in their midst with his hands cupped over his face. And what was that noise? That strange sound, as though he held a baby bird in his palms that cried for its mother?

  Weeping, they finally realized. Who could imagine? A grown man weeping like that?

  They tried to make amends that very evening, arriving at his house with casseroles and beer kegs, but somehow it had not been enough. Who knows why? They expressed regret and asked forgiveness yet awoke, with hangovers, to the dismal news of his death wondering if, in their resolve for justice, they had contributed to a store of despair that could not be survived.

  Later, after it was reported he’d left behind disturbing artifacts like that bizarre sculpture made of bones, every household received a letter in the mail with the word ‘sorry’ scrawled several times in black ink above his signature. They buried his apology under the coffee grounds and other garbage. The fact that Coral’s wedding—planned well in advance—coincided with his funeral, was mere coincidence, and there had been so much sorrow by that point, who can blame them for choosing joy instead?

  Some say if you walk on the bluff in the early morning, when the fog hovers there, you will hear a baby cry. Others argue there is no infant ghost, only him, sentenced to call from the depths for all eternity as penance for what he did. The rest claim it is nothing so mysterious, just the ordinary shriek of hungry seagulls.

  2

  His name was Quark, and the worst thing he ever did was nothing at all. When the call about the Old Man came, it pulsated through the years, not in the pleasant manner of a star, but in the persistent, grievous one of a migraine. And why not? Why wouldn’t he compare his entire life to the headache he experienced driving that familiar aorta of desolation to Bellfairie?

  “Missing? What do you mean he’s missing?” Quark asked, pressing the phone close to his ear as if the late hour had affected his hearing. “Is this a joke?”

  But of course it wasn’t. Sheriff Healy wasn’t the joking sort.

  “A confession?” Quark asked. “Do you mean an apology?”

  He peered through the Ford’s bug-splattered window into the gray dawn, but all he could remember—after the question—was the buzzing as if, through some strange night magic, he heard the reverberation of his existence, that dark persistent screed.

  It was true the Old Man could be cruel, once tying an apron to the boy’s pants, knotting yellow flowered fabric on the loop meant for a belt. Quark, who enjoyed the feel of material draped behind him, began spinning, his arms raised towards the ceiling, fingers spread and head tilted back like someone nearly drowned who, just in the nick of time, broke surface.

  “What are ya? Some kinda fag?” the Old Man taunted.

  Hunched over the steering wheel, Quark peered through the dark until it was broken by a snakelike fissure of dawn, reminding him of the rain that violent night so long ago, windows lashed until they were streaked with silver like iridescent worms. He recalled an oily smell, the waxy scent of crayons scattered across the table where he sat clutching the purple in his fist. The Old Man, who had been weaving through the house as though stranded on a rough sea, suddenly paused to set the plate down on top of Quark’s drawing. Fried fish, lapped near the edge, as if seeking escape.

  Quark, the man, recalled the boy’s hesitation; crayon held tight before it was dropped. How old was he? Seven? Eight?

  Maybe he was eight that night he abandoned his fanciful bird on the wooden plank table etched by knives. Time was lost after that first bite and the one he remembered next, bone drawn between his teeth then carefully placed on his plate—not tossed, but assembled—when he became aware he was being watched. He feared that to comment on the attention
would destroy it. Instead, he sucked the last flakes of oily flesh, and set the translucent sliver neatly amongst the rest.

  “What ya got there, boy?”

  “Catfish,” he said, proud.

  “Thought it was a ship,” the Old Man growled, turning away.

  “That’s what it is.” Quark rearranged his sculpture. “These are waves, see?”

  “Yah said ‘catfish’ din’ ya?”

  “It’s the name of my ship.”

  “Are you a liar too?” The Old Man swept his hand across the table, scattering bones, sending papers aloft, crayons tumbling.

  Quark gripped the steering wheel, no longer that boy who fell asleep brushing fingers over his scarred flesh, marveling at the pain of transformation, awakening the next morning, to stare out the small window, scanning the sky for birds before tiptoeing barefoot down creaking stairs, across the wooden floor littered with debris into the kitchen where he lit the oil lamp that awakened winged shadows. So young, he had to stand on a chair to reach the faucet and the stove where he stirred coffee grounds in water to boil while the stars outside the small round window disappeared into dawn. When he leaned over to turn off the burner, the heat brushed against his stomach, reminding him of his pet cat gone missing. She used to lie on his belly and keep him warm.

  He cracked an egg into the bowl. Fished out the bits. Beat yolk and white with a fork. Measured it out with a teaspoon—unsure of the amount—then pulled the chair back to the sink where he filled two mugs before turning them over, watching the hot water spiral down the drain. He spilled some of the coffee as he poured it through the filter, which he quickly mopped up with a dish towel. It created a reddish-brown stain he didn’t like, so he thrust it into the trash.

  The Old Man was sitting in his chair, staring out the big front window when Quark approached with trembling mugs, unsure how to proceed. “Take it,” he said, surprised when the command worked.

  He set his own mug on the small table, cautious not to disturb the clutter of pencils, pens, maps and sextant, especially alert to the leather-bound journal in which the Old Man was writing his shipbuilding book, rarely seen since the time Quark had been caught brushing his fingers across the cover.

  He returned to the kitchen for the chair he dragged (tearing papers and breaking bones) to position beside the Old Man. Together they stared at the oak trees clustered around the house, sentinels Quark once believed guarded against danger. He raised the cup to his lips, flinched against the heat, and sipped. It was his first taste of coffee. Bitter, he didn’t like it, and that seemed right.

  3

  Even though he knew well how the road banked around the bluff, distracting drivers, Quark was enchanted by the initial appearance of sun-washed buildings nestled amongst boulders before beginning his descent. When Bellfairie reappeared, the pristine palette of turquoise and white was replaced by murky water dotted with spinach-hued clots and buildings so long in disrepair only a few chips of color remained: a streak of mustard yellow, a smear of green, half a wall painted salmon ruined by abandonment.

  He sighed as he entered the narrow, labyrinthine streets lined by dismal houses with withered plants in clay pots perched on sagging porches or cracked concrete stairs as if awaiting revival. Miniature domiciles, meant to provide shelter for birds, dangled from rusty hooks crookedly affixed to broken fences. Weathered bird feeders, hung from poles in almost every barren yard, were filled with seeds and suet. Perseverance, in almost any circumstance an attribute, fed off Bellfairie like a tumor. If the bleak atmosphere wasn’t proof enough of such malignancy, surely that slender figure, traipsing down the side of the road, was. Quark slowed to reach across the passenger seat and roll down his window.

  Dressed all in black, Henry Yarly had taken this walk every morning Quark could remember. A devil worshipper, some said, who sacrificed the missing cats of Bellfairie—the lost pets of his childhood—though the Old Man spit when Quark once posited this theory.

  “My ass. Devil worshipper, my ass. Don’t you kids know? Saying Henry Yarly is a devil worshipper’s like calling your elbow a dick. You can tell your friends I said.”

  Without looking to see who slowed beside him, Yarly raised his hand, ring and pinky finger half bent, thumb angled in, a cross between Boy Scout salute and benediction.

  “Hello. How are you, Mr. Yarly?”

  Quark checked the road ahead as he eased into neutral. When he turned back, the man was grinning, affable as an egg.

  “Is it you? Is it really you?”

  Quark scratched the back of his neck.

  “It’s good you came,” Yarly said in an uncertain tone. “Don’t mind the scuttlebutt, okay son? You ain’t dead and Thayer ain’t either, am I right?”

  Confused, Quark nodded. Why he was bothering to behave falsely, he had no idea, though he recognized a trait that always seemed pronounced in Bellfairie, the need to guard against revelation.

  “Where you off to?”

  “I thought I would stop at Nell’s before proceeding with my day.”

  “Yah, you don’t know, do you? She sold it after her son was kilt in the war. Cut his head right off.”

  “Wayne?”

  “Right off. You can watch it on the computer, if you want. Why anyone would, I have no idea.”

  For a while Wayne had been Quark’s friend, a skinny blond boy who grew into a handsome lad possessed of an easy attitude. Bellfairie fell into despair when he was reported missing, all those years ago, the summer they were twelve. Quark, who hadn’t played with him for a long time by then, sat on the rocks and wept, which might have been fodder for mockery had not everyone been similarly affected. When Wayne triumphantly returned, reportedly sailing home in an old bathtub with oars he’d stolen from his father’s woodshop, they had a celebration where he sat as head of the long table, his golden curls a halo in the candlelight, the Bellfairian bounty set before him—bruised oysters in half shells, mussels and clams stacked in wooden bowls with wedges of lime and lemon, platters of roasted corn and red potatoes dripping in butter—regaling them with the story of how, swept far out to sea, he heard the voice of the dead and was not afraid, at which point everyone paused to cross themselves. Where had he really gone, Quark asked, years later when they worked at the restaurant together, momentarily anointed by Wayne’s smile before he turned away without answering.

  “Didn’t mean to shake you up, son. You two would be round the same age, am I right?”

  Quark swatted the air, as if it didn’t matter.

  “Nell tried to keep it going but she was all adrift, burnt the fries, lost the payroll, one thing after the other like that, so she called it quits. She and Seamus still live up on the hill, and he still does his woodwork. Some inlanders bought it and called it a…watchamugger? A Sue she place? You can guess how that went. After they left, Dory bought it. Don’t worry about the sign. She just never got around to a new one. Menu the same as Nell’s. They tell me. I don’t have much occasion to go there, myself.”

  Quark couldn’t say if the sudden exhaustion he felt was brought on by the shock of Wayne’s death, the long ride through the night, the weight of not knowing where the Old Man was, or simply being back in Bellfairie with its overwhelming atmosphere of decay.

  “I will eat breakfast before I talk to Sheriff Healy. Do you need a ride?” Quark grimaced when he realized his mistake.

  Yarly shook his head no, as if responding to an ordinary question.

  Quark considered an apology, but decided it was probably best not to make a big deal out of it. He raised his hand in a goodbye salute, and continued down Seaside Lane. No other place like it, he thought. Though admittedly, he had not traveled widely. Bellfairie’s salty air nipped the tired muscles of his face, the ocean scent imbued, for as long as he could remember, with a stench like bilge water, the source of which he had never been able to identify.

  Scent of ghosts, he thought and almost missed his turn down Avalon, going too fast for that dip in the road which, o
ver the years, had only grown deeper. Naturally, nothing was done about it. To the citizens of Bellfairie a pothole was a matter of terrain, not a problem with a simple remedy but the inevitable erosion—impossible to combat—of life.

  If Bellfairie had a main street, Avalon, where the buildings leaned away from the ocean’s greedy maw, was it. Whenever Quark remembered it that way, he thought he must be exaggerating, but as he parked his truck he noted that the buildings clearly maintained a tilt. Even the flag jutted from its post office perch at a precariously low angle, its red and white fringed edge dangling above the ground. Only the bronze statue of the Birdman, aged to a blue-green patina, seemed unaffected by the pull inland, his arms stretched straight to the sky, talons spread wide to receive the seagulls that perched there and on the wings, ignoring Quark.

  I should leave, he thought.

  He reached to roll up the window, but stopped. Even with loose change right in the open, there was no need to worry about petty theft in Bellfairie, which was one of the town’s few charms. His legs stiff from such a long ride, he eased out of the driver’s seat and stood, rattling keys like a gambler with dice, taking in Bellfairie’s dismal remains, library and post office (their shared crooked stairs splattered with white drippings of seagull scat) the old dime store with a For Sale sign taped to its dusty window, the Brass Lantern, out of which, he imagined, its last rum-soaked patron stumbled at about the same time Quark looked down on the village from that height where it seemed like a place someone might want to come back to.