The Shipbuilder of Bellfairie Read online

  Quark shook his head. “You’ve made a mistake.”

  Healy tapped the page. “Eight.”

  Quark felt his jaw drop.

  “People tell me he was hard on you, son. Nobody blames you for staying away so long, but if there’s anything you been too afraid to tell—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, no, no.”

  It took several beats before he regained control, and by then it was too late; the sheriff was appraising Quark like someone reconsidering a purchase.

  “Well, all right, then,” Healy said and cocked his fingers into a gun. “Just keep in mind. If you recall anything—even a small thing—you come tell me about it. You’d be surprised what I can do with a clue. I know how things used to be around here. I know about Bellfairie so-called justice. It’s not like that anymore, all right? You come to me, if you remember something.”

  “I will be sure to notify you if I recall anything.”

  “In the meantime, don’t give up the ship. Everyone’s looking. He’s probably just sleeping off a bender somewhere.”

  Quark found himself tipping his hat as he made a hasty exit. It was a cool day, the sort of chill that went to the bones. In the distance, he heard the metallic clang against mast that filled him with longing. He decided to leave. It wouldn’t be as if he were abandoning the Old Man. Not really. No one was abandoned in Bellfairie. Everyone minded each other’s business too much, even if no one had minded his. He shoved his hands into his pockets, awkwardly hunched into himself as he listened to the distant waves, only broken out of his reverie by the scent of chocolate that wafted from the air vents of the candy store. He stopped to study the window display of caramel apples decorated with nuts, marshmallows and rainbow-hued gummy worms. He was tired, his bones ached and how was it possible he’d forgotten his own mother?

  “You really are some kind of freak,” the Old Man said, more than once.

  As tears rose to Quark’s eyes he realized the terrible thing wasn’t forgetting his mother, or even remembering the Old Man’s taunts, the terrible thing was what the Old Man said only once—when he was drunk—but still.

  “It don’t matter what you are, boy. Don’t you know I love you?”

  A grown man can’t cry in the middle of the street even in Bellfairie, unless at the scene of a car accident in which a loved one died, or some other irrefutably tragic occurrence. Quark dipped his head beneath the gray sky and turned down the nearest side street, immediately removed from the depressed shops and occasional baffled tourist. (No one came to Bellfairie on purpose, it was always a wrong turn in someone’s life.) He walked with downcast eyes all the way back to the house where his truck remained parked on broken glass, lopsided with the deflated tire.

  He stood for a long time, looking at the old homestead, but there was never any doubt, never any real doubt he would find that skeleton key beneath the rock, and enter the place he vowed never to return to. So tired, he collapsed onto the sagging couch without even pausing to remove his shoes or take in his surroundings before closing his eyes.

  He would not say he was home, but that he had arrived, and he would not say he loved the Old Man, or that that the Old Man loved him, but that once he had said he did. It wasn’t much, Quark knew. Probably wasn’t even enough. But it’s what he had. Not all his memories were bad.

  6

  He dreamt the Old Man tapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’m drowning.” It was a dream, not a portent, and even if it were, what did it portend? In the language of dreams everything could mean its opposite; a dream of rain foretold sunny circumstances on the horizon, a cat dream meant a dog would soon appear, and a dream of a wedding warned of a funeral unless it didn’t. Dreams could be predictions, omens, mysterious clues to the shipwreck of the mind, or utter nonsense. Yet, as Quark laid there, his shoulder tingling, he wondered if the borders had been breached. Was that why he felt he was being watched? He jumped back—or what he could do while reclined—thrusting neck and shoulders into the old couch, gasping at the female figure in the corner before he recognized her for what she was, a dark-haired figurehead with bulging eyes carved from wood.

  When Quark finally left Bellfairie, he rejected everything: the crooked streets that led to dead ends lined by abandoned store fronts, the rowdy sea, the language of moons, the God who spoke through weather, the old stories about shipwrecks, witches, bells, birds, and a cobblestone dragon. Still, he felt a tug of discomfort as he studied the figurehead’s profile, certain there was something wrong about her presence inside the house, some curse associated with such dislocation.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, assessing the surroundings he had been too tired to consider earlier. The Old Man’s chair with the small, cluttered table beside it, still faced the picture window. The plank-wood table, scarred by slips of the knife, defined the dining room such as it was, beyond that was the kitchen, another little table in the corner. Between the head (tucked under the stairs) and kitchen was the Old Man’s room, the door—in keeping with tradition—firmly shut.

  Quark guessed he’d slept through an entire afternoon and night, evidence of an exhaustion not warranted by a single disrupted slumber. He often suffered insomnia, a trait he had inherited. Funny that the first good rest he had in weeks happened in the place of so much turmoil.

  It occurred to him he could sit in the Old Man’s chair. Once gold, it had aged into piss yellow, the armrest nubby. How many mornings had Thayer sat with the shipbuilding book in his lap, pencil poised, staring out the window?

  A small, unidentified flutter drew Quark to peer through the early morning fog. He abandoned his seat to walk nearer to the glass. One can imagine so many things. She was only there for a moment, hovering above the shards, a woman he might have remembered. Or a Rorschach composed of mist and desire. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? She was gone.

  7

  He stood at the threshold of the room cast in a tarnished light filtered through drawn drapes, the narrow bed covered with faded yellow spread. He needed something to wear. What had he been thinking to come without a change of clothes? He hadn’t expected to stay more than a night. It had been impossible to believe his presence mattered. He felt a surge of terror when the floorboards squeaked as he entered the forbidden space, fearing the Old Man might come out of a dark corner roaring at the intrusion.

  He considered opening the dingy curtains, but decided it would be wiser to leave no trace of trespass beyond the reasonable endeavor of looking for something to wear, searching through the closet cluttered with a tangled net, deflated ball, old boots, bulging boxes, the meager wardrobe of threadbare shirts, a rack from which hung belts made of knotted rope and—strangely—a tie. Nothing would fit correctly, of course. In spite of Thayer’s domineering personality, he was a small man. When Quark opened the dresser drawers he briefly considered the dilemma of underwear, but that, he felt, was too much. He selected a pair of jeans, the kind the Old Man had always favored, baggy on him, snug on Quark, and a tattered T-shirt he suspected had once been white. He searched, in vain, for a button-down shirt with sleeves long enough to cover the scars that ensnared his arms like branches, finally settling on a flannel shirt he was unable to button, its cuffs dangling near his elbows. Once dressed, he peeked at his reflection in the spotted mirror but turned quickly away, as he usually did when confronted with his own image.

  While he had tried to let go of all its nonsense after he left Bellfairie all those years ago, Quark discovered its superstitions clung to him like barnacles. He often found his rational mind in dispute with the myth-imbued reality he was raised in and, that morning, could not help but think he needed to talk to a witch. Wouldn’t it all be so much easier if there was someone who knew the secret to unlocking his past and predicting the future? Wouldn’t it be nice if all it took to find the missing was a charm of bone and feathers? And wasn’t it actually wonderful that Bellfairie was home to someone who once upon a time had appeared to produce such magic?
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  Mrs. Winter had, in fact, been a frequent substitute at Our Lady of the Sea elementary school. In spite of her stature (small even to the children) she exuded a pronounced authority. When she presided, normal order was upended. Boys who usually wielded mean power were diminished under her gray gaze while Quark—transformed from fool to page—clapped chalk from erasers, retrieved things out of her reach, carried stacks of chairs to the basement for assembly. It wasn’t that she was sweet to him. She wasn’t sweet to anyone. Not even Nora Searers, who wore so many flowers in her curly hair she looked like a bouquet with legs (and was known to share her ample lunch with Doris Lehart) received anything more than the general courtesy Mrs. Winter delivered to all her students, apparently unaware of the trauma such equability caused.

  She didn’t follow lesson plans, much to the dismay of Mrs. Rallsorn whose difficult pregnancy caused frequent absences that year. (Though she always commented on how organized everything was upon her return, the chalkboard wiped until Quark could see the outline of his distressing reflection in it, trash cans emptied, papers neatly stacked, crayons sorted by color in bins at the back of the room, even the windows so thoroughly polished they had to hang charms to warn swallows away from the glass.)

  Once, Mrs. Winter taught them how to cut paper snowflakes, turning the classroom into a wonderland that—though reason told Quark wasn’t possible—produced an actual snowfall to drift from some mysterious source beyond the fluorescent lights.

  Another time she told them to close their eyes to make a secret wish, and that afternoon Quark walked the whole way home without harassment.

  *

  But his favorite memory was when she instructed them to set aside their history books so she could tell their truestory, as she called it.

  “I am sure you have all heard about the ancestor’s war,” she said.

  Quark held very still. He knew better than to shake his head the way other children did.

  “What are they teaching you?” Mrs. Winter asked.

  “The shipwreck,” said Doris. “That’s all we know.”

  “The ship’s wood was used for building,” Nora added, “but the bells sank.”

  “And mussels,” Quark blurted.

  “Muscles?” Mrs. Winter asked.

  “He means they ate mussels for their first Thanksgiving.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Cause they taste friggin delicious,” Tony said.

  The children laughed but Mrs. Winter sighed. “Bobby, check the door. Make sure no one is coming.”

  An immediate hush settled over the room, broken by the sound of Bobby’s chair scraping across the floor, and his footsteps as he walked to the door. “Ain’t no one coming,” he said.

  “Good. Turn off the lights.”

  Bobby shuffled back to his desk and the children turned to Mrs. Winter with the sort of full attention other substitutes asked for but never received.

  “The thing to understand,” she said, “is that all life is about the stories we tell. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Remember, if they try, that is a story too. The story of doubt. Choose carefully the stories you believe. The next important thing to know is that wars never end. After the battles for the flesh, there is the battle for minds.” When she pointed to her own head some children giggled.

  “Don’t be silly,” she scolded.

  “The story they tell you is that our ancestors were at war. They will say that our ancestors fought valiantly, and with honor. That part is true. It is also true that the enemy was as vicious and cruel as any ever known. They skinned alive those they captured and ate their flesh like common hunters.”

  “That’s not true,” Nora said.

  “Child, it is. Our ancestors were driven from their homes and chased to the sea in the ship of bells.”

  “You saying our ancestors were sissies?”

  “No Tony, I am not. There is no shame in escaping harm. Do you want to be skinned alive? I don’t think so. But the sea changes even the most docile folk. Survival is never free. When the ship of bells was set upon by pirates, our ancestors fought with the blood skills learned from their enemies. We don’t need to get into details. Our ancestors won, and became sovereign over two ships. The ship of bells sailed out but the other one returned to surprise the invaders. Those who returned, won their war, and those who sailed away lost their homes, their stories, everything.”

  “I don’t think you should be talking like this,” Bobby said.

  “Yes, well, you would say that,” Mrs. Winter sniped. “Do you want to hear this story or not?” she asked and, without waiting for a response went on to describe how, when she was child, a mysterious ship arrived in the waters off Bellfairie, its sails glimmering in the setting sun. The crew, dressed in white robes with sleeves that belled wide at their wrists and hoods caved so broadly around their faces only their extraordinary sharp noses could be seen, rowed to shore where they traded the blue stone they used as ballast for flour sacks filled with white sand, pots of beach bur and nettles, nets of starfish and oysters, baskets of cinnamon rolls, and tendrils of seaweed dotted with heart-shaped cockleshells. They communicated with long fingers that pointed out from the drape of their sleeves and, though they preferred their own company, seemed gentle creatures, gliding along the streets in spite of their large, wide feet.

  “Like beams of light that dance on water before sunset,” Mrs. Winter said.

  Then, one night, she was awoken by a cacophony of noise, brays and yelps, and a clattering that sounded so much like the stacking of stones she initially thought there had been a catastrophe of some sort.

  “I was surprised my sisters remained in their beds, and my parents still snored beneath their quilts. Only my kitten, new to the household, was awake when I tiptoed down the stairs, through the small rooms made blue by the moon.”

  She poured a small dish of cream for her pet before sneaking out the door to walk past the park and graveyard, up the winding path to the bluff that overlooked the folk gathered on the shore.

  “They had stripped off their robes,” she said. “They were covered in feathers, and their faces were beaked. I was so surprised I fell from that great height. I should be dead, you know, but several of them rose up—I realize this sounds impossible, but it happened to me so it is true—and one caught me in mid-air.

  “Their wingspan was massive. Twelve feet, at least. They flew out over the ocean and returned with squid and crabs and whatnot. One dropped several cuttlefish into my lap but when I just watched the little things, came back to eat them herself.

  “I was so young I didn’t even have enough sense to be frightened. When the sun began to rise, they donned their robes and prepared to row out to their ship. Through their gestures, I was made to understand I could leave with them.

  “But I went home the same way I left, on my bare feet, surprised, and maybe even a little disappointed, that no one noticed my absence. I tiptoed up the stairs and crawled into bed, not aware of the bloody footprints I left in my wake.

  “When I woke up that morning, my mother was standing beside my bed, asking if I was hurt. I told her what had happened. I showed her my feet, cut by the rocks. She bathed them in lavender and wrapped them in cloth. She said she was glad I had chosen home but, after that, whenever I tried to talk about the bird folk, she insisted I suffered from sleepwalking. That’s the story she chose. My grandmother, however, walked with me on the bluff and told me the true story. Our ancestors were bird folk who fled their homeland, all those years ago, in that ship of bells, so traumatized by what led them to leave in the first place, they stayed where they crashed. Over time, they forgot their own power and their own story. Sometimes the bird folk come back, my grandmother explained, to see if there is anyone who remembers, who wants to go home again, though that happens less and less over the years.

  “The true stories are in danger of being lost. Many no longer believe them. Life is like a mirror, I want you to understand. What you
see is a reflection of yourself. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t fly away,” she said, scanning the room to land her gaze on Quark. “You can.”

  “Remember now, be kind to all birds for they are your kin and to harm one is to be cursed.”

  Then she taught them how to fold origami birds they took out into the playground and released to the sky. Quark still remembered the sound of rustling paper as they circled overhead before flying away and how, the next morning, after the storm, Bellfairie was littered with shredded paper.

  None of it could be true, Quark knew. Still, he appreciated how—within the squall of all he could not recall, and the sad moments he did—he’d found this precious store of enchantment. Like the tale she told about the year so many men and boys were lost at sea that, for one generation, the population was composed mostly of women and children. (“Young ones, before that age when they start making real trouble.”) He was not unsympathetic to the misery such loss had caused, yet liked to remember that story for the comfort it gave him. What would it have been like to live then, he wondered, in a time ruled by women?

  Mrs. Winter had been able to make Quark, the boy, believe in a world beyond the one he was tormented in, for which he would be forever grateful. Yet Quark, the man, knew that the secret of her charm was simple whimsy. Still, if anyone had a question about ancestry or Bellfairie’s past—in the time before computers and DNA-by-mail analysis—she had been the person to ask. He didn’t believe Mrs. Winter, already old when he was a child, would still be alive, but thought it possible that, in Bellfairian fashion, her old house with the collection of newspaper clippings, might have been passed on to relatives. He dared to hope that Mrs. Winter, with her love of stories might have shared some about his family.

  Though the path was circuitous, Bellfairie was small enough that it was reasonable to describe any location as on the way to any other. By the time Quark realized he had misjudged his appetite and should have eaten breakfast first, he was standing before Wintercairn, as it was called, the cheerful red clapboard house nestled snugly between park and graveyard, a tendril of smoke curling from its stone chimney, so hungry he almost made an escape after the initial knock. If he had left then, everything would have turned out differently—perhaps even well—but the wooden door opened (without the usual warning of locks undone and chains undrawn that accompanied such events elsewhere) and he was caught with his hand raised in a fist, flabbergasted by Coral, the attorney, standing before him in a long white dress.