The young man was still unconscious. But his breathing had become stronger and more even. His face was tilted to one side, and through the bruises something of the boy himself now showed, a face more sweet than handsome. His ghastly pallor had eased into a nearly luminous albescence. Not the whiteness of bone or any flesh that Martin had ever seen but an eerie, almost iridescent overlay through which could be glimpsed all that lay beneath: shimmer of blood, spleen, ligaments, the heart’s chambers opening and closing. Martin felt a pang of amazed fear. Who was this boy? And what had saved him?
He tried to focus on the idea that this young man washed up on the shoals was very strange.
And, he thought, pulling up his old Windsor chair and sinking into it to spend the afternoon at the boy’s bedside, this boy—whoever he was, wherever he was, poised between death and waking, black ocean and Mars Hill—was quite the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He got up several times over the next few hours, to feed the woodstove and check on the boy. In late afternoon Mrs. Grose knocked on the front door, to remind him of dinner.
“Roast chicken,” she beamed. At her feet the pug yawned hungrily. “A nice fat one—”
“I can’t come.” Martin slipped out onto the porch and shut the door behind him. “Something—I’ve got something to do.”
Mrs. Grose’s eyes widened. “Are you sick? You should not be outside so much—” “No, no, I’m not sick.” He hesitated. No way to keep a secret at Mars Hill. Probably no way to keep a secret from Mrs. Grose, anywhere. “Listen—can I tell you tomorrow? It’s—it’s important, but I think I need to be by myself this evening.”
Mrs. Grose regarded him with her wise tortoiseshell eyes. After a moment she nodded. “Of course, darling. I will even save some chicken for you.” She retreated heavily down the steps, at the bottom turned, clutching her windbreaker to her bosom. “Be careful, Martin.”
“I will.” When she was out of sight he returned to his room to stand watch. He woke next morning, surprised by how well he had slept in his chair—no nightmares, no furtive whisperings. He stood, yawning, and stepped over to the bed.
The boy was still asleep. Carefully Martin drew the sheet down, to check on his myriad cuts. They seemed no worse, at least, than before. The unblemished skin around them still had that pearly sheen, but now Martin was more inclined to think that had to do with the antibiotic gel. He found his gloves and applied some more, took a clean washcloth from the basin and moistened the boy’s lips, then went to get more water. When he turned back to the bed, the boy was staring at him.
Martin dropped the washcloth, retrieved it and hurried to the bedside. “Are you all right? Are you—”
He bit his lip. The boy looked like death: how could he be all right? Beneath its gloss of ointment his face was battered and swollen. He blinked, bloodshot eyes mere slits beneath sunburned lids. He seemed to comprehend nothing around him.
Martin extended his hand so that it hung trembling a few inches above the boy’s head. “My—my name is Martin,” he said softly. “I found you. On the beach, you’d washed up. Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me your name?”
The boy closed his eyes. Martin lowered his hand until it rested upon the boy’s head. Beneath his gloved fingers the boy’s hair felt friable as dried kelp. “Can you tell me your name? Do you—do you remember what happened?”
The boy’s head moved. His mouth opened to croak a single word.
“Trip.”
“A trip.” Martin nodded. He lifted his head to gaze out the window at the bay. “On a boat? In the storm? Do you remember where you were going?” Gently he touched the third finger of the boy’s right hand, where the gold ring winked. “Do you have a family? Is there someone I can call?”
The boy tried to speak, was overcome by coughing.
Martin ran to the kitchen and found a plastic cup with lid and straw, relic of John’s last illness. He filled it with water and returned to the bedroom. “Here—just sip it, okay, don’t try to drink too much—”
He slid the straw between the boy’s lips and waited as he sucked at it, fruitlessly at first, then greedily as he tasted water. “Not too much!” cried Martin, but he smiled. “Better?”
The boy nodded. He looked around, but the effort was too much. A moment later he was asleep again. Martin spent the morning watching him. Whenever the boy stirred, he plied him with water, heavily laced with honey. Hours passed; the older man sat in his chair, looking in vain for some sign of recovery. A wash of crimson to the boy’s translucent flesh; murmured words; even an anguished moan. Anything that might tether him to that room.
But the boy hardly moved. His breathing was not labored. He barely seemed to breathe at all. Martin was afraid to probe for a pulse, the boy’s arms and neck were so badly lacerated. He finally resorted to clumsily holding a large gilt-framed mirror above the boy’s mouth. And yes, a faint fog appeared at last, so little breath, it seemed not enough to keep a mouse alive. Martin sighed with relief. The boy’s chest rose and fell. Martin could hear the sigh of air leaving him, a soft wheezing in his lungs. Almost surely the boy had inhaled water: he could be developing pneumonia. Martin fetched the plastic bin that held eight years’ harvest of medications and hurriedly rifled it, tossing aside morphine syringes, inhalers, empty bottles of AZT and erythromycin and crixivan. At the very bottom, buried beneath wads of sterile gauze and hospital-size tubes of antibiotic ointment, there was a package of penicillin ampoules. Martin squinted at the label.
It had expired over a year ago. He removed one of the ampoules and held it up to the light. It looked fine. Meaningless, he knew, and probably the drug was useless now; but he would chance it.
For several minutes he stood staring down at the wasted body within its nest of blankets. At last he took a deep breath and began searching for a spot to inject the drug. He found a place above the young man’s elbow where the skin was raw but unbroken. The antiseptic smell of ointment mingled with that of seawater as carefully he straightened the arm, stroking the pale turquoise tendril of a vein, then jabbed the ampoule against it.
He had not expected the boy to react. But he did, jerking his arm from Martin’s hand and gasping. Martin looked up, frightened, and saw the boy’s eyes fly open, his mouth agape. He coughed, then gagged, choking as Martin grabbed his shoulders and tried to restrain him.
“Wait!” Martin cried. “Please, don’t—”
He pushed him against the mattress. A nurse’s voice shouted in his head: Keep him upright, they choke on their own sputum. Horrified, he watched as the boy wrenched away from him, arms and legs moving convulsively as he thrashed at the edge of the bed, as though trying to stand. Without warning he coughed violently. A gout of water poured from his mouth. Martin stumbled backward. Slowly the boy raised his head and stared at him with burning eyes.
“Where is she?”
Martin raised his hands. “Who?”
“The girl—the dead girl—” The boy’s voice was like something dragged across stones. “Is she here?”
“I only found you—on the beach, outside.” Martin forced himself to ask as calmly as he could, “Can you remember anything? Were you on a boat? In the storm? Were there others with you?”
“They’re everywhere.” His pupils were swollen, his eyes wide and staring, though it was not Martin he saw. “They came through the holes—can you find her? Can you find her?”