Before I could reason it out, the dory finished its turn. I didn’t have to squint to make out the name on the stern. It was a tattoo, icy ink that pricked my skin.
Willa
Humming now, the lighthouse swung its beacon around again. The light sizzled on my skin, crackled in my ears. And the boat waited. It sat on the water like it was anchored, waves lapping around it.
My breath fell heavy as I peered into the distance. He was there again, the figure on Jackson’s Rock. It was too far away to make out a face, but I swore I saw one anyway. Dark eyes turned toward mine. Thin lips pressed together tight.
I had finally lost it. That was the only explanation. I’d gone away in my head to escape the real world. To forget the things I’d done. That’s why I caught the stern of the boat and stepped into it. It’s why I didn’t bail when it started to move, steered toward Jackson’s Rock unerringly.
Since it wasn’t real, I wasn’t afraid.
I landed on the far side of the Rock. My head ached, a distant pain that was easy to ignore. My bones knew I didn’t belong there, but the boat disagreed. It ground against the shore and stopped. It was strange how alive it felt, like it was vibrating. Urging me to get out.
As soon as I put both feet on land, the dory melted into the fog. I turned in time to see the path from island to shore fill. Hazy curtains closed behind me. If there was a mainland, a sea between this land and that, I couldn’t tell. The mist swirled on itself. It parted only for the island, opening up with the slope of the shore.
Pale light filtered through the trees. It wasn’t warmer or colder there, but I shivered anyway. Earth and water and the astringent sweetness of fir filled my nose. The light swung overhead again, heavy and real.
Shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket, I hiked toward an opening among the pines. The lighthouse was on the other side. It didn’t seem like a big island from the water. On foot, it stretched on forever.
As the pines grew thick, I realized the forest was too quiet. No flash of animals fleeing from me. No birds chattering from their nests. Branches shivered as I passed; they whispered behind me. It was perfect, the path strangely clear. If trees fell in this forest, they didn’t fall this way. Granite surfaced through the carpet of needles and underbrush, the island’s bones exposed.
I felt like I was walking through a diorama. Third grade, we all had to pick an incident from Maine history and build the scene in a shoebox. In Levi’s box, a Lego Leif Ericson stood on the Maine shore under a Viking flag.
In mine, snow fell on the Plymouth Company settlement in Popham, little matchstick settlers starving under the pines. My brother got an A; I got a note sent home and two visits with the school counselor.
But that was Maine to me. Beautiful to look at, and dangerous if you didn’t know it. Jackson’s Rock felt dangerous. I only knew its contours from the outside. From beneath the cliffs. Light shone from it, not on it.
The Grey Man is here, my thoughts sang.
And I didn’t argue. How could I? I’d seen him, sure enough. I’d dropped my ass in a bewitched boat and sailed without wind or oars or motor. The hair on my arms prickled, then my back tightened. Nothing competed with my footsteps. They were way too loud.
Walking sideways, I scraped my way down a hill and then stopped. I was small underneath the lighthouse. Up close, it was sturdy and thick, stretching for the sky. It didn’t look delicate anymore.
Gears drove the beacon, and I felt the hum of the light on my skin. It pressed into my ears and made me grit my teeth to keep them from rattling together.
And since none of it was real, I kept walking. At any time, I expected somebody to shake the snow globe, to wake me—to give me the shot that would take me back to the real world. Coming around the lighthouse, I wondered if it was a dream. The kind that dared you to wake up before you fell.
Silver curls of fog crept toward me. Fingers of it, slinking from between the trees. It slipped under my hair, cold against my neck.
The haze sharpened—it gathered. Like milk swirling into coffee, curves formed. Shades and shapes and angles, they became: black eyes, silver hair. A thin mouth, a sharp chin. A hand reached out to take mine.
“I thought you would never come,” he said.
Neither did I. Maybe in storybooks, there’s a right thing to say when you meet someone impossible. Or in dreams, because anything makes sense there. A lighthouse could be your church or your first-grade coat closet. But standing there, I felt his fingertips; they were rough. Real.
I was awake, and it was real. So all I had to fall back on was the memory of my mother teaching me manners. Once upon a time in Broken Tooth, when I was knee-high, meeting people she knew on the street. She taught me to shake hands.
She taught me to say, “Pleased to meet you.”
NINE
Grey
Suddenly, I have to make decisions.
Inwardly, I tremble. It’s too much emotion for my uncertain skin. I feel like I’m nothing but seams and cracks, waiting to break. On my plate at breakfast, I had no box, because I’d wished for a way to end it.
The magic that drives the curse ignores wishes that undermine it. In the beginning, I tried bargaining with it. Every day for a year, I wished for someone to come to the island, all for nothing. I’d written messages and put them in bottles, only to see the bottles melt to fog when they touched the water. I wished for freedom. Death. Anything.
Funny how literal magic can be—last night, I wished to end it. Nothing arrived on my plate. Instead a mistwalk from the island to the shore had opened and let her come to me. She came to me!
She’s on my island, and I finally see her the way Susannah saw me. Escape. She’s a door to unlock, and how best to do that?
It startles me that she’s not just light anymore. Across the waves, down in her boat, she is shaped light. But as I loop her arm in mine, I see every shade of her. She’s autumn in watercolor, hair and lips and eyes.
Cruelly, I will never know her fine details. This is yet another delight delivered by my curse: complete isolation. There will be no familiar faces for me, either at a distance or within grasp. I see Willa as if she stands on the other side of greased glass. She’s a shape. Colors. Impressions. Nothing more.
If she’s beautiful, I cannot discern it. Perhaps a blessing; if she’s ugly, I don’t know that, either.
“Come in,” I say, and she nods.
She’s no delicate thing in a wispy gown. She wears breeches and boots and doesn’t trail behind me. I know things have changed in a century. I’ve seen glimpses through strange windows, but she’s here. She’s real. She’s framed in the doorway to my lighthouse, letting her arm slip from mine.
Looking to me, she smiles curiously. “So who are you, anyway?”
That’s a question with too many answers. I’m a wraith that haunts the lighthouse. A son with no parents. A lover with no heart. There must be a right answer, so I wait for her to step inside. Let my home speak for me.
She stops in the foyer and tips her head back. My shelves climb the walls, filled with music boxes. They gleam and quiver. Each has a key that wants turning. Just like her.
Gesturing to my collection, I say, “Choose one.”