Metal screeches against glass as, slowly, the jar’s lid turns.
He’s learned not to climb too soon after flopping onto the floor.
It takes some maneuvering, just sliding out, placing the lid silently; then the monumental effort of getting up. Bending at the waist. Trying not to slip, water sluicing down his arms, his naked gooseflesh. Waiting for the blood to rush, the spots in his vision to clear. The pins and needles in his rump, legs, and feet to stop stabbing. The burning ache in his joints to ease. A puddle dries around him as Aitch stretches tip to toe, luxuriating in the sensation of being long.
Time, however, is short.
When it’s safe — raw feeling returned, limbs pliable, balance more or less restored — he creeps across the room to collect his crayons and a sheaf of blank paper. He stops frequently to catch his breath. To listen. Through the roar and hiss of nausea, he hears the Aunts singing, their rhythms redoubled in the wind outside.
He can’t scamper the way he did years ago, but follows the same route up the bookshelves now as then. There’s no ladder, though the cases are more than twenty feet high. No matter. Aitch is small, a flimsy wool boy, shrunken and felted from too much time in the water. The mahogany boards are sturdy enough.
At this height, dust blankets every surface. He could feel, but hadn’t quite realized, how long he’d been bottled. Chalk and pastel powder shows through the thick layer of grey. Sticks of color await Aitch’s touch. Around his secret drawing-place, beneath the moonlit porthole, favorite volumes are splayed, spines cracked, pages well-thumbed. On hands and knees, he shuffles from the top of one case to the next, careful not to knock any books to the floor. He tries not to, can’t help but, look down. From here, his glass prison looks so tiny.
Halfway around the room, he stops below the round window. Steels his nerve and peers out.
Chimneys dominate the landscape, near and far. Cold scratches point skywards from village rooftops, leading his eye to the refinery’s smokestacks, a dozen or more thick pillars spewing clouds of ink between the stars. Closer, to the right, a breakwater describes the harbor. Aitch drops his gaze quickly, avoids taking in the reef, the ever-churning sea.
Don’t be frightened, the Aunts told him, long ago, when they used to promenade through the fish markets on the wharves, Aitch by their side, harnessed and leashed.
Born liquid-breathing, as you were, one began.
Encauled, interrupted her sister.
Shrouded in brine, the first went on, inhaling the most profound essence of life—
A natural water-baby—
You should feel, said the Aunt — and Aitch remembers the moment stretching then, as he’d stopped on the rough jetty, the splinters in his bare soles forgotten, chest swelling with pride and hope and the memory of love, of Mother calling him special, believing, suddenly, that the Aunts thought so, too, that they wanted him, that he was special — but they weren’t looking at him at all. As she’d continued, the Aunt’s gaze was unfixed, irises full of the deeps. You should feel—
An affinity, supplied the double.
Gratitude, said the other Aunt firmly. To be forever submerged, to be reunited . . . A shimmer in her eyes then, a ripple of emotion as she’d turned, Aitch finally in her sights. Was it reverence in the quivering cast of her features? Jealousy? Disappointment?
Not admiration, Aitch had known, certain as the stone in his guts.
Not love.
Be thankful, she’d said, breaking the spell. Soon you’ll always be in your element.
That’s where Nick Pierce’s family moors their dory, the Aunts had said that day, playing tour guide on the wharves. Perched on his bookshelf inside the lighthouse, Aitch now draws absent-mindedly: the vista before him, the ghostly one superimposed in his memory, the landscape risen in dreams. That’s Luelly’s tackle and bait stall, the Aunts had said, pointing to an open-sided booth, boards reeking of worms and fresh paint. That’s the last of Marsh’s fleet. Over there is Southwick’s berth. The old seafarer himself had sat on a low stool, shucking shells into a pail. The sails on his brigantine had been tightly furled, flags limp on its masts. The haul more than half unloaded.
The scritch-scritching of pastels on paper intensifies; thoughts are channeled into images and signs, filling sheet after sheet.
Southwick had given him an oyster. The sailor had smiled at the face Aitch pulled when the slimy glob slid down his throat. Great black beard like a puff of steam, heaving as he laughed. Aitch renders it in charcoal smears and swirls.
He tries to write the captain’s name, but the letters come out all wrong, curves and crosses misaligning. After countless hours sneak-reading the Aunts’ books, Aitch has developed a strong sense for words . . . but, lately, they won’t stick in his head. On paper they’re moth-eaten, bad as initials.
Pictures arrive clear and fast.
Some he replicates, based on those tucked away in the Aunts’ library: pen-and-ink sketches of submarines, volcanoes, whales; etchings of distant islands, stone-carved idols, long-lost tribes; full-color anatomies, endless species of fish, barbed lures. Others he cannot explain. Images and lyrics appear full-formed in the darkness, as though projected into his mind. Urgently, he records strange hieroglyphs. Maps to as-yet-uncharted provinces. Constellations and moons never seen.
Tonight, he can hardly keep up with the onslaught. It’s been too long since he’s climbed, since he’s played; the pages practically fill themselves. Tidal waves and ships. Tunnels and caverns. Darkness scribbled in, claustrophobic, with bright sinuous streaks slithering towards the margins . . . Aitch draws and draws, arm aching and smudged to the elbow. Before one picture drifts off the ledge, floating to the floor, he has already begun the next.
He does not notice the quiet, until it is broken.
Key against iron, the bolt shunts. Hinges squeal as the door opens. Two sets of heels click-clack into the room. The Aunts skirt around the lidless jar, stepping over small puddles, mouths thin lines of disapproval. How can it have gotten so late, Aitch wonders, resisting an urge to look outside, to search for sunrise. Dropping pencil and paper, he freezes, vainly hoping to blend into the shadows. Below, the Aunts sigh, nostrils flared. They bend and retrieve the discarded drawings, each gathering a sizable stack. At first they afford the things little attention — but as the moonlight strikes the topmost illustrations, their glances linger. Studying the hurried doodles, they communicate with nods and clicks of the tongue. They flick through the papers. Quick, quicker.
Just when Aitch begins to feel the tension in his belly ease — they’ve overlooked him, surely — the Aunts cock their heads and squint at his roost. Brows furrowed in concentration, not anger.
“Aitch,” the one on the left begins. “You are—”
A gift, Father had said.
So special, said Mother.
“—not designed for heights. You are not a bird. Come now, child. Continue your work down here.”
Stomach churning, the boy lowers his supplies, reacquaints his feet with the ground. Booty in hand, the Aunts turn their backs.