Scott Nicholson - Ashes

She arose from nowhere, as pale as the sand. Dark hair spilled across her pretty face, and her eyes were in black contrast to her skin. Her dress was Victorian-era, long-sleeved and elegantly white, the waistband high, the shoulders and hems sewn with lace. She came forward from the shadows and held out her hands.

She was young, probably eighteen, though her hair was not at all of modern fashion. For a moment, I thought she and some of her friends might be having a costume party on the shore, gathered round the bonfire with guitars and wine and laughter before coupling off for sandy sex. But her expression was far too serious for a beach party refugee's.

"Please, sir, there's a wreck in the bay," she said, her voice tremulous but strong. "Can you help?"

"Pardon me?" I said.

"They're out there," she said, waving a wild hand to the east. "The Walker Montgomery ran aground, forty hands on her, sir. Our men shoved off in the boats, but now I fear they, too, have found trouble. They have been gone so long, sir, so very long."

Her eyes brimmed moistly in the glimmer of the sallow moon. I shook my head, sure someone was playing a prank on me. They must have seen me and taken advantage of the isolation at my expense. I fully expected her companions to emerge from the darkness, laughing boisterously, then inviting me for drinks.

But her eyes stared, beautifully haunted eyes, eyes that bore into me like harpoons. No mirth was hidden in them. She touched my arm, and her fingers were cool. "Help them," she said. "Help him."

"Him?" I said stupidly.

"My Benjamin," she said. "At helm of the lead rescue boat."

I held my hands apart. "I… I don't understand."

She pulled on my sleeve, her hair shielding her eyes. "There's another boat by the bay," she said. "Perhaps you and I, working the oars together, can reach them in time. Please hurry, before the storm takes them all."

There was no storm. The waves broke on the shore in their eternal, soft wash of sound. The wind was hardly strong enough to raise a kite. But something in her voice made my heart beat faster at the same time that my blood chilled. The moon was suddenly swallowed by the high clouds.

"Follow me," she said, turning and heading between the gravestones into darkness.

I stood where I was, then glanced back at the three-story house where I was staying. A dim light shone there, perhaps the candle I had used for reading. When I looked back, she was gone, and though I ran some distance through the sand, I couldn't find her.

Just then the wind gained speed, the clouds divided, and the quarter-moon's glare bathed the beach. The bay was barren and calm. There was no sign of the lady in white, not even a footprint in the wet sand.

Somewhat disconcerted, I finally made my way back to the house. I went upstairs to the room where I had spread my sleeping bag and laid out my books and laptop. The candle had burned down to half its length. I must have been out on the beach for hours. Numb, I crawled into the bag and sought refuge in sleep, images of her beautiful face dominating my restless thoughts.

In the morning, I laughed at my strange dreams and laid out a few more of my supplies. I opened a tin of fish and ate an apple, then spent an hour at the keyboard, typing my impressions of yesterday's debarkment. Satisfied that I had given my editor a good start for her money, I changed into shorts and a light shirt and headed into the heart of the ghost town.

As I walked past the vacant homes and blank windows, I felt as if eyes were upon me. I even shouted once, a great questioning "Hello," still not convinced that the island was completely uninhabited. Nothing answered me but a keening gull's cry.

I found the ranger station, but it was securely locked, the doors and windows barred with steel. Next to it was a building that must have been a general store, for it had benches and a watering trough out front, and assorted rusty hooks and hangers covered its front wall. The interior was desolate, though. I walked past the long, collapsed counter to where the rear of the building opened onto a pier.

I pushed the door aside from where it dangled on warped hinges, then went to the end of the pier. The Atlantic was laid out before me, bejeweled and glorious, a million diamonds on its surface. I looked out across the bay to the protective cup of dunes four hundred yards away. Then I recalled the previous night, and for the briefest of moments, I saw a clipper, its bulkheads shattered, the prow tilted toward the sun, the sails like tattered ghosts. I blinked and the illusion passed. I laughed to myself, though sweat pooled under my arms.

The day grew rapidly warm, and since the tide was calm, I removed my shirt and shoes and jumped into the water. After a swim, I returned to my makeshift studio, regretting the lack of a shower. I ate a ready-made lunch, then gathered my camera to make the four-mile journey to the island's southern tip.

As I walked that narrow barrier island, I discovered why all the settlement was on the upper end. The land was little more than a grim cluster of dunes, with swampy pockets of trapped water scattered here and there along the interior. They weren't the vibrant, teeming swamps such as those in Florida. These were bleak, lifeless pools where only mosquitoes seemed to thrive. The parasitic insects set upon me in clouds, and I spent more time beating them away than I did finding suitable photography subjects.

I gave up barely halfway to my destination because the scenery was so hopelessly unvarying. I decided I'd capture some sunsets and sunrises instead, to focus more on the grandly archaic buildings and the Portsmouth beaches. I slogged back to the abandoned town, hoping to write a little more before dark. But I couldn't concentrate on my work. Instead, I stared out the window as the fingers of night reached across the town, thinking of my dream woman and comparing her beauty to that of all the other women I'd known.

Restless, I walked the beach at gray dusk. I kept to the Atlantic side, along the bay. I was nearing the old store when she came from the darkness beneath the pier. She wore the same dress that had graced her gentle curves on the previous night. Her fine hair fluttered in the wind, and rarely had I seen such a fine creature. Her pallid skin was the only flaw, the only thing that separated her from perfection.

Once again her dark eyes searched me, silently begging. "Can we go now?" she said. "They must surely be near drowning."

I had decided that perhaps she had lived on the island for some time. And though I had convinced myself that the night before had been a dream, a part of me had been hoping it was real, that I might have a chance to gaze upon her lovely likeness again. And there she was before me. "Where are they?" I asked, nearly breathless.

She raised her hand and pointed across the bay to where a streak of moonlight rippled across the water. "See them, oh, what a terrible storm."

And for an instant, I saw, waves rearing fully fifteen feet high, the rain falling in solid silver sheets, the longboats tossed on the angry ocean like bits of cork in a storm grate. I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Please hurry, sir," she said. "My poor Benjamin is out there."

She brushed past me, grabbing my hand. She was solid, not a mere captivating vision. My senses swirled, sound, touch, and sight all confused. I was as enthralled by her beauty and nearness as I was mortified by the vision of the storm. I let her pull me along, her hurried entreaties competing with the roar of the vicious wind. In those moments when I could take my eyes from here, I glanced at the shoreline ahead of us.

A boat lay beached on the sand, the tide frothing around the stern. The waves grew in force, slapping angrily and reaching farther and farther up the beach. The first drops of rain needled my skin, but the sky was nearly cloudless. I didn't question any of the impossible events. I thought of nothing but the delicate yet strong hand that gripped mine, and how I hoped it would never let go.