Saundra Mitchell - Mistwalker

But I’m in her thoughts. And that’s what matters.

If she’s anything like me, if she’s anything like the others in this chain of unfortunate souls, her thoughts will grow. She’ll dream me, and wonder about me, and polish all her considerations until she has to come. Until she has to stand before me: to touch me, to know my face.

And my face is beautiful.

Her face is light. That’s what they all are, out there. That’s what I see when I watch this village, cursed but never realizing it.

When it’s especially clear, and until lately, I’ve made sure it’s always especially clear, I can see the houses. Ivory and cranberry and blueberry and brown—they dot the hills, a delectable harvest in every season. I see the churches and their proud steeples. I see doors opening. Windows closing.

But the people—they’re no more substantial than the orchestra that plays in my music boxes.

They’re points of light. In the day, only the brightest ones, the ones that sail past my lighthouse, are visible to me. But at night, oh. I don’t look at the sky anymore; I watch the shore. All those souls are constellations that move.

Tonight, they’ve clustered together on the shore. A bonfire glows. It spits embers into the air. I’m imagining it, but I think I can smell the smoke. The sweet sea and a wood fire, all washed by the gathering mist.

I have nothing to do with it. If it comes, it comes. I’m done reining the elements for them. Instead, I watch them swirl across the beach. Jealously; I admit that. There are so many of them. They’re a cloud of fireflies. The bright ones dazzle, but they don’t interest me.

The dim ones make me ache. With my cursed eyes, I see only their lives, the length of them, the strength of them. If they’re long for this world, they grow bright. Short for it, and they’re much dimmer. There’s a few on that beach who may as well be dead. Soon, they will be. I ask sweetly in my thoughts, Could you die on the water for me?

It doesn’t matter if they drown. If they have influenza. If they come to blows, if they fire their guns, if some freak accident takes them—so long as they fall on the waves illuminated by my lighthouse.

My reach stretches twenty miles on every side but the landward one. At the stony shoreline, they’re beyond my reach. So if they could slip into the water before they breathe their last, it would be lovely.

It’s the least they could do for me.

I’ve been a good steward for this town; better than most. I’ve been honorable. They’ve had a hundred years of my generosity, holding back the fog. So many good days for them. So many clear days. I’ve been patient. In all this time, I could have blinded hundreds of fishermen. Led them astray, helped their pretty little boats crash into rocks, hidden coming storms.

Many would have; I understand now that Susannah drowned as many as she could before she realized that time and mathematics would betray her.

So I’ve been a true gentleman. I’ve cleared their skies. Not once in these hundred years have I killed anyone. I collected souls, but only those that came by accident and happenstance.

When I need it, there’s a wall-length cupboard below the gallery. It’s lined with glass jars.

Yes, in all my faery-tale certainty that I was meant to redeem myself on this island, I failed to acknowledge two things.

First, my dominion over the mists, and second, the jar cupboard. Ten years dragged on until a rowboat sank in the harbor. The jars chimed; they demanded my attention.

I uncapped one, and that soul all but collected itself. A hum filled the room, as if it were satisfied. And I, too, felt the faintest measure of peace. A taste of hope, a realization that I could free myself from this curse without any reflection on my character at all.

After all, the seas are voracious. Sailors and swimmers disappeared into them all the time. Except not so many as I thought. Not so readily. Until this summer past, I collected only two more souls. This summer, I finally raised that total to four.

Four in a hundred years. Rarely do I use my arithmetic anymore, but I can figure that sum.

Twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six years.

Longer than the course of all written human history. Longer than the memory of mankind itself. Thus, the anatomy of a perfect curse. It seemed possible. It hinted that I might keep my soul and morals yet. Simply let nature have nature’s way and benefit from it.

But no—there aren’t so many tragedies beneath my light as it might seem.

If I were to sharpen my teeth and learn to relish the prospect of drowning the innocent, I must be honest. There aren’t enough of them in Broken Tooth. If I cull them all at once, their families will flee my shores. None would sail beneath my light.

Clever, clever curse. Twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six years.

It’s been but a hundred, and I’m already sick of silence. Of magic. Of presents. Of kindness and generosity and honor and myself. Clutching the rail, I consider throwing myself over it. It’s a childish thought, stupid drama for no audience at all, and worse, it won’t make the slightest bit of difference.

The lamp grinds behind me, spinning ceaselessly. Its heat stings—I’m here, I feel it. But my body doesn’t break its beam. I am insubstantial.

Those lights on the beach have no idea I’m watching them. Wanting them. Plotting against them. Ignorant, every one of them—they dance; they sway. They’re just far enough away that I can’t enjoy their music or eavesdrop on their conversations.

Right now, I hate them more than anything. And I’m glad, so glad, that she’s thinking about me.

It didn’t take long to change my mind. To do the things I swore I would never do. Just one hundred years—but what is that in the face of twenty thousand, four hundred, ninety-six?

The party got to me before I got to it. Music echoed down the beach, and people were laughing. Somebody threw another log on the bonfire, and a cloud of fire swirled toward the sky. Silver ash drifted over the water, disappearing into the dark.

Across the waves, Jackson’s Rock loomed in fog and shadow. Couldn’t even see the slender body of the lighthouse, just the beam as it swung over us. The pines were brushstrokes jutting from the mist; the cliffs seemed to rise from nothing.

When the foghorn sounded, its call rolled through the dark and the haze. Like it was alive; like it might draw me across that light bridge and into the secrets of the Rock. Harbor bells rang, like church bells on a wedding day.

I stood for a minute, staring like I’d never seen my own harbor before.

My head was so clear; I wasn’t thinking about anything. Aware, yeah, of the six-pack dangling from my fingers, and the steamy scent of hot rocks and boiling water. But I was alone in myself for a minute. No guilt, or anger, or fear.

Then something glittered on the island cliff. My imagination rushed up to name it the Grey Man. Fantasy tried to fill in the shape I’d seen on Jackson’s Rock—out there, fishing alone, and that reminded me. I was guilty. Afraid. Angry. That’s all that put me on the beach. I gritted my teeth; going to this party was like going to war.

I was going to drink and laugh and dance. Burn my fingers on littleneck clams and steamed corn. If somebody wanted money for a grocery run, I had it. If Seth wanted to disappear into the caves with just us and a blanket, I was up for it.