Charles Grant: Night Songs

The wind lifted tatters of clothing, strands of reddened hair; the sea had withdrawn to expose a beach as smooth as it must have been before the island had its people.

"And what about Lilla?"

"If Matt's right and she stayed down there in the cave…"

Then she was dead, drowned. No sense in hunting despite the fact that he could not imagine her gone with the others. She knew about Gran and knew what the old man had taught her, even after her mind had finally hidden itself in madness. If she were still alive, she was dangerous, more than anyone would ever believe.

"What'll we tell the police?"

"The storm is out," Hugh said immediately, taking away his one decent solution. "It was never that strong, and they'd never go for it." He turned. "Colin, there has to be a disaster here. It has to be storm-related, but it can't be the storm."

The wind blew steadily. It was a breeze in contrast to the Screamer of the night before, but a wind nevertheless, and even as he rechecked the island he didn't know who had the idea first, who seconded it, who decided they wouldn't tell the others. But it started with the market-a fire that fed on the cartons and boxes, ceiling and walls, was curiously dull in the dull morning air as it sparked to the church, which torched the library, which turned trees to matches and caught the building Peg's drug store was in.

A house was started.

The Anchor Inn, where they assumed investigators would notice the wires from the traffic light fallen during the night.

A second house, just to be sure, and the wind did the rest.

Without a word, using gestures only, they drove back to Gran's shack and piled as many bodies as they could into the trunk, into the back seat. The Adamses they returned to their own house; Hattie went to the library; Tess to her front yard under the wreck of Colin's car.

Hours transporting the dead to their temporary graves.

Then they wrapped Garve in a sheet and rowed him out beyond the jetty. Colin remembered the night on the beach, just before Gran's funeral, and knew at least that Garve wouldn't be alone.

The body sank without floating.

The fire spread, filling the island with the sound of wood crackling, of windows breaking, of tree trunks steaming as the sap boiled and expanded.

Then they found the boat Garve had hidden, rowed through the smoke to the mainland, and watched the light for almost an hour before they began the long walk into Flocks.

A block outside town Lee shook her head. "I'm not going in there," she said. "They'll stare. The questions…"

It took the rest of the day to reach the other side, check into a motel with the money they pooled. They slept. They heard the news on the radio-electrical fires and the Screamer. A number of questions and the promise of investigations. They heard the cars filled with families who had fled on Thursday, and more filled with sightseers passing on the highway.

On the third day Hugh displayed a credit card. "This," he said, "is going to get me away from this goddamned morgue."

"What about Lilla?" he wanted to know.

"She's dead," he said simply. And he hitchhiked to the next town, rented a car, and returned for Lee. There were no good-byes, no tears. They checked out and drove west as fast as Hugh dared.

That night he and Peg sat in his room while Matt slept on the lumpy double bed.

"We have to do something," she said quietly. "We can't stay here forever."

She was pale, her hair without highlights, and she plucked endlessly at her shirtfront. "I'm taking Matt to my mother's for a while," she said in a rush. "I called her as soon as the news hit." She wouldn't look at him. "I had to. I couldn't let her think I was dead."

"Sure, of course." But why didn't you tell me?

She did look then. "I want you to come with us," she said. "I really do. But I can't let you just now." She shook her head. "These things are supposed to bring people closer together."

"Disasters do," he said. "I'm not sure about nightmares."

"I don't dream."

"Neither do I."

"Don't be mad."

"I won't be. This isn't like a plane crash, or a flood, or something like that. I'm…I'm trying to figure out how I feel, and I don't know. But, Peg, I can't go. Not until I'm sure."

"That's stupid," she said angrily. "It's done, for God's sake. It's done and I want to get away."

"Then do take the boy to your mother's," he said reasonably. "Take him, and I'll keep in touch."

They rose, embraced and kissed, and he still loved her. But he didn't try to change her mind. He only helped her get on a bus, watched as she climbed aboard and disappeared into the polarized dark. Matt stood beside him, holding his hand.

"You aren't going to forget me?"

"Hey, pal, you want me to shave your head?"

He smiled, of a sort. "You won't stay very long, will you? Mom's real sad you won't come. Me, too. I thought we were gonna be a family now." He frowned his puzzlement. "You gotta stay?"

"Just till I'm sure, pal, just till I'm sure."

Peg called to him softly as the bus's engine belched exhaust.

"Then listen," Matt said, pulling on his arm until he was kneeling beside him. They hugged, and Colin kissed his cheek, hugged him again. "Listen, I think everybody wasn't right about Lilla. She didn't let them get me. She really didn't."

"I know, I know." He stood. "You practice your drawing now, you hear? You be sure your grandmother lets you practice."

"I'll draw Lilla."

"A tree, the gulls, but I don't think your mother would appreciate a picture of Lilla now."

He pouted. "Nobody listened to me," he said almost angrily. "I kept saying she was a witch, but nobody listened."

They'd been over this ground a dozen times already, and Colin had exhausted himself trying to make the boy see that just because she befriended him didn't make her a saint. But he'd been too put upon by the other kids, for his art and his looks, and it wasn't surprising that he grabbed affection where he could.

"Time, pal," he said instead, and helped the boy up the steps.

And the following day Colin was gone as well, driving in a rented car toward Maine, not very far each day, less as each day passed, until as last he couldn't stand not knowing and returned to the motel.

From gossip and papers he learned of the inquiries, the few unanswered questions no one seemed to care about since the island wasn't a place people worried about for long. There had been funerals for the few bodies found in the burned houses and along the shore of the bay. And those who had left before, left again because rumor had it the island was haunted. Flocks laughed, albeit uneasily; fire and wind was better than anything resembling magic.

Lee and Hugh returned two weeks later. They walked into his room, he embraced Lee and shook Hugh's hand, and they said nothing because there was nothing to say.

The watch began on Christmas Eve.

Peg and Matt returned the day after Christmas, and there were smiles and laughter and an exchange of simple presents. He rode each day to the landing and watched the island turn to winter.

Three hours.

He lowered the binoculars and let himself sigh as loudly as he could, as though at last the nightmare were expelled from his lungs. No boats had gone there, no sign of life, nothing at all.

He supposed it was a form of therapy, and he didn't mind that it had taken so long. Tonight he was going to treat them all to the best dinner he could afford, and they would sleep without lights, and tomorrow they would leave this damned place behind.

He dragged the nail keg back to the shed, and after a moment's thought buried the gull by the threshold. Then he returned to his spot and looked at the place where he'd thought he'd found a home, and understood-he hoped-that his home was at the motel with Peg.