Taking Jenny HomeCarolyn Kane

Was Jenny White an innocent victim—or a death spirit?

TAKING JENNY HOME

TAKING JENNY HOME

Carolyn Kane

Cover and frontispiece art by Charles Peterson

New DubliN Press

Taking Jenny Home

Copyright ©2010Carolyn Kane

First printing December 2010second printing March 2013

Taking Jenny Home is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author.

isbN 978-0-615-42302-9

Printed in the USA by JK Creative Printers, Quincy, Illinois • www.jkcreative.com

This book is dedicated to the memory of

Dr. Ben Kimpel

scholar and teacher par excellence

who introduced me to Manannan Mac lir

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

loki—lOH-kee

Habbamoka—Hah-bah-MOH-kah

Manannan Mclir—Ma-NAN-an Mc-leer

rusalka—roo-sAlK-ah

Tuatha De Danann—TOO-ah-ha day Duh-NAHN

TAKING JENNY HOME

PART ONE: MAY EVE

CHAPTER ONE__________________________

The Ballad of Jenny White

written, performed, and recorded by billy shakespeare

Walking along a dusty road On Merlin’s Island, stark and wild,I heard a cry that pierced the wind, And came upon a stumbling child.

Her sea-green dress was streaked with blood; Her face was pale as ocean foam,As in a trembling voice she said, “My name is Jenny; take me home.”

But who can cross the churning straitsWhere mermen fear to roam?And who can face the stormy blastAnd bring our Jenny home?

If I should live a thousand years I won’t forget her standing there,Her black curls tumbling in the wind, White ribbons fluttering in her hair.

Her voice broke down in choking sobs,

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And in the distance I could hearThe fatal waters of Raven Head Tearing at the rocky shore.

But when I reached my hand to her She shrank away from me and fledThrough Merrywood on Dancer’s Path Toward the cliffs of Raven Head,

Toward a house of crumbling stone That towered dark against the skyWith sagging porches, crumbling walks, Black windows like a skull’s blank eye.

She vanished screaming in the dark And left me standing all aloneUpon the cliffs of Raven Head, The unforgiving walls of stone.

And who can cross the churning straits Where mermen fear to roam,Or answer to the howling dark?Who dare bring Jenny home?

__________________________

Kaitlin Delaney shivered as she made her way cautiously along the cobblestone beach. A cold breeze stirred, and thunder growled in the distance. Half an hour ago the sky had been cloudless blue, but the weather around Merlin’s island was notoriously fickle. without a moment’s warning, clouds had billowed up from the mainland and over legend Hill, casting a shadow across the water to wolf island and the horizon beyond. Kaitlin clutched her umbrella and wished that she had also brought a sweater—or better yet, a sturdy raincoat. she could hear Papa-Fitz saying thoughtfully, “well, the weathermen in bangor have the latest equipment, i guess, but if they ever tried

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to set up a station here on Merlin’s island, their scanners would explode after about a week.” The smooth rocks shifted treacherously beneath Kaitlin’s feet. if the tide had been low, she could have walked or even run easily on the wet sand at the water’s edge, but at high tide the sandy beach vanished beneath the waves. Kaitlin would never forget her first attempt to take a stroll along the cobblestone beach at high tide. she had taken three steps and suddenly her arms were flailing madly as she struggled to keep her balance. it was like trying to walk on water. Much as she wanted to reach home before the storm began, Kaitlin walked slowly, watching every footstep. For two days people had been telling her, “break a leg,” but she had no intention of taking their advice literally, not on the opening night of her performance as Princess Malingria in The Princess and the Pea. Papa-Fitz had written the script himself, and it had been his idea to make the princess a hypochondriac. Kaitlin’s teacher, Mr. Finch, had composed the music for Papa-Fitz’s song lyrics, and Kaitlin wanted to make them both proud. besides, her favorite cousin Kirk had won permission to miss a day of school, come all the way from boston to the Maine coast, and applaud her performance. The cold breeze had become a gusty wind when Kaitlin reached the shore path, broke into a run, and came close enough to her house to read the sign that hung from the railing of the veranda:

THE YELLOW HOUSEA Seaside Inn

Vacancy

Her shoulders sagged. No surprise: there was always a vacancy at the Yellow House. And to add to Kaitlin’s annoyance, her mother’s hanging basket of red geraniums had vanished from its hook on the signpost. who would be petty enough to steal a basket of flowers? Tourists, probably—people “from away” who had come by boat or ferry to gawk at the accursed island for a

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day and who were glad to take a free souvenir but lacked enough nerve to spend the night. warily Kaitlin studied the foaming gray-green waves. she found it easy to imagine that sea monsters might be lurking out of sight beneath the foam, scaring the dolphins and frightening the mermaids back into their undersea caverns. Her thoughts returned to the bedtime stories that Papa-Fitz used to tell her when she was still young enough to believe in monsters under the bed—not the usual fairy tales read dutifully out of a book, but her father’s own creations, wild adventures that he concocted from bits and pieces of shakespeare’s plays, wagner’s operas, Irish folklore, and just about everything else. Kaitlin had laughed at the escapades of the mischievous fairy known as Puck; she had wept for Melissina, the beautiful water sprite who yearned to live and love as a human being. And she had listened attentively to the adventures of loki, the Norse god of fire. He had begun his career as an energetic mischief-maker, and sometimes even a crafty hero, but as time passed, his pranks became more and more destructive until he became the embodiment of pure evil. Kaitlin’s favorite stories were about the wizard Manannan Mac lir, guardian of the isle of Man and protector of the irish people—“a hero with hair the color of sunlight and the tenor voice of an angel,” as Papa-Fitz had described him, “the strongest, most magical of all creatures of the sea.” This gentle wizard lived on an invisible island far across the ocean, and he could change shape at will: he was a dolphin in the sea, an eagle in the sky, a stag with silver antlers on land, and a bear in the forest. sometimes, too, when he wanted to visit the human world, he would travel across the ocean in a boat drawn by enchanted swans—but he could live among men and women only when someone on the shore was ready to welcome him, and he could remain only until his mission was completed or until somebody learned and revealed his identity, whichever came first. His race, the Tuatha de Danann, had been driven from ireland long before human history began, but some people believe that Manannan and the last of his tribe of wizards are alive to this day and that he still

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appears in one of his many forms whenever a good irish man or woman is in dire need of a hero’s assistance. And if he’s really out there somewhere, Kaitlin thought to herself, this would be a good time and place for him to show up. she sighed and brushed her windblown hair away from her eyes. in misty weather her dark auburn ringlets curled so tightly that people back in eden Meadow would sometimes ask her disapprovingly, “Aren’t you a little young to be seeing a hairdresser?” she climbed the flight of stairs from the beach to the veranda, an effort that took almost as much care as a walk on the beach, because the rocky steps were uneven and steep, and there was no banister. A crow cawed and flapped away from the top branch of a nearby pine tree. Kaitlin pulled open the heavy front door, went into the great room, and glanced around, trying not to notice the fine layer of dust on the piano or the cobweb that hung in the corner behind the check-in counter. A row of windows ran the length of the east wall and offered a sweeping view of wolf island and the darkening sea and sky—and with such a view, should anyone care that the windows needed washing? A fire crackled on the hearth; lighted oil-burning lamps glowed on the mantle and the piano; and a wire basket of candles hung on the wall (electricity on the island was no more reliable than the weather). Her mother’s own oil painting of the black Harbor lighthouse hung above the fieldstone fireplace, and a basket of books sat between the two armchairs near the fire. Kaitlin thought of the bicycles in the garage, waiting for any visitors who might want to explore the island, and of the thick terrycloth bathrobes that hung in the guests’ closets, perfect for snuggling on a cold night. Everything an inn needs, Kaitlin thought, except guests. The inn was strangely quiet except for the rustle of paper in her father’s office. The calendar on the check-in counter stood open at April 30—May Eve, Papa-Fitz liked to call it. in his bedtime stories, May eve had always been a festival night for wizards. when Kaitlin went into Papa-Fitz’s office, she tripped over a green plastic monster that her toddler brother had left in the

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doorway, and she had to grab the door frame to keep from sprawling face-down on the floor. Papa-Fitz looked up from his desk. “Careful there, Trouper,” he said with a smile. “let’s not get carried away with this ‘break-a-leg’ business. You’re home a bit early, aren’t you?” “i got a ride part of the way. Mr. and Mrs. Finch dropped me off at Pilot Grove.” “Well, it looks like you got home just ahead of a bad storm. The Coast Guard issued a small craft advisory a few minutes ago. i hope Kirk’s ferry makes it here in one piece.” Kaitlin shrugged. “Oh, the Coast Guard issues an advisory every five minutes. i’ll bet the sun is out again by the time Kirk’s ferry gets in.” “we can hope so, Trouper,” said Papa-Fitz, glancing worriedly out the window, “but from the looks of the sky, i’d say we’ll have to move the play indoors tonight.” He turned back to Kaitlin and smiled. “so—how was school today? Did your theatre group have the usual awards ceremony?” “Yes, and it was so funny!” Kaitlin pulled up a chair, sat down beside her father, and summoned her most carefree smile. lately she had taken it upon herself to repay her father by telling stories of her own—no tales of magic and adventure, unfortunately, just stories about her days at school and afternoons at rehearsal, but perhaps they could help Papa-Fitz forget his worries for at least a few brief minutes. “Charles got the ‘best actor’ award—no big surprise there. Then i read a poem called ‘Ode to the Production Crew, or, who Needs Dynamite?’ Kirk gave me the idea in one of his letters—he even thought of some rhyming words. it must have been a pretty good poem, because Melvin laughed so hard he fell off the stage and hit his head on a folding chair, and Mrs. Finch actually screamed—right in front of everybody”— The telephone rang, interrupting Kaitlin in the middle of her story. Papa-Fitz fumbled with his calendar. (A computer sat on his desk, but it was turned off; high-speed internet did not exist on Merlin’s island, and neither did cell-phone service.) “Yes, we have a vacancy on June the fifteenth,” he said into the telephone. “No, we don’t serve dinner, but the Captain’s Table is only a short

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walk away; you can get a nice dinner there…well, if we do have ghosts on Merlin’s island, i’ve never seen them…No, the island wasn’t named after Merlin the wizard; it was named for Frank Merlin. He was a rich corset-maker back in the nineteenth century…” Kaitlin knew all too well what the reservation book contained: a smattering of reservations for June, a somewhat larger smattering for July and August, and only one weekend completely booked—Homecoming, the third weekend of August. “Of course the season hasn’t really begun yet,” Papa-Fitz would say with a thin smile, “and when business picks up, maybe we can hire a couple of college students to help keep this big house tidy.” but Kaitlin had learned enough about inn-keeping to know that a successful inn—one that was featured on the covers of glossy full-color magazines—would be booked months ahead for July and August, and for the weekends in september and October. by the time Papa-Fitz hung up the telephone, Kaitlin had lost her patience. “it’s that stupid, stupid song that scares people away!” she exclaimed. “Thanks to billy shakespeare, the tourists are all afraid of Jenny white with her bloody dress and her silly little fluttering white ribbons!” “Oh, i’m not so sure, Kait,” said Papa-Fitz. “usually it’s the haunted inns that do the best business. One of my books even says that an innkeeper should get up in the middle of the night and slam a few doors and flush a few toilets, just to convince the guests that a ghost is hanging around.” “Maybe so, but i wish i could meet Mr. billy shakespeare so i could kick him!” Papa-Fitz considered for a moment before he answered. “Oh, it’s hard to tell about people, Trouper. Maybe this billy shakespeare—or whatever his real name is—actually thinks he and his music are doing the world a big favor.” “A favor? How? what kind of a favor?” ”i guess you’d have to ask Mr. shakespeare about that. but i can tell you this: when i was young and foolish, back before i published my first book of poems, i wrote a column for the newspaper back home in eden Meadow, and i said a lot of things

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that made people mad. One of the town councilmen actually called me on the telephone, said he would come to my office and throw me out the window, right through the glass, and make a big mess on the sidewalk.” (Kaitlin could not help smiling at this.) “And i guess i hurt a few people in those days; probably i did more harm than good. but me, i thought i was some kind of hero” (here he flexed his muscles). “i thought i was superman, standing up for truth and goodness. And if i hurt people, well, they deserved it. They never should have had the bad sense to disagree with John Fitzpatrick Delaney.” He smiled and closed his calendar. “Most of us start out foolish, Kaity, but that doesn’t mean we’re bad people.” His expression grew dreamy. “And at least i got to be a hero to your mother.” He looked fondly at Kaitlin. “Don’t worry about a thing, Trouper. we’ll be fine, in spite of this billy shakespeare. remember, poets and irishmen always land on their feet.” Kaitlin still wanted to kick billy shakespeare, but she managed a brave smile. she tried to imagine her father as superman in a flowing red cape—an impossibility: even in his wedding pictures, Papa-Fitz was stocky and baldish, shorter than any of his groomsmen and barely as tall as the bride. Outside the wind was growing stronger, the sky darker. The emptiness of the house made Kaitlin uneasy. “speaking of Mom, where is she?” “she went over to Village Hill to buy some of Kirk’s favorite foods, and she took shadow and the little guy. Nice for Kirk; i doubt if he’s had a tasty meal since—well, since the last time he came here to visit.” “I hope she remembers to buy several jars of pickles,” Kaitlin said with a smile, “and a gallon of hot sauce.” The telephone rang again (it was an old-fashioned telephone that actually rang instead of bleeping), and this time the caller was a printer who wanted to talk about the price of brochures. “My wife can do the illustrations,” said Papa-Fitz, “but i guess we’d better stick with black-and-white instead of color until business picks up.” Kaitlin decided to let her father work in peace. she slipped out of the office and climbed the back staircase to her

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bedroom, which was tucked under a gable on the third floor. she glanced at the new watch that Papa-Fitz had given her on her twelfth birthday and decided that it might be a good idea to lay out her costume so that she could change quickly after dinner. The room was tiny, but Kaitlin loved it because of the canopied bed and the French windows that opened onto a little balcony—more of a ledge with a railing than a balcony, but still it was Kaitlin’s private place, which she shared only with the seagulls and the wild ducks. From this perch she could see the shimmer of the ocean through the surrounding pine trees and hear the plash of waves on the sand, the rustle of the incoming tide, and, on stormy days, the crash of breakers against the rocky shore. small as it was, the room was fit for a princess from one of Papa-Fitz’s stories—a princess reduced to poverty, perhaps, but still a princess. Oddly, the closet was almost half as big as the room itself. Papa-Fitz suspected that the small bedroom had once served as a butler’s pantry. when Kaitlin walked into her room, she heard the French windows rattling ominously in the wind and the splatter of raindrops against the glass panes. Maybe the weatherman was right for once, she thought; maybe this time a dangerous storm would actually materialize. As she bolted the windows shut, she pictured Kirk’s ferry tossing amid wind and rain. she thought back to the day when her father had first driven the family van down the ramp from the ferry and onto the bumpy roads of Merlin’s island. she remembered how she had grown frightened when her father made a wrong turn and became lost on a dirt road that wound its way past deep ravines and towering rust-colored cliffs. The hillsides were strewn with boulders, some of them as big as pickup trucks, and Kaitlin felt certain that she could never live happily in such a wild place. but Papa-Fitz consulted the map on a brochure entitled “why Not Move to Merlin’s island?” and he soon found the main road again. They passed a deserted radio station with a rusty tower; then they drove around a bend in the road and came upon a little bay and a ring of small white buildings: a general store, a library, a church with a tall spire, a few homes, and a little

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schoolhouse with a cluster of white gables and a bell tower. On the beach a single boulder was balanced perfectly on its end; several people—probably people from away—were staring at it and taking its picture. A baseball game was in progress on the village green; and nearby, a statue of Paul bunyan raised one large stone hand as if in greeting. behind him, a white pavilion looked out over the bay toward the coast of Maine, which was barely visible in the distance. This pretty village belonged on a picture postcard, not in the real world. A sign said “welcome to Village Hill”—a odd name, since the village seemed to be located on one of the flatter areas of the island. The Delaneys followed the main road across the island and turned onto a steep, winding dirt drive that threaded its way through a forest of birch, pine, and cedar trees. Then the woods suddenly cleared to reveal a broad lawn sloping to the shore, the driveway curving elegantly down to the three-story yellow house, and the sea glimmering an ethereal aqua in the late-afternoon light. black-eyed susans and purple lupines sprouted in the patchy grass. Papa-Fitz had smiled dreamily and released a long, satisfied sigh, and Kaitlin’s mother, Cricket, had sprung from the van and kissed the leaded glass panes on the front door. “This is iT!” she had exclaimed. Papa-Fitz had gone to the general store in the nearby village of Pilot Grove to make some telephone calls, and he had not seemed bothered in the least when the storekeeper, Mr. Grant, told him that the property, and indeed the entire island, lay under a curse. “Nothing can ever thrive here,” Mr. Grant said. “At best, you’ll barely make out. At worst, you’ll jump off a cliff.” “Nothing like a good curse to make a son of ireland feel right at home,” Papa-Fitz replied with a smile. “besides, never underestimate a poet. we poets have enough mysterious powers to baffle any curse.” Mr. Grant was unconvinced. “Poet or not, you’d be bettah to buy a lobstah boat,” he said, speaking in the r-less dialect of Maine. Papa-Fitz was later to say of Mr. Grant, “He’s the most even-tempered man i ever knew—he’s mad all the time.” The

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islanders tolerated Mr. Grant’s moodiness, however, because of his courageous work as chief of the volunteer fire department and because he had a jolly wife who made wonderful cakes and pies for the local festivals and bake sales. Papa-Fitz refused to heed Mr. Grant’s warning; nor had he been deterred when his own brother—Kirk’s father—had tried vigorously to talk him out of the purchase. “Fitz, have you lost your mind completely?” he had said, raising his baritone voice almost to a shout. “Our father would be spinning in his grave if he could see how you’re wasting the money he left you. Do you really believe you can write poetry and open clogged toilets at the same time? i can see what’s going to happen—you’ll be bankrupt in a year, and you’ll come to me asking to borrow money—or you’ll go crawling back to your father-in-law in eden Meadow.” Maybe Papa-Fitz should have listened to him. Tears welled up in Kaitlin’s eyes. “Don’t worry” had always one of her father’s favorite phrases. even when a tornado had barely missed their house in eden Meadow, he had remained calm. “i guess we’d better go to the basement and get under the bed,” he had told the family. “Oh, and somebody had better call shadow.” He had spoken as casually as if the family were about to take a walk around the block on a fine spring afternoon. later it had occurred to Kaitlin that he had forced himself to stay calm in order to avoid upsetting everyone else. Kaitlin brushed the tears from her eyes as she removed her costume from the closet and spread it across the white comforter on her bed. A real trouper had no time to waste on tears, not when there was a show to open. but what would the family do when the Yellow House finally closed—as it would certainly close before the earth made another revolution around the sun? return to eden Meadow, perhaps, where there were no beaches and cliffs and pine forests, no lobsters or steamed clams, only flat lawns and flatter parking lots, the long suffocating mugginess of summer, and the endless gray drizzle of winter. And everywhere, the raised eyebrows and strained voices: “Well, your father is so talented; it’s wonderful that he’s finally decided to settle down

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and get a real job.” “Has your mother kept up with her painting? You know, I did some painting when I was in school—even won first prize at the annual student exhibit—and I keep intending to sign up for some art courses at the craft shop, but there’s always so much to do!” eden Meadow, indeed! No place could be less like eden. And what of her present life? she had clearly made a good impression on the people of Merlin’s island. “such a responsible young lady,” the President of the island board had said as he watched her serving tea and cake during a reception at the Yellow House “such a mature voice!” the postmistress had exclaimed after Kaitlin sang “America the beautiful” at a baseball game. “And she’s only twelve years old!” “she has a clever mind,” Mr. Finch had told Papa-Fitz. “she notices everything, and she can put details together like a detective.” Papa-Fitz had smiled knowingly. “well, she’s read every Nancy Drew mystery ever written,” he had said, “and all of sherlock Holmes, too; and lately she’s been dipping into Agatha Christie…” but Kaitlin was not feeling mature, responsible, clever, or special in any way. she could only watch helplessly as her family’s dream died. If I were Nancy Drew or Hermione Granger, I’d find a way to help, she thought. she reminded herself that both Nancy Drew and Hermione Granger were imaginary, but this simple fact gave her no comfort. There was nothing she could do to help Papa-Fitz except spin pointless stories for him… And yes, there was one other thing she could do—she could give a sparkling performance as Princess Malingria. she could speak her father’s lines and sing his songs in a clear, strong voice, with the greatest possible pride. Kaitlin was about to take her plastic-and-satin crown out of its box when she heard her father’s voice from the foot of the staircase: “Kaity? Are you up there? Come out on the porch and tell me i’m not crazy.” Kaitlin hurried downstairs to join her father, who had

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already gone out on the veranda. when she opened the front door, she flinched as a howling blast of wind tore at her hair and whipped the sleeves of her blouse. breakers pounded the rocks below, throwing sheets of spray as high as the veranda. Papa-Fitz clutched the rail with both hands, and his hair was wet. The wind almost blew the words out of his mouth: “Do you see what i see, Kait? some idiot is out there in a little sailboat!” Kaitlin dodged backwards to avoid being hit in the face by a rush of spray. Then she looked where her father pointed. sure enough, a white triangle flickered in and out of sight among the waves at the horizon. “You’re not crazy unless we both are,” she gasped. Papa-Fitz mopped his damp forehead. “i’m going inside and call the Coast Guard,” he said. “That fellow is going to need a rescue on the double—and i’m sure it’s a fellow. No woman would be that stupid.” He turned, slipped on the wet floor, struggled, regained his balance, and strode inside. Kaitlin remained on the porch, staring at the horizon where the tossing sail was clearly outlined against the blue-black sky—and then, as she watched, an amazing thing happened. The sail suddenly righted itself and stood erect and still, pointing toward the heavens like a lightning rod. Then the little boat sprang to life and darted through the churning waters as smoothly as if it were sailing across the most tranquil of lakes on a sunny afternoon. Kaitlin gasped as the boat streaked across the horizon and vanished behind wolf island. An icy chill flashed through her bones. He knows I’m watching him, she thought. Somehow he knows

CHAPTER TWO__________________________

The Song of Merlin’s Island

by J. T. Kirk Delaney(with some assistance from John “Fitz” Delaney, a few liberties

with history, and much assistance from Webster’s Ultimate Rhyming Dictionary.)

Frank Merlin was a corsetiereWho never knew Arthur or Guinevere.But although he was gruff as a bombardier, In making money he had no peer.This penny-pinching financierStashed his cash year after yearIn good safe banks both far and nearFrom Kennebunkport to Mount Ranier,From San Francisco to Cape Fear,From Copenhagen to Zaire,(And even in banks not far from here)Until he was rich as a Grand Vizier.

But Merlin lost his heart, I fear,To an Englishwoman from Windermere.He called her his honey, he called her his dear;He gave her a diamond lavaliereAnd took her to a concert by Chaunticleer

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(Front row seats in the big grand tier)And then on a cruise ‘round the hemisphere.He built her a mansion down by the pier,And every room had a chandelier.

He spent his money like a buccaneer,But his lady-love proved insincere.When his wealth was gone, with many a sneer,The Englishwoman from WindermereRan back to England with a grenadierOr a college professor from OxfordshireOr to Italy with a gondolier,(Just where she went is not quite clear)And she left behind no souvenirBut the name and address of an auctioneer.And Merlin died the very next yearOf a broken heart and an abscessed earAnd was laid on a pauper’s funeral bier,And no one shed a single tear.

The moral of our story will now appear:If you’re in love, be cavalierBut don’t go spending your whole darn schmearOr you’ll soon be weeping into your beerLike Merlin the corsetiere.

__________________________

The fierce winds vanished as quickly as they had come. by the time Kaitlin and her family arrived at isleport to meet Kirk’s ferry, the sun was casting picturesque rays of light through the clouds, and the waves were lapping peacefully at the shore, tame as kittens. The ferry from waybury arrived on schedule, looking none the worse for wear, and Kirk strode jauntily onto the pier, carrying his suitcase and his dog-eared rhyming dictionary. Kirk looked so much like Kaitlin that the two of them might

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have been twins, except that Kirk’s dark auburn hair was wavy instead of curly and his eyes were brown instead of green. A folded piece of paper protruded from the pocket of his shirt; apparently he had whiled away his ferry ride by writing a poem. sure enough, the first words he said to Papa-Fitz were “i’ve almost finished my poem about Frank Merlin, and i’ll bet it’s going to be good enough for the Island Current. Maybe you could help me with a few of the words.” Then he glanced toward the isleport Pier restaurant and sniffed happily at the smell of fried fish. “bOAT!” shouted Kaitlin’s little brother Derry (short for David McDermott Delaney the third). He pointed excitedly at the ferry. “Yes, a boat,” said Cricket Delaney, stroking his hair. “A boat big enough to carry cars on its back.” Cricket was short and slender, and her close-cropped reddish-brown hair had a perpetually windblown look. isleport was neither a town nor a village. it consisted only of the ferry landing, the isleport Pier restaurant, and a small shop where visitors could buy postcards, sunscreen, bottles of water, insect repellent, and garish tee shirts that read “i survived a day on Merlin’s island.” each tee shirt featured pictures of a grinning skull, a jagged cliff, and a sinking ship. The restaurant, which was attached to the shop, offered a picturesque view of the bay and black Harbor lighthouse. what it did not offer was fine dining. “still the same menu?” Kirk asked as the Delaneys climbed the wooden steps from the ferry landing to the gift shop and restaurant. Papa-Fitz nodded. “Yes, still the same—fried fish, fried clams, fried oysters, fried shrimp, and fried potatoes. so far, they haven’t figured out a way to fry the coleslaw.” when they entered the gift shop, billy shakespeare’s recording of “The ballad of Jenny white” was playing over the sound system. “Through Merrywood on Dancer’s Path / Toward the cliffs of Raven Head,” billy sang mournfully. Cricket covered her ears. The Delaneys avoided one another’s eyes as they quickly crossed the little shop and entered the restaurant. Kirk

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moved close to Kaitlin and whispered into her ear, “was there really such a person as Jenny White, or was she just a character in one of billy shakespeare’s made-up songs?” “Nobody seems to know,” Kaitlin whispered back. “i’ve never heard anyone talk about her—and none of the islanders even mention billy shakespeare if they can help it.” Kaitlin was pleased to see that one of her mother’s newest oil paintings, a portrait of shadow, hung on display in the restaurant. shadow looked like a solid black collie, but she was actually half collie and half labrador retriever—“the best half of both,” Cricket would say proudly. “she’s an artist’s dream—she strikes a pose every ten minutes.” in the portrait, shadow was standing on the pier at Pilot Grove, tail and ears erect, as if she expected the arrival of an important boat. The picture was signed “Margaret Delaney” in flowing letters. while the Delaneys waited for a table to be cleared, Kaitlin quietly studied the large, detailed map of Merlin’s island that had been newly installed above the fireplace. The island was long and narrow, and shaped somewhat like a lopsided fish. The three villages were clearly marked: Village Hill on the western shore; Pilot Grove on the eastern side, with wolf island beyond it; and at the southeastern tip of the island, the tiny community of Triumph, looking bravely out to sea with nothing to protect it from the next hurricane except two islands, each of which was barely big enough for a house, a pier, and a tool shed. beside Triumph was a tiny drawing of a house that was labeled “Home of Pamela stewart.” isleport was marked with a star and the words “You are here.” The map was also filled with the names of odd geographical features: “Cousin’s landing,” “sheep Thief ravine,” “Figby’s Parcel,” “Nibbler’s Knob,” “Crew-Cut Hill,” “radio ridge,” “Hill Climb road.” but nowhere on this crowded map could Kaitlin find the names “Merrywood” or “Dancer’s Path.” Perhaps Mr. “shakespeare” had invented these places himself—but why? why would he use made-up names when there were so many interesting real ones at hand? why not “Through barter Field on Horseman Trail / Toward the cliffs of raven Head”?

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“so how are things in boston these days?” Papa-Fitz asked Kirk. “Any exciting news?” He had to speak more loudly than usual because the sound system was turned on at full blast; a male vocalist was yowling the lyrics to “beauty and the beast.” Kirk shrugged as he poured catsup, steak sauce, and melted butter on his fish. “well, Mother put in a whole new kitchen—and a stainless steel refrigerator big enough for a whale. we could eat whale steaks every day for a year.” He dipped a French fry in the catsup mixture. “beAr!” Derry said contentedly, hugging his large one-eyed, lop-eared teddy bear. “Does your mother ever cook?” Cricket asked as she made a vain attempt to smooth her ruffled hair. “sometimes she makes Jell-O. That’s about all Dad can eat. He swallows indigestion pills like they were candy. At night he falls asleep in front of the TV and only wakes up for the Alka-seltzer commercials.” Cricket laughed and shook her head in mock disapproval. “Kirk, I think you’re exaggerating just a little bit,” she said. “Does my ambitious little brother still work seven days a week?” Papa-Fitz asked. Kirk nodded, his mouth full. He chewed briskly and gulped. “He says his work is just loads of fun; he says he just loves his work. Then he goes to buy more Alka-seltzer.” “HOT TeA!” exclaimed Derry, pointing to his father’s water glass. To Derry, all beverages were “hot tea.” Kaitlin nibbled her fried shrimp as she thought about Kirk’s parents. They had given their only child a hero’s noble name, but there was nothing heroic about their lives. “Celebrating a holiday with my brother and his family,” Papa-Fitz would say, “is about as pointless as taking a round-the-world cruise with the Flat earth society.” During Thanksgiving or Christmas dinners, Kirk’s father would sit drumming his fingers on the table, his handsome face twitching uneasily, until the formal meal was over, and he could either watch football games on television or rejoin his most beloved colleague and companion—his

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computer. Kirk’s mother, meanwhile, would attempt to entertain Cricket by summarizing the plot twists of seven different soap operas. Occasionally she would pause to complain about Kirk’s latest set of drums: “i can hardly hear the television, he makes such a racket.” later that evening, when everyone gathered in the family room and made feeble attempts at conversation, Kirk’s mother would sit as close as possible to the television set, her eyes glued to the screen, and never say a word. Gratefully, Kaitlin smiled at Cricket and took a large bite of the overcooked shrimp. “so did you get much rain on the mainland?” Papa-Fitz asked Kirk. “Not a drop,” Kirk said, looking surprised. “That’s odd—we had such a big storm that i was afraid your boat wouldn’t be able to leave port. but would you believe it? Kaity and i actually saw somebody trying to go for a sail beyond wolf island.” “Maybe he was trying to wreck his boat and collect insurance money,” Kirk said. “Too bad he’ll be dead when the check comes.” “More likely he was a few fish short of a catch,” said Papa-Fitz. Derry’s eyes widened. “biG wOO,” he said dramatically. “big woo” was his name for a thunderstorm. Over the sound system a female voice was shrieking an off-key version of “God bless America.” Kaitlin said nothing about what she had seen from the veranda. she doubted that anyone would believe her.

when the Delaneys arrived at the Yellow House, shadow was waiting to greet them. “Hey, shadow-girl, did you miss me?” Kirk called as he jumped from the van. Shadow pranced, waved her tail, and offered Kirk a paw. she was an innkeeper’s dog; she had too much dignity to bark and whine or otherwise embarrass an old friend by making a fuss. Papa-Fitz glanced at his watch. “we’re running a little late,” he said. “Kait, you’d better change into your costume; we don’t want to keep the groupies waiting. Kirk, you can sleep in long

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John silver’s room tonight.” A short time later, Kaitlin came down the front staircase in a long medieval gown made of purple taffeta—”plaintive purple,” she called it. Cricket had made the dress, which was trimmed preposterously with big loops and swirls of golden fringe and tassels. There was also an over-large crown made of white satin and gilded plastic, a pair of gold slippers, and a fat golden bag for Princess Malingria’s assortment of pills, potions, and other remedies. Kirk was waiting at the foot of the staircase, munching a pickle, and when he saw her, he grinned admiringly. “boy, you sure look like a royal pain,” he said. “but where’s the inn-sitter?” Kaitlin shook her head sadly. “Oh, Kirk, we almost never hire an inn-sitter any more. we’ve even stopped baking cookies for afternoon tea—why should we bother when no one ever comes looking for a place to spend the night?” she looked down at the floor. “sometimes i think there really is a curse on this island. Just think of all the people who drowned at raven Head—and the stories about shipwrecks and pirates. And look at Mr. and Mrs. Finch—my teachers. They moved here because they wanted a quiet place to raise a family, and now it turns out they can’t have children.” Mr. and Mrs. Finch had lived on the island for three years. she directed plays and taught grades one through four; he taught music, coached basketball, and handled grades five through eight. Kaitlin remembered seeing them walking on the beach one afternoon, shortly after they had received their report from the doctor in waybury. Mr. Finch had his arm tightly around his wife, whose eyes were swollen as if she had been crying all day. Kaitlin gave a sigh that was even more plaintive than her purple gown. Kirk looked doubtful. “but what’s so special about Merlin’s island? why would it have its very own curse, unless—unless”—his voice dropped to a near-whisper. “There is a real witch on the island, isn’t there?—that woman who lives on top of Triumph Hill and never wears any color except green? wasn’t she a doctor in New Haven before she went crazy and started trying to cure people by talking things over with their germs?”

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Kaitlin nodded. “Yes, Miss elizabeth Castlemaine—Doctor Castlemaine, if you please; she throws a fit when anyone calls her ‘Miss.’ All the kids on the island are afraid of her, but i don’t think she’s a real witch; I think she’s just weird, and Mom thinks she’s some kind of crazy genius. but Melvin says there is a story about a curse—some kind of indian legend”— “Melvin? isn’t he that goofy guy with the long legs? The one who’s always tripping over his own feet and getting his tongue twisted?” Kaitlin smiled mischievously. “Yes, that’s our Melvin. Anyway, he tells about an evil spirit named—let’s see—Habbamoka—who tried to drive the indians out of Connecticut. it was hundreds of years ago. First he set fire to their villages and forests, but the indians had a captive who was adopted into their tribe—‘a green-eyed woman who could sing rain down from the sky, and she sang herself to death, and after that she died’—that’s how Melvin put it. but she brought rain down in floods and put out all of Habbamoka’s fires. Then he tried throwing boulders at the indians, but he was too strong for his own good, and most of the boulders landed in Maine.” “so i guess that’s why there are so many boulders and islands along the coast—according to Melvin.” “Yes. And when Habbamoka ran out of rocks, the indians used all of their best magic and chants, and they chased Habbamoka clear to the Maine coast—and that’s where he stayed.” “But that’s just a legend,” Kirk said with a shrug, “maybe as old as the dinosaurs.” “Yes, but the way Melvin tells it—even though he gets his words mixed up, he gives you cold chills. And sometimes i wonder—what if Habbamoki and loki are the same person? The indians could have learned stories about loki from the Vikings. They were here before Columbus.” “loki the Viking god of fire?” Kirk glanced uneasily out the window toward wolf island. “we studied about the Viking gods last year, just before school let out. On the day the world ends, loki is supposed to come sailing across the ocean on a ship

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made out of dead men’s fingernails, and”— before he could say more, shadow gave a low, impatient bark and ran to the front windows. Her ears were erect, her tail held high. Kaitlin immediately thought of the picture in the dining room at isleport Pier. “Hey, girl, what’s the matter?” Kirk said, putting his arms around shadow’s neck. she shook loose and barked again. Her tail had begun to wave. Kaitlin hurried to the window and peered out. A large man was striding along the cobblestone beach, ignoring the shore path and walking on the loose stones as easily as if he were strolling across a thick carpet. He wore slacks and a green jacket. His face was partly concealed by a sailor’s cap and partly hidden behind a reddish-blond beard. “Do you know who he is?” Kirk asked. Kaitlin shook her head. “No, but shadow seems to recognize him.” “Hey, look at him!—his arms are as big around as telephone poles, and his hands are the size of pizzas. He’s a giant!” The stranger reached the Yellow House and paused, looking up at the veranda. Then Kaitlin watched in amazement as he sprinted up the stone steps two at a time, as easily as he had walked on the cobblestones. “Melvin tried to do that last fall,” Kaitlin said, “and he had to have seventeen stitches, mostly in his head.” A moment later the giant was knocking at the door. shadow barked excitedly. “Kaity,” Papa-Fitz called from the innkeeper’s quarters behind the kitchen, “will you see who’s at the door? And hang on to shadow; i can’t think what’s gotten into her. i’ll be out in a minute.” Kirk grabbed shadow’s collar and held it firmly as Kaitlin took an uneasy breath and opened the door. The giant smiled at her, showing no surprise that she was dressed from head to toe as a medieval princess. “At your service, Your Highness,” he said, making a little bow. He removed his cap, revealing a shock of reddish blond hair to match his neatly-trimmed beard. Around his neck a gold chain glittered faintly, and on the fourth finger of his right hand, he wore a ring that was almost large enough

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to make a bracelet for a small girl. it was made of braided gold bands and set with a large, slanting emerald in a nest of small diamonds. Kirk made no effort not to stare. “er—this is Kaitlin Delaney; she’s one of the innkeepers,” he said, trying to summon his normal voice, “and i’m her cousin, James T. Kirk Delaney.” shadow gave three loud barks as she struggled to break loose from Kirk’s grasp. The stranger’s eyes twinkled as he raised one pizza-sized hand in the Vulcan salute. “in that case, live long and prosper, Captain,” he said. Kaitlin studied his face. His eyes were greenish-gold, and his cheeks were rough and tan, as if he spent most of his time outdoors. Papa-Fitz hurried into the great room, carrying four blankets and a thermos bottle. “something i can do to help you, young man?” he said breathlessly. “Hi, i’m Michael McClure,” the stranger replied with a grin. “Have you folks got a vacancy for tonight? i left Pearl island this morning, just planning to sail for a couple of hours—I was feeling a little cramped, and there’s no way to get claustrophobic on a sailboat. but the weather closed in on me, and i had to work like the dickens to keep from getting blown to Nova scotia. Now i’m pretty beat, and i don’t feel much like heading home tonight”— Kaitlin felt goose bumps rising. Had the giant called himself McClure or Mac Lir? “He’s your mad sailor!” Kirk whispered to Kaitlin. before anyone could say more, shadow tore free, sprang at Michael McClure, and began licking his face. The big man wrinkled his nose and gave a thunderous sneeze. Papa-Fitz grabbed shadow’s collar. “sit, shadow!” he said, giving her a shake. “where are your manners, girl? Sit!” Michael McClure covered his face and sneezed again. “You’re allergic to dogs?” Papa-Fitz asked. “i think i’m allergic to dry land,” he said, reaching to stroke shadow under her chin. “Don’t worry; a few doggie kisses more or less won’t hurt me.”

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“i’ve never heard such a big man say ‘doggie kisses,’” Kirk whispered. Michael McClure glanced around the room. “wonderful view you’ve got—made to order for a claustrophobe like me,” he said. “but i can see you’re about to leave for your daughter’s school play, so maybe”—he stopped to sneeze for the third time. Papa-Fitz reached under the check-in counter for a box of tissues. “No, stay put; i’ve got time to check you in. i can put you in Magellan’s room; that should be appropriate after what you’ve been through today. so what did you do with your boat, sailor?” “i left the Northern Cross at the pier down by that restaurant called the Captain’s Table.” “And you say you live on Pearl island? i didn’t think there was anything on Pearl island except a few seals and an abandoned monastery.” “That’s what the Holy brothers of st. brecan would like for you to think. we’re a reclusive lot, even for monks.” Kirk forgot his manners. “You’re a monk?” he blurted out. The visitor laughed. “Not me, Captain; life in a monastery wouldn’t be my cup of tea. I just work for the brothers whenever they need extra help. They mostly pay me with food and prayers, and they let me use their library when i want to read.” “He said ‘my cup of tea,’” whispered Kirk. “Next he’ll be saying ‘fuzzy-wuzzy.’” Papa-Fitz wrinkled his forehead. “so you have your own place on the island, then?” “Place is the right word. It’s hardly a house, just a stone cottage right on the water—pretty basic, but it’s been in my family for generations. i use propane gas to run the cookstove and a few lamps, and i catch rain water in a cistern to use for bathing.” Kirk whispered, “it’d have to be a pretty heavy rainstorm to get him washed clean. There’s so much of him.” Michael McClure darted a stern glance at Kirk, who immediately closed his mouth and looked solemn. Papa-Fitz opened his guest book. “so what kind of credit card have you got, Mr. McClure?”

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“it’s Michael—please. No credit cards, i’m afraid; no cash either. when i left this morning, i didn’t expect to be gone for more than two hours. but this should make a good deposit for a night’s lodging.” He took the ring from his finger and set it on the counter. Papa-Fitz’s business-like manner failed him. “Holy thunder!” he exclaimed, staring. “This looks like something out of a pirate’s treasure chest—museum quality for sure. i couldn’t take that from you, sailor, not even for one night”— “Take my necklace, then.” Michael McClure grinned again as he removed his gold chain. “Your daughter could wear it in her school play; it might bring her good lu—i mean it might help her break a leg.” before anyone could stop him, he slipped the chain over Kaitlin’s head and around her neck, and as if by magic it settled among the tassels and loops of gold braid as if it had been made for no other purpose than to be part of her costume. Kaitlin was grateful that Michael McClure had avoided the phrase “good luck”—which, as every actor knows, will strike any play with an automatic jinx. She touched the chain wonderingly. like the ring, it looked old enough for a museum. every link encircled a different gold figure: she noted a starfish, a seashell, a dolphin, a pelican, a seahorse, a mermaid—figures as tiny as the image of wilbur wright on a North Carolina quarter. Papa-Fitz seemed at a loss. “it’s nice of you,” he mumbled, “but i can’t let her accept—i mean, that chain must be worth some serious money—and things get lost at school plays”— “Oh, i won’t miss it for one night,” said Michael McClure. “besides, my great-grandfather left quite a collection of old jewelry; I have a few pieces to spare.” Papa-Fitz looked at Kaitlin’s costume and then at the smiling face of Michael McClure. “well,” he said wonderingly, “it does seem to suit her”— Derry stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes and sniffling. Apparently he was growing tired and cross—but when he saw Michael McClure, his face broke into a smile. “beAr!” he shouted. He toddled across the room as fast as his legs would

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carry him, scrambled into Michael’s arms, and hugged his neck. “beAr!” he repeated triumphantly. His fingers explored Michael’s red-golden beard. “Fur!” he announced. Papa-Fitz looked bewildered, but he chuckled in spite of himself. “My son’s vocabulary is small,” he said to Michael, “but he puts his heart and soul into every word.” “Fur!” insisted Derry, tugging at Michael McClure’s beard. Papa-Fitz rummaged under the check-in counter and found some slips of paper. “These are guest certificates for the Captain’s Table,” he said to Michael. “They ought to be good for as much food as you can eat, so you won’t have to pawn your jewelry. We never lock the front door because there’s no crime on this island, just some ghosts and a curse. So you’re perfectly safe.” Michael raised one eyebrow at this, but he said nothing. by this time the hands of the clock stood at seven-twenty. “Kait, we’d better get our stuff together and hit the road,” Papa-Fitz said. “Only ten minutes to deliver the little guy to his baby-sitter and get ourselves to Village Hill”—but he was interrupted by the telephone’s ring. “well, at least they can’t start the show without us,” Kirk said confidently. “we’re bringing the star.” while Papa-Fitz talked on the telephone, Michael gathered Derry close in his arms, and almost absent-mindedly, he began to sing in a silvery tenor voice:

While I lie asleep tonight,While the stars are crystal bright,Ships that sail the moonlit sea,Bring your treasures home to me.

At the sound of his voice, Kaitlin shivered as though somebody had opened a door to the North Pole. “A hero with hair the color of sunlight and the tenor voice of an angel”— “bear,” Derry murmured. He rested his head on Michael’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Who called the inn just before we left?” Cricket asked

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Papa-Fitz as the Delaneys’ van rattled along the driveway. “somebody looking for a good place to have a small seaside wedding. i told him that we could probably get a meal catered by the Captain’s Table.” “we could have the ceremony on the veranda,” Cricket said, her face brightening. “we might even have to hang up a ‘No Vacancy’ sign for once. Kaitlin could wear her princess costume and hand out bags of rice.” “i could be the bouncer,” Kirk said. “Looks like we’d be all set,” said Papa-Fitz, “if we could just hire Michael McClure to sing ‘One Hand, One Heart’ or ‘The wedding song.’” “what a beautiful voice!” Cricket said as she tied a scarf over her hair. “He sounded a little hoarse to me,” said Papa-Fitz. “And he was sneezing up a storm.” “You know, Fitz, this is really strange, but—well, he looked so familiar, i could have sworn i knew him from somewhere—from college, maybe, or from eden Meadow”— “Perish the thought,” said Papa-Fitz. “And there was a name on the tip of my tongue, but it wasn’t ‘Michael McClure’; it was…it was…well, i don’t really know; i couldn’t quite remember. Am i going crazy?” “shadow and Derry act like they know him,” Kirk said. “Come to think of it, he does look familiar,” Papa-Fitz said. “but he sure hasn’t come from eden Meadow.” For once, Derry said nothing. He was fast asleep.

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sailor’s lullaby

While I lie asleep tonight,While the stars are crystal bright,Ships that sail the moonlit sea,Bring your treasures home to me:

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Shells of pearl and sands of gold— Wealth to fill my pirate’s hold.

Stones of ivory, white as milk,Gosling’s down as soft as silk,

Songs of whales and seagulls’ cries,Foghorn’s moan and sea-wind’s sighs,

Coral black and coral red,Pile your treasure near my bed.

Bring me a cloak of pelican’s feathersTo keep me dry in stormy weather.

Lend me your compass and your oars,Bring me safe to morning’s shores.

Ships upon the sea tonight,Raise your sails and take your flight.Spirits of the wind and sea,Lift your wings and fly to me.

Through fog and hail, through calm and storm,Gather close and work your charm.Keep me safe and free from harm.