The Crossing by Kathryn Lasky
When Lucy shot out ahead of May, she detected the wake of a humpback whale. There was nothing more fun than riding in the wake of such a behemoth. The wake had the curious effect of increasing a swimmer’s speed, for one could ride the pressure waves that radiated off the flukes of the whale’s enormous tail. May soon joined her. They careened along and sometimes broke through the surface to skim across the crests of the pressure waves upright, supported by the flukes of their own strong tails. As they perched on their tails, a mist of sea smoke started to rise from the ocean toward the stars. Lucy felt as if she were existing on the margins of overlapping worlds — worlds of water and air, of light and growing darkness, of the silence of the sky above and the surges of the constantly rustling sea. She balanced on her tail and felt the rush of the stream of bubbles of the whale’s pressure wave as it swam through the night.
May’s head was flung back, her mouth half-open and her eyes wide with wonder as she surveyed the stars that had come to mean so much to her. Lucy realized that her posture was the very opposite of one of traditional prayer, where congregants bowed their heads and beseeched their God. Instead of praying in church, May was studying the very soul of the night, worshipful of each new star that appeared in the newborn constellations as the dark thickened. A smile skimmed across May’s face.
“Do you see it, Lucy?”
“What?”
“Look to port. Over there!” She pointed. “See, Orion is rising. You can find him. The three bright stars that make up his belt.”
“Yes … yes, I see that.”
“Now look just to the south of the belt. Well behind it, really … that is the Horsehead Nebula.”
“It’s all blurry but glowing.”
“Yes, that’s it — Hugh says it’s the debris from a cluster of stars or maybe the fragments of a galaxy burning up on the edges of time.”
“Burning up … you mean it’s being destroyed….”
“Or maybe something is aborning, giving birth to new stars. Nebulae can be like cradles of new stars, new galaxies.”
“Stars blow up and burn?”
“All the time … all the time,” May said with a wistfulness in her voice.
The night grew luminous with stars. The sea smoke evaporated and the ocean became a mirror for the heavens. They alternated between swimming in the whale’s wake and perching on its pressure waves to ride the curls. Between the sky above and the water world below they felt as if they were moving through a dazzling jewel box of the universe. Wreaths of stars hung like crowns on the night. Wind and water had torn most of their clothes away, and they were left nearly naked with only the shreds of their petticoats clinging wetly to their bodies, and yet they had never felt so adorned.
They had been riding the wake of the whale for some time when they picked up the initial wisps of the Gyre of Corry on the dawn of the day after they had left. Instinct told them to continue to swim on a northerly bearing, but another urge began to rise that seemed to conflict. They both fought it silently for a while, but the compulsion grew. Lucy finally felt compelled to say something.
“We have to take a southern heading now, May. We both know it. She’s out there. I can feel her.”
“I can as well,” May said, her voice full of reverence and wonder. They’d never given themselves over so completely to the Laws of Salt, but although May knew she should be afraid of swimming straight into the open ocean, there wasn’t a drop of fear anywhere in her blood.
And so the two sisters turned and broke from the whale’s wake. He flashed one of his enormous eyes as if to say, “Enjoyed your company.”
“IT’S LOVELY, Mrs. Limsole,” Lila said, turning to the stewardess. “And those sweet little petit fours. They look like jewels.” She slipped her hand into her pocket. “I’d like to give you a little something for your efforts.” She took out a bill of a rather large denomination.
“Oh, really, ma’am, I couldn’t accept this.”
“You must. I know how it is on these ships. The women do not receive pay equal to the men. I feel that is very wrong.”
“Well, if you insist, dear. It’s so sweet of you to do this for Mrs. Dyer. She should be back shortly.”
“I’ll be ready.”
As soon as Mrs. Limsole left, Lila scanned the room. She was if anything a quick study. The table was in the center of the room. The lights were turned low, which was good. There was a dressing screen in one corner. Perfect! Just a few arrangements needed to be made. She moved a chair up to the table so Mrs. Dyer would be drawn to sit down immediately. She placed the elaborately wrapped small box on the table next to the plate with the petit fours. The champagne bottle had already been opened and a glass poured as if waiting for the guest of honor, the only guest. It would take one stride, two at the very most, for Lila to get to the back of the chair from where she was hiding. She hoped that Mrs. Dyer would sit down quickly. It would make everything much easier. Her head would be at just the right level. Being seated would limit her ability to escape. When all was ready, Lila took her place behind the dressing screen and drew the knife from her pocket.
Lila was not sure how long she had been waiting, but one thing she did know was that these minutes were the calmest, most joyful moments of her life. She had never felt so at peace, so serene. So … so … complete, she thought, just as she heard the doorknob turning.
“My, my, what is this lovely surprise?” Mrs. Dyer exclaimed as she took off her satin capelet and walked toward the dressing screen. Lila froze. She had not expected the other woman to be wearing a cloak. She flung the garment over the top and then she turned away. It seemed like a small miracle. Now Lila was hearing her pull out the chair. There was the rustle of her gown as she settled onto the seat. Don’t bend your head yet! Lila willed as Mrs. Dyer reached for the envelope beside the box. Lila moved swiftly. One stride. She was behind her, wrenching her head with what seemed like an almost supernatural strength. There was the glint of the knife in the dark glass of the champagne bottle. One cut. No time for even a shriek. Blood spurted. She had hit the right vein. She had heard about that vein. There was an old woman in the asylum whose son had been murdered that way. She talked ceaselessly about the vein. The jugular she called it. It sounded like something merry and fun. Oh, yes, a clown, of course! Juggling.
The blood didn’t even show on her garnet dress. But her hands were a mess. Just for the fun of it she poured the glass of champagne over her hands and rinsed off the blood. She sighed deeply. It was all very satisfying. A wonderful serenity settled upon her. “Oh, move over!” She scowled at the body and shoving it onto the floor, she sat down, poured herself another glass of champagne, and took a sip.
Ettie finally found Hannah on C Deck, on a small afterdeck that hung out over the water. She was looking straight out at the curling wake of the ship. Ettie could tell immediately that there was something different about Hannah, even though her back was to her.
“Hannah, I’ve been searching for you all day!”
Hannah turned around slowly. Her face was radiant. It was as if a new person was standing before Ettie.
“They are out there. I feel them.”
“Yes! They must be. Lucy escaped,” Ettie said, and ran to her, flinging her arms around her waist. They both began to cry.
“I knew it. I felt it. I just sensed it.”
“I didn’t sense it. But I read it. It came over the wireless. She escaped. Some doctor helped her.” Ettie paused. “They’re coming for you, Hannah. What will you do?”
“Yes, what will you do, Anna?” Stannish Whitman Wheeler suddenly stepped onto the afterdeck. “What will you do?” His face bore a mildly curious expression, but there was a menacing glint in his eyes. The name — Anna — grated in her ears.
It’s all so wrong. So very wrong. As false as his kisses! “My name is Hannah!” She thought she was shouting, but a louder noise obliterated her words.
A deafening whistle began to blow. It was an alarm of some sort, bu
“Stannish, I am tired of you. I am tired of your lies. You deserve your wretched Mrs. Dyer.” Her green eyes blazed fiercely.
“Anna!” he said with a sigh as if he was terrifically bored. “Is that what this is all about? Oh my, what a funny little thing you are. It was nothing! Nothing, Anna. I don’t love her. She is just a means,” Stannish protested.
“Means to an end? Is that what you are trying to say?”
“Well, more or less.”
“And am I the End?
He smiled almost sheepishly. “Well, darling Anna, if not the end, a very important one.”
“Then I am right. You deserve Mrs. Dyer. But I do not deserve you.” She shook her head slowly and seemed to smile ruefully to herself. “Not good enough.”
“What do you mean ‘not good enough’? I’ve given you every —”
But Hannah cut him off. “You have not given me everything. You have taken, taken even my own name from me.” Stannish did not see it, but Ettie spied a luminous glow in the water. Suddenly Hannah leapt to the rail. She stood there for just a split second. She turned and smiled at Ettie.
“Good-bye, Ettie,” she said, and dived into the sea.
“Hannah, no!” Stannish cried. He grasped the rail from which she had just jumped. “No!”
The water enveloped Hannah, as welcoming as an embrace, as revitilizing as rain after a long drought. She let out a joyful cry, then sprang high above a cresting wave and dived again.
Ettie pressed herself against the rail “One … two … three,” she counted softly as she saw the three tails lifting from the water. She watched them through a scrim of tears. The wind caught its breath and the stars stopped moving in the sky, or so it seemed as the sea grew calm, opening its heart to welcome its own. The sisters’ tails were radiant in the shredding darkness of the night as they swam toward the horizon and the glimmer of a new dawn.
Ettie was oblivious to Stannish, but the whistle of the alarm had become deafening.
“What in God’s name is that?” he muttered.
“Me!” A voice scratched the air.
“Lila!” Ettie wheeled around. A ghoulish figure stood a few feet from her. She was still in her evening gown. Blood streaked her face and in one hand she held a knife.
“Surprise!” she said. A smile sprawled across her face.
“Lila!” Stannish said in disbelief. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you — what are you doing here? Not with your lady love? She is … uh … now, Ettie, how does Marston say it — ‘unavailable right now.’ ” She paused. “Yes, unavailable right now, and forever I might add.”
“Lila, put the knife down,” Stannish said in a quavering voice.
“Oh, I will, all right. I’ll put this knife down….” She slid her eyes toward Ettie. They narrowed into a predatory gaze.
She wants blood, more blood! Ettie thought. There was so little room to escape. Lila blocked the narrow passage to the stairwell. Ettie wondered if she should jump into the sea and hope that Hannah was still near enough to save her.
“Now, the last time I put the knife down … Oh, no, sorry … the second to the last time. It was to canvas. Yes … I know … I ripped that portrait. But I have my reasons, and now you need to listen. It’s time for my speech.”
“What speech?” Ettie said. She backed herself against the railing from which Hannah had jumped minutes before.
“You shut up. You disgust me, Ettie, when I think of what you did to Jade.”
“Lila, listen to me,” Stannish pleaded.
“No, you listen to me, you — you cannibal. Yes. That’s what you are … oh, dear, I’m getting mixed up, I wasn’t supposed to say that until the end. But, well, you know what I mean….”
“I have no idea what you mean, Lila.”
“You put her in.”
“Her?”
“That Hannah girl, the scullery maid. When you do something like that you are stealing a person’s soul. My soul. You cannibalized it.”
“But Lila …,” Ettie said.
“One more interruption from you and you’ll get it just like Mrs. Dyer.”
“What?” Ettie and Stannish both gasped. Ettie saw a shadow stealing across the floor of the deck. She jerked her head. In that instant Stannish lunged for Lila. He wrenched her arm. There was a sharp cry of pain and then the clink of metal as the knife hit the deck. Another man jumped from behind a bollard and flung Lila down.
The whole world seemed to spin. Lila was laughing! Laughing hysterically. Stannish was bleeding from a gash above his eye. Several more sailors had suddenly materialized.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Stannish was saying. “Just a nasty cut, that’s all. How’s the child?”
“I’m — I’m all right….” She looked at Lila. “Lila, why would you ever do —”
Lila began laughing again. “If only I could have gotten you!” She was breathing heavily now, gasping, but between the gasps she was trying to say something. “If — if only I could have gotten you, Ettie … Oh, what peace I would have. Jade promised me.”
“Jade is dead, Lila. Remember? I killed her.” Ettie’s voice hardened.
“Oh, no. She’s not dead. She’s right here in my head.” She tried to tap her head, but her hands were bound. “Right here. She’s never left me. But when I get you, you will be dead … dead … dead …”
The shrill words unspooled into the night.
BARKLEY AND GODFREY Appleton were in their library. Barkley was about to begin dictating to their secretary a letter to the finance committee of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts concerning the “limited gift bequest” of a small Giotto they acquired in Florence the previous summer.
“Be sure to tell them, Bark, that it shall be lent to them for the first two years, then after that shall reside here until our deaths,” Godfrey said while snapping open the Boston Evening Transcript. He blinked, drew the paper closer, then gasped, removed his monocle, and gasped again. His brother and the brothers’ secretary, Mr. Weeden, looked at him.
“Something wrong, old fellow?” his brother asked.
Godfrey looked up. “We’re in the papers, Bark!”
A puzzled looked appeared on Barkley’s face. “The papers? How do you mean? What for?”
“For murder.”
“What?”
“Listen to this, Barkley.”
Barkley Appleton stepped over to his favorite chair and folded his lanky frame into it. He tented his fingertips and recrossed his legs at least three times as he listened while his brother, Godfrey, read.
“ ‘Miss Lila Louise Hawley, daughter of Horace Hawley and Edwina Appleton Hawley of Boston, was arrested on her arrival in Southampton aboard the SS Leonidas and charged with the murder of Mrs. Julia Dyer, the divorced wife of Fenton Dyer. The murder took place aboard the ship the night before the ship landed. Miss Hawley is a member of one of Boston’s most prominent families. Horace Hawley is a direct descendent of Ephraim Hawley, who founded the Merchants Bank of Boston in the year 1805. Mr. Hawley’s marriage to Edwina Appleton in 1880 solidified two of the major fortunes of the Commonwealth. The Appleton mills in Lowell, Massachusetts, for more than a century have been the largest textile manufacturing company in New England.’ ” Godfrey set down the paper.
“Beast! She’s a beast!” Barkley spat out the words and folded his arms tightly across his narrow chest as if he were trying to contain a venomous rage that might spew into the library.
Phin heard the creak on the stairs leading up to the sail loft. He knew it had to be Hugh. Not only had they agreed to meet at that hour, he’d come to recognize the young man’s purposeful tread.
Hugh strode in without bothering to knock. He was dressed in a suit like all of those Cambridge men, but his face bore none of the snootiness
“Do you think they are there yet?” Hugh asked anxiously. “It’s been three days, hasn’t it?” He rubbed his temples. “I’ve lost track of time. I think I’m going mad thinking about them out there in that vast ocean.”
“I’m sure they’re there. They can swim more than forty knots when they want, assuming Lucy has gotten her strength back.” He smiled, imagining his lovely Lucy moving with grace and speed through the sea.”
“Oh, I’m sure she did, Phin. We saw her picking up speed before the river met the sea.”
“A-yuh — you’re right about that.” He leaned against the wall, smiling and shaking his head as he thought about the events of the past week. “I still can’t believe what Doctor Lawrence managed to pull off.”
“We owe him everything,” Hugh replied
Phin nodded, and a distant look came into his eyes.
Hugh scratched his head. It was hard sometimes with Phin. He was a typical down-easter and chary with words. As if reading Hugh’s mind, Phin now began to speak. “I think he felt it was best he get out. Wouldn’t be surprised if he headed for Canada.”
Hugh, still scratching the back of his head, walked across the loft floor. “What’s this?” he said, looking down at what appeared to be the lines for the hull of a new boat. “Another big, fancy yacht, eh?”
“Big enough,” Phin replied.
Hugh cocked his head. He realized that indeed this was rather small compared to the rich people’s yachts that the Heanssler yard usually built.
“Big enough for what, Phin?”
“Big enough to get across.”
“Across? Across the Atlantic?”
“To Barra Head.” Phin gave a small wry smile. “No first class or anything like that. No classes at all. Just steerage.”
“Phin, are you suggesting that the two of us sail?”