Fleet of Stars - Part 4 (A Dark Shadows Story)

[lovesrain44]

After they had docked at and left the third island with no call to all hands or a request from the cook that Willie carry out and dump the slops overboard, Willie could relax. Jason had paid for the tickets, and the Ki Li Si apparently carried a small batch of old salts who liked island hopping, and the stops in port were truly casual. The port authority would arrive on small tugs, or outboard motorboats, or even just wave from the main, usually the only, dock. The Ki Li Si was welcome, as was her cargo, and the passengers came and went, stopping in sleepy, small sea side towns that didn’t seem to care how much a fellow drank or if he fell asleep in the middle of the only street in town.

 

“Let’s stay on this one, Jason,” he begged early one morning, as Jason was hauling his ass off the road. The sand he had fallen on at or around midnight was the softest he’d ever felt. The hooch had been smooth, tasting of coconut, and the breeze was like a first kiss, soft and shy and sweet. “Let’s stay here forever.”

 

“Up you go, Willie-me-lad,” said Jason, picking him up in one single move. “I’ll take you somewhere, to this one place I have heard tell of. Sand softer than this, the women sweeter, and the fish fly into your frying pan.”

 

They were walking back to the ship, or rather, Jason was walking and Willie was hanging off him, his feet completely numb, though his ankles felt the soft, velvet sand underneath. Looking up, he saw the stars swirling behind Jason’s head. Literally swirling, like a shining roulette wheel that never stopped, and each slot paid, sparkling like diamonds, with chips of silver light spilling out of each one.

 

“Is it—” asked Willie, “is it gonna have stars like this?”

 

“Stars?” asked Jason, looking down at him, his breath warm on Willie’s face. His voice was gentle. “What are you talking about, boy-o?”

 

“Behind you. They’re everywhere.” Willie lifted a hand to wave at them all, sparkling behind Jason as if they were diamonds studded in pure black velvet. He was about to fall back when Jason caught him, an arm around his shoulders, and then Jason looked up. Tipped his head back, his eyes catching the light of the stars, and even in the darkness of night, the stars were so bright that Jason’s eyes were green. Green against the black, the muscles of his arm holding Willie up, his neck stretched to look at the night sky, and for a moment there was silence. Between the hush hush of one wave and the next, and the call of a night bird, there was pure silence.

 

“Those are the kind of stars,” Jason said, quiet, as if to himself, “that will always take you home.”

 

Then he looked down at Willie and smiled. Willie smiled back, feeling the slip of the liquor in his blood flow into his gut.

 

“Home is where you are, Jason,” he said, thinking it. Thinking it out loud.

 

He could hear the ocean now, and the night birds, the soft whack of a boat in its moorings, and he knew he would never forget the look in Jason’s eyes then. Glittering and hard and closing off whatever thoughts were in Jason’s head. You didn’t say things like that, you didn’t say them. But Willie had. And now, here was Jason, about to remove his arm from around Willie’s shoulders, and was reaching to pry Willie’s fingers off from where they clutched at his shirt, as Willie tried to stay upright and not fall over.

 

“Jason,” he said, his voice husk and desperate. “I didn’t mean it, honest, I’m just drunk, you know, and—”

 

Then Jason did pry his fingers off and remove his arm and walked up the road towards the single wharf, where the Ki Li Si waited out the low tide. When the dawn came, she would be trimmed up and made ready to make way. Passengers going with her would be aboard, and some of the fruit that had been loaded belowdecks would be sliced up for breakfast as the first blue waves of the day churned and frothed under her white bow. And Willie knew his heart would break if he and Jason weren’t on that ship together as they had been forever, Jason telling his tall tales to whoever had gathered near to hear, and he at Jason’s side, taking the food from Jason’s plate without asking, and the both of them knowing that at the next port, or maybe the one after that, they would disembark and go looking for Laureen, and Tia, and Collette, and whichever girl liked the look of their faces and the sound of their voices and the feel of money being pressed in their hands.

 

If it ended, he knew he would die.

 

“Jason.”

 

In the darkness that was turning blue as the dawn came near, Jason stopped. His hands twitched as if he wanted a cigarette, and Willie watched as he reached into his pockets and pulled one out. Lit it, a yellow spark on the sand road, and puffed. The smell of tobacco from the States wafted toward him, and Willie walked into it.

 

“Jason.” He wanted to beg, but of course, to a man like Jason McGuire, that’s what you didn’t do. Not what a man did. He was so drunk, so terribly drunk, he should not have said it, not brought it up at all, out into the open. It was such a vulnerable feeling, he should have kept it close, hidden. Locked away. His knees shook.

 

Jason took another long puff, his features becoming brighter in the quick glow of the cigarette end, and then faded into the near darkness once again. He seemed to be nodding, almost to himself, but also to Willie. Deciding something in the quiet of the early morning as it stole across the sand road.

 

“I’ll always be here, Willie. Always.”

 

Willie felt the hitch in his lungs, something in his stomach that he didn’t want to examine just then.

 

“Thanks, Jason,” he said, low. Letting the words sift across the sand, catching the warmth of a breeze as the sun kicked up its heels just beyond the horizon.

“For you, kiddo?” Now Jason looked at him, eyes sparking, mouth quirking into a small, almost unconscious smile. “The world.” Sarcasm oozing, but every word honestly meant. That was Jason’s way.

 

“I think—” started Willie, but his mouth felt like it was slurring everything.

 

“I think you are going to fall over,” said Jason, coming to hitch an arm under Willie’s shoulders. “Don’t do that now, we want to be putting you to bed, that’s what we want.”

 

“Sure, Jason,” said Willie, letting himself be led. “Anything you say.”

 

It was only as the Ki Li Si had gotten underway that Willie fell into the first solid sleep he’d had since Turkey. When he woke up he discovered that he’d missed that morning’s sliced fruit, but that Jason had saved him some. His thanks were waved away with a hearty snort that he, Jason, did not care for fruit, and it would only have gone to waste. A big fat hairy lie, but the kind Jason preferred to be believed.

 

The blue waters of the Pacific led them from one island to another, all of them dripping with shells and lathered with sand, surrounded by curving coral reefs. Brown islanders either took to them or they didn’t, some islands had real buildings, others just had huts. One island had a little village entirely made of cinderblocks, and it was to this one that Jason suggested that they disembark. An unremarkable island, for all the truth be told, the sand was just as white and soft as anywhere else, palm trees just as languid in the warm breezes. The women were just as kind or indifferent, depending on their mood, and not one of them seemed to want to answer to Laureen.

 

“Why here Jason?”

 

“You have got to learn to think, Willie,” said Jason scolding as he packed. Made Willie pack. “This one…did you not see the wires in the little village?”

 

“No,” said Willie. It came out like a question.

 

“That means a generator. Electricity. Cold beer. You remember cold beer don’t you?”

 

“Cold beer?”

 

“We’ll buy a little scooter, and head up the coast a ways. Find a good spot; a man I know will sell us his cinderblock hut.”

 

“Sell?”

 

Jason lifted up his seabag and tapped Willie on the cheek. “Trust me, kiddo. The stars here will be brilliant.”

 

As they walked down the gangplank to the smaller of two docks, Willie heard Jason whisper under his breath. “It’s Tir Nan Og, my boy, you just don’t know it.”

 

Whatever Tir Nan Og was, it was something Jason liked, and even though the woman Jason hooked up with insisted that her name was not Laureen, it was Piree, he was in a good mood for the whole of their stay. The cinder hut was private, and there was a spring nearby that brought up cool water every day. If you needed to wash, the ocean was right there, and the money flowed as well. They bought fish from the boats as they came in each day, and fruit from the women, who took no pains to hide the fact that they thought that Jason and Willie should get themselves some good strong women to look after them.

 

The rains came, and the hot days, and Willie took to fishing with his own hands, bringing in various things for them to eat. They both grew tan, though Jason would always sport an Irish glow about him that instantly marked him as a non-islander. The scooter took them into town whenever they wanted to go, and there was cold beer on tap, with the bartender thinking that maybe Willie would like to come to work for him. Willie shook his head no, smiled at Jason, and pushed his hair back from his eyes.

 

And then at night, he and Jason would walk on the beach, always, and especially, if the moon was coming up. Walk and watch the phosphorescence in the waves break themselves over nothing, blue and green and glowing in the night air. Sometimes they would talk as they headed back to turn in, but most times they would say nothing. Jason usually walked up-beach, so that Willie could roll up his pantlegs, if he was wearing pants, and walk in the surf. They walked side by side that way, and Willie could look up and see the strong profile of Jason’s face cut against the backdrop of palm trees. And stars.

 

If they never left, it would be too soon.

 

But of course, leave they did, headed on a small black-painted freighter called the Noona Soong, which picked up fruit and people from the out islands and carried them into the shipping lanes. There they caught another boat, and then another, the money holding out so that, as paying passengers aboard a shipping vessel, they could work or not as they pleased, and Willie found he wanted to go someplace where they could work some deals. He was, he found himself, astonished, becoming bored.

 

“I wanna make some money, Jason, not just take handouts.”

 

“What’s mine is yours, Willie-me-lad, you know that.”

 

“I know, Jason, it’s just…I just want to do something. Something fun. And profitable.”

 

Jason thought for a moment as they leaned on the railing, staring at the mash of blue and green and white that the bow spit out. “Alright, Willie. I know where we can go. Easy money. But it’s back in the States.” His voice was a warning.

 

“You know I don’t wanna go back there.”

 

“That’s where the money is. That’s where there’s very easy money. You don’t even have to do anything. Just be my muscle.”

 

“Your muscle, huh?” He liked the sound of it, actually. Thinking of himself, standing hard by as Jason did the patter, made the pitch. Jason’s ideas were usually good. Okay, except for Japan and Turkey, but everywhere else they had gone had turned out fine.

 

“Where in the States, Jason?” he asked, patting his own pockets for a cigarette, wondering if they were sailing into a wind too stiff to strike a match by.

 

Jason passed him a pack of cigarettes and brought out his matches, cupping his hands, waiting for Willie to pull out a cigarette and put it to his mouth. Then he lit the cigarette with a match, leaning his body forward to shield it and Willie from the wind.

 

“It’s in Maine,” said Jason, his dark eyes watching Willie draw on his first puff. “Gets cold up there, even in summer.”

 

“I don’t mind the cold,” said Willie. “Besides, we can always leave if the snow gets too deep.” Not like on the Bering Sea, with ice all around, and no way out. Except for Jason, holding him there, he would have frozen. The memory came at him, as it did from time to time, out of thoughts of breakfast, or smoking a cigarette, or folding a blanket as a pillow for his head. Or it came out of nothing at all, out of the vacant space that occupied his brain when he looked out at the ocean, the thought that Jason had saved him.

 

His last clear memory of Jason had been on a ship off the coast of South Carolina. They’d caught the Carrie Dee again, in Charleston, as she headed back up to Boston. Their money was low, and Jason made a deal with Willie that if he worked as cook’s mate, he’d hook him up with a sweet pearl of a girl in Boston, and after the deal in Maine was cooking, Willie would well and truly never have to work again. The expression on Jason’s face told Willie that his friend meant it. Or at least he believed it. And as the ship headed north, following the coast, Jason brought out his Greek fisherman’s cap, and tipped it to Willie with a gleam in his eye, dark hair curling on his forehead. The spray from the bow as they stood on the forecastle whipped up into their faces, dotting them with salt, and Jason smiled and licked his lips.

 

“There’s nothing like the sea, boy-o. And don’t you forget it.”

 

I’ll always be here, Willie. Always.

 

Though as for the always part of that, Jason had probably never foreseen himself moldering for always beneath the slab stones of a family tomb. Buried there by his good friend Willie’s own hands. That muscle he spoke of so fondly going into the effort of sweating back the stones and digging a trench deep enough for a body to be laid in. Forever.

 

I knew you well, Jason, and loved you more.

 

Maine had turned out to be worse than the Diligence, Japan, and Turkey combined. The only always now was Barnabas.

 

Of course he could not forget it. The sea was where Jason was. And the stars. Silent. Whirling now over his head as Buzz guided the bike under the port-cochiere and turned off the engine. Held the bike steady as Willie slid off, his legs vibrating from the engine’s rumble, his mind full of memories of Jason. He started to walk into the house, feeling the fresh air of the beach being overcome with the weight of the Old House.

 

"Hey, Loomis?"

 

"Yeah?" Willie stopped and turned to look at Buzz.

 

"You're a brother of the road, I can see it in your eyes. Why don't you come with me tomorrow? The bike can carry two as easy as one."

 

Whatever he’d thought Buzz had been going to say, that was not it.

 

"No, I can't." His reply snapped out of him before he could actually start thinking about it. About what Buzz was asking. About what Jason had asked years before. Come and go with me.

 

"Why?"

 

"I just c-can't, okay?" His heart jerked in his chest and he looked over his shoulder at the kitchen door. If Barnabas had heard the bike, then he would be wondering where his servant was and why he was tarrying out of doors when he should be inside, awaiting his master’s pleasure.

 

"Hey, c'mon, man, what's keeping you here? Collinwood's a drag, you know that."

 

A drag and then some. The temptation to hop back on the bike, where the warmth of his own body still remained on the seat, and give the bike a pat to tell Buzz he was ready to head out, was a vivid acid in his head. And so was the awareness that, somewhere behind him in the Old House, Barnabas was coming closer. His heart began to pound and he could only look at Buzz and shake his head no.

 

"Look, man, if you change your mind,” said Buzz, "I'm leaving from the Blue Whale at 6 a.m. You wanna go with me? That's where I'll be. Okay, man?"

 

The door behind him opened with a little snap, the kind only Barnabas could produce to demonstrate his irritation, but still appear calm in front of guests and unexpected visitors.

 

"Willie."

 

He saw Buzz looking past him, saw the flicker of unease across the other man’s face.

 

Willie reached out to shake Buzz’s hand. The flesh of Buzz’s palm was hot against his own. "Thanks, Buzz," he said,” G-good luck on your trip. Stay upright, okay?"

 

"Okay, I'll do that," said Buzz, his mind already focused on starting his bike and heading for home.

 

Willie turned to face the Old House and let the darkness swallow him.

 

*

 

In the morning he awoke, the fog coming in through his partially opened window like smoke sifting up from a low, damp fire. He pulled up his woolen blankets and held his hands to his chest, watching as the fog filled his room, rolling low across the windowsill and sinking to the floor. There was an odd, sad dampness that threatened to vanquish the stalwart little light of the courting candle, and Willie stared at the ceiling and imagined he could see the dawn growing into brightness.

 

The night before, Barnabas had given him the shakedown, demanding to know where he’d been, why his chores had gone undone. The kitchen had been mostly dark, the air still, and the tall form at the other end of the room had been all in shadow. Barnabas had been waiting for him, none too pleased, the patience in that voice non-existent, the edges of it chipped and hard, seeming to reach for him and twist at his insides with a clenched grasp.

 

He tried to give the best answer he could, without boring the vampire with stories about stars across the night-black sky or Jason on the bow of a ship passing him a flask of whiskey to keep off the cold. It would have meant nothing to Barnabas, and even less would he have wanted to concern himself with the bubbling anxiety in Willie’s stomach that did its best to keep him from answering.

 

In the end, he told the truth, that he’d gone out with Buzz Hackett on his motorcycle for a ride. He left out the details of the beer and the offer to light out, thinking he was hiding a great deal and would soon be discovered, and found to his surprise that Barnabas’ major concern had been with the identity of his companion. That he had been out with the Buzz Hackett, who had late been courting Cousin Carolyn.

 

Barnabas mostly wanted to know if Young Hackett had anything nefarious planned. Willie assured him that Buzz did not, that he only wanted to pay him back for the favor he felt was owed to Willie. Then Barnabas wanted to know about the favor. Which is where the conversation got squirrelly. He tried as best he could, through a mouthful of stutters, to explain that Buzz could leave because Carolyn didn’t want him anymore. And the reason Carolyn didn’t want him anymore was because Jason was gone. Jason wasn’t around to thank, so that left Willie.

 

More amazing than the fact that Barnabas’ temper over the unpermitted absence of his servant had fizzled away almost completely at this explanation was the fact that he seemed to understand what Buzz had been doing. His only demand was that there would be, of necessity, no repetition of such an outing in the future. With Willie’s assurances that there would not be and that he had not, in the end, revealed the whereabouts of one Jason McGuire, Barnabas dismissed him to do his chores. Which he’d done by around midnight and had tumbled into bed, expecting to sleep at least a few hours past dawn.

 

But no. Here he was, socked in by fog, while in the distance he could hear the thin bells of the early shift at the cannery. And if he listened, tuning his ears past the low quiet of the Old House at sunrise, he thought he could hear, faint, like a whisper, the click and rumble of a motorcycle as it started up and headed out of town.