The Sister's Tale by Beth Powning (e reader for manga .txt) 📕

“We held our first meeting,” Carrie rushed on. “Twelve of us. We read papers written by the English and the American suffragists. We planned to join the national organization. We felt that what we want to do will occur. It will! We all felt it.”

Phone conversations were unadorned. Clicks indicated the presence of listeners.

“Just as well not to travel, Carrie,” Josephine said. “A storm is coming.”

She set the receiver back in its cradle.

The house was quiet. The girls, at school. George, away at university. Smell of roast chicken and rhubarb sauce. Thud of feet overhead—voices.

She had a meeting of the beautification committee this afternoon to discuss the year ahead. The planting of trees. Street cleaning. A town picnic.

Feathers ruffled by Mr. Train, Pleasant Valley would resume.

FOUR Ocracoke Island

THE LETTERS LAY ON the hall floor. Josephine gathered them and went into the parlour, her mind on the bulging plaster in the upstairs hallway which she must discuss with Mr. Dougan.

She sat at her desk, shuffling the letters. She separated out one with unfamiliar handwriting. She picked up her reading glasses, worked them onto her nose and peered at the frank. Her heart stuttered.

Ocracoke, North Carolina.

The envelope was brown, its edges soft and blunted.

Mrs. Simeon Galloway, Creek Road, Pleasant Valley, New Brunswick, Canada.

She lifted a brass paperknife and sliced open the envelope. Her hands trembled—withdrawing the paper. Unfolding it. Smoothing it.

Elbows on blotting paper.

Fingers to temples.

January 15, 1888

Dear Mrs. Galloway,

I write to you from Ocracoke Island, where I am the lighthouse keeper. It is my sad duty to inform you that the ship “Marianne” went down off our island in a gale. Many were saved but unfortunately your brave husband was not among them. At the time of writing, his body is washed and decently clothed in our parlor. By the time you have received this letter, he will be carefully interred in our own family cemetery rather than in the dunes, as is customary with the many unfortunates who have washed up upon our beaches. We await your instructions as to marker, hoping for a visit from you and your family. My wife and I extend the greatest sympathy, and invite you to stay in our home for the duration of your visit, but should you wish privacy, there is a fine hotel.

As for the particulars, it was seen from shore that the ship made her way northwards in a tremendous gale. It was feared that Ocracoke Light was mistaken for Hatteras Light, in which case such a course would have been correct, but unfortunately this drove the ship directly onto the shoals where she was instantly rolled onto her beam ends. People gathered on shore as enormous breakers crashed upon the vessel. It had commenced to snow and hail. No lifeboats could set out, such was the extent of the surf. In the mist and spray, we made out several men clinging to shrouds on the bow, and could see that they flung an item overboard. Through the telescope we made it out to be a dog, which after a gallant and desperate swim, came upon the shore with a line attached to its collar. By means of this rope, we were able to rescue all the women aboard the ship and some of the men. Most of the men who assisted in the rescue perished in the attempt. Among them was your husband. From his belongings, and once the vessel’s name was discovered, we ascertained his identity.

My wife has cleaned and set aside all the property he carried on his person to return to you. We were told by the women who were aboard the ship that the dog, Sailor, was the beloved companion of your husband and so we will guard this precious animal and return him to you, as well.

It is one of the worst of my duties to send letters such as these, and I come to a quick finish in order to place it on the ferry as soon as possible.

I remain your servant…

She was standing, now, the letter clutched to her breast.

Her own voice, swollen.

“Ellen!”

She bent forward, collapsed back on the chair. Her voice came, weaker.

“Ellen! Ellen!”

Dog. Gallant and desperate. Body is washed. Cemetery. Enormous breakers crashed. Beam ends. The worst of my…

Ellen, Margaret, Mary, Flora—rushing from the kitchen, trampling down the stairs. Arms around her waist, breast-tightened cloth, voices, urgent and meaningless as her knees gave way. Falling. Vomit. Cheek pressed to the carpet. Mr. Dougan, smell of tobacco, her head rolling to his tweed vest. “Let her down gently, now. Gently.” A pillow beneath her head. “Holy Mary, Mother of…” Struggling to rise. “No! No! No!” Her own voice again and then blackness sweeping up, pressing down, within it a glowing core, a single point of light. Ocracoke Light, not Hatteras. Not Hatteras. Not Hatteras.

—

Mr. Dougan went to the school with the horse and sleigh to collect Lucy and Maud. He warned them of very bad news, and they went upstairs into their mother’s bedroom and learned that their father was dead.

George was summoned from Sackville via telegram.

Simeon’s parents and Josephine’s parents came.

Ellen bade the housemaids to strive to their utmost. Roast chicken, biscuits, apple pie. Flora flew back and forth from kitchen to dining room, setting out cups and saucers, plates, silverware.

After nightfall, a firm knock sounded on the door.

—

“Let me see it.”

Nathaniel held out his hand. One eye was narrower than the other, as if from years of squinting, with a thickened, drooping lid; his “kind” eye, Azuba called it. The other—held wider, as if in compensation, its expression grim, brooking no nonsense—he levelled at merchants or at workers sent into his orchards. Josephine saw this eye harden, now. She gave him two letters, the most recent one from Simeon, sent from New York, and the lighthouse keeper’s.

She watched as he read Simeon’s. She saw the moment when he encountered Simeon’s words—I struggle to complete my crew.