Read an Excerpt
WINDSONG
By Autumn Lake
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 Autumn Lake
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-2183-9
Chapter One
Going Home
Usually the twists and turns along the familiar old country road, hovering dangerously above the naked cliffs of Summter Island, made for a most pleasant drive, but driving in a nor'easter could be treacherous indeed.
But now, as she struggled with the frost covered ignition, Marion made a mental note of the ice beginning to fill the cracks and crevices around the windshield, spreading like melting glass along the hood of her car.
"Come on you old bucket of bolts," Marion mumbled to herself. "it's late, the weather's get'n worse, and I want to go home." But the whizzing and grinding of the aged starter stubbornly continued.
"I should've left earlier," she mumbled again.
Glancing towards the entrance to old sailor's inn, Marion spotted Connie Grisham and Yvette Stevens huddled together against the gusting winds. Silly old women, she scolded secretly. Go'n to catch their death in this weather. But Marion truly cherished their friendships. Yvette had always been her nemeses and Marion enjoyed the competition. But Connie, the only neighbor living on the tip of the island, was a kinder gentler friend and through the years they enjoyed everything together and giggled shamelessly over the latest town gossip and the juiciest scandals.
Finally, the old '53 Chevy sputtered and coughed itself into action.
"Ah Ah" she cried triumphantly slapping her hands hard against the vintage steering wheel. "We're not ready for the scrap heap yet."
Offering a short wave to her friends at the covered entrance Marion skillfully manoeuvered the car out of the over-crowded parking lot and onto MacNaugh Drive, carefully testing the road and the winds like the old sea captains who once sailed from these islands many centuries ago. This is going to be a bad one, Marion thought to herself. she had driven through such storms before, but tonight she was anxious to get home to Windsong before the full rage of the blizzard hit the island.
With the skill of a long time resident, Marion eased the car around the narrow bends and steep curves of the country road as newly formed patches of ice danced before the searching beam of her headlights while prickly droplets of freezing rain continued to batter the old Chevy. despite the howling wind, the roar of the angry sea could be heard pounding the jagged shoreline at the bottom of the cliffs
Marion became especially cautious as she rounded the final bend and drove past Grisham's lighthouse, silent now, but still perched precariously on the rocky cliffs. Without fail this old monument of bricks and old timbers once guided tall ships into port delivering lifesaving supplies for the colonists and trading goods for the Indians. But now, it served only as the ancestry home of George and Constance Grisham and for Marion, signalled the halfway mark to her home nestled comfortably amongst the ancient white pines at the tip of the island.
Soon the faint glowing lights of her home twinkled through the raging storm. Marion breathed a sigh of relief. Good, Christy and the children are back from their Halloween party. Driving now towards the tiny lights coming from the front windows Marion believed the worst was over and relaxed her grip, just slightly, on the steering wheel.
It was then that the tires lost their precarious grip on a patch of black ice causing the old Chevy to spin violently out of control. With all the strength she could muster, Marion fought the steering wheel trying desperately to keep the car away from the edge of the cliff. But as the car rammed into the steel barrier Marion was suddenly consumed by excruciating pain as her chest crunched into the steering column and her head whipped forward shattering the windshield, spraying tiny gems of splintered glass into her eyes and cutting deep into her face. Like a toy falling down a long flight of stairs, the car flipped over the railing and bounced down the rocky cliffs, viciously splintering steel and glass until it plunged into the Atlantic.
Slowly at first, the frigid waters began to thread through the broken windows and gush in from under the dashboard. Still dazed from the blow to her frail body Marion groped for the door handles.
I've got to get out of here, she thought, panic stricken and hardly able to breathe. But the rushing waters of the Atlantic gripped the car with an iron hand, denying her the freedom she needed as she struggled desperately to get the car door opened. Helpless, the car swayed violently in the angry waves until it settled into the muck and grime of the ocean floor.
"Dear God," she cried, "Please don't let me die here."
Unaffected by the violence of the storm above, a large turtle swam past the broken windshield, turned and looked at Marion as she slipped into the arms of death, then un-sympathetically swam away.
A Miracle at Midnight
Above, the wind howled eerily over the island as the freezing rain merged into large glistening flakes of snow. In the shadow of a towering white pine, not far from Marion's home, a frail figure stood still and calm, impervious to the cold, watching as the headlights to the old Chevy flickered out beneath the wild angry waves, then the silent shadow turned towards the house and disappeared into the snowy mist.
Unexpectedly Marion's eyes opened, the sensation of panic and despair that had consumed her only moments ago were no longer a part of her being. Somehow she had escaped the old Chevy, drowning in the great gushing waves of piercingly cold water, instead she seemed to be enclosed in a dry, warm bubble of darkness.
Where am I? she looked about her but the void was empty. She could not even hear the sound of her own voice, and there was no one to tell her what was going to happen, if anything, in this abyss of comfort.
Maybe it's a cave. Could I have been swept into an underwater cave? But, Marion had to admit this thought was rather extreme for, in all the 30-odd years she had lived on Summter Island she had never heard of a cave in this area.
Maybe I can swim out of here. But her arms and legs would not move. Again and again she tried until finally she realized she was powerless to control what was happening around her.
Wearily she surrendered all of her uncertainties and frustrations to whatever force was shielding her in this new, unfamiliar world.
In the hushed vastness about her, Marion began to sense that something extraordinary was happening. She felt her forehead but the wound was not there. Instead of her clothes, once wet and stiff from the cold, she found herself dressed in a soft pale gown, her long flowing auburn hair clean and dry.
Is this it? She wondered in astonishment. Is this what happens when you die? Marion felt a little disappointed. She had always believed that there would be a great golden gate that opened to a glorious hall filled with beautiful angels and wonderful music of harps and violins. she expected to see Michael the Archangel and Gabriel the Messenger standing on each side of the throne of God. Most of all, she had always thought that her loved ones would be waiting for her when her turn came to join them. But this was not the case.
Maybe this isn't heaven. Maybe my heaven was at home with Sam and the children. Marion began to think about Christy, her daughter and her sons, Jerry and Josh remembering the good times they had when the children were young. She began to feel saddened about how now, as adults and married with their own children they had slowly grown apart as a family. Thanksgiving and Christmas are the only times I see them anymore.
Home at Last
Christy and her three children, Kathy, 13, Kim, 10, and Patrick, who had just turned 6, moved back to Windsong after the death of Christopher, Christy's husband. But the boys were living on the mainland, successful in their work, with little time to come home. How nice it would have been if Jerry and Josh's children could learn to love the island and the sea the way they all once had.
It was at this very moment all that was once a stable, comfortable existence began to change. The darkness that had surrounded her began to melt into a soft glimmer of light and the sound of happy voices began to echo in her ears.
Soon she found herself immersed in the gentle glow of her dining room.
Christy and the children were just finishing up the evening meal and began to clear the table. They were all laughing at Patrick's silly remark about the lighthouse.
"It's haunted," he had declared in a childish, stubborn way. "I tell you, it's haunted."
"Christy!" Marion called out in amazement, her voice echoing around her. But Christy went about her chores without notice. Marion called again and to her relief, Patrick looked up from his plate.
"Grandma," he shouted jumping down from his chair and running to where she stood.
"No, no Patrick," Christy called over the others. "Grandma's at a meeting." Christy went over to Patrick and picked him up, cuddling him in her arms. "She'll be home soon," she said softly as she peered worriedly across the great mahogany table and out into the storm.
"Grandma's there, Grandma's there." Patrick pointed as Christy carried him with her into the kitchen.
"Shhh," Christy whispered comfortingly "Grandma's at a meeting." But Patrick struggled to get down. "All right, go watch for her at the window." Christy suggested as she lowered Patrick to the floor. As he ran back into the dining room she began to fill the sink with warm sudsy water for the dirty dishes.
"No Christy, here I am." Marion shouted. But once again Christy and the children paid no attention to her. Patrick, tiring of the game, climbed onto the window seat nestled just below the dining room window, pressing his face hard against one of the tiny panes to watch the falling snow.
Marion was dumfounded. She looked about the room, everything was in order, but somehow different. She felt like a third party watching friends act out a play, or a dream, Marion was not sure which. The reality of the evening's events began to grip her very soul. Voices, shadows, events swirled about her as she began to recall the horror and the beauty of only moments ago. She even remembered standing by the white pine as the Chevy's headlights blinked out under the deep frigid waters.
Gathering her wits about her Marion decided to go to the kitchen to join Christy but as she moved along, by a force she did not know, she stopped for a moment facing the great mirror set just above MacNaugh's old Spanish buffet, deeply gouged with gilded carvings and inlays of pure ivory. She was stunned to see that nothing looked back at her from the reflective glass. She strained to see herself moving back and forth but there was no image. "I know I'm here," she whimpered.
Just then she felt a sudden chill. As she looked about her Patrick was trotting back and forth with his arms outstretched as if wanting a hug from grandma.
Oh my, this must really be confusing for him she confessed and out of habit she bent down and whispered softly, "Patrick it's alright, I'll talk to you later, after everyone has gone to bed,"
Patrick looked up at her and smiled "Ok, grandma." he replied, and then trotted back to the window seat.
God bless little children, Marion marvelled. They certainly are exceptional beings. Marion was about to continue her trip to the kitchen when a knock at the front door caused her to pause.
Henry Comes to Call
As Christy hurried through the dining room, she peeked out the window to see if her mother's car was in the drive.
"Maybe Grandma forgot her house keys," she called to the others.
But when she opened one of the two heavy doors that were fashionable in the 16th Century, she found Henry standing on the stoop, cold and wet from the storm.
"Howdy Christy," he greeted her in the slow drawl of a fisherman's son. "Can I come in for a minit?"
Christy opened the door wider and Henry stepped just inside the entry.
"What in the world are you doing out in this kind of weather?" Christy asked.
Henry was still dressed in his sheriff 's uniform so Christy guessed he had stopped by for more than just a social call. "What can I do for you?"
"Christy?" Henry asked quietly. "Have you seen Mrs. Blanchard this even'n? Is she home? I looked for her car when I pulled in the drive out there but I didn't see it."
Christy was startled by his question. "Why no Henry, Mom isn't home yet. She had a council meeting at the Inn earlier this evening. I do expect her most anytime though. Would you like to come in and wait for her?"
"Well, no Christy," Henry replied hesitantly. "You see, Mr. Grisham saw a car crash over the guardrail on MacNaugh Drive a little while ago, not too far from here. I'm just check'n round to see if anyone might know who it was."
Christy stared at Henry in disbelief. "Wh-why, I'm sure it couldn't be Mom, she's at a meeting."
At once Henry realized he had alarmed Christy with what he hoped would be an unnecessary house call.
"Now, now Ms. Christy," Henry said soothingly. "I'm sure everything's alright. I'll just stop by Old Sailor's on my way back and check it out, just to be sure. Don't you worry; I'll call as soon as I know somethin'." With that Henry opened the door and slipped back into the storm.
Christy stood and watched as Henry backed his cruiser out of the driveway and onto the road headed towards town. Christy, dazed by Henry's abrupt departure, and unaware that her slippers were soaking up the melting snow whipping over the doorsill finally closed the door and turned towards the dining room. It isn't Mom, she thought stubbornly. It just couldn't be Mom.
Still standing by the buffet Marion watched as Christy and Henry talked. She had always liked Henry's easygoing ways and knew that he was a good man, hard working, dependable and honest, much like Christy's father. She also knew that he and the other officers had already searched the area for survivors from the accident and she knew that they hadn't found anyone.
Marion began to understand. She was dead. She had died in that old Chevy resting now in the icy waters of the Atlantic. I'll never see my family together again, she lamented. I'll never see my grandchildren grow up to love this old house as I have loved it. They'll never learn about the majesty and mysteries of the sea and they'll never enjoy the freedom that comes with living at Windsong.
Patrick was still sitting on the window-seat in the dinning room watching Henry pull out of the driveway while Kathy and Kim, Patrick's older sisters, were busy stacking the clean dinner dishes in the corner cupboard.
Christy still stood in the entry hall. Maybe I should call Jerry, Christy wondered. But then dismissed the idea of bothering her older brother at this late hour. I'll wait until Henry calls back. It's just a false alarm anyway. As she walked back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up, out of habit Christy glanced nervously at the Swedish grandfather's clock standing in the entryway but barely noticed the time and certainly had not noticed that the ornate brass hands on the clock face, painted with ships in a heavy sea, had somehow changed direction and were now counting the minutes in reverse.
At last, when all the evening chores were finished and the children were asleep Christy checked the last of the door and window locks, turned out the lights and went to bed. It's alright, Christy supposed as she snuggled under the covers. Henry didn't call.
Marion found herself wondering about keeping watch over her family as the storm outside hurled itself against the house. Now and then she realized that her thoughts could create movement. She could easily move any item in the house simpy by the desire to do so. So all through the lonely night she set about experimenting with her new powers - putting books back onto the bookshelves, straightening a picture on the wall, picking up toys and putting them in their rightful place by the toy box. Great, I'm housecleaning again. She chuckled. She could ring the antique porcelain dinner bell sitting on the buffet and replace ashen logs in the fireplace just by a simple desire to do so. Well, at least being dead won't be boring.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from WINDSONG by Autumn Lake Copyright © 2012 by Autumn Lake. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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