Mist upon the Marsh: The Story of Nessa and Cassie (11 page)

Across the water, at a distance which seemed, in the darkness, some miles away, there glowed many lights (for, apparently, the night did not force this part of the world – or at least its incandescent effects – to pause), which mingled with the moonlight to illuminate a place otherwise invisible. The yellow lights shifted with the movement of the water; and it was evident that they belonged to a great number of houseboats.

The silver light, then, showed first in the sky; and then shone down atop the roofs of the houseboats – some industrial and more expensive, but others simply earthen and thatched. Yellow lights burnt in the windows, and then shone into the water, so that quite everything created a four-tiered portrait of magic and beauty: a portrait of near-perfection quadrupled, so that one could not look upon a single one of those layers, without casting one’s eyes afterwards both up and down, so as to view also the three remaining ones.

Too small to be reflected upon the slow-moving river, but lovely enough in their own right, there were glowing countless fireflies. Their lights flickered on and off, and off and on, so that one could never tell whether the new light was made by a new firefly, or by the very one which had flashed previously. But it mattered not; for even if all of that flashing light was created by a single small body, dashing at an impossible speed between the banks of the river, the magnificence of the imagined multitude was no less.

“What do you think?” asked Cassie.

“I think – well, I think it’s very beautiful,” said Nessa, removing her eyes from the scene so that she might look into Cassie’s face. But when she did look there, she found that she nearly forgot (quite despite its impressiveness) the beauty of the waterscape to her right; and became once again so entranced by the glory of this bright
new star, that she could by no means compare it to the splendour of the four-tiered portrait; for the latter seemed to come in at nothing more than a far second.

“Do you think so?” said Cassie. “I was hoping you would like it.”

Unsettled by the observation she had just made, Nessa looked away, and said, “How could I not?”

Cassie laughed. “Believe me,” she said, “it’s possible. An old friend came down with me, a few years back. I told him I liked to lie on the bank, and watch the lights on the water. He stood there for a second or two – just about exactly where you’re standing, I think – and then said to me: ‘I don’t get it. I thought we were going for a beer?’ ”

She laughed again; but Nessa did not fail to notice that it contained some more-than-small amount of bitterness; and though she wished mightily to inquire as to its purpose, she refrained, and returned instead to looking upon the four-tiered portrait.

Cassie came a little nearer to the water’s edge, and set herself down on the cool, grassy earth. She smiled up at Nessa; then took her hand, and pulled her down beside her. They both fell, then, to staring at the portrait, whose shining light was surrounded by darkness seemingly indelible. It made one think that, even if there shone some light in a new direction, towards a place that had formerly been shrouded in shadow, it would have no effect. But the four tiers remained, and they were enough; and countless fireflies (or, perhaps, just the one) danced endlessly in between.

~

Such a place, it would seem, offered boundless opportunity for the loosing of Nessa’s lips; and she was certain that she would tell Cassie, time after ineffectual time, that she herself was much greater than the portrait which stretched before them. She was certain, she was certain, time after time; but it always came to nothing, and when she opened her mouth to speak, she only managed to close it again in disappointment.

They sat for what seemed hours. Surely weary from her day at the diner, Cassie began several times to doze; and went so far on one occasion, even to slump down against Nessa’s shoulder, and to take up the steady breath of sleep. But she woke very shortly thereafter, and righted herself quickly, with a bashful grin offered to Nessa.

Finally they rose, and started back to the car. Even in these moments, Nessa felt sure that she would say something of what she wanted; anything at all of what she wanted. Yet she said nothing, and only returned to the car, where the greater part of the magic and mystery seemed to fade away. It was replaced by the stale scent which belongs solely to those vehicles that have lived some period longer than twenty years; and in the starkness of this reality, even an amount of the truth of Nessa’s former thoughts began to disappear; and she did find herself wondering, what exactly she was doing at this time of night, in the car and company of a person whom she barely knew? She thought back on the scene of her meeting with Mr Clocker, and could detect again the smell of that foul mud upon her clothes, dry now but no less offensive – and wondered, what
had
she been thinking?

Chapter XIII
:

O
missions

T
hat small, rolling, strangely-scented space was filled for some minutes with silence, until Nessa was faced with the inevitable question, of where she lived?

“Down the right fork of Junction,” she answered; “just off of Old Johnson.”

Cassie made a small sucking sound with her teeth, and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “That’s about an hour out of my way,” she said. “I’m dead tired. I don’t know if I can drive all that way.”

“No trouble,” said Nessa. “What way do you take?”

“The left fork.”

“Drop me there.”

Cassie looked towards her, with an expression somewhat confused. “Isn’t that a long walk, in the dark?” She yawned. “Or at any other time, really.”

“Really,” said Nessa. “It’s no trouble.”

“Well, I think it’s silly. Why not come to my place for a bit? It’s already halfway to morning, I think. I can take you home, after I’ve slept a little.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t –”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“Because I can’t –”

“You can’t what?”

“I suppose you’ll never know, since you won’t let me finish my sentences.”

“Fine, then. Finish your sentence.”

“I – oh, never mind.”

Cassie smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

Nessa said no more; for in truth, she did not want to argue. She felt that she must voice at least some small measure of disagreement, to such a proposition as had been made, if only for the sake of normalcy and obligation. Yet she had experienced an undeniable thrill at the prospect of avoiding a parting with Cassie. She had put up her front; and now she could lean back, and watch with rising interest as they traced the route to Cassie’s home. The scenery grew familiar, and finally they came to the forks, the rightmost of which Nessa did not even look upon, as there was no wish in her heart whatever for home; and down the left fork they turned.

When finally they came to LeMontagne Boulevard, Nessa began to move in her seat, and looked to the left and the right; for through her open window, she could detect a trace of Cassie’s scent, drifting on the air from some nearby house. Before the car had even directed itself to the drive of number 245, Nessa had selected it as their destination, and so was already looking towards it, when they had come only halfway down the street. The white paint was peeling; there were a large number of shingles missing from the roof; and the front door was coloured a bright shade of pink. (There was of course no way for Nessa to know this, but the door had been collected from the junkyard after an especially nasty episode of Birdie’s, wherein she demonstrated that she was capable of wielding a baseball bat quite dexterously.)

Nessa nearly slipped, and commended Cassie on the fine quality of her home (which was, as Nessa had been reminded repeatedly by her mother, the polite form of conversation; even if, as in this particular case, the home was in fact not of a very fine
quality at all) before she was even supposed to know
which
home it happened to be. Yet she managed to stop her tongue, and delayed her words till the car had rolled up the drive; and then waited again, till they had crossed the lawn and ascended the steps; and then till they had entered the house. Finally she looked all about, taking in the wide entrance hall, and the adjacent parlour; and said: “You have a lovely home.”

“I would thank you,” said Cassie, “if that were really true. But I suppose I should still tell you that I appreciate your well-meant dishonesty.”

Nessa grinned, and continued on behind Cassie, towards the staircase at the midpoint of the hall.

“I’m hoping,” said Cassie, “ that we won’t run into anyone tonight – but if we do, I’d like to say beforehand that I take no responsibility for anything that either of those people might say.”

“And who,” said Nessa quietly, “might we be unfortunate enough to stumble across?”

“Seeing as it seems we won’t be that unlucky,” said Cassie, peering up the staircase, “I’ll spare you that much.” She sighed, and added, “I really don’t even know what I was thinking, bringing you here. I suppose I just –”

But she said no more. She only started on up the stairs; and at the second-floor landing, paused for a moment, squinting ahead into the shadows of the corridor. Even Nessa’s eyes saw nothing; and so they started off again, their footsteps muffled only slightly by incredibly thin carpeting. Past three doors on the left they went, and two on the right; and at the end of the hall, they turned into a large West-facing bedroom. Once inside, Cassie moved quickly to the door, and closed and locked it silently.

“Are we expecting visitors of the unsavoury type?” asked Nessa.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Might you want to explain that a little better?”

“Not really.”

Nessa went to the windows, of which there were two, and which were the sort with many small squares of glass laid into them (in this case, twelve panes each). Directly beside one another they stood, each with a small lock and handle at their middle right- or left-hand sides, respectively. A wide wooden bench was cut into the wall in front of them, to create the sort of window seat that a little girl cherishes, and in which she positions all of her many stuffed bears and companions. In this seat she might curl up alongside them, at night, and look up at the moon; in which it has been said there lives a man, to whom certain little lonely children can speak, to alleviate their hurt and heavy hearts.

Fittingly, this bench was painted white; but there was nothing stuffed upon it. There were several papers scattered across it, which seemed to depict sheet music. But when Nessa reached to take them up, Cassie whisked them away. So she simply peered up at the moon, to see whether or not she could make out the man there.

“Do you play an instrument?” she asked.

“Guitar,” answered Cassie, who had set herself down on the edge of the bed, and was rifling distractedly through the papers she had taken from Nessa. Her eyes were so intent upon them, and her focus was so absolute, that her eyes seemed nearly crossed. She looked on at her papers, and Nessa looked on at the moon; neither of them ever looking towards one another, but both ever aware of the words of the other; and neither ever failing to respond.

“How long have you played?” asked Nessa.

“About ten years.”

“What songs do you have there?”

“Just this and that.”

“What sort of this and that?”

“The sort I wrote.”

Finally Nessa turned from the window, but still Cassie concentrated on her papers, and there were no eyes for her own to find. So she went to the bed, and sat down beside her, but then only looked back to the window.

“Might you play something for me?” she asked.

“Maybe another time.”

“Why not now?”

“Because I don’t feel like it.”

Cassie straightened the papers, and threw them atop a small table beside the bed. Then she folded her arms, and looked down at the floor, while Nessa looked at the side of her face.

“I think that’s very interesting, you know,” said Nessa.

“You think what’s interesting?”

“That you’re a musician.”

Cassie laughed. “I assure you, Nessa – I’m no such thing.”

“Well, you said that you play guitar – didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“And you said that you write songs – didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. You make music! That makes
you
a musician. It’s the only real definition of the word, you know.”

“Fine, then. But I’ll only go so far as to point out, that I’m not a very good one.”

“Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think it?”

Again Cassie laughed – albeit this time somewhat nervously. “Oh, stop it, Nessa. Talk about something else!”

“Do you promise that one day you’ll play me something?”

Cassie finally looked up into her face. Her countenance was filled with an expression one part confused, and one part flattered; and a third part seemingly fearful.

“All right,” she said. “I will – one day. But there’s no telling what day that will be.”

“I suppose that’s just fine, so long as you don’t forget.”

A return of that familiar sparkle, then.

A short silence ensued, and for the life of her, Nessa could not think of how to break it. Finally she asked, “Who lives here with you?”

“My mother and her husband.”

“Then I take it you all don’t – get on very well?”

Another smile; but no sparkle. “I wish I could say something different, but no, we don’t.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

Cassie tilted her head to the side, and surveyed Nessa for a long moment. “And why are you sorry?” she asked.

“Only that you seem so unhappy, Cassandra MacAdam.”

Cassie made no reply.

“I’m sorry,” said Nessa. “Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

“Good grief, Nessa! Don’t be so sorry about everything!” She grinned, and took hold of Nessa’s hand. “And besides, I’m not so unhappy. I might have been, last night – but tonight I feel much better.”

She pressed Nessa’s hand, and moved to kiss her cheek. Struck rather dumb, Nessa could think of nothing at all to say; so it was fortunate, really, that Cassie had had a few certain words planned, for the moment wherein she separated herself a little from Nessa.

“So,” she said; “why don’t you tell me something about yourself? You know that I work at the diner; that I visit Mr Clocker every Wednesday; that my favourite place is the bank of the bayou; and that I live for the moment with my crazed and unfortunate mother. Mind you that I say unfortunate for me, and not for her.” She paused, and tilted her head again (this time to the opposite side); and settled her cheek onto her fist, so as to look directly into Nessa’s face. “But I know nothing about you! Well, except for the fact that you have a brother who tends to be very angry – and two friends whose names I don’t know. I didn’t much like the way one of them looked at me, and the other one I didn’t see much at all; but I did notice that he was very handsome.”

There seemed some underlying purpose to this latter remark; but Nessa passed over it.

“Well, you’ve met Caramon,” she said. “And he is not, by the way, very often angry. My ill-mannered friend is named Dechtire.”

“Dechtire? Well, that’s a different name. But come to think of it – so is your brother’s! Do they mean anything in particular?”

“Well,” said Nessa, “mine and Dechtire’s names are old Irish ones. Our families’ ancestors were from Ireland – and it’s something of a tradition among my –”

She had been about to say,
my people.
But that would not have done at all. So she cleared her throat, and said, “Well, anyway. Caramon was my grandfather’s name – my father’s father.”

She could think of no way to expound upon this offering; for, in truth, her brother’s name was of the Endalin tongue, meaning “fierce warrior”; and there was no real way to explain that to Cassie.

Nevertheless, Cassie exclaimed: “I love it! It gets so boring, you know – all the same names, all the time. Especially here! Everyone sounds like a redneck or a hillbilly – and it gets so – so annoying!”

As she spoke these words, she was thinking (though of course she said nothing of it to Nessa) of the irksome Bobby-Ray Williams.

“I suppose so,” said Nessa, hoping that to concur with Cassie’s observations would serve to turn to a greater degree from the obligation of saying anything more about herself.

But it seemed not to be won that easily.

“And who was your other friend?” asked Cassie.

“What other friend?” said Nessa stupidly.

“Well, you told me about the girl. What about that boy who was with you?”

“That was no one.”

It felt so very wrong, just saying it!

Cassie arched an eyebrow. It seemed she was not following.

Here Nessa searched for words to further her explanation – but she could think of nothing to say of Orin, that she wished to say to
Cassie.
So what to say at all?

“His name is Orin. Dechtire is his sister.”

“Ah, I see!” said Cassie. “And I was thinking for a second –”

She laughed, and waved her hand through the air.

“What were you thinking?” asked Nessa.

“Oh, only that – well, it doesn’t even matter!”

Nessa asked nothing else; and so was surprised when Cassie added: “I suppose I thought he was your boyfriend.”

Nessa felt a small piece of her heart crumble away. “And why would you think that?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Just the way he looked at you, I suppose.”

Nessa turned to her, and took up her hand again, prepared to say something which she had not thought entirely through; but suddenly there came the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall without. Nessa’s head jerked quickly to the left, for of course she had no idea whatever what this sound might portend; but Cassie made not a move, and only looked down to the floor once more; though she did heave a great sigh, and her face did take on rather a dejected expression. But then she raised her head, looked to Nessa, pointed to the closet and said: “Hide.”