The Keeper of Dawn (5 page)

“I’ve done a good deal of walking and
thinking
in
this room, so naturally it’s taken a toll on the carpeting. Now, where were
we?”

“You were saying you stick your nose in everyone’s
business.”

He looked at me crossly. “I see you
were
listening. I
admit I tend to meddle. It’s my nature, and like I said, it’s carried down to
your father. It’s a cumbersome trait that comes with the Hawthorne name.”

“So what kind of things did you and David talk about?”

“Maybe you’ll just have to
drop by
some time and find
out.”

“Monday afternoon.”

“What?”

“Mother has City Council meetings Monday evenings, so she
won’t notice if I get home late. Every other month she has it at our house, so
I’d have to skip that week.”

“I see you’ve got this all thought out. Okay, so if you were
to visit Monday afternoons, it must be completely on your own accord. You
understand your parents would not very much approve?”

“I understand.”

“Very well then,” he concluded, smiling down on me as I
imagined grandfathers often do upon their grandchildren.

We spent the rest of the time discussing more lighthearted
topics, which apparently didn’t require as much thought, for Grandfather
retired from his walking circle to his recliner. As the weeks went by, I would
learn that he told jokes and stories of days gone by from the recliner, leaving
his walking circle that he refused to acknowledge for more thought-provoking
discussions.

“And one more thing, young man,” he said as I was leaving. “I
do very much like to fish!”

“Why, yaw from all over, aren’t ya, three-seventy-five?”
Chet said, examining my mother’s letter from New Hampshire. “So where do ya
hang yaw hat?” When I told him I was from New York, he just nodded like he had
suspected it all along. “How could I fawget? Musty, from Brooklyn. Ya just got
yawself girls stashed all over, don’t ya? They don’t perfume their letters, but
ya don’t fool me, three-seventy-five. Ya don’t fool me one bit.”

It hadn’t taken long to learn Chet had a nose like a
bloodhound. The fact that he
smelled
every letter before giving it to
its rightful owner became an ongoing joke.

“Nothing quite like the smell of greenbacks,” he would say,
which was music to our ears, as it always foretold of money from home.

I crossed the cafeteria and joined Benjamin at our table by
the window. Immersed in a comic book, he hardly glanced up. Outside, students
trekked through the drizzle that had been nonstop all morning. The lighthouse
and clock tower were obscured in fog.

I hesitated before opening Mother’s letter. Despite being the
wife of a judge and daughter of a former New York State Senator, Diane
Hawthorne hadn’t taken to law or politics. Though she possessed an extensive
knowledge on either topic, her true passion lay in rescuing the osprey. Mother
became giddy whenever she spoke of the endangered bird. If Father happened to
be present, he would grow quiet, often becoming distracted with some trivial
task at hand. Though he hadn’t hesitated to finance the Hawthorne Raptor
Center, he couldn’t rationalize why his wife persisted on burdening herself in
such a fashion. In all their years together, he couldn’t see the ambitious
woman striving to achieve something not handed down by birthright or marriage.

The letter began with the details of her trip to White
Mountain National Forest, that year’s chosen location for releasing the raptor
center’s captive osprey. She was “roughing it in the wild,” which meant staying
at a quaint chalet in the mountains. She and her team from the Hawthorne Raptor
Center were “hacking,” an ornithological term for placing incubated osprey eggs
in nest towers. Once the eggs hatched, the newborn chicks were fed with gloved
arms built into the nests. The parentless birds never saw the hand that fed
them. “Everything is going along splendidly,” she wrote. “We only lost one egg.
The chicks are getting stronger every day. I can’t begin to describe the
feeling I get when feeding them. I’m convinced they think I’m their mother. And
in a way, I suppose I am. It’s just such an amazing experience.”

She waited until the end to address my insubordination.

I spoke at some length with Mr. Hearst (such a pleasant
gentleman!) Of course I was shocked by what he had to say, as I cannot imagine
you behaving in such a way. It’s not becoming of you, Jacob. I was relieved to
hear that you played only a small part in the incident (though big enough!) I
had no idea there were such troublemakers at a prestigious school like
Wellington. It makes me wonder how children with such strong upbringings turn
out that way. However, I can’t say I’m surprised Governor Forsythe’s son is
such a terror. I’ve been hearing outlandish stories concerning his father for
years now. Serves him right to have such a devil for a child. He’ll never get
my vote. And to think you were up in that clock tower. You mustn’t put yourself
in such danger. Oh, how I remember that lovely island—such a treasure. Write
soon. Love, Mother.

Mother’s letter brought to light Father’s lack of
correspondence. Though we frequently went for weeks without talking, misconduct
or mediocre grades were sure to grab his attention. Even though his letter
would have been reprimanding, at least it would have been a reassurance that he
was still aware of my life.

“A letter from your folks?” Benjamin asked.

“More like a lecture,” I replied, gathering up the pages. “They
think I’m hanging out with the wrong crowd.”

“Well if you ask me, that Chris Forsythe is the biggest
troublemaker there is.”

“You know him?”

“I don’t need to know him,” Benjamin said, taking a bite of
French bread. “I know his
type
. Arriving here a day late in his daddy’s
helicopter so everyone can see what an
important person
he is. The way he
prances around, acting all … hoity-toity. I’d rather
not
know him.”

I smiled. Unless he got talking about his Aunt Ditty, a
woman infamous throughout Providence for doing a great injustice to the Bailey
name, Benjamin kept his unfavorable opinions to himself. Though lately, his
pessimism was beginning to show. He rarely spoke of the honors program or the
debate team, which he had joined to avoid sports. Away from home for the first
time, with teachers who weren’t his mother, his world had been turned upside
down. He maintained his composure throughout the day, but the moment the lights
went out, his homesickness returned. I weathered through it each night,
wondering when it would end. The only relief came on the weekends when he
boarded the ferry for the brief return home.

“You’d like it in the clock tower,” I said. “You can see the
entire island.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Hmmm?”

“My fear of heights?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No biggie. I’m sure the view is great, but if I had my
choice, I’d take the lighthouse any day.”

“What’s the difference?”

Benjamin’s jaw dropped, revealing a mouthful of half-chewed
bread. “You mean you don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“Oh man, I can’t believe no one’s ever told you.” He leaned
across the table. “Legend has it, Raker Lighthouse is
haunted
.”

“Haunted? No way.”

“What’s haunted?” someone behind me asked.

It was Chris.

“Mind if we join ya, gents?” he asked as Roland and Derek
Mayhew, from across the hall, sat down at our table, their lunch trays full of
food.

Benjamin eyed the newcomers warily before looking down at
his plate.

“We were just talking about the lighthouse,” I said.

“
This
lighthouse?” Chris asked. “You think Raker’s
haunted?”

Roland and Derek snickered.

“Benjamin knows some Rhode Island folklore,” I said. “It’s
nothing, really.” But I knew Chris wouldn’t let it drop. He was as curious as a
cat when it came to anything deviating from the usual conversations.

“You know some folklore, Ben?” he asked.

“It’s hearsay mainly,” Benjamin muttered, his eyes never
lifting from his tray.

“Now that you mention it, I’ve been hearing some moaning at
night. I just figured it was coming from Ms. Cartwright’s room, but here it’s
ghosts in our lighthouse.”

Roland and Derek burst out laughing. I did my best to cover
a smile.

“I thought it was coming from your guys’ room,” Derek joked,
looking at the roommates. Roland elbowed him in the ribs, and Chris faked like
he was going to throw bread at him. Everyone but Benjamin was laughing.

“What can I say? Roland’s mom was in town,” Chris said.

“Sick-o,” Roland said, hitting Chris in the shoulder.

“I didn’t say I believed it was haunted,” Benjamin said, his
voice barely audible over the laughter. “Just that it’s
rumored
to be
haunted. That’s all.”

“Hey, have you heard the old wives’ tale that if three
people get their picture taken, the one in the middle will be the first to die?”
Roland asked. “A guy working on the ferry told me that. He also said something
about how this island was named after a pirate.”

“That’s exactly right,” Benjamin said, glancing at Derek and
Chris as if fearing another outburst. “Raker and his men would hide in the
island’s coves, in the shadow of the lighthouse itself, and wait for ships to
sail by.”

“Did he have a hook for a hand?” Derek asked, smiling.

“No, but he was missing his left eye.”

“Oh come on. A pirate with an eye patch?”

“It’s true. Honest. You can look it up at the library in
Miskapaug.”

Derek didn’t look convinced.

“So what happened?” Roland asked.

“Raker and his men took over the lighthouse. He was so
ruthless at raiding ships, a group of merchants banded together and tried to
kill him. But he always escaped. The locals began to whisper of the pirate in
the lighthouse, whose one eye watched the horizon.”

“Did they ever catch him?”

“Eventually. They ambushed him right here on the island. Raker
made his last stand at the top of the lighthouse, one fighting many while the
great light circled round, sending the combatants’ shadows across the night
sky.”

Benjamin turned to the cafeteria window. Outside, the fog
had started to lift, revealing the peak of the lighthouse.

“His dying words are legendary in Rhode Island.” Benjamin’s
voice dropped to a whisper. “‘Hear ye, ya sorry excuses for men. I may die this
day, but my spirit shall live on, for there will come a day when my one eye
shall once again shine forth from this island, and all men who look upon its
hellish light shall meet their demise!’ And in the very place where Raker
uttered those words, his bloodstain can be seen to this day.”

“So was anyone cursed?” Chris asked.

“Hard to say. But over the years, the lighthouse keepers reported
things they couldn’t explain. Once, on the anniversary of Raker’s death, the
lighthouse suddenly went dark, and by the time they got it back on, a ship had
crashed ashore.”

“That’s creepy,” Roland said.

“That’s not all. It didn’t take long for rumors of other
accidents
to circulate. One keeper was struck by lightning. Another committed suicide. Soon
everyone knew of Raker’s curse and refused to set foot on the island. Some
began calling it Raker Island, and the name stuck.”

“I’m surprised they ever built a hotel here,” I said. The
more he talked, the more I felt my instinct to protect Benjamin recede.

“Few Rhode Islanders ever stayed here. In fact, the hotel
only heightened their superstitions because they saw Raker’s blind eye in the
clock tower that could never be illuminated. And they feared the day when a
light would shine from the abandoned lighthouse, when the one-eyed sea pirate
would once again keep watch over his island.”

“Bravo my man, Ben,” Chris said, applauding.

“Kick ass,” said Derek.

“Just a little Rhode Island folklore is all,” Benjamin
replied. “Every place has a legend of some kind. Raker Island just happens to
be ours.” Then he glanced at his watch. “I’d love to stick around, but class is
about to start.”

Chris rose from his chair. “I’d like to make a proposition.”

“Oh no,” Roland groaned.

“I don’t know about the rest of you slugs, but after hearing
Ben’s story, I’ve got to see if that bloodstain is actually up there.”

“Forget it, Chris,” I said.

“No, hear me out. Just hear me out. We’ve been banging
around in that clock tower for so long we need some excitement. We’ll go after
lights-out and see for ourselves if Ben’s story is true.”

“Parts of it are definitely true,” Benjamin said. Then he
cast a worried glance at his watch.

“How you planning on getting in?” Derek asked Chris.

“I got in the clock tower, didn’t I?”

Benjamin stood up and shifted from foot to foot like he had
to pee.

“Okay, okay,” Chris consented. “We’ll talk about it later.”

The following evening I returned to my room to find the door
locked. “Unless it’s room service, go away!” someone shouted from inside. Unlocking
the door, I was surprised to see Chris and Benjamin seated in the lower bunk.

“Jake, you just missed Ben here spilling the goods on his
hometown,” Chris said sweeping a long forelock from his eye. “He’s got the
scoop on everyone. In fact, he’s talked me into renouncing my Maryland
heritage—that boring, industrial, washed-up, lifelong, strive-for-nothing
wasteland. From now on, I’m a born-and-raised Rhode Islander.”

Benjamin sat beside Chris—in the very spot he had cried
himself to sleep—like they were old chums. Judging from his smile, his
derogatory comments about the governor’s son were long forgotten. Here was
Chris, one of Wellington’s most popular upperclassmen, in Benjamin’s very own
room, hanging on his every word. For Benjamin, popularity—that elusive,
pleasantly talked about concept—lay before him like an unfurled flag, and he
wanted nothing more than to pick it up and run down the halls with it streaming
out behind him.

“Jacob, you’re not going to believe this,” he said, jumping
up from the bed. “They’re climbing the lighthouse tonight! And I’m going with
them! Here I’ve lived in Rhode Island my entire life, and I’ve never once set
foot in a lighthouse. I’ve seen all kinds of them—”

“—Benjamin—”

“—but I’ve never actually been inside one. Just think, I’ll
be climbing the very stairs Pirate Raker climbed—”

“—Benjamin—”

“—and standing where he fought valiantly to his death.” He
made stabbing motions at the air. “Oh, but you can’t tell anyone. Chris made me
swear to secrecy. I’m going to die if his bloodstain is actually up there—”

“Ben!”

“What?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe your fear of heights? I mean, come
on, you’re scared to sleep in the top bunk. You said so yourself.”

“We’ve thought of a way around that. Actually, it was Chris’
idea. I just can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.”

“We’re going to club him over the head and drag him up,”
Chris said, going to the window.

“Gosh, let’s hope not,” Benjamin said. “What you have to
remember is that we’ll be going by flashlight, so I won’t be able to
see
how high I am. My fear of heights only kicks in when I look down.”