Night Lights Page 3

  "I don't pay teachers to chase after you in the garden, Margaret,” her father had thundered as he dismissed them from service. “Most see it a waste of my money, educating a gaggle of girls. In this case, it's doubly wasted if you can't stay on task. If you wish to learn further, there is the church library, avail yourself of that.” And that, had indeed, been that. At the time, Theodora was sixteen and had been planning her coming out while fourteen-year-old Elizabeth found every excuse to slip out to the barn and pat the coach horses. Neither missed the tutors and both had married well, Theodora among the gentry and Elizabeth to the son of a famous racehorse breeder. Quietly laughing at the joy both had discovered, Margaret closed her eyes and felt the final dregs of tension ebb from her body.

  With a tug, the laces were freed and the corset eased, allowing her to gulp in deep breaths of hot, stale air. Tired from wrestling her clothes and emotions, she left the miserable thing loose as she sank back against the mattress, her head alighting on a lumpy pillow. She was asleep before she had a chance to remember that she had told no one where she had gone.

  * * * *

  Angry, Rizal had stalked off of the clipper and back to the mainland. The ship's captain knew better than to leave the son of the datu and the lead timawa warrior behind when he sailed with the English for Cagayan. He needed time and distance from the lying man to consider what to do. Instead, he found himself standing inside the line of young palm trees above the breakers, watching the woman.

  Miss Thawley. Miss was a title bestowed on unmarried women and Thawley wasn't truly her name, but the surname of her father. What other name lurked under the prim demeanor? There had to be something that when spoken contained all that was of her. The Europeans had such a love of formal names, names heaped upon other names. It had never been the Filipino way to use two or three sets of names, most people never left their island or if they did, it still didn't matter. They were known by who and what they were, not the label of a name.

  But that simplicity had changed when his father was a boy. The Spanish had gotten fed up with the islanders’ tendency to using a singular name. When they discovered that fathers took on their son's names as honorifics, the tradition had been halted, forcibly. It was impossible, they explained, to get taxes out of everyone equally if there was no way of telling the people apart. Being a descendant of a Muslim pirate had been in young Hari's favor. The family had an unused surname, Malihim, and resurrected it to stave off being assigned a Christian name by the Spaniards.

  But what name, he wondered, did the Thawley parents choose? Was it a name of the heart or one of stiff convention? He watched as the vibrant figure slowly wilted under the sun. Why didn't she take off that ridiculous garment? The wool was far too heavy for the beautiful day. Her shoulders hunched as she filled pages with lines of script. The grim determination in her posture reminded him of the look in her eyes as Hooker spoke fast and clumsily, trying to repair the damage her honesty had caused.

  She knew that Hooker had an ulterior motive for hiring a pretty young woman to act as recorder for his expedition. But from the worried confusion lining her softly rounded features, Miss Thawley had yet to understand just how much danger the Royal Society was knowingly throwing her in front of. Were they baiting a tiger or merely hoping to distract one? Either way, she was the sacrifice to their academic greed.

  With a small stagger, she moved from the desk to speak with Hooker who distractedly waved her off. Hastily, she disappeared into the cabin, and Rizal winced knowing how the heat must have built in the room. The captain was superstitious and feared not the dark, but any spark of light at night. As a result, the cabin had been built without any windows to catch the sea breezes. He planned on joining the crew at night and rigging a hammock below decks where he could at least feel the air.

  Children's laughter reached his ears. Startled at the sound, Rizal shook his head and noticed how many minutes he had passed observing the slim English woman. There was much he had to do before returning to the clipper, seeing her unhappiness only added an extra chore.

  Chapter Four

  "Swim with me, Maggie-Pie.” Fighting to keep her nose above the inky waves, Margaret paddled with all her might towards the voice that held her heart.

  "Mama,” she sputtered as water surged into her mouth. Straining, she pulled through the choppy current and called again, “Mama wait for me, not so fast.” Stop whining, she gritted her teeth and forced her tired arms and legs to keep propelling her through the water. In the distance, she could see her mama's head above the dark breakers.

  But how? There was no moon in the sky. Margaret stopped pushing forward to tread water. Her clothes were waterlogged, heavy and cold from the late spring chill of the inlet they were swimming and pulled at her body. There on the bank, Margaret spied two torches burning, lighting the way. Arms and legs numb from exhaustion, she pushed herself on, swimming towards the dim outline of her mama's head and the bright lights.

  Bright lights, cold nights, dark frights ... her mind started a singsong chant to push the dark and exhaustion away. Why did mama get her from bed to go swimming? Father would be so mad. Water plugged her nose and she floundered, thinking about how angry he had become when he discovered she'd learned to swim.

  "We're going away, sweet pea,” the words had been whispered in her ear as sleep tried to keep her snugly in bed. “We're going to take a boat and ride the sea of winds,” The words had sounded like a lullaby.

  Margaret was so tired. Mama kept getting farther away. Why couldn't she wait? “Come on now,” even mama's voice sounded strained, “almost there, go to the lights, baby, go to the lights."

  Her world narrowed to the orange-red burning orbs. Tread water. Paddle and swim. Stop and cough. Tread water. Her body moved of its own volition but her eyes never left the burning torches as they danced before her, always just out of reach.

  Too much, she sighed and slid beneath the water, felt it surge up her nose but she couldn't blow out anymore. Even then, she had hope. Come for me mama, she willed, lifting her hands to the receding glow of fiery eyes. Come for me.

  Coughing, Margaret awoke in the dark. For a moment, she could have sworn that she saw the burning red torches from her nightmare gleaming against the far wall of the cabin. Shrieking, she rubbed her eyes and tried to gain control of her body. But she couldn't stop the panicked cries.

  A commotion at the door startled her and she yelped as Sir Joseph and the captain dashed into the room.

  "My dear girl!” Sir Joseph hurried to her side holding her close, the way a father would. His comforting arm gave Margaret the center she needed to get her body to start calming and she began trying to concentrate on breathing normally. Still galloping in her chest, her heart hurt from the thundering pace. Dropping her chin to her chest, she wanted to sob in relief and hide under the cot in shame. The last time that particular nightmare gripped her she had been a child.

  When the captain whipped back the thick cloth separating the rear bunk from the rest of the cabin, both she and Sir Joseph nearly fell from the bed. Their reaction made the captain hop backwards and he nearly went over the cot behind him, as crewmembers scattered, muttering in low tense voices.

  Outside, she could hear another voice calling to the men. Rizal, she remembered in a rush and groaned aloud.

  "Are you all right, Miss Thawley? Did someone harm you? What happened?"

  Margaret felt her spirits sink somewhere beneath her shoes at the tremor in the old man's voice.

  "Oh no, Sir Joseph, no one harmed me.” She paused to scrub at her face with a hand; sweat seemed to coat everything making her feel both slimy and sticky. “I had a nightmare, I'm afraid.” God, she felt so incredibly stupid admitting such to this august man. “Given the circumstances, sir, perhaps you could call me Margaret?” From where her ear was pressed against his chest, she heard the rumble of laughter.

  "Yes, I do think that we would do better on a first name basis, please call me Joseph.” Air rattled out
of his lungs making his bulk shudder under the weight of his relief. “I never realized how ugly this little room was.” He turned his head looking at the unpainted wood walls, ceiling, and floor before shifting to consider the grey lumpy cots and tables. “Well my dear, I will allow that it has been a big day for you, coming to Malay, sitting too long under the sun, and all that talk of cannibals. It's no wonder you had a bad dream.” Joseph Hooker pulled back, patting her hands now clasped worriedly in her lap and levered himself to his feet, using the frame of the cot for balance as the craft listed.

  "I see that Rizal has gotten the captain to put out to sea, excellent! I had feared you left the ship for a spot of shopping, and was readying a search party when you cried out. Funny, Rizal knew exactly where you were,” he shook his head, “makes no matter.” Fidgeting with his watch fob, he studied the bamboo rail running across the ceiling holding the material that divided the cabin into two rooms. “We'll leave this somewhat open as well as the door to give you light to straighten yourself. I hope you would join me at the railing, but if you've had too much excitement already...?"

  "Oh no, no sir, I'd be thrilled to join you.” Margaret rallied a smile for the older man. “Just allow me a few moments to collect myself and perhaps freshen up.” Nodding, he headed for the doorway and Margaret dropped her head into her hands. She desperately wanted to relax but her body wasn't cooperating. Her limbs still shook with fear, the muscles aching as if she had swum for hours.

  For the first year after her mother had died, she had nightmares of swimming in black water towards pinpoints of firelight. As a result, fire always calmed her. No matter the fear, no matter the threat, all she needed to do was find a candle and she wasn't afraid. Her history tutor had laughed at her explanation when he caught her staring into the schoolroom lantern as she gave her speech on the Hundred Year War. It had been his opinion that all people sought the light when they were afraid because it pushed back darkness from the soul.

  I don't know about all that, Margaret smiled wanly, looking at the spot between wall and hanging curtain where her mind had conjured the twin torches on awakening from her dream. But I do know that if mama wanted me to go to the light to be safe, that is where I want to be.

  Shaking her head at the fanciful turn her thoughts had taken, she stood and stretched her stiff, sore muscles. Perhaps she ached not from the nightmare but from the hard lumpy mattress. The idea made her grimace. How long had she been asleep? The sun was still bright in the jewel-toned sky, but from the cabin, she couldn't see its location on the horizon.

  A gentle knock on the wall beside the open door had her heart beating double-time again. Rubbing the material over the silly organ, she moved carefully to the opening, wincing against the glaring light.

  "Yes, who is there?"

  "It is Rizal, Miss Thawley. I have brought for you a gift, one I hope will make the heat of our days easier to bear.” His voice made her insides quiver and not with fear. It was naturally pitched for lovers’ stolen moments, and for a split second she wished his words were more intimate. Quickly, she patted at her crumpled outfit and hoped for the best as she approached the opening.

  He watched as she tentatively stepped towards the doorway. Her eyes darted looking past him to see if anyone was staring at her disheveled state. They wouldn't dare, he'd seen to that with a few words to the crew before ordering the captain to heave anchor. The soft look of relief that crossed her pretty features was worth the glares from the men as she relaxed and smiled hesitantly, her blue eyes boldly meeting his.

  On Cagayan, most of the population retained the Muslim faith and ways, so it was rare for a woman to meet a man's eye. He liked being able to read her thoughts and emotions through the clear windows of her soul. Blue eyes were such a rarity in the islands that he couldn't help but stare. The color was dark and rich, the color of the Sulu Sea just before the sun dipped below the horizon. He noticed the way the lighter striations radiating from the center brightened as she studied him in turn. Such an innocent, he smiled at her, letting the heat she pulled through his blood show as he handed her the paper-wrapped dress he'd purchased from a shop off the main thoroughfare.

  Nervously, her eyes dropped to the thick brown paper and Rizal wanted to lift her chin. He missed their connection already. When he felt an arc of knowing snap into place through her eyes, he remembered an old conversation. One of the Arab traders that frequented the islands before the Americans came had shared coffee, sweet figs, and tales of women with spirit equal to that of man.

  "You will know when you meet a worthy one,” he had sipped at his drink, “you will feel the fire of battle racing through your veins. Then, and only then, have you truly found the wife you are meant to bring into your tent.” Since before the Spanish, the Arabs had traveled to their lands, taken brides, left sons and engaged in commerce, and the people of the land loved them for their culture and compassion. But now, with the advent of the Americans, the traders were labeled ‘pirates’ and they stayed away.

  When he looked upon the milk-skinned English girl, he felt a frission race through his blood, bringing him to the edge of violent emotion. He wanted no other to look upon her; she was his and his alone.

  Slowly her fingers picked the knot out of the hemp twine tying the parcel together and instead he saw them opening the front of his trousers. Closing his eyes against the vision, he heard the rattle of the paper as it fell to the ground and her indrawn gasp.

  "If it does not please you, when we get to Tana Mapun I can buy you another,” he said, opening his eyes. By the look on her face she was enchanted, not offended, and Rizal smiled again. The barong style dress had been exquisitely woven in both the sinuksok and pili embroidery style so that flowers and vines edged the bottom and flowed upward along pillars of latticed columns and back down to the center of the dress. The most striking feature, however, were the small green birds perched among blue and peach flowers.

  Her fingers shook as she smoothed the soft silk of the pina jusi dress. Instead of looking happy, she looked crestfallen, rubbing her fingers against her travel-stained skirt. “I'm afraid of dirtying something so fine, I can't accept this,” her mouth spoke the words but her hands continued to hold the dress close to her heart.

  Ah! She needed to wash up. Perhaps then she could accept his gift. Rizal stepped back and waved, catching the eye of a crewman called Matali. Eyes downcast, Matali moved past Margaret into the cabin, silently placing a washbasin, pitcher, and small towels on the bedside table. Turning, he made a low bow before retreating still staring at his sandaled feet.

  "There now,” Rizal smiled down into her rosy cheeks, “you can wash away your travels and wear the dress."

  "But,” she sputtered turning a becoming shade of red, “I might ruin the beautiful material and stitching.” He couldn't help himself; reaching forward he lightly touched her chin with his fingers, directing her eyes to his.

  "It is meant to be worn, little one. These are the clothes of my people. The dress will not melt away if you wear it. Like you, it is stronger than it seems.” Under his fingertips, he felt her heart race as if answering the call of his own. From behind him, Hooker harrumphed, clearing his throat noisily. Her reaction was immediate; her skin lost its pink glow and paled whiter than ever as she stepped back inside the room mumbling a garbled thank you.

  "Hooker,” he drawled the name out slowly, savoring the vowels on his tongue, “I believe you are going to tell me another story.” Palming the beefy shoulder of the stolid older man, he easily turned his bulk and pointed him towards the bow of the small craft. “Only instead of mushrooms, you will entertain me with the story of Miss Thawley and why it is she is here."

  Shaken, the older man missed a step and stumbled. “You have to understand,” he dug in his coat pocket, “it wasn't my idea to bring the child on this trip, it was her father's."

  Rizal turned and leaned against the wooden railing. He hoped to give the illusion of being at ease as he watched for the emerge
nce of the young woman from the cabin.

  "Her name? Other than Miss Thawley, she must have a name?” he asked, giving Hooker a moment to mop his brow and organize his thoughts.

  "What? Oh, Margaret, her name is Margaret, the poor child. I knew her mother; she is the image of poor Phoebe.” Hooker grasped the railing in his beefy hands, his face florid with strain. “You must understand that I don't believe in vampires any more than I believe in the tales of Berbalangs as they were recited to the members of my Society. However, men believe as they will and many were eager to delve into the possibility of finding such creatures.

  "One such man is the Reverend Thawley. He spent years chasing the tales of vampires across Europe and Russia before returning home with an illness of the legs that made further travel impossible. In London on business, he discovered Phoebe Sayers at a debutante ball and negotiated for her hand in marriage. The gossips hashed over the match for months, given Thawley's unusual predilection for chasing spectral horrors and Phoebe's youthful innocence, but she seemed honored at his offer and they were wed.

  "For a while they remained in London, to give her time to adjust to being a new bride, however, his eyes were ever on his home in Suffolk and the books he intended to write on the nosferatu. But the morning they were to leave, Phoebe disappeared. The gendarmes were called and after the first night, private men were hired to help the search. A week later she was found on All Saints Day in Highgate Cemetery, wondering among the labyrinth of Egyptian sepulchers singing nursery rhymes and looking for the ‘kind man with the burning eyes.'

  "Thawley was never the same again; you see the cemetery was rumored haunted by a vampire with burning eyes. When nine months later Phoebe delivered Margaret, he had to be restrained from drowning the girl in the baptismal font. He could never accept his daughter as truly his, or that she was as normal as you and me, for that matter."