The Keeper of Dawn (10 page)

“And just how long are we going to sit here without
acknowledging one another?” Grandfather asked without lifting his eyes from the
book.

“Who, me?”

He looked up. “Is there anyone else in here I should know
about?” Then he glanced at the clock. “Running a little late, aren’t you?”

“It’s the first week of school,” I said, loosening my tie. Wearing
the Homestead uniform officially marked the end of summer.

“They make you wear that every day, do they?”

“Yes, sir,” I said sullenly.

He flinched at my response. “Jacob, I think we know each
other well enough to drop the formalities. This
sir
business is
cumbersome.”

“Sorry, Grandfather.”

“If only respect could be gained as easily as slipping
something over one’s shoulders. While we’re speaking of it, this …
grandfather
business. It’s like your uniform there—it’s too official. Something like … well,
something like
grandpa
, for instance, has a certain ring to it. Family
shouldn’t be so formal with one another. If you’re formal with your family,
well, then who would you ever be
informal
with?”

“Most of my friends call me Jake. No one calls me Jacob.”

“Okay. Well
Jake
, now that we’re on a first-name
basis, I think it’s time I showed you something. Follow me.”

He led me up a narrow staircase to a small room in the rear
of the house, its ceiling angled with the slope of the roof. A collection of
toy-sized trees was displayed on a folding table, their trunks bent at dramatic
angles toward a paned-glass window. The stunted branches ended in clumps of
green that were more bristles than leaves, reminding me of the cypress trees I
had seen once in California.

“These are my bonsai trees,” Grandpa said.

“Bone-sigh,” I said, trying the word out. “You sure they’re
trees
?”

Each plant sat in a stoneware pot topped with white river
pebbles with moist, black dirt showing through. I half-expected to see
miniature squirrels and miniature birds chirping in dime-sized nests.

“Yes, quite certain,” he said. “And if you saw how tall they
grow in the wild, you’d be certain of it, too. Their growth is stunted by
keeping them potted and trimming their branches.”

“Where do they come from?”

“Japan, mostly. China as well. They perch themselves in
rocky crevices way up in the mountains where not much of anything can survive.”

I examined the dwarfed trees more closely, noticing small
white flowers and red berries among their leaves.

“They’re quite fussy,” Grandpa said, examining his
collection. “Be prepared for high maintenance if you ever own one. A bonsai
becomes more than just a plant. Some even consider them a form of living art. That
one you’re looking at there is Priscilla. She turned forty-six last month.”

“Years old? Wow. So do they all have names?”

He nodded. “Their name is a reminder that their life is in
your hands. They have to be watered a precise amount each day and fed a special
fertilizer, not to mention the trimming. Everything has to be just right. And
they’ll know if you neglect them.”

“What’s the big one in the back called?”

“This one? That’s Julius. He’s the oldest. He was your
Grandma’s favorite. She got me started in all this. He’s a special plant. And a
stubborn one. Julius and I are the same age, and I’m beginning to suspect he’s
determined to outlive me. It’s become a sort of contest between us.”

We admired the dozen bonsai in silence, their crooked
branches casting wiry shadows across the table.

“Like most of us,” Grandpa said, “they’re set in their ways.
It’s taken years for their branches to grow to where you see them today. They
have to be guided when they are young by wiring their trunks. Then the sunlight
takes things from there. For most of them, it would be hard to change their
location. The young ones could handle it, but the older ones like Julius here
wouldn’t much care for it at all.”

When he looked at me, I already knew what he was going to
ask. “Would you like to adopt one?”

With the list of daily chores running through my head, I
looked uncertainly at the trees. “I’m not really much of a green thumb. I
wouldn’t even know how to take care of one.”

“Well, I could teach you. We can leave your tree here until
you get the hang of it. You don’t have to take it home until you’re ready.”

“What about changing locations and all that?”

“Pick one of the younger ones here in front. They should
adapt without too much complaining.”

“Okay. How about this one?”

“It’s yours. But you have to name it. Not necessarily right
now, but—”

“Seymour,” I blurted out.

“Seymour? And how did you come up with that?”

“Just popped in my head.”

“Very well. Seymour, you have now been adopted.” With a
courteous bow to the bonsai, he added, “Meet your new caretaker, Jake—or
servant, whichever the case may be.”

Over the course of the following months, Grandpa taught me
how to properly care for Seymour. He showed me how to trim his branches using
miniature shears. He wielded this instrument as an artist wields his brush,
deftly moving it between the small branches to snip a little here, pluck off a
piece there, carefully trimming wherever he saw appropriate. Working on the bonsai
seemed to have a therapeutic effect on his arthritis, for once he began
trimming, his hands moved agilely, almost youthfully about the tiny branches.

“Sometimes I can overdo it,” he confessed one day during the
winter. “I meddle too much. I either cut too far back, or trim too often. That’s
the mistake of an amateur—to try and do too much. You don’t want to smother
them, but it’s human nature to tamper, to try to mold them into a particular
image. It’s a mistake made innocently enough, but one that can have disastrous
consequences.”

Grandpa would examine each of the bonsai, talking to them
like he were tucking his children in for the night. “And how are you this
evening, Priscilla? Hmmm?” Outside, the sky had darkened with the occasional
snowflake drifting past the window. “How are you handling the cold weather,
Cynthia? Staying away from those dreadful drafts, are you?”

“Jake, there is one more thing you should know before
adopting Seymour,” he told me. “Being a good caretaker requires more than just
performing the day-to-day chores. Perhaps most important of all, a bonsai needs
to be loved. Without that, it will die. I know, I know, you’re probably
thinking I’m just being sentimental, but it’s true. If the feelings of the
caretaker aren’t there, the tree won’t survive. Yes, they can grow alone on
mountaintops in all that cold and without much soil to speak of, but something
changes when they aren’t allowed to grow so strong and so tall. It’s like
taming a wild animal. Once they’re raised in captivity, they must be treated
differently. Returning them to the wild would be cruel. They are our
responsibility now. That’s something you want to keep in mind with young
Seymour here. He’ll be especially lonely because he’s used to being around all
his friends.” He shrugged away my amused expression. “It’s true. This comes
from years of experience. Why, I’ll sometimes tell them stories on cloudy days
to cheer them up.”

I had, in fact, witnessed this on more than one occasion. At
first I thought the stories were for my benefit, but I couldn’t help notice how
Grandpa would frequently lean over the trees as if addressing them. Perhaps the
retired schoolteacher had never stopped teaching after all.

“Yes, I suppose they are my students now,” he admitted when
I brought this to his attention. “Come to think of it, they’re the best
students I’ve ever had. They never talk back!”

“Or get tired of your long-winded lectures.”

His face grew stern, but he couldn’t contain his laughter
for long.

That night I took Seymour home, placing him on a windowsill
that faced the setting sun. After several weeks under my caretaking, Seymour
remained in good health. Even when Father found Seymour in my bedroom—the sight
jarring awake a certain painful memory in him—a discovery I would later learn
sealed my fate to Raker Island, I didn’t regret adopting the bonsai. In fact,
when I departed for Wellington at the end of the summer, I took Seymour with
me, knowing the temperamental tree would never survive at home.

Through no fault of our own, a rift had formed at
Wellington. Rumors spread of how the four of us had bragged about our fathers
making the headlines. Though we had done nothing more than read the newspaper,
we were perceived as flaunting our superiority. And in a school where it was
taboo to speak of your family’s successes, the Headliners became more than just
another nickname.

Chris welcomed the division, as it provided an outlet for
his anger over the upcoming debate. After transitioning from being the
governor’s son to just one of the guys, he was now put back in his original
role. Chris didn’t seem bothered that the Headliners linked him to his father. Perhaps
it was because it created drama on Raker Island, a place where he claimed
everyone would die from boredom.

When Chris suggested going down to a beach he had spotted during
his arrival in the helicopter, we all agreed to go. So when most of the school
was being ferried to Miskapaug to attend Mass at St. Peter’s, we were hiking through
the field of waist-high grass behind the school. The compact fronds, heavy with
moisture from the previous night’s rain, shifted in the cool breeze passed down
through the distant trees. Our shoes and pant legs were covered with burrs by
the time we had crossed the field. Just ahead, the tall grass gave way to
thickets, vines and weeds. Island birds chirped from nearby; something deep in
the woods squawked. Overhead, the sun sat low in the eastern sky, penetrating
the trees in slanting rays that lifted the morning grayness.

“You see the trail?” Roland asked from where he sat removing
burrs from his socks and shoelaces.

“It’s here,” Chris replied, peering into the woods. “Somewhere.”
He dropped the coil of rope he had taken from Max’s supply shed, leaned his
shoulder against a tree and waited as Roland pruned himself. The roommates had
attempted to reach the beach the weekend before, but were forced to turn back
when the cliffs became too steep.

“Beats the hell out of going to church,” Derek said,
throwing a rock into the woods where it cracked against a stout limb. The sound
was answered by the rap-tap-tap of a woodpecker.

“You missed one, pretty boy,” I said.

Roland looked up. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” he
said, running a hand over his short-cropped hair.

We fell in behind Chris. The trees still held moisture from
the night before, which brushed onto my clothes, at times trickling down the back
of my neck. When Chris tore his way through a network of vines, branches high
above shook in response, the leaves trembling wetly, spider webs that had
previously been invisible catching beads of fallen water. The trees, mainly
poplars and sugar maples, were evenly spaced, but the undergrowth was dense,
rising on all sides in clusters of vines barbed with thorns. It soon became
evident that there was no trail. Whatever path Chris and Roland had previously
made had disappeared.

“Someone tell me why we’re doing this?” Derek asked,
brushing away a spider web.

“The beach,” was all Chris said.

“This
beach
of yours better be worth it.”

“It will be.”

The ground became rocky: slate ledges protruded from the
dirt; fist-sized rocks jumbled around tree roots; heavy boulders covered in
moss lay deep in forest shadow. A mottled green snake the length of my arm
basked itself in the sun that shone brokenly through the canopy above.

Chris rarely spoke. He never once looked back. His silence
proved contagious, the only words spoken being muttered curses as we pushed our
way on. Roland frequently referred to his compass, nodding to confirm our
direction. I took periodic sips from an old Boy Scout canteen covered in green
army cloth, the water tasting tinged with metal.

The trees thinned and the low lying foliage fell away. The
sun was over my shoulder now. The verdant landscape became more desolate with
each step, the gray rocks turning into the gritty chalk-white of ash left over
from a campfire. When the tree line fell away, our feet hurried along the path
in anticipation of catching that first glimpse of the ocean. Wind scraped
across the rocks. The air tingled with salt. Overhead, a gull circled in an
updraft.

Finally we were there, at the edge looking down. But the
beach remained out of sight. A fogbank hugged a succession of unseen
cliff-faces, a staircase of mist descending to the ocean. The blue of the
Atlantic was visible just beyond, razor-sharp and electric. From below came the
rise and fall of the tide washing Raker’s shore.

“What’d I tell you?” Chris shouted from the edge. “What
did
I tell you?” He did a shuffling dance, then turned and flicked off Wellington. “It’s
great to be alive!” he shouted into the fog. “All’s I need is a hang glider.” He
jumped up, arms extended, knocking the rope from his shoulder in the process.

“Can’t keep you out of the sky,” Roland said. With hands on
hips, he surveyed the fogbank that was beginning to recede beneath the glare of
the sun.

“Every angel needs his wings,” Chris replied with a wink,
and then leapt off the rock and scrambled into the fog.

“Hey, your rope,” Derek called after him.

“Here we go again,” Roland muttered, shouldering Chris’ rope
and starting off after his roommate.

The path down was steep. The sunlight highlighted the fog in
a gleaming wall of white. My surroundings appeared in varying shades of light,
with only objects close at hand possessing color. It surprised me what
materialized from the fog. At the base of the first cliff I found myself among
a collection of loose rocks resembling roughly-hewn tombstones. I had lost
sight of the others and was alone in this vaporous graveyard, the sun burning a
white hole in the sky above. But then Roland appeared, laboring over the rocks,
the thick coil of rope slung over his shoulder. We both smiled when Chris
howled his excitement from below.

I drifted on, not knowing what lay ahead. It no longer felt
like we were on an island. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Miskapaug’s harbor
suddenly appeared, or if the familiar shapes and sights of Long Island burst
into view. But I didn’t want that. I would be home soon enough. I was content
where I was—obscured in the fog with the Headliners, hiking our way down to the
beach.

Derek and Chris were peering over the lip of a cliff when I
caught up to them. A broth of mist churned at our feet.

“This is it,” Chris said. He was smoking a cigarette, his
hair still damp from passing through the forest. “The Big Kahuna. All it takes
is one step …” He dangled a foot over the edge.

“Splat,” Roland said, dropping the rope.

“This’ll be our anchor,” Chris said, kicking a stout cedar
behind him, its gnarled roots dipping into a scarce deposit of rocky soil.

After arguing over who could tie the best knot, we secured
the rope to the cedar’s trunk and threw it over the edge. Overhead, the sun
passed intermittently through the receding fogbank.

“You sure it’s long enough?” Roland asked, peering over the
edge.

“It better be,” Chris said, slipping on a pair of gloves. After
giving the rope a few hard pulls, he flicked his cigarette into the air. “Let’s
hope I don’t beat that down,” he said, and jumped over the edge.

The rope went taut; the cedar waved its leafless branches in
the air. For a split-second I envisioned its shallow roots dislodging and all
of it toppling over the edge. But the tree held, and Chris kicked off the wall,
letting gravity carry him down. He disappeared into the fog, only his coyote yell
signaling he had reached bottom.

Roland was next. After making the initial jump, he dangled
below us, one gloved-hand gripping the rope above his head, the other tucking
it beneath him. Though he repeatedly kicked off the wall, he wasn’t really
going anywhere. Whenever he looked up—which was often—Derek and I gave him an
enthusiastic thumbs-up. During his agonizingly slow descent, I watched his
face—afraid but determined—and cringed at the thought of him in the military.

“You’re on deck,” Derek told me, pulling up the rope. “You
ever rappel before?”

“Never,” I said, my pulse increasing. I was finding it difficult
to look away from the edge.

“Rule number one: keep one hand in front and one behind. To
stop, bring the rope to your ass. That’s your brakes. It’ll feel like you’re
sitting down.”

I looked down at the rope as if it were a long snake.

“Try not to think about it,” Derek said, handing me the
gloves that Roland had tied to the end of the rope. “The first step is the
worst, but after that it’s smooth sailing.”

I slid the gloves over my sweaty hands.

“You could always do it Aussie style.”

“How’s that?”

“Headfirst!” Derek laughed wildly.

Surprisingly, it was Roland who gave me courage. Watching
him overcome his fear became my inspiration. I backed to the edge and forced
myself to look down. A blanket of fog lay beneath me. Despite my slow,
calculated movements, my heart beat like a jackhammer. The rope felt heavy in
my hands. I pulled it taut, my muscles tensing in anticipation. I looked
desperately at Derek, as if he were forcing me to do this, as if a single word
from him could make it all stop. I tried to take that final step, but my
muscles understood what my mind did not.

“Remember, don’t think about it too much,” I heard Derek
say.

Suddenly the image of Benjamin, petrified with fear, forced
its way into my mind. Was that how I looked, squeezing the rope with my death
grip, unable to take a single step?

“You don’t have to do this.”

Had Derek said that, or had I? It didn’t matter. Those
merciful words released me, and I relaxed my grip. He was right—I didn’t have
to do this. It was only a beach. I could just wait here until they returned.

But then a yell, wild and energetic, rose out of the fog. Without
thinking, I gripped the rope and stepped backwards.

There was an instant of weightlessness, and then the rope
pulled hard against me. I had only dropped three or four feet, but it felt like
a mile. I took a deep breath and forced myself to kick off the wall. Derek had
been right—the first step was the worst. After the initial drop, the decline
became more gradual. Trees began to appear beneath me. As I lowered myself
through their branches, the fog lifted, finally giving way to the rising sun.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” Roland said, helping me off
with the gloves.

The cliff didn’t look as steep from the bottom. It would be
a challenging climb, but manageable with the rope.

“You hear that?” Chris asked. “Waves are crashing on our
beach. Hurry up, Mayhew!” he shouted. “Don’t be keeping me from my beach!”

As soon as Derek’s feet hit the ground, we were charging
through the last of the trees. The beach was triangular in shape, a pennant of
sand gleaming in the sun. The horizon was empty save for a second, much smaller
island that lay a hundred yards from shore. The size of a large house, its base
was corroded a mottled black by the water. An archway penetrated its left side;
to the right was a lone, dead tree, its branches dipping into the water like
unmanned oars of some forlorn vessel. A few dozen boulders lay scattered
between the beach and the other island, protruding from the water like giant
steppingstones.

“Beats the hell out of going to church,” Derek repeated,
taking off his shoes.

“Amen to that,” Chris said, following his lead.

The dry sand was hot beneath my feet. The wind that had made
hunchbacks out of the cedars on the hill above was absent here. There was no
litter, no old men with metal detectors searching for lost jewelry, no
footprints but our own.

Chris walked back and forth through the surf, testing the
island’s boundaries. Derek gave chase to a nearby gull, causing the bird to
rise into the air with an agitated squawk. When it landed a short distance
away, Derek continued pursuing it until the gull flew over to the neighboring
island. Roland didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He eventually fell
in behind Chris, matching his roommate’s stride so precisely that only a single
set of footprints crossed the sand. I scoured the area for anything of
interest, but the beach was washed clean, just sand and sunlight glinting off
dark pebbles. Every so often a wave would crash into the far side of the
neighboring island with enough force to send water spraying over its top.

The ocean was spread out before us. This gentle water
curling over the damp, hard sand marked the limits of our existence. It felt
like we had come to the edge of the world; the edge of
our
world anyway,
as small and well-defined as it was, and we were looking out, not at the sea,
but in an attempt to catch a glimpse of life beyond the island, of other lives
that weren’t anchored to this shore, hedged in by the small but binding waves.

“Let me get a picture,” Derek said, reaching for his camera.
He had taken several on the way down, including one of himself standing on the
rim of the courtyard fountain, positioning the camera in such a way that it
made it look like he was pissing the stream of water from one of the frog’s
mouths.

“All right, let’s act like we know each other,” Chris said.

We congregated around a flat rock at the water’s edge. Chris
stood between us, his arms draped over our shoulders. Afterwards we sat on the
rock and watched the waves roll in. My father had once told me that the
greatest rewards in life were what you strived the hardest to obtain, and it
was like that with the beach. We had worked so hard getting down here that it
lived up to our expectations.

Roland and Derek broke the silence by bringing up their physics
exam. “Centrifugal acceleration and kinetic energy aren’t my strong points,”
Derek was saying. “And I think Doyles has got something against jocks.”