The Spyglass Portal: A Lighthouse Novel (12 page)

“Lying? I’m not,” she argued. Knowing she wasn’t crazy and struggling to maintain a polite smile, she continued. “I assure you, it’s not abandoned. Someone has lived there recently. It’s clean and bright and has nice furniture and is completely updated. My friend is the one who—”

The old man cut her off and nodded at the box. “Can I see the captain’s spyglass now?”

“Sure. Okay.” Swallowing down her dizzying nausea, Sam lifted the lid and retrieved the spyglass from its velvet nest and handed it to him. He scrutinized every inch of the gleaming instrument. When he extended the brass tube and examined it further, his pale eyes widened in what appeared to be either shock or disbelief.

“Where did you find this?” he queried.

Although he’d been rude, she felt she had no option but to tell him and hope she could trust him. She relayed her story in a nutshell. “What can you tell me about it?”

His countenance grew dark. “You should have left this blasted thing in its hidden tomb, Miss.”

“Tomb? What are you talking about?” Icy shivers danced down her spine.

“I’m talking about this Pandora’s box,” Rehobeth said, dropping the spyglass into the case and slamming the lid. “My guess is you’ve reawakened the curse, and that’s not a good thing.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Curse?” It was the same word Samantha had used to describe the lighthouse and spyglass earlier. Trying to make light of his comment, but with terror clawing at her stomach, she asked Rehobeth to explain.

“Follow me,” he said, leading her to a maple dining set in the corner. “We’ll be more comfortable if we sit. My back hurts.”

Though she tried, it was impossible not to stare at the man’s hump as he twisted himself into a straight-backed chair. He waved his hand impatiently and told her to sit.

She placed the box on the table in front of her. “Please, Mr. Rehobeth. What do you mean by curse? Tell me what you know about this spyglass.”

“Call me Daniel. Take it out again,” he ordered. When she did, he stretched out his veiny hand and she placed the instrument in his palm once more. He extended the brass tube and tapped his finger on the rim. “Look closely. See the signature?”

Sam squinted, and for the first time saw something etched into the brass. “Yes,” she said excitedly, “but it’s so small. I can’t make out what it says.”

“It says E. McBride. The E stands for Eamon. McBride was a master mariner, born in Ireland. He captained a vessel that laid transoceanic telegraph cables in the late 1800s. Arguably, he was one of the most important mariners in the nineteenth century, as he helped make the world a global village by connecting empires and continents. In effect, he constructed the Victorian age communication network.”

Not understanding what all that had to do with the strange things that had been taking place since she’d moved into the lighthouse, Sam remained mute and waited for him to elaborate more.

“Legend goes that Eamon McBride’s vessel was shipwrecked. It ran aground right here along our coastline. Most of the crew’s lives were lost, but McBride and a few of his men managed to reach the shore.”

She wondered if McBride’s ship was the same one Aidan had told her about. The one that had brought the horses whose feral ancestors now roamed the coast.

“When a new ship was finally procured twelve months later,” Daniel continued, “and it was time to set sail once more, a few of McBride’s surviving crew members jumped ship—no pun intended—choosing to stay here at the cove. Those who stayed were traveling men and wanted no more of the sea. But that’s skipping ahead in the story.”

“What or who were the traveling men?” she asked.

“Irish travelers. They’re also known as the walking people.” When she still didn’t comprehend, Daniel asked, “Have ya heard of gypsies?”

“Of course.”

“Well, the travelers are sort of like gypsies, only they originated in Ireland. They settled in the United States in the nineteenth century, migrating to different parts of the country, starting their own clan groups. The travelers are still around today. They’re a suspicious people and have gained a reputation through the decades for being con artists. They call non-travelers country people, and refer to themselves as Pavees. Some of McBride’s sailors decided to form a clan and settled in this village.” Daniel chuckled when it became clear to Sam.

“You’re telling me that’s where Pavee Cove got its name?”

“Yep.”

This was fascinating history, but she still didn’t know what it had to do with the spyglass and how it had made her reality shift each time she looked through it. “How would Eamon McBride’s spyglass from the 1800s end up in the wall of the light tower?” she wondered aloud.

“That’s the ten thousand dollar question,” Daniel said, slapping his knee. “I don’t have the answer to it, but McBride’s captain’s log is on display at the historical museum on Beehive Street. When I was a member of the historical committee, I had the privilege of reading that journal. McBride continued to write in the log after the shipwreck. He kept notes each day while he was living here. Let me tell you, there are some very interesting passages in that book.”

“Do any of the entries mention this spyglass or the lighthouse?”

“As a matter of fact, they do,” he said, winking. “Would you like to know what I remember of his unusual story?”

“Yes, I would.” She leaned forward with anticipation.

The old man’s eyes sparkled under bushy eyebrows. “It wasn’t long before McBride took up with a local girl. He moved her into his makeshift shack on the beach and she soon became great with child. I remember reading in McBride’s own hand that this girl was so enchanted by his spyglass that she used to gaze into it at all hours of the morning and night. She’d come from a poor family and had never seen anything like it before. She believed it held magic powers.”

Samantha remembered a similar feeling of entrancement each time she’d peer into the telescope. Like it had captured her and wouldn’t let go.

Daniel went on. “The girl went into labor early some seven months later and gave birth to twins. One of the babies died. The other survived, but barely. The girl was heartbroken and went a little crazy, according to McBride’s diary. He wrote of her packing the surviving babe around on her back and combing the beach for hours upon end; calling out to the dead child. I recall reading one entry that stated the girl had run back to the shack one day claiming to have seen her baby in a little boat, bobbing along the waves. She begged McBride to go into the water and rescue their son.”

Samantha’s throat grew as dry as sandpaper. The story sounded eerily similar to her experience of seeing the little girl run into the ocean. “Did the captain find their child?” she asked.

“No. He didn’t even look. He wrote that he knew the girl had gone mad from grief. For four days in a row she combed the shoreline from sunrise to sunset, only to return to him each night pleading for him to bring home the baby she swore she saw laughing and playing in the sea. Finally, he had enough of her nonsense and put her in her place, once and for all, according to the journal. I can only assume he tried to beat some sense into her.”

Sam winced.

“That girl walked into the ocean the next day, drowning both herself and the surviving baby,” Daniel said.

Samantha’s hand flew to her mouth to smother a gasp. “Who found them?”

“McBride himself. When he awoke that fateful morning to find the girl and babe gone, he assumed she’d walked to the water as she’d done for the previous four days. As the day progressed, however, a bad feeling nagged him, so he scoured the beach and found his spyglass stuck in the wet sand. He glanced through the lens and swung it over the horizon and saw the bodies floating. The baby was tied to the mother’s back.”

“That’s awful,” Sam whispered. “I can’t imagine.”

“The story gets even stranger,” Daniel said. “McBride hauled the bodies back to shore and buried them in a grave dug with his own hands. Later that night, he got drunk and climbed to the top of a rocky cliff. He’d carried the spyglass with him so he could look at the full moon through it. Howling like a wolf was the only way for him to express the anger he felt over having lost his woman and his children. According to his notes, he passed out on the rock. When he woke up the next morning, he cursed his throbbing head. Then he heard something behind him. He turned and there they were—the girl and both babies, only the twins were not babies anymore. They were about five years old, and all three were alive and well.”

With blood surging through her like a speeding freight train, Samantha asked, “What happened next?”

“The final words in that last entry read that it had started to rain, so McBride and his family found shelter in the lighthouse, which was closer than the shack. As they frittered away the day by watching the storm through the spyglass from atop the tower, McBride started to believe that everything that had come before had simply been a bad dream. However, another odd incident occurred the following morning. After spending the night in the lighthouse, McBride rose to find the woman and his children gone. He searched high and low, for days on end, and found no trace of them. When he inquired of the other villagers if they’d seen his family, he was laughed at and accused of imagining things. Everyone he spoke to, including his own sailors, mocked him. ‘What family are ye speaking of,’ they laughed. ‘The ones in your dreams?’ It took a dozen people swearing on their lives before he believed what they swore was true: that he’d been living alone in that shack for a year while waiting for his replacement ship to arrive from Ireland. It was as if the girl and babies had never even existed.”

Samantha drew a shallow breath into her lungs. “What happened to Eamon McBride?”

“The new ship arrived, but it unfortunately left the cove without the captain. McBride was found in his shack the morning they were to shove off, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The logbook was found lying next to his body. The spyglass he’d mentioned in his journal was missing. According to another document written by one of McBride’s loyal sailors, despite a thorough search of the area, the captain’s spyglass was never located. That is, until now.”

Silence stretched between them. The whirling fans above them were the only sounds as Samantha contemplated the odd tale. There were no words to express the way she felt. Every cell in her body quivered. McBride’s experiences hundreds of years ago had been alarmingly similar to hers. But what did an Irish master mariner from the 1800s have to do with her, aside from them both possessing the same spyglass and being strangely affected by it?

At least she now had a pretty good idea as to
why
Eamon McBride had hidden it in the wall of the lighthouse tower before he’d committed suicide. If, in fact, he was the one who’d hidden it. Apparently he’d believed it to be cursed.

“I have no doubt the museum would be interested in negotiating with you,” Daniel said, breaking into her thoughts. His voice was laced with eagerness. “It’s quite a find and would make a handsome partner to McBride’s captain’s log.”

She pried the spyglass from his gnarly hands and returned it to the case. “Sorry, but it’s not for sale.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “But surely you understand the significance of this discovery. To the people of this part of Maine, this is as important as finding a treasure in the bowels of the Titanic. That spyglass you’re holding is a piece of Pavee Cove history.”

“I understand, but I’m not prepared to hand it over to you or a museum. Besides, it doesn’t belong to me. It rightfully belongs to the person who owns the lighthouse.”

“As I told you—”

“I know. The lighthouse has been abandoned for years.” She stood and extended her hand, having heard all she needed for now.

The legs of Daniel’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed back from the table. With great effort, he stood and then frowned at Sam. “As the finder of such a mysterious instrument, you have a solemn duty to protect it from those who may wish to use it for selfish purposes. Please take that duty seriously.”

She shook his hand. “I promise not to let anything happen to the spyglass. I appreciate you talking with me, Daniel. Thank you for the information. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll be in touch again.” She picked up the box and was headed for the door when another question sprang to mind. “Daniel,” she said, turning. “Do you know who lives in the old white cottage on the south end of the beach, about a mile from the lighthouse?”

“No one lives there, Miss. It’s been—”

“Don’t tell me,” she broke in. “It’s been abandoned for years, too.”

He nodded, and she exited the antique shop with the bell tinkling behind her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Samantha entered the lighthouse and locked the door behind her. Wilting into the sofa cushions, she placed the mahogany case at her side. Exhausted, she had no appetite and desired only sleep. It was six o’clock according to her watch. It was too early to retire for the night, but the day had been long and emotionally draining. Her head slumped back, and despite the efforts to keep her eyes open, they drifted shut within moments.

The sound of a phone ringing startled her awake. With a jolt, she sat up and glanced around, feeling foggy. The room was dark except for slivers of light streaming through the small windows. She pushed the stem on her wristwatch, which illuminated the watch face. Amazingly, she’d slept for two and a half hours. The phone blared again. She felt around the sofa with her hands before remembering she’d plugged the cell phone into its charger and left it on the counter before going out earlier. Groggy, it felt like she suffered from a hangover. Pushing herself up from the sofa, she stumbled to the kitchen to grab the cell phone on its fifth ring.

“Hello.”

“Hey! It’s about time you answered. I’ve been calling you for hours. Where have you been?”

The voice sounded familiar, but Sam had difficulty focusing. “I’m sorry. Who’s calling?”

“Who’s calling?” The woman laughed. “You’ve only been gone two days. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your best friend already.”