Bayside Caretaker

The Bayside Inn was nestled between craggy coastal boulders, and while Ed tried to get seeds to grow, the salty sledge kept things like most of the island: dead.

Ed had been living in Portland, Maine most of his life. Raised by one government official and one dentist, he lived in the burbs. Five cars in the drive for just three people, Ed had the privilege of wealth. He had full intentions of becoming a Maine Guide — a fairly prestigious title. According to the most folks, Maine Guides have one of the hardest and most rigorous testing programs; Ed failed it. Contrary to his pillowy upbringing, he spent most of his time in the woods. Getting scrapes and cuts, tripping, navigating, conquering forests and hills, and canoeing rivers. Ed liked practicing survival skills, and living off the land — although, he could always go home to a hot shower. Ed studied Entomology for two years, and marine bio for another. Where did things go wrong, why did I fail he would often think.

He decided there was need to get away from the city, and his parents.

Ed took a position on the little island of North Isleboro. The Bayside Inn was abuzz with people from all over New England during the season, but Ed didn’t want people. He was the caretaker from September to April and hadn’t seen anyone since the end of August. It was October 15th on the calendar.

The alarm sounded.

Ed swung his legs out from under a heavy quilt, and stretched his back from the squeaky cot he had occupied for the last month. “I’m starting to get used to this.” he said aloud.

Cool sea air whistled in through the gap in the window. He had lost a few pounds since coming out here, and he’d taken up smoking a pipe — half for something to do, and half because he thought it looked badass. He donned a comfortable pair of jeans, and a woven khaki sweater.

Walking into his minuscule bathroom, he looked in the mirror; he’d earned a few grays, and the bags under his eyes made him look like an old basset hound.

He stuck a paperback of To Kill a Mockingbird in his back pocket and took to working. Checking all of the rooms, and windows, brewing coffee, and frying an egg took all of twenty minutes — the rest of the day was left to kill.

Ed took a walk by the ocean each morning; he was on the east side of the island, and he could see the quaint town of Castine across the harbor. There was a woman in the town he couldn’t help but crush on. He’d been walking by a jewelry store on his way to the boats and he saw her through the window — he ducked in and introduced himself, pretending to look at the artsy materials she was hired to sell. He thanked her and left; maybe he would ask her out the next time he was on the mainland.

Something flashed in the water, fluorescent and green. It shimmered and shone. Ed looked up into the clouds, there was no sun. The sky was overcast and gray, the waves began crashing violently on the rocks below him. Most of the trees on the island were coniferous, but one great elm fought against the terrain, its roots upending stone, “I guess one thing grows here.” The leaves were nearly gone, but the ones that clung on flapped violently in the wind. “Storm maybe.”

He looked back down to the water, the flash came again! This time he was able to make out the scaly tail. Whatever that fish was must’ve weighed at least two hundred pounds. His practice and training told him to identify the fish, but he tried to push all the guiding thoughts from his head.

The trees creaked as they swayed, the limbs and branches singing poetry to each other.

Then, among the waves, and wind, and creaks, a sound came from the water — a humming song, bewitching and beautiful. Ed could feel the deep notes in the pits of his stomach and the high one radiated throughout his chest. He closed his eyes and listened, always assuming that it was some music blasting from a cruise nearby.

“Ed!” yelled a voice.

He just listened for the music.

“Ed!” it sounded again, then a hand clamped onto his shoulder and he was ripped back into reality. Ed reeled back on the craggy rocks and slammed into the dirt.

“Whats the big idea?” Ed dusted himself off. He looked back and saw Marie, and her wife Annie sitting in their truck.

“Ed, you were walking off the edge.”

“What?”

“Look!” she pointed to where they had fallen. Their marks in the earth inches from the edge of the cliffside.

“What the-”

“Ed, were you,” she peered over the edge then back at him, noticing the black bags under his eyes and his skinny appearance, “you know?” she made a diving gesture with her hand.

“No! I was listening to the music, and I must’ve been distracted.”

“Music?”

“Yeah, that song. From the mainland.”

“I’m too old to hear that.” she pointed into the canals were her hearing aids sat.

“I’m sorry Marie… I’ll be more careful.”

“Be sure of it. We were on our way to the general store, you need anything?”

“I would love some bacon, I just ran out.”

“You betcha.” She walked back to her truck.

“Marie?” she looked back. “Thanks for that,” Ed pointed his thumb back to the coastline.

“Don’t mention it.” Marie opened her door, and rolled down the window, “Seriously, we don’t need the island thinking you hate it so much here you took that exit.”

“It was just an accident, truly.”

The couple drove off.

Ed shook himself, and sat on the porch. The inn itself was an ancient thing. Built in 1863, it creaked and groaned like those island trees. The owners lived in NYC somewhere, and managed to update the property. The bedrooms were all beautiful, rustic in look, but everything was only about ten years old. The only thing they missed was that cot he thought as he rubbed his back. Ed considered himself lucky enough to live on the ocean, even if it was for the coldest months.

He pulled his pipe from a pocket, packed in a little tobacco, and lit it. Flipping his glasses open, he began to read.

October 30th

Ed heard the song again, this time waking him from his slumber. Six o’clock.

The freezing all-hallows’-eve air screamed through the window, his body freezing. Ed pulled the quilt over his head, curling into the fetal position to concentrate his body heat. His body, and his ears wanted to follow the song. What are the words he thought.

BOOM!

Ed shot out of bed whipping off the blankets. “What the hell?” He looked to the window, which had cracked. A feather and drops of blood were spattered against the pane. “Damn.” Ed got dressed, dragging himself down to the basement for a shovel.

It was jay. Contorted and crooked, like a puppet with all its strings cut. Its tongue lolled from its beak. Maybe he heard the song too he thought.

November 14th

Ed mowed the lawn for the last time of the season. It was one of those rare days on the New England ocean when not a cloud was in the sky. Ed chipped away at all the outdoor projects. He had split and stacked the wood necessary for winter, put plastic on the windows, and around the base of the house; he’d replaced some of the insulation in the attic, and filled up foundation holes in the basement the days prior. Ed’s hair had grown, and his face was now adorned with a short beard.

The loneliness of the place had set in, but he liked to view it as solitude — reflection. But reflection lets the mind wander. He thought about the woman at the jewelry store, and how the little necklaces, bracelets, and brooches had sea stones and shells. Maybe it was time to ask her out.

Ed took a quick shower, spruced himself up, and put a “closed” sign with various call numbers on the inn’s door. Walking the road, he hitched a ride with a neighbor down to the cove. Firing up the motor on the inn’s boat, he sped into Castine. He made sure to give the State of Maine, the maritime academy’s monstrous boat, a wide berth. He tied the dingy to the docks and strode into the little square of the town. During the summers it would be filled with smells, colors, and tourists in obnoxious shirts; now it was dull.

He walked up the street passed a seafood restaurant, and ducked into the little book store, Compass Rose Books. Ed found himself a copy of “Mythos” by Stephen Fry, he had been seeing a number of reviews, and his mother said it was good. He tucked it under his arm, and popped into the jewelry store. There she was.

She had beautiful auburn hair, curly and wild. Large, square glasses perching on a perfect nose. She had tattoos all up her arms, a couple piercing in her ears, and a ring in the left nostril. Her name was Camille. “Hi.” he smiled.

“I remember you.”

“Yeah?”

“I do.”

“We talked about music last time, Fenway concerts.”

“Yes!”

“Maybe an awkward question, but can I ask you out?”

She blushed. She found the man to be reasonably attractive compared to the other town natives — this man seemed to have all his teeth. “Not much to do around here.”

“Maybe I could take you out to eat?” Ed asked.

“Sure, why not, I love food.” She winked at him, “I’m off at five.”

“I can wait.”

“Five hours?” she scoffed.

“Absolutely.” he smiled, “I’ll meet you two doors down?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Ed read his book on one of the benches in town, skipping through some sections, engrossed in others. He found a section on Nereids — benevolent sea nymphs. He had studied nymph insects often throughout his education, so he went down a etymological rabbit hole; he then began searching other nymphs, Oceanids, and Sirens.

Ed and Camille’s date was perfect, there was even a kiss at the end when we walked her to her apartment.

His ride back to the island was dark, uncomfortably so. He could see the lights of the scattered buildings, and the moon’s rays outlined the dark land mass. The night was quiet but for the lapping of the waves against the dingy, and the shore. An occasional ping of a rock marker. He let the engine come to a stop, so he could listen to nature at work.

The song sounded.

Ed could almost feel his pupils dilate. He forced them shut and floated. His hands gently resting on the gunwales of either side. The sound felt like a drug; a wave of euphoria spread across him. The pleasure of it causing his body to stir, goosebumps sprouting all over, his toes curled. He lay in the hull just bobbing. Water splashed over his right hand, soaking it with cold water. He looked over to his limb. Two glowing orange eyes glared up at him. “Shit!” he jolted away, nearly spilling into the Atlantic. The sane part of him went to reach for the motor in escape, but curiosity won out; he peered over the side once more. They blinked, and tilted, and the song continued to sound. “What are you?” he said aloud, his instinct, his compulsion to identify the animal made him lean in.

The water erupted! A beautiful face and arms jumped from the water. Elegant, webbed fingers pressed against his ears. Her eyes sad, her face worried. Ed had a odd sense of calm, she too cast a spell on him.

The song quieted, and died. She lifted her hands from his face, “Don’t listen to the song” She fell back into the ocean.

Ed blinked. Deciding whether that was real or not, he could feel the water on his face, and the subtle clog in his ears. He motored back to the island, and took a nice long walk to the inn.

November 29th

Marie and Annie had come over to the inn for a late Thanksgiving dinner. While washing the dishes, the window ajar, the melodic lure of the siren song floated in again. He turned the faucet up higher to drown it out. Whispering under his breath, “Every fifteen days.”