Authors: Dell Magazine Authors
Even through the bushes, Martha saw her cannonball reach its target. Richard shook in rage.
"I was not picking her up! I was not on the island! I had a witness who confirmed I spent the night in Grover's pub. On the mainland!"
"Only part of the night, Richard.” Martha had her comeback ready. She plunged into full attack mode. “You made a promise to her with no intention to keep it. You tricked her. You know what your real intention was."
"Liar!” Richard lost it and lunged forward, breaking through the blackberry bushes to get her. Martha scurried away as fast as she could in her ill-fitting boots, helping herself with her stick. She had thrown him the bait and he took it.
She led him through the thicket easily, as she knew the best spots to climb over fallen trees or duck under tangled ivy. Richard fell behind and Martha heard him hacking in the distance, as he was breaking through the shrubs. So he had brought an ax. And all she had was a walking stick and a flashlight, in case they got stuck in the woods until dark. She led him around in circles like a leprechaun and he followed her like a bull infuriated by a bullfighter's darts. When her legs started complaining inside her huge uncomfortable boots, she decided it was time to head for the marsh. She needed to save her strength for later.
She left the thicket and waited for Richard in the clearing. She leaned against a tree, hugged her walking stick, and her memories got the better of her, taking away her concentration. Twenty-five years back in time. Rewound. She thought she was in love. She was sure she was in love. Yes, of course, she was in love!
Martha had met Richard on a stock-up trip she took with her father in early summer. For the rest of the season, Richard rode his boat to the south meadow every chance he got, the marsh being a safety net between their hideout and Martha's father with his gun. The old man never bothered crossing the marsh even though he knew the path, because all the fish swam under the north rocks, which was why the geese nested there. Martha's father didn't trust any man who'd lay an eye on his daughter, despite her arguments that she'd end up an old spinster if he didn't stop. The irony of life was that she did end up an old spinster, but it wasn't exactly her father's fault.
The south meadow hid them in its tall grass, where they played the same game every time: Richard's hands all over her, in her dress and under it, fighting her firm and invariable “no.” Martha knew her father would kill her. He could barely manage the thought of marrying her off. Worst of all, he didn't like Richard, so she had to keep their games secret until either she won his good will or worked up her courage to fight. But Richard's patience was thinning.
"You're not a teenage girl,” he used to tell her, the frustration in his voice making her skin tingle. “You're twenty-four, for Christ sake. How long will he keep you on this island like an imprisoned nun?"
It was late October when Richard had lost it—one of the last few warm nights of the year before the trees turned completely bare and the winter cold sealed the earth. Mother Nature was taking their meeting place away until the next spring, and Richard was angry. He was angry at himself for taking so much time, at Martha for being so stubborn, and even at Mother Nature. He had lost it to anger then and he would lose it to anger now.
A chopping sound of the ax, sharp and close, brought Martha back to reality in an instant. Richard broke through the thicket and stepped into an opening. She saw him clearly for the first time after twenty-five years. He was covered with twigs, leaves, and spider webs and his breathing was labored. His skin was pale and wrinkly like a Thanksgiving turkey before you put it in the oven. Martha might've remembered him handsome and muscled, but that was a thing of the past. She realized her cheeks were slightly wet, which could've been the water falling down from the torn clouds. Or from the drizzling trees. She wiped it off with the back of her hand and blinked, squeezing that goddamn water out of her eyes to get Richard and his ax back in focus. The marsh lay right behind her so she felt safe.
"Here, Richard,” she spoke. It was time to throw another malicious dart at him to keep him on her tail. “She disappeared here, not too far from where we stand now. Does this place look familiar to you?"
She watched his face twist in a grimace.
"Liar,” he croaked, lifting his ax. “You could've pushed her off the path yourself for all I know. Bet you did. And then you sent me to jail!"
He made a swinging move with his ax and Martha scampered, leading him astray, before her memories returned and flooded her cheeks with little streams of water again. The ground underneath her feet changed. From firm and solid it became spongy and quivery, responding to her steps with dubious vibrations rather than with stable support. A few more feet and her steps became wet and smoochy, her feet sinking in heavily. Here, about a foot away from the thin birch tree, was the path.
Submerged in mud, the path could only be walked by feel. To the touch, it felt like a rocky passage, about two feet wide and easy to walk on, as long as you knew all the twists and turns of its route. Martha always thought that it must've been the top of a cliff once surrounded by a body of water that eventually thickened into a marsh. Martha and her sister knew every inch of that path, so the thought of Lauren slipping off it was incomprehensible. They had walked it in the night, in the rain, and even with their eyes closed. And if the marsh swelled unusually deep after heavy rains, one could always feel it with a pole.
Martha stepped onto the path and sloshed along, her feet immersed in black spongy substance, but Richard was hesitant to follow.
"Where are you taking me?” he questioned angrily as he probed the mud with his rubber boot. “You won't run away from me this time. I'll catch you. If you can walk it, I can walk it too."
"So could Lauren,” Martha told him to fuel his fury. “That's why I hate when people say she slipped off by mistake. This was no mistake, and you know it."
"I did not kill Lauren!” he roared at her. “You made it sound like I threw her in this goddamn marsh, but I know I'm innocent. I didn't promise to meet her. I didn't come here. You must've scribbled that note yourself, Martha! I spent twenty-five years in jail for a crime I didn't commit! That sin is on your conscience and you know it."
"And her death is on yours, whatever way you put it,” Martha snapped. She knew exactly what to say to make him follow her into the marsh. “I didn't scribble that note, but I know it by heart. It said, ‘Dear Father and sister, I will not be here tomorrow, but don't worry about me. Richard Burne and I are going to the mainland to get married. I will meet him in the south meadow and we will take his boat to the village to get married in the church. I should be back in a day or so, but you must promise me that you will not hold this against me and you won't be mad. I will see you soon. Lauren.’”
Martha dodged a stone Richard threw at her as she finished. Her feet slipped and she nearly lost her footing on the rocks. She waded through the mud away from him before another stone threw her off balance and into the black hungry abyss, right where it had taken her sister. There was a spot where the path abruptly dropped knee-deep and then dove even deeper, so if you didn't know it returned three steps later, you'd turn back right away. And if you spun around in the mud too franticly, you could lose your balance and fall into the black soppy mire, which would hug you with all its might, hug you till your last scream, hug you till you were gone.
Only once before in her life had Martha lost her footing on the slippery rocks—that last warm night of October when she had run away from Richard, frantic and upset. He was fed up with her, and they had a fight, violent as the wind that rattled the bare bony branches over their heads. He had grabbed her and pinned her to the ground, but she threw a handful of dirt in his eyes. He had let go of her for a second and before he grabbed her again, she swung a heavy fallen tree branch across his face, and ran away. Thank God she snatched a stick before she entered the marsh or she might never have made it through. Still shaking, she sneaked into the house and tiptoed into her room, which she shared with her sister, happy not to draw a sound from Lauren's bed. Little did she know Lauren was not in her bed. Lauren had followed her to the meadow that night, full of teenage curiosity and thirst for adventure. Lauren came home much later, when the sun was already climbing up in the sky, her clothes a mess and her mind in mayhem. Only Lauren wouldn't say anything about it for months—until she could no longer keep it to herself.
Martha waded along the path until the marsh grew wider, boasting its power. It had been slowly eating up the land from underneath the trees that grew on the border. Some of them still stood, others caved and tilted over the mud, their roots still grasping at the soil. Their crooked limbs hung over what looked like a small island in the middle of the marsh. The island was seeded with grass and even a few flowers that bloomed shyly under the overhanging branches. Yet it wasn't an island at all. It was a coagulated patch formed by fallen trees and soil accumulated on top. It gave an impression of a walkable surface, but was in fact a bottomless abyss. It even felt like solid ground if you stepped on its mossy hummocks, but they couldn't sustain you for long, giving you an illusion of safety until your feet fell through and you plummeted into the hungry mush, even deeper than you would've when falling off the rocky path.
Martha stopped an inch away from where the path took its dive and turned to face the false island. She sized up the distance. It was about seven feet across the soggy mush. She appraised the branches that hovered over the island's perilous surface. About four feet high, and she was five-eight, so she'd have a few minutes. She waited for Richard to get closer. In the marsh, he moved slower than she did, probing ahead with his pole every time he took a step.
"Some people said Lauren turned around too fast because the path vanished on her,” she told Richard. “Some people said she jumped."
"Maybe she did jump,” Richard barked, now only a few steps away. “Or maybe you pushed her."
Martha ignored his last remark. “Watch me jump now,” she said. And she did.
She stabbed her walking stick into the rocks beneath her feet and threw herself across the marsh like a pole-vault jumper, landing on the first black hummock of the false island. She turned to look at Richard while the hummock still held her.
"Witch,” Richard cursed, now at a loss. He knew she was playing a game, but he couldn't figure out the catch. He didn't think she'd risk her own life jumping around the marsh. The island looked safe, yet he didn't trust her enough to follow. “You may jump around like a frog, but I'm done following you around. I waited for twenty-five years to come here so I'll wait some more. Maybe I'll just stand here and watch you drown."
However, he was uncomfortable standing there in the middle of the path he couldn't see. He didn't know where the path continued or how to walk back, so he was trying to figure out what to do. And he did what every person would in a physically uncomfortable situation. He moved. He made a tiny little step further up, just where the path took its dive.
Richard yelped and Martha caught the look of horror on his face. She laughed even though her own feet had fallen through as she used up the hummock's welcome. She knew but too well that icy terrifying feeling when the ground disappeared from under you. Your heart dropped down faster than your feet. It was easy to make a mistake when you panicked. She hopped onto the next hummock, which was smaller than the first and wouldn't hold as long. She watched Richard struggling to climb back onto the path, thrashing around in the mud. He was scared and easy to manipulate. But she didn't have much time. The little hummock sank under her and she jumped again.
"You were a coward then and you're still a coward now,” Martha said, probing the next hummock over. “You wouldn't accept any responsibility for what you did. Lauren was almost five months then, and her belly was showing. It was only a matter of days before it would be noticeable. She carried your child in her belly, Richard, barely more than a child herself, and you killed them both. Lauren and her baby."
"I didn't kill her!” Richard screamed, still trying to climb back onto the path, too scared to realize he was actually on it, only deeper than before. From where he was now, Martha's hummocks looked safe to him. He didn't know there was nothing underneath them.
"You killed her by what you did to her in October,” Martha shouted, her heart dropping into her stomach as another hummock gave way and she fell in almost up to her knees. She knew she wouldn't last much longer so she grasped at the low tree branch, pulling herself up as she continued to talk.
"She was fourteen, Richard, and you were nearly twice her age, but you ruined her without a glimmer of remorse, never even thought twice about it. You just as well killed her five months before she drowned in the marsh. There was no way out for her. She was too afraid to tell our father. She was afraid to tell anyone! She told me when it was too late to do anything. Thank God she left that note, otherwise you would've walked away unpunished. But you got what you deserved. If I were a judge, I would not have given you twenty-five years. I would've given you death."
Richard jumped. He jumped partially from fury and partially from fear, because he hadn't realized he still had the solid rocks underneath him. He covered two thirds of the distance, but didn't make even the first hummock; he fell into the hungry mush in between. He thrashed so wildly he managed almost to walk a few steps before he got stuck for good. He screamed, jerking and splashing, but the marsh held him tight. It was pulling Martha down fast too, and so strongly she didn't know how long she'd be able to hang on to the tree. The branch bent under her weight and Richard realized she was just as badly in trouble as he was.
"Witch,” he half wailed, half cackled at her. “You're gonna go down with me. You made sure we couldn't be together in life, but you'll be stuck with me in death. What a life I had, Martha, what a wreck I became. It's all your fault. I just hope I'll get to watch you choke on this mud before I do."