Esme's Gift

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

As fifteen-year-old Esme Silver lurched off the ferry and onto the water-lashed wharf, she swayed as if she were still at sea. Torrential rain pounded the wooden treads underfoot; winds gusted so forcefully, they threatened to sweep her sideways off the dock. It was as if Picton Island, the place she’d called home all her life, was punishing her for abandoning it.

Except Picton Island didn’t feel much like home anymore.

Her heart was back in Esperance, the glittering capital of the parallel world of Aeolia. Esme had spent the past several weeks there, searching for her long-lost mother Ariane. And against all odds, she’d succeeded. Her mother was alive, but in a trance, confined to bed. Now Esme faced a challenge that seemed even more insurmountable: convincing her father that Aeolia was real.

For the whole trip here, she’d fretted about how her father would respond to her news. Now her stomach was as knotted as the twist of storm clouds over Picton Village.

It was only early afternoon, but the sky was so dark it could have been dusk. Shielding her face with the hood of her rain jacket, Esme turned left, skirting the village, a collection of near-identical cottages that clung to the hillside as tenaciously as their inhabitants clung to their closed-minded ways.

Her pace quickened as she passed the church in which her father had remarried earlier that summer. She could still hear the scandalised murmurs of the congregation after she had flung up her hand in objection to the proceedings:

‘Selfish child, ruining Penelope’s special day …’

‘Ariane’s been gone for seven years. She’s not coming back …’

‘What is wrong with that girl?’

That day was a raw bruise that had yet to heal. Esme hadn’t been able to stay silent that day, because letting her father marry Penelope would have been a tacit acceptance of her mother’s fate—a fate inscribed on a cenotaph within the church grounds.

In memory of

ARIANE MAY SILVER

Beloved Wife of Aaron and Mother to Esme

1950—1981

Lost at Sea

Further up the hill, the blue light of the police station blinked at Esme. She was sorely tempted to venture inside and take down her mother’s tattered missing person’s poster, still pinned up on the bulletin board:

Name: Ariane Silver. Age: 31. Last known whereabouts: Spindrift Island, December 2nd, 1981. Appearance: Long, straight, dark brown hair; medium height; slight build; blue eyes.

Along with the rain peppering Esme’s cheeks came a chilling thought: What if there’s a notice in there for me, too?

Name: Esme Silver, read the poster conjured up in her mind. Age: 15. Last known whereabouts: Spindrift Island, January 14th, 1989. Appearance: Long, curly, light brown hair; medium height; slight build; blue-green eyes.

At the crest of the hill, the village fell out of sight. Picton Island vaguely resembled a beached whale, with the southern harbour forming its tail. Esme and her father lived on the island’s isolated northern point, where wild grass caressed the black cliffs of Splinter Bay.

As she hurried north along the whale’s back, the familiar blue-and-white lighthouse—and her father’s cottage beside it—came into sight. A warning pinged with each raindrop, and each muddy step closer. Was her father even there? For all she knew, the cottage might be deserted. Maybe her father had finally been bullied into moving back down to the village.

Aaron Silver was Picton’s lighthouse keeper and ranger. He loved his job, but his parents had never forgiven him for refusing to work for the family fishing fleet. They wanted him back in the village, at any cost—and so did Penelope.

She picked her way around the last of the puddles and unlatched the cottage gate. The letterbox attached to the picket fence was stuffed full of mail, all addressed to her father.

Wait—one letter was addressed to her.

Just as she was about to open it, a feline form butted up against her.

‘Reuben!’ she cried, scooping her beloved cat up in her arms. ‘I missed you so much.’

Reuben sunk a claw into her arm in retaliation for her long absence, then retracted it and snuggled into her embrace, limp with relief. She carried him to the porch, where she examined him with care. He didn’t look any the worse for wear, apart from another sprinkle of grey in his ageing black coat.

BANG.

The front door slammed open so fast Esme almost dropped Reuben on the porch. Her heart lodged in her throat as she recognised the brown-garbed woman framed in the doorway. It wasn’t Penelope. It was somebody much worse.

‘Finally,’ sniped Mavis, Penelope’s odious older sister. ‘Come crawling back, have you?’

For an instant, Esme thought she glimpsed genuine relief on her step-aunt’s face, but it might have been a grimace.

‘I don’t want to hear any sob stories,’ Mavis barked before Esme could speak. ‘I don’t want to hear any excuses. Half the summer, you’ve been gone! The whole village has been out looking for you. Your father’s been in an absolute state. My sister too; she’s beside herself! We should have finished the move weeks ago, but your father’—she made a huffing sound—‘has been refusing to leave without you.’

She hustled Esme inside and down the corridor. Reuben followed after them.

The house was an empty shell. Most of the furniture was gone, and the walls had been stripped of all Ariane’s magnificent paintings, bar one. Halfway down the hallway hung a rich oil of Odysseus at sea. The Ancient Greek voyager stood at the prow of his ship, intent on navigating the treacherous waters guarded by Scylla and Charybdis, immortal monsters who rose on either side of the narrow passage. Esme tried, but failed, to suppress a snort.

Which one’s Mavis and which one’s Penelope?

Mavis glared at her. ‘Wipe that smirk off your face. With all the trouble you’ve caused, you won’t be smiling again for a long time.’

The living room was bereft of its usual comforts, save the sofa, still facing the fireplace. The room reeked of a woody ferment that only grew stronger as Esme rounded the sofa.

‘Dad!’ she cried.

Her father lay there—asleep, unshaven, more grey in his hair than ever before. Air skittered out of his slack mouth, a whistle on the tail of each breath. His calloused hand loosely cupped a low glass tumbler. A half-empty bottle of whiskey rested on the floor, and an upturned crate beside the sofa—a makeshift coffee table—was littered with empty glasses and dirty plates.

While Mavis looked on, faintly disgusted, Esme threw down her satchel and tried to rouse her father. Her efforts had no effect.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked her step-aunt. ‘Is he ill?’

Mavis sniffed. ‘If he is, he’s brought it on himself. Or rather, you have. The only reason we haven’t moved that sofa out is because he won’t get off it.’

She picked up an empty glass off the floor and added it to the mess on the crate.

‘You’re all he ever talks about, you know. How much he misses you. How much he wants you back again. You did this to him.’

Esme opened her mouth to protest. ‘I—’

But Mavis was gone. Shortly afterward, Esme heard the front door slam shut. She knew exactly where Mavis was headed—straight to Penelope, to spill the news.

Her eyes drifted to her father’s insentient form on the sofa.

You did this to him.

Mavis’s words lodged like a splinter in her heart. As she kneeled down beside her father, it dug in even deeper. She pried the tumbler from his hand and shook his shoulder.

‘Dad?’

His snoring stopped—then resumed. As she rose to her feet, at a loss as to what to do, the letter from the mailbox fell out of her pocket. She tore open the envelope, then realised, too late, that it wasn’t addressed to her.

The scribbly, rain-smudged handwriting read Mrs Silver—not Ms Silver.

Oh. Her heart did a little sideways step.

Her first, honourable, instinct was to stuff the letter back in the envelope and pretend she’d never seen it. Even though Penelope ignored her to the point of neglect, nobody deserved to have their private life snooped into.

Then Esme noticed the anchor and rope on the letterhead.

That was the logo of the Silver family fishing fleet. The logo on all the stationery belonging to her grandparents. Ignoring the guilt nipping at her, Esme pulled out a slip of paper with only a few words on it.

See you down in the village. Keep up the good work.

Pulse spiking, Esme peered inside the envelope and saw numbers—lots of numbers—on what looked like bank statements. When she unfolded them, her eyes boggled. Once a month, for the past year, substantial payments had been transferred from Aaron’s parents to the account of one Penelope Silver.

With dawning horror, Esme replaced the documents and resealed the envelope as best she could. It could mean nothing, she tried to reassure herself, slipping the letter back into her pocket. Those payments could have been for anything.

But she couldn’t get the bitter taste of suspicion out of her mouth. Aaron’s parents had introduced him to Penelope. They’d done all they could to encourage the courtship. They had even paid for the wedding.

Moving as if in a troubling dream, Esme gathered up her father’s dirty glasses and dishes, and trailed off to the kitchen. It was as derelict as the rest of the house, with half-packed boxes everywhere. She filled the sink with hot, soapy water, and reached for a plate—one she’d never seen before. It was decorated with a fading rose-coloured castle on a lake, and a large crack ran down its middle.

It must be Penelope’s, thought Esme.

She dipped it in the suds.

The moment her fingers touched the water, a roaring started up in her ears. Her head began to throb as if a thousand needles were stabbing into her brain.

‘Oh no.’ She clenched her teeth. ‘Not now.’

She tried to let go of the plate, but her hand was stuck to it. Her whole body, in fact, was frozen in place. This had happened to her before: in this very kitchen, at this very sink. This time, she knew what was causing her agony, but knowing didn’t make it any less terrifying.

This was her Gift: the power to travel through the memories of water and bear witness to the distant past. Her Gift had a chance of activating whenever she came into contact with water, and where she went—when she went—was beyond her control. Her consciousness shifted and she fell into a trance.