The Lark

©2001 Jordan M. Bobé
All rights reserved.

Dear Vivian,

I was sitting on the porch. You know the one. We built it together, did we not? The swing was moving slowly against the currents of wind blowing in from the ocean. I couldn't see the land, even though it is usually perfectly clear. A storm the likes of which had never come to our small island before was brewing.

Lobo, our hound, was sitting with his head laid across his paws. When the first bolt of lightning struck a wound in the sky, he raised his head and looked toward the sound. I should have known then that this wasn't a normal storm blowing in off the Pacific, but I was too lost in thoughts of you.

I could hear your voice whispering to me, your long fingers touching the back of my neck. Even though the sky was filled with dark clouds, I could feel sunlight kiss my cheeks. I turned my head, expecting to see you there with a sun dress covering your slim form, and saw the door to the bungalow swinging in the wake of a storm.

"Come on inside, Lobo," I said softly, and stood. My head was swimming with thoughts of you, though, so perhaps my voice didn't carry down to the small animal. He didn't move, in any case. He merely stood on his three legs and snarled at the sound of the waves clapping against the rocks.

"Lobo, let's get in before this storm starts fitting," I said, with more power behind my words.

The dog whined as he turned in a semicircle and followed me through the doorway into the house that you had helped me decorate. Pieces of you still sat all about the place. Here and there were relics of the time we spent together. Here was a cast-iron statue of a fisherman, sitting with a straw hat perched on his head, a dog next to his side. Here was a photograph of the Grand Canyon that we had taken during our trip to the States. Your arms are around me in the picture, do you remember it?

I haven't ever seen a smile like yours, even though it's nearing on the three-year mark since the day that you walked out that door with a single bag of clothes and never returned.

I walked to the kitchen through the little awning that we had spent months building until it fit right into the British structure that you were hoping for. There were a couple of dirty dishes in the sink. I know you hated it when I didn't wash them nightly. Also there was my goal, the bottle with which I have become quite familiar. Scotch, tonight. I had run out of rum the night before and decided the trip to town wasn't worth my while.

The liquor tasted good. I sat at the table and drank, thinking again how empty the other three chairs looked. We had expected to have two children occupy those seats by now, had we not? But they were empty, and so was the house. Then the voice came to me.

"Gregory," the sweet tones murmured. "Gregory."

I tipped the chair over, standing. No one was in the place to say such sweet words. Not you, nor any other woman. The voice, though, struck a familiar chord in my heart.

"Who has come here?" I barked, sweat dripping from my brow. "This is no proper time to come calling, unless you be a close friend!"

"Gregory," the sweet voice whispered again. I took a minute to regain my bearings. Something was in the belly of our house, something that did not seem right.

"This is not a time for such games, you lark! Show yourself!" I called, walking toward the nursery.

"Ah, but it is! It is midnight, is it not?" her voice came back.

I stopped in place and heard, for the first time, Lobo growling behind me.

"Stranger of the storm, this is my home and you must leave," I said, and stood before the door that led to the small room. I had never felt fear standing before this door before, but now there was something ominous about the way the door stood, so quietly in place against the emptiness.

"This is our home, good man," she said to me from the other side of the door.

I opened the door and saw her sitting on the nursery bed. Nestled in her arms was a baby, suckling against her breast. The storm blew its first mighty gust from outside. All of the thin window panes blew in on themselves.

"No, lark, this is my home. There is a storm brewing outside, yes, but this is my home. You should not have come at such a time. You gave no prior notice that you would be here, nor set up a prior meeting to introduce yourself. I haven't a clue who you are, sitting in my nursery!" My voice was reaching the level of hysteria.

"You have no need to ask my name; you should remember," she said, her voice holding both threat and reluctance. Anger and terror ran daggers through my veins, with the sweetness of her voice their guide.

"Must you call upon my home at such a late hour and then speak to me so impudently? It cannot be I that you desire to see! Your mind must be turned to rot by some fever to believe it so!"

"No, good man, your brain is the one that has turned to rot, from drink!" She stood, her beauty revealed for the first time without the shadows playing upon her face. The baby in her arms was equally gorgeous.

"My brain need not be rotten to have no memory of a woman I have never met before in my life. My brain need not be rotten to see that you are merely a lark of the sea!" I said. I looked for some weapon to brandish, something that would rid me of this specter of the ocean, this entity of the macabre.

"Your brain has rotted so that you might never speak to me again, good man! I gave to you a love that none have ever seen before and you still do not recognize me! You are a bad man, a man of illicit thought and action! Your desires and drink took from me my fondest dream." Her voice was laced with pain. I could see tears dripping from her eyes. They looked not like tears, however; their darkness looked like blood.

"I am not this damned creature of whom you speak," I said, my tone low with pain and fear. Dismissed were any thoughts that this woman was beautiful; her pain dispelled any beauty that had been there.

Slowly as I began to realize that this woman was more than a lark. She was a ghost, something dread that the unholy winds had brought forth from the sea. There was damnation to be had on this night, to be sure; and perhaps it would be my own after all. Perhaps it would be the damnation I had earned a thousand days prior. Perhaps this lark of the sea had been sent forth to claim me for the crimes I had committed with you, dear one.

"I feel for you, whatever you are. This house can be your home until the storm's end," I said softly, fearfully.

"No, dear one; this house is my home forever! This is the home that we built together, for one another! Are you too blind to see that I am your dear one?" she asked. Alas, her voice brought back all of the memories I had hidden in drink.

The lark from the sea was you, Vivian. Then the storm passed and you vanished again. Now, though, I know the way to find you. I realized it as I sat here, drawing a pen across these pages.

All I have to do is walk to the point where I threw you and our baby into the sea on the night you had intended to leave. I will look upon the sea once more and throw myself into the currents. So, this is the last volume I shall pen for the rest of the world's days.

Please, will you have me on the other side? I plead my case that I had thought you already dead. I thought it the whole time I carried you both to the sea, thought it until you opened your eyes and called out to me just before the waves took you forever. I swear to the Lord that I thought this was true.

Please take me with you.

Yours truly,

Gregory

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