Harbinger

It materializes slowly at first; A shadow dancing in and out of a swirling mist, a flickering orange glow that signifies the first vestiges of civilization.

“Is that it? Are we almost there?”

In my mind I’ve been there and back a hundred times over. I was ill prepared for the agony of anticipation, the slow stretching of time beyond all reason. We’ve been bobbing up and down on the icy waves for hours, but it felt more like days.

The heavy, damp chill cuts through my woolen coat and sinks deep into my bones, leeching all hope of warmth and comfort from my body. A gust of wind blows a sharp spray of mist across my salt burned cheeks. I fumble to secure a thin scarf more tightly around my neck, my fingers possessed by a particularly clumsy ghost. Only a glance down at them can confirm that while they look as if they belong to a corpse, they are still under my control.

The prow of a ship looms out of the fog, and I don’t have time to do more than whisper “Dear God” before the boatman heaves to, and we pass so close to the salt crusted hull that I can almost touch it. The wind picks up as we pass the broken ship and the fog momentarily lifts, revealing more rusting grave markers sinking into the sea. In the distance a dark lighthouse stands, its many empty windows and large light-less prism apparently tired of their fruitless watch over the sea.

I feel a sudden urgency to reach the orange glow on the horizon. The groans of twisting, tortured metal, the whistling of an invisible breeze, and the dipping of the boatman’s oars are a growing crescendo in my ears. I cannot watch the lighthouse as it slips by, afraid of the ghosts I might see, and soon the fog hides it from view.

My burden, the reason for my journey, weighs heavy on my mind though it’s hidden in the bottom of the misshapen duffel at my feet. I look at the boatman. He hasn’t spoken since I charted him for the journey, and what little I can see of his face between a weather-beaten wool cap and a coarse grey beard is carved in granite. Does he know or suspect what I’m going to do in The Harbor? Does he care?

The closer to land we crawl, the busier the water becomes. It's filled with other ships and trash and wriggling things feeding off the stinking refuse. The smell is only a small nuisance at first, something I can block out if I take shallow breaths, yet the longer the boatman rows the more nagging the smell becomes.

When at last we reach the dock- a sad, sagging affair that juts out over the trash infested harbor like a piece of driftwood- I’m gagging and tripping over myself to leave the boat behind. My foot catches on a warped plank and I tumble to the ground, my duffel suddenly spilling it’s contents across the damp wood. I scramble to save my possessions before they tumble into the miry water, never to be found again.

The boatman watches me, and I know the moment he understands what brought me here.

“Harbinger.” He says, voice as hard as flint.

I make no attempt to defend myself. This was my choice.

Three days ago an unmarked duffel bag had been left on my doorstep. Inside was a modest black dress, black gloves, stockings, a hat and veil, a pair of black heels, and a brown paper package that was sealed with black wax. The accompanying envelope contained a photograph with a name, a list of the contents of the package, and a note written in ink:

“To whom it may concern: If you so choose, deliver to Long Shots, Entertainment District, The Harbor"

I understood why they chose me. The visit wasn’t meant to be a death sentence as much as a demand for justice, and I had been granted the ability to deliver it, if I wished.

I booked a train ticket to the coast the next day.

In the time it takes to replace all the items in my bag, all signs of the dingy and the stone faced boatman have been swallowed by the fog. The wood beneath me lurches with each unsteady step I take towards land, threatening to tip me into the mire.

I squeeze my duffel closer, and try to take shallow breaths through my mouth. The lamp at the end of the dock slowly dissolves the fog, replacing it with a relentless orange.

“Welcome to The Harbor!” Cries a black and white sign that stretches across the entrance gate in large, curling letters.

I wonder if it would still welcome me if it knew why I was here.

I check a nearby wall map to help me navigate the maze-like streets of The Harbor before stopping in a public restroom. I struggle into my chosen attire then stash my duffel in the trashcan beneath a pile of used paper towels.

I don’t run across many people in the streets, but the click of my heels on the cobblestones is slowly drowned out by the sound of laughter and music. When I at last turn a corner, I find myself accosted by bright lights and a boisterous crowd. The entertainment district is a large, open square swarming with people. There are small casinos, clubs, restaurants, and music being played loudly by a band in the middle of the square beneath a gazebo.

“Long Shots” isn’t hard to find. The words are written in neon letters across a two-storied facade, and it’s clearly the most popular place on the street. Visitors are milling around the entrance, a dense crowd of people waiting for the bouncer to let them in.

As I start pushing my way through, people’s initial annoyance quickly changes to hasty retreat. A few faces wear expressions of pity while others watch me walk past, clearly relieved that I’m not here for them. A few grin, a hungry look in their eyes.

The bouncer looks me up and down, recognizes the brown paper package in my hands. “Who are you here for?”

“David Richardson Wells.”

The bouncer pulls a radio off his belt and turns away. A tense minute passes before he clips his radio and nods. “You’ll find him in the gambling hall at table one.”

I’m assaulted by the smell of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and an aggressive guitar solo as I wend my way past pool tables to the gambling hall. I stand in the doorway, searching, but I don’t need to reach into my skirt pocket to confirm his features, because they’ve been burned into my memory for so long.

David R. W., 46. Respected professor of “Reading and Writing the Modern Essay” at Yale University. Generous, handsome features, dark wavy hair, perfect nose.

Even with my veil and the low light, I can easily pick him out at table one. He’s exactly how he was described. His charming smile, his easy manner, even his laugh. People begin to notice me standing in the door, clutching the package to my chest, and silence slowly fills the cramped space. Eventually, David R. W.’s eyes land on me, and the laughter is frozen on his handsome features. I can feel the sweat rolling down my back as I make my way to table one and stop in front of him.

David R. W., 46. Charms young women into his bed. Full of promises. Liar.

I place the package on the table and clasp my hands in front of me to stop them from shaking. He’s sweating just as much as I am, especially now that the entire room is watching us.

“What is this?” He sounds casual, though I can tell he’s rattled.

When I don’t reply, he laughs. “This is a prank, isn’t it? Did Terrance send you? That asshole.”

He laughs again, but it’s forced. As I maintain my silence, a wild look enters his eyes. He begins to shout. “I’m asking you to tell me what the hell is going on, dammit! I’m a good man! I’m well respected in my community and I provide for my family. Who the hell are you to pass judgement on me? What the hell kind of people think they get to decide who’s deserving of punishment anyway? I don’t deserve this.”

I stand stoically beneath the veil while he calls me a dirty whore and a heartless bitch, but it doesn’t take long before he runs out of steam. All the fight seems to drain out of him once it's clear I’m not here to talk. His face looks suddenly haggard, and even a little grey. He’s breathing harder than a man his age should.

“So this is it,” He says at last.

He rubs his chest as he eyes the box in front of him as if it was a deadly snake. He hesitates only for a moment before his slim fingers carefully lift the black seal. He unwraps the brown paper with measured movements, revealing a black leather box the size of a pencil case. He takes a bracing breath before he opens it, then frowns.

“What the hell is this?”

I can’t see what’s in the box, but I know exactly what’s inside: a pregnancy test wand, a medical bracelet, and a small vial of ash.

I lift the veil and watch as disbelief, then terror washes over his features. He clutches his chest as he whispers, “May?”

“My name’s Mara. I'm May’s twin.”

He's breathing hard as he uses the table to stand. “Where is she? I want to talk to her!”

“She’s dead, along with your unborn child. Suicide. She left me a note.”

His face drains of all remaining color.

For so long I'd wondered what it would feel like to finally see his face when I asked him this question, and now I have the opportunity. "Why'd you do it? You knew it was wrong."

He looks shocked. Horrified even. "I didn't mean for this to happen. She was so happy and I knew it wouldn't last, I told her! But she wouldn't stop, and I couldn't. Then my wife found out... oh god!" His eyes suddenly roll back in his head and he falls to the floor.

People surge forward to help, rush to call 9-1-1, but I stand still as a statue. I don’t bother to tell them it’s too late. There’s only one truth I know about David Richardson Wells, and it’s this. He has congenital heart disease, and he’ll be dead long before the paramedics arrive.

“Say hello to May for me,” I whisper, before the crowd blocks my view of his ashen face.

I take off the hat and veil and let it drop to the floor before turning to leave, my role of harbinger complete. Perhaps now, at last, I’d find some peace.