Jeff knows about my invitation to go to Cape Cod, and he has no intention of stopping my rusty cogs from getting back into working order. He’s confident enough now about my state of mental health to leave me alone and spend the afternoon at The Pats. He has the task of running the place on the quiet day of the working week.
There’s not a breath of wind, the air is stagnant. You still can’t tell if the sun, buried behind the clouds, will manage to wash away the gray. After such a long morning spent studying, I feel out of sorts.
I don’t even know what the hell I am doing here.
For an interminable minute, I just stare out the windshield, enraptured by a low hum that I can’t quite decipher, masked by the sound of the engine and the constant thud of the rain. I snatch the car keys out the dashboard, the engine surely grateful after revving away pointlessly. I step out of the car into the storm.
My hair gets soaked, rivulets of cold water running down my face like tears. The coolness helps bring me back to life. I blink to rid my eyes of the rain, and look hopelessly up and down the road.
I realize Scott is calling my name; his Jeep is blocking the alley behind the bar. I am on the other side of the road, standing still under the pouring rain. Jeff has just gone into the bar to start his shift and let Scott go home. The most sensible thing for me to do right now would be to jump right back in my car and head home again.
But I run across the road to Scott. I should go into the bar or at least go home, but I want to see Tyler, and I know he’s not at the bar tonight. Somehow, I feel happy, healthier, when I’m with him. So I jump into Scott’s vehicle, settle into the passenger seat and don’t say a word as he drives southwards. I just stare out at the overcast sky as the road curves ahead of us towards the coast. On some parts of the journey, all you can see are small clusters of houses and trees. Then suddenly a wide swath of the Atlantic Ocean, stretching out into the horizon, dark and menacing, reflecting the gloomy sky above.
Scott slows down when we near the coastline, so we can breathe in the magnificent view of the infinite ocean, which stretches out as far as the eye can see. We are on the cliff road that runs above the slim sliver of beach.
When we pass the last house to the west of the state highway, Scott turns into a narrow, winding downhill road. A few miles down, peppered with a few houses here and there, we come to a faded gray house. There are windows on each side of the red door, and flower pots adorn the porch that winds round the house. The flowers are violet, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they are Siberian irises.
We slow down and with a wave of his arm, Scott shows off the rocky cliffs that lead precipitously down to the ocean behind his house.
I stare at the view, mesmerized.
Then I notice four figures clinging to a rock spike, close to a steep crag. The climbers have already reached the peak. Their backs are to us. From this distance, I can’t tell how old they are, but I assume they’re adults. Despite the chill air, only one is wearing thin climbing gear, the others are dressed only in jeans and t-shirts.
As I watch, the most robust clambers onto the edge of the precipice. Then he almost throws himself into the void, gripping onto a rock half way down. I can barely believe what I just saw.
I open the car door and make to get out. Maybe I’m hoping that without the filter of the windscreen, I will realize that what I just saw was my imagination playing tricks on me again. Scott notices me opening the door and brakes sharply a few feet before the porch.
“What’s up?” he asks, wide-eyed.
“That guy just leapt from the cliff! And he caught onto the steep rock with his bare hands! The icy wind now blowing into the car makes me get goose bumps. I sink back onto the seat, disconcerted. “He’s just doing extreme rock climbing with no harnesses,” he points out, unruffled.
“Jeez, but that’s so high! It must have been at least 100 feet!” I exclaim, without tearing my eyes from the three that the leaper left behind.
“Maybe 125!” laughs Scott.
“They must be crazy.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “That’s how they get their kicks.”
“Do you know who the guy is that jumped?” I ask, still astounded. “It was Fergus. The second in command of the group of Siberian rangers that moved from Jackson, Wyoming with Tyler.”
Now I really am flabbergasted. “Fergus?!”
Scott nods, gazing at the climbers. “I told him not to jump, it makes Ronald nervous… But there’s not much else to do in Cape Cod.” I think he’s teasing me. How can he be so collected, indifferent? I can’t tear my eyes of the three climbers, standing in a line on the rocks on the edge of the precipice. I see the other guy, taller, slimmer, approach the edge of the descent. He stops, then leaps gracefully, effortlessly, into the void without a second thought. I’ve never seen such a risky undertaking in my whole life.
“No!” I cry out instinctively, and hastily try to scramble out of the car again to head to the rocks. But Scott reaches out an arm to stop me.
“Just watch,” he says. It’s not a request.
I roll down the window to get some fresh air. I can barely breathe. The fall seems to last an eternity. “Why didn’t they stop him?” I cry, alarmed.
“Just watch,” he says in a reassuring voice.
Halfway down, he opens his arms, and like an acrobatic parachute, the wings attached to his suit open up. He surfs the ocean air currents to fly, looking like a seagull, totally free. He heads towards the trees and goes out of sight. I can’t even see Fergus anymore. Then he comes back into view on the rock surface, from which he leaps again gracefully with a nosedive into the water.
That was Tyler, my nephew, the most unpredictable one of them all. A real force of nature, I’ve gotta admit it.”
”They probably want to show how tough they are.” I seem infuriated, but the words just come out like that for fear of them doing themselves harm.
“It’s freezing cold today, the water’s not very inviting. But it’s not as strange as it seems. They have fun and let off some steam. It’s risky, but thrilling. They need that. Amelia – that little one over there – she puts the fear of God in me each time I see her leap off that highest peak, I swear!”
“Will they be coming back here, to the beach, afterwards?” I ask, entranced as I watch the third figure, a female, taking a run-up to leap up even higher than the previous two; she looks like an angel taking flight.
“Yeah, this afternoon. But they live in a wooden pre-fab in a clearing under the cliff.”
I peer down and can make out the house amongst the trees. It looks too small to be the home of two men, two women and a big-boned kid. When I look back to the figures, the fourth one is stationary, measuring up the distance to the edge of the precipice.
I get out of the Jeep, a chill running down me as I head towards Scott’s house, trying to avoid looking back at the acrobatics of the last one left on the rocks. It must be Dora. This is the third time I have seen the strange gang of Siberian rangers, Tyler’s family.
“Impressed, huh?” asks Locke, who suddenly appears from the edge of the forest.
I smile at him. He looks unassuming as he approaches, but his sudden appearance takes me by surprise. How did he manage to creep up so silently across the coarse gravel?
“This is Locke Bradford, the youngest of the crew,” says Scott, who runs to the house to take cover from the rain that is now falling thick and fast. Locke and I keep walking.
He looks at me and I just stare back, unable to utter a word. As I look, I try to figure out what they have in common. His eyes are hazel in color, his cheeks are puffy. There’s no obvious grace in his movements.
“Come inside, it’s raining out there!” yells Scott from the porch.
“We’re coming,” we say in unison.
Scott hurries into the house.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Ella May,” I say, extending a hand and glancing over to the empty rocks.
“Yep, they’re leaping into the precipice,” says Locke, my introduction obviously not registering, as I follow him on a detour towards the beach.
I turn to look at him. “They sure are reckless, no fear at all.” I say; I still haven’t gotten over the shock of what I witnessed. As the rain turns into a mist, we make our way through the small rocks leading to the beach, avoiding the branches and logs that have been washed up by the high tide.
“You bet!” he exclaims cheerily. “They’re always going climbing, stuff like that.
“Myco,” I whisper to myself, barely audible over the icy wind that begins to whip our faces.
He nods. “Yeah, Tyler told me that you called him that.” Then he comes closer to me, as if to reveal a secret. “He’s like the head of the class, even outside the family.” I assume he’s referring to his role as a forest ranger. “He maintains balance, makes sure war doesn’t break out,” he says, emphasizing the word ‘balance’.
We walk along the beach to the cliff to the north of the house. The mist obscures the view of the islands dotted here and there in the choppy sea. The horizon is an endless gray of ocean and dark, cloudy skies.
We are on the rocks now, and only by straining my ears can I differentiate between the crash of the waves and his soft footfalls on the hard rock as we walk alongside each other.
The sound of my footsteps is quite another matter; my clumsy steps make it sound like I’m wearing prehistoric rock-breakers on my feet instead of soft-soled sneakers. I breathe in the salty ocean air.
“So you’re the youngest forest ranger in the family?” I ask after a few moments of comfortable silence.
“No, I’m still studying to become a ranger,” he replies.
Our detour has come back on itself and we are once again approaching Scott’s house. I study Locke; he looks worried, almost scornful about something, but I can’t make out what. I wait.
“Tyler always talks about ‘clan pride’ and ‘heritage’,” continues Locke. “He goes on about how our homeland is our bond, that ‘We are Siberian’.” He says this solemnly, making the speech marks in the air with his fingers. “The clan council takes Tyler very seriously. The others take part in all the meetings, too, but his voice counts more than the others”. I’ve never understood why people look up to him like this. I guess it’s got something to do with his great-grandfather, his great-great-grandfather, people like that. He was the last chief. He saved our people from the
great winter
, so Tyler’s word carries a lot of weight. In the clan they call them the protectors of balance,” he tells me, clearing his throat on the final words as if he shouldn’t be mentioning it. “All members of the council have equality in theory, but I think that Tyler is considered a kind of moral leader.”
“That’s not the way it works in all councils,” I murmur ironically to myself, thinking about Donn’s family. My rain-soaked hair whips my face, half blinding me. I look out towards the dark ocean and see Donn’s indecipherable turquoise eyes on the mirror of black water. Those very eyes that affected me so much since my life has taken new and unexpected turns. I try not to wallow in thoughts of him, so I change the subject.
“It’s something you feel strongly about,” I say hesitatingly, closing my eyes to protect them from the stinging rain, now no longer falling from above, but cutting in from the east.
“How can you tell?” he asks sarcastically.
I just smile and nod at him.
“It’s true. Tyler, Dora and the others are my family,” he says calmly as his eyes seek out the pre-fab house hidden in the trees near the cliff base. For a while we don’t speak, we just climb the stairs to take shelter on the porch, as the rain beats down on the wooden roof.
I can feel his eyes piercing me, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. “But I don’t see what bothers you about this whole story. It seems like there’s something behind everything you’ve just told me.” My curiosity gets the better of me. He doesn’t answer. I think that maybe I’ve gone too far. But he doesn’t seem angry, and when he does finally speak up, he sounds playful.
“It’s hard to believe that you’re older than me,” he smiles. “Next to me, you seem so small!” I turn up my nose, feigning offence. “Now don’t start making jokes about my height,” I play along, knowing it’s his way of changing the subject. “Five foot five is a perfectly average height!”
“To be honest, Ella May, it’s your pale face that makes me wonder about you,” he laughs. “Seriously, are you sure you’re not from Norway?” He brings his arm alongside mine to compare skin tone. I must admit, my fair skin is not impressive.
“I’ve never seen anyone as pale as you… Well, apart from the night of the party…”
I avert my eyes, trying to ignore what he’s probably about to say.
“But I guess you’re the exception that confirms the rule, as far as Mediterranean skin color goes. You look like a porcelain doll.”
“Well, let’s just say I haven’t been getting out in the sun much lately. And only my mom has Mediterranean skin,” I explain, as I open the door and we finally step into the welcoming warmth of the hallway.
The first floor of the house is mainly taken up by the parlor and kitchen. The light wooden flooring stretches throughout the house, and a small round table is set with a ceramic jug overflowing with wild flowers.
Standing in front of the oven, Scott is removing gigantic muffins from the pan, trying unsuccessfully not to burn his fingers. The kitchen is a welcoming spot, lit up by the glass doors overlooking the beach.
“Locke?” I say. He’s no longer by my side.
“Yes,” he replies from the window.
I join him, trying to read his expression. “Why did you get upset earlier?”
He sighs. “Fergus… He’s been looking at me strangely, just lately.” His voice trails off.
“What do you mean, he looks at you strangely?”
“Yes. It’s scary,” he whispers, then the words begin to flow. “He looks at me as if he were expecting something… as if he wants me to join the protectors one day.”
“And?” Sounds like there is more.
“It’s the way he treats me… I don’t understand why he pays more attention to me than to the others in the clan. I’m just the same as all the rest.”