Chapter 19

“Our neighbor in Three is an avid photographer, Max,” said Sam as she re-arranged the vase of white roses. 

Max looked up from his newspaper.  “Oh, really.  How’d you find that out?”

“I just wandered that direction earlier.  He was photographing the flowers.”

“Did you thank him for the white roses?  That was very thoughtful,” said Max as he fingered through the last few pages.”

“Yes, it was very thoughtful, but I didn’t get a chance to thank him.  He seemed quite busy.”

“Well, maybe you’ll run into him again,” said Max.  He looked up as the maid walked into the room with a tray of iced tea.   “Oh, you can set that down right there. Thank you.”  He stood up as the maid poured two glasses.  “Sam, let me show you something out on the balcony.”  He took the two glasses and thanked the maid again.

Samantha gave the vase of white roses a final touch and followed Max.

“I’ve booked us a couple of horses for the afternoon.  Thought we might explore the island.  Sound good to you?”

Sam hugged Max’s arm.  “You know I love to ride.”

“Well, look over there.”  Max placed his drink on the patio table and picked up the binoculars.  “Here, use these.”

Sam took the glasses and peered toward the crest of a hill leading to a vast undisturbed portion of the island.  The dirt road wound up the hill and at its crest passed what appeared to be the wreckage of an old whaler’s boat. 

“That old boat is the gateway to fifteen square miles of rock and sand,” said Max as he unfolded a brochure revealing a treasure map.  Sam continued to gaze at the hillside.  “I like to ride, Max, but that description sounds hot and…”

“Don’t say it.  I’m not taking you on a boring excursion into nothingness.”

Sam lowered the binoculars and looked at the map Max had spread out.  “And that is?”

“That,” said Max, “is a map provided by the resort.  See right here…” he pointed to a remote corner of the map, “That’s a stone shack where pirates in the 18^th century stationed their lookout man… least that’s what the resort says.”

Sam sighed, “At least the riding will be fun.”

Max looked up and smiled.  “Oh, you’re going to be surprised when we get there, if what they say is true.”

“And that is?”

‘Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.  C’mon, we’ll change, take some wine and cheese and make an afternoon of it.”

Max strode toward the bedroom, leaving Sam wondering what could be so intriguing to him.   She glanced back out the window toward the hill.  It took only a few moments for her to get caught up in the thought of riding over the crest into the unknown.  She questioned herself.  Who’s most excited… Sam or Samantha?

Her eyes thoughtfully dropped, picking up the castle below.  Standing at the entrance to number three was Ari.  She picked up the glasses and focused.  Ari stood holding his cigarette, gazing her way, but seemingly above her... at the roof perhaps.

Like the shimmering of mother-of-pearl beneath the water’s surface, the black feathers spread in the sunlight and lifted the raven from the rooftop. It momentarily soared with the winds coming off the ocean as Ari’s eye caught the glide path from Sam’s roof to the roof of number three.  He smiled and tilted his head from left to right as if to question the bird on its choice.   From its perch, the raven spread and tucked its wings and stared down at Ari.  So, what are you staring at, thought Ari.  Perhaps it was the blink of the raven’s eye, that sudden opening and closure of observation so familiar to Ari that imbued him with a sense of oneness with the feathered creature.  Perhaps it was the depth of vision beyond the dark reflection of its eyes.  The one thing Ari was sure of at that moment was the unmistakable connection of consciousness.  He did not know why.  He just knew.  As he slowly closed and re-opened his own eyes in acknowledgement, the raven’s head turned back toward Sam’s window. She was gone. 

Ari glanced back at his roof. 

Gone also was the raven.

***

Given the memory patterns they tended to resurrect, dusty trails were not Samantha’s favorite surrounding; and it was Samantha that road atop the Quarter horse plodding along toward the crest of the hill.  She had spent considerable time with equestrian activities as a child, but “horseback riding,” as her less fortunate friends experienced, was absent from her past.  Aunt Wynona had been her teacher and riding English was an image of herself that bore pride as well as suffering.  She smiled to herself as the old whaling boat loomed closer.  Aunt Wynona had always said that Western saddles were for exploring and English was for excelling.   Samantha had clung to the excellence she had achieved from the time she won her first trophy all the way to the time she fell.

It had been very hot that first day of many that Samantha spent at the Westchester Riding Academy.  Competitors from New England as well as New York mingled about eyeing each other, working to psyche out any that might gain an upper hand of confidence.  Samantha had come to this Foreign Legion of dysfunctional elitists when she was at the lowest time of her youth. 

Her parents were well enough off but being associated with the “rubbish removal” business was not the kind of image that Samantha’s mother, Eleanor, relished talking about.  Samantha’s father, Theo, had worked hard, and stayed out of the way of certain “family” business competitors.  He served his small roster of homeowners well, leaving the larger pie to the Sorvino and Cartouche trucking companies.  He of course sent them an impressive Christmas gift each year in the form of ten percent in order for his holiday time to go uninterrupted.   For Eleanor, however, her only daughter was to never know the sordid cloud of compliance her father lived with each day, even though it afforded the family more than a comfortable livelihood.  No, Eleanor wanted what her sister Wynona had lucked into: money and social status.  If she could not have it, certainly her own sister would understand a mother’s desire for her daughter to at least know it and perhaps learn how to make better marital decisions than she had experienced. 

And so it was on Samantha’s twelfth birthday that her mother sent her off for a summer at her aunt’s estate.  It was a summer that turned into several years of horses, maids, tutors, and pubescent pleasures not even her flamboyant mother had experienced in her youth; or before, during or after her marriage to Theo.  Samantha’s father was the Greek Adonis every teenage girl at Hawthorne High wanted and only Eleanor had been fortunate enough to capture.  He, however, discovered early on in their marriage that he liked both genders, a choice that Eleanor tried for years to live through, but unfortunate for both mother and child, a choice that made the Mexican divorce inevitable fourteen years later. 

For Samantha, the experience of having her parents break up had created a feeling of guilt.  It was a major disturbance that was shared with Max early on in their therapeutic relationship.  The Professional in him was compelled to exorcise the resentment as well, even though Samantha was hard to convince such an emotion was relevant.  He helped her question and discover why her mother had sent her away.  She learned that for many children, having the opportunity to live with a favorite aunt; ride thoroughbreds anytime; attend the best schools on the East Coast; and be surrounded by ease and comfort was a dream.  However, for Samantha, the absence of her real mother and father, though not realized at the time, was the cause of many problems.  Her mother meant well, sending Samantha away and not wanting her to be subjected to her father’s aberrant behavior during her teen years, but to the sensitive daughter of Eleanor and Theodore Turner, it was abandonment.  The horse fall that ended her competitive aspirations during her fifth year of custodial care from Aunt Wynona only compounded the sense of aloneness.

Samantha pulled the reins and stopped.  As she reached down and touched the rusty harpoon, the rest of the boat’s aging iron and wood reminded her of how short-term life was.  Notches on the inside of the hull bore testimony to the many great whale that had felt the piercing effect of the tethered missile, the many moments of panic that had gripped the giants of the deep; when the ticking clock of life was suddenly interrupted and inexorably altered.  She pondered a moment on the thought of a newborn whale without motherly protection, without the guidance deep waters required of the young. Her imagination carried her thoughts to the Samanthas of the deep.

“Samantha?” questioned Max as he brought his horse to a stop beside her.  “Anything wrong?”

She dug her heels into the sides of the horse, sending him into a sudden gallop.  “Nothing the wind can’t make me forget.  Race you to the bottom.”

Max smiled, hunched over the horn of the saddle and watched as she challenged her lead and the arid surroundings.  Before him, a sprint of freedom whose grace and beauty harmonized with the wild chorus of swirling innocent laughter filtering through the trailing jet-black hair of his bride, his Samantha, his…

Max sat up, paused another moment, then nudged his horse down the gentle hillside as he continued to gaze after the silhouette of love and mystery racing into the stark desolation before him.