#wfhtw 2019

[pencils-and-ponies]

We Forget How To Walk

Ghost Stories and Ferry Rides

“You waitin' on the ferry?”

Completely lost in my own thoughts, I had no idea how long the man had been standing in front of me, or how long I'd been staring though him at the ocean. Collecting myself, I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the cab of my truck, loaded down with all of my belongings.

“Yep. Moving to the island today.

The man smiled, turning to look out at the foggy sea with a fondness that could only come from a lifetime of living somewhere. I wasn't exactly sure how old he was, but he definitely wasn't young. With the weathered look of someone who'd spent years on the ocean, he could have been anywhere between 40 and 90, but something about his mannerisms had me leaning closer to 90. Not to mention his clothes, which looked like they'd come straight out of the 40s. There was an almost uncomfortably long silence before he finally said, gravely, “I wouldn't.”

Well that's not ominous at all, I thought to myself, shaking my head a little. 

One old man wouldn't be enough to change my mind about Specter Island, especially with the opportunity I'd been offered, but the negativity caught my interest. Growing up in a small, tourist trap town, I'd seen how locals would sometimes try and scare off newcomers. I'd also seen friendly and welcoming places turn into judgmental rumor mills the longer you stuck around, enough that I preferred the initial distance.

“Why not?”

He shrugged, and pulled off his cap to scratch absentmindedly at a tuft of white hair clinging stubbornly to the top of his otherwise bald head. “Well, I've never been there myself, but people talk. Somethin's not right there. Ever wondered where the name came from?”

“Not particularly. The fog, maybe, now that I'm here.”

He let out a short bark of laughter and leaned against the hood of my truck, gesturing at the horizon. “Nah, can't see her from the mainland anyway. But I've been sailin' these waters for almost three-quarter a century, an' I ain't ever seen anything like what I've seen on her shores.”

“You mean it's haunted?”

“Somethin' like that.”

Now he really had my attention. Ghost stories were common no matter what part of the country you were in, and I'd done my fair share of casual ghost hunting over the years, but I'd never really found anything. The difference here, however, was how the subject came up unprompted. Usually I needed to start asking my own questions to get the conversation started. And while it still could be some sort of scare tactic, I needed to know more.

“What have you seen?”

He gave me a knowing look, and cracked a small smile. “Now, if I tell you, it'll ruin the fun of finding it yourself, won't it.”

“...I guess.”

There was a faint call from the ferry's foghorn, followed by a much louder answer from the mainland lighthouse, and we both looked up to see the ferry fade out of the fog like it too was a ghost. When, I looked back, the man was holding out a hand. His grip was surprisingly firm for his age.

“I should let you go. But if you ever find yourself back on the mainland and want to know more, look me up. Name's Alda- most folks know me.”

“I'll do that. And my name's Nox, by the way.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Nox.”

With that, he turned and headed back toward town, the mist swallowing him up as he went.

Talk about strange.

Once I'd parked my turn and the ferry got underway, I grabbed a heavy coat and headed up to the passenger deck, passing through the interior seating before heading out to the bow. While it was a bit cold for November by Oregon standards, it was nothing compared to the Wisconsin winters I'd grown up with. I wanted to get my first glance at the island the second it came into view. My only company on the bow was a couple of seagulls hitching a ride on the portside railing, but I preferred their impassive stares to the suspicious ones of the few other passengers I'd passed inside. November was firmly in Specter Islands 'off' season, and I had a feeling that they didn't see many unfamiliar faces at this time of the year.

If this job worked out, I wouldn't be an outsider for very long.

There was something alive about this move that I hadn't felt in any of my previous ones. It was something I could actually feel, the same way I could feel the spray from the ocean on my cheeks, or taste the salt on my tongue. Ever since talking to Keith for the first time I'd felt real hope for the first time in years. A faith that this would finally be the one.

I was no stranger to being wrong about that feeling. After the barn I'd grown up riding at my whole childhood had closed, I started looking for a new place to call home the second I could. Although I'd been young, I knew all too well that a career with horses took a lot of time, tears, and plain old hard work, and I'd thrown myself into the first place that would hire me, expecting to find the same standard of treatment to both horses and humans alike at my first job. In reality, I ended up working for a woman who starved her horses and manipulated her students until they no longer questioned why horses kept dying. After leaving there I worked for another woman would could switch from praise to insults so fast it would make your head spin. And my most recent position was at a farm where if the horses themselves didn't kill you, the other staff would.

It was Keith who'd contacted me, this time around, just as I was planning out the logistics of another move and preparing to put in my two week notice. We spent a week just going back and fourth over the details, figuring out in very clear terms what each others expectations were. It was only after several of these impromptu interviews that he actually hired me, which was a complete 180 from my other jobs were I'd been hired on the spot. And while there was a chance that the difference didn't mean anything, it was a chance I was willing to take.

The job was almost too perfect. Primarily I'd be in charge of herd management- making sure all of the horse were healthy and sound, and caring for them on a daily basis. But in the spring, I'd be doing third shift foal watch, delivering around 15 foals every season. Foaling had been my passion ever since witnessing my first birth almost 13 years ago. Plus, unlike the thoroughbred farm I'd just been working at, there was riding involved as well. Honestly, it would be hard to work at a place like Keith's without sitting on a horse at least once a day.

Specter Island had been build around horses, and was the home to a herd that had been there since the colonial times. Keith's farm, Olsen Performance Horses, had been in his family for generations, watching over the horses and turning into the competition powerhouses that they were today. Horses bred on the island could be found in almost every discipline in the world that wasn't breed specific, but their real calling was ICTHA.

Formed back in the 50s, the International Competitive Trail Horse Association was the ultimate measure of a horses abilities. Taking place over four days, there were three phases of competition- a 30 mile endurance race over the first two days, then an arena course with obstacles such as rings of fire and giant teeter totters, and finally returning to the outdoors with a much shorter trail with both natural and man made obstacles. To really excel a horse needed just the right mix of stamina, agility, and trust in their rider, but trust was the real issue. Even the fastest horse in the would wouldn't walk through fire without the right guidance.

That was where Keith, and his current head trainer, Ellis, were the best. And on the rare years when they weren't named the ICTHA world champions, it was a horse that had once known their hands that did. A Specter Island bred horse or their direct descendants held every title going back to the 70s. It was quite the legacy to uphold.

I just hoped I could live up to their standards.

The call of the foghorn, deafeningly loud now that it was directly behind me, startled me out of my thoughts. The seagulls, however, remained unphased. I listened closely for the answer, and a few seconds later I heard it, closer than expected but with the island still out of sight.

A couple minutes later a beam of light cut through the mist, swinging around to guide us in as the island emerged, dark against the gray horizon. As the ferry slowed its approach to prepare for docking more lights glowed brighter, giving me a vague idea of where town was in relation to the docks. I could imagine the same view on a clear day, with tourists and summer residents everywhere, fishing boats at the docks and people standing on the beaches to watch the ferry come in.

Someday I would see it for real.

[pencils-and-ponies]

Now that I’ve written a couple chapters on the second draft of WFHTW, I’m going to start posting them weekly until I catch up, and maybe bi-weekly after that. Stay tuned!