Destination Unknown

Marcus arrived on the island during a week of dense fog and chilly temperatures. He was, he told Cap on the crossing, looking for a place to escape and rest, to evaluate and reflect and do a little quiet writing. Cap allowed that he had come to the right place and suggested he drop by The Canteen and ask about lodgings. A writer, he muttered, If that don't beat all. You get paid for doin' that? Marcus admitted that he did and Cap shook his head, Ain't never had no writer here. If that don't beat all.

Word traveled at the usual lightning pace and by the time Marcus reached The Point, the locals were already lined up to see and appraise this curious newcomer. They made room as he exited his Army green jeep, nodding as he passed and watching his every move, silently taking in the details of his muddy work boots and denim shirt, his shaggy graying hair and beard. They noticed the small gold stud in his ear, the typewriter on the back seat, the carton of notebooks carelessly packed next to a well worn backpack and the ice chest brimming with beer. Don't look like no writer, Sparrow observed as the door closed behind him and Uncle Willie laughed, How'd you know, buck, you ain't never seen no writer. As it happened though, Miss Hilda had - claiming to actually have had tea with Virginia Woollf in her younger years - and she was amenable to opening her spare bedroom to the stranger provided he was prepared to accept her terms and not get in her way. Marcus produced proof of citizenship, took an oath not to partake of alcohol on the premises, allowed an inspection of his two suitcases and typewriter, agreed to no womanizing, and took up residence that afternoon. The ice chest and its dozen or so bottles of Molson's were traded for a carton of Du Mauriers and a pack of pencils at McIntyre's and the writer happily settled in to a flowery second floor bedroom with lace curtains and a window overlooking the cove.

Miss Hilda regularly albeit covertly listened for the rat a tat sound of the typewriter. Sometimes it played late at night, sometimes it drifted out through the window before the sun rose and sometimes all was silent. During the warm days after the fogbank moved on, Marcus would shoulder his backpack and walk off across the hills, a thermos of coffee and a small camera slung around his neck. He prowled like a cat, stepping quietly through the tables of salt fish drying in the sun, walking the rocky coast and wading into the waves, finding the driftwood littered corners of the coves and settling in at the tree lines to watch the seals play and glisten. He discovered back paths through the woods that led to forgotten whiskey stills and abandoned fishing shacks, he collected shells and kelp and took pictures of the tiny creatures whisking through the tidepools past Old Hat's. And he engaged the islanders with an easy smile and a gentle tread - getting Sparrow to reminise about his days at sea, learning history from Uncle Willie and how to throw a net from Uncle Shad. John Sullivan took him along to pull lobster traps and Jimmy opened his small classroom for him. He sat in on Uncle Bernie's stories, making notes on a yellow pad and even persuaded Rowena to teach him to make herb tea. He visited the cemetery and sat respectfully among the graves while Miss Clara gardened and sang and in time he was accepted, welcomed, included - no insignificant achievement for a stranger in a tiny village who treasured its isolation and privacy. Cain't say exactly why, Bill Albright told Nana on the way back from picking up the mail, But the man seems to fit. Knows his place, don't abuse nothin'. Don't seem like my notion on a writer.

Whatever Marcus did or didn't write, he didn't share it. By summer's end, he had, according to Hilda, filled dozens of notebooks and had a ream of typewritten pages in a water stained, discolored old binder. She discovered it only after he'd gone - one foggy September morning he had carelessly packed up the green Jeep, filled his thermos, left her a crinkled hundred dollar bill stuck in a corner of the mirror and driven off, destination unknown. The binder made the rounds that fall and came to end up with the schoolmaster, who read it twice, then stored it in an old sea chest, wrapped in plastic and securely taped. Of this, Marcus had written on the inside cover, I will not write for the public. It has been a gift to me. Do with it what you will with my thanks and my blessing.