We called him “the Captain” for a joke. There were no boats, there was no sea. Although some said the land here had once been underwater. That his ancestors had been ships’ captains. That the roof beams of the house had once been masts and bowsprits.
His actual name was Malachi, and he no more captained us than we served or obeyed him. It was his family’s estate, that’s all. He made us welcome there.
When I was younger, there had been more of us, those who’d come from elsewhere. Some had heard of the place with the always open gate and come by intent. Others, as I had done, stumbled upon it by chance.
If anything, it was the Captain who served us. In all sorts of ways. He didn’t leave chores to the cook and the caretaker. In the time I’d been here, I’d seen him do it all: tool leather, grease wagon wheels, sharpen knives, empty chamber pots. No task was above or beneath him. He took care of people, too. If someone had an infection, he’d bring them an onion poultice to draw it out. If someone needed to tell their story, he’d sit and listen for hours. If someone was too unwell to care for their children, he’d take the little ones hunting for salamanders by the creek. If they couldn’t find any salamanders, he’d fold them some out of paper.
People came and people went. Most, you could tell, had something wrong with them. I remember a girl my age. She had a high, thin voice and a chin that flowed seamlessly into her neck. Her left arm stopped at the elbow. I remember a man who would sit staring at nothing. His breath smelled yeasty. Sometimes he would rock. I remember another man with a bald pate the color of beet juice. “Why is it that color?” I asked the cook. She said he painted it with iodine. “Why?” I asked. She just sucked a breath through her teeth and shook her head.
I remember a woman with terrible eyes. The top lids were always drowsy and the lower ones drooped away from her eyeballs, so you could glimpse the raw inner part. I remember a man who had no voice—he could make only a sort of bark, which he’d use to summon people’s attention. It had the opposite effect on everyone, me included. Even animals flinched and veered from his path. Only the Captain did not avoid him. Once I saw the Captain embrace him. The man closed his eyes and rested his cheek against the Captain’s own.
“What is this place, then, an infirmary?” I once heard someone ask. “Some kind of asylum?”
“Just a way station,” the Captain replied. “Just a lost and found.” He added quietly, perhaps to himself, “Same as anywhere on this Earth.”
It was a simple place, only the main house and a few outbuildings—stable, root cellar, smokehouse, shed. Beyond the upper field, remnants of an ancient apple orchard bore scant fruit. Beyond the creek, a juniper forest spread dark and dense.
Not everyone had obvious ailments. I remember a woman I liked to follow around. She wore her hair in a great halo that glistened like black soapsuds. She had a perfect mole tucked below one eye. She planted tomatoes in tubs outside the kitchen, and broad beans and squash and amaranth. Her bottom swayed when she walked. Like water carried in a bucket. I tried to copy her gait. I practiced until the cook said, “What’s the matter with your hip?”
People stayed as long as they needed, left when they were ready. Sometimes they showed up alone, sometimes in a group. Some came separately and left together. Or the other way around. There was always a place to sleep, even if it meant several to a room, pallets crowded upon the floor. There was always food to eat, even if the cook complained, even if sometimes all it was was bread and cabbage. There was always work to do. Taking care of the animals, tending the garden, helping in the kitchen, hanging laundry, scrubbing floors. Some people liked to mend things that were broken. Some liked building new things from scratch. Some people needed to be just quiet. Lie in bed or walk the fields. Figure out where they were going.
“How do they figure it out?” I asked the cook.
“They just do.” She was plucking a grouse.
“How do they?”
“They listen.”
“For what?”
“How should I know?”
“Then why did you say it?”
She made an impatient sound and went on pinching off feathers and flicking them in the bin.
Most people stayed days, maybe weeks. A few stayed longer, months or seasons. For some time now, no one new had come through. For some time now, it had been just us: the caretaker, the cook, and me.
And the Captain. Malachi. Which means “messenger.” The cook had told me so.
“Is he one?” I’d asked.
“One what?”
“Is he a real messenger?”
“No more than he’s a real captain, far as I can tell.”