What Lies Beneath the Fog

》9《

After lunch, I stuffed my sketchbook, paints, and brushes in my backpack. I added my camera and the phone-- even without the network outside it might come in handy as a torch during our trip over to the Byron's Lighthouse.

As the last thought, I put my fluorescent blue rain jacket inside, too. Folded neatly, it took hardly any place, and I preferred to have it with me, even on this sunny afternoon. This island was called Foggy for a reason. The sun would have to try harder to change my opinion about it.

Then I ran down the creaky stairs, greeted my parents, and walked out.

I made my way up the cliff, following the little lane I could see from my window. Soon, I reached the place where I saw the apparition the previous night. Climbing a little higher up the rock, I found a good place to paint.

When Emma and Dean arrived as promised in the early afternoon, I was still sitting on the heather-covered cliff high above the house. It was a perfect spot-- overlooking the lighthouse and the boundless sea surrounding the island's wild, rugged coastline deep, deep down. From here, the view was even more enchanting than from my bedroom window.

My watercolour sketch was already dry. Bathed in the summer sunshine, the Byron's Lighthouse looked spotless, even whiter than while surrounded by the usual fog. Its whiteness was so pure that it seemed to sparkle and reflect the cool, bluish hues of the frothy, agitated sea.

The afternoon was warm, sunny, and windless, but the sea just refused to calm down. I wondered how tall the waves got during the winter storms, if they were this high on a summer day, and how strong the currents were around the island.

I was enjoying the rare, warm sun beams caressing my face when I noticed Emma and Dean approaching, following the little lane from behind our house. The moment they got a little closer, I stood up to greet them.

Emma was waving at me from a distance, and I waved back, smiling. Her long blonde hair was flowing around her in waves, finishing at her waist, where she wore her yellow rain jacket tied over her denim shorts. She looked good. Even better than I remembered from the previous day, if that was possible.

Now, seeing her walking next to Dean, the two of them so close together, the question I was trying to keep at bay came back, more insistent. What kind of friendship was between these two? They looked so at ease with each other, so spontaneous, talking and laughing...

"Liam!" Dean called as soon as they reached my spot on the cliff.

It was quite a climb, and they were both out of breath. Emma lay down on the ground, smiling, while I greeted Dean.

"It's nice to see you again," I told him.

It really was. I hadn't seen him for a long time but now I remembered how I always looked forward to seeing him in the past. He was eighteen now, a year and a half older and at least a head taller than me. He looked so much like his dad that I had to smile. Take away Will's wrinkles and add a handful of grey hair into Dean's dark brown curls-- they would look like twins.

"We stopped at your house, and I introduced Emma to your mum. Your dad seemed to know her already," Dean said, looking at me in a bemused way.

That made me wonder what Dad told him about me, Emma, or me and Emma...

"I told you we met yesterday," Emma joined in our conversation. "Your mum is so kind, Liam. She told us she will be teaching in our school from September," she continued, smiling at me.

"Your school," Dean corrected her. "I'm finally off to university with Claire. It's only you and Liam who are going to the Nicolson Institute this year. By the way, before I forget, this is for you from my father," he said, reaching into a small denim bag that he carried on his shoulder and handing me a little book. "His precious notebook full of scribbles about the local ghost legend. Be careful; as I can see, he is trying to turn you into one of the 'believers'."

I must have looked puzzled because he continued to explain.

"I'm talking about the White Lady. His biggest hobby has become questioning all the tourists passing through our pub about having encountered her. It seems that plenty of them have seen her, actually. Don't tell me they have already converted you, too, my father and Emma. It's just a load of nonsense!"

I didn't know what to say to that. Dean obviously didn't believe the story. So I tried to change the subject of our conversation.

"Who is Claire?" I interrupted him, curious about the new name.

"Dean's girlfriend," Emma filled me in quickly, before Dean could respond, while he sat down on the ground next to her.

She slapped him playfully on the back a few times, like a little, annoying sister, and Dean shot her a warning look. He picked up my open sketchbook and looked at my latest watercolour.

"This is pretty good," he said, "we don't see this place bathed in sunshine very often."

"Can we see your other drawings?" Emma asked, a pleading and curious look in her heather-coloured eyes.

"Yes, sure," I agreed. How could I refuse anything to her?

"So you did see her..." Dean commented in a surprised and kind of accusing way when he noticed my pencil sketch of the White Lady from the previous night. "She looks pretty scary here, I'm quite happy not to share your ghost-seeing gift." He looked from me to Emma, who was observing my drawing, mesmerised.

"No, Dean, not scary. She is beautiful," Emma said. She observed my sketch, her fingers hovering above it, as if she felt compelled to touch it, to connect with the ghostly apparition... then changed her mind, not wanting to ruin it. "She looks exactly like in the photographs in that old book in the museum. It's amazing how well you portrayed her without ever seeing those before. You need to see them..."

"For me, this one is much more beautiful," Dean interrupted her, looking at me inquiringly, a small smile playing on his lips. He had turned the page of my sketchbook and was now looking at my portrait of Emma. "Did you paint this after you saw Emma just once? You are really talented."

"Thanks," I said, desperate to change the subject again. I was blushing, and if I saw well, even Emma's creamy complexion was looking a shade darker.

"Shall we show Liam the lighthouse before it gets too late?" She proposed, still looking at the painting. "If you want to get back to Cala on time, when the ferry arrives, we must get going. I know Claire well enough to be sure that she wouldn't be happy if you let her wait."

Having changed the topic of our conversation successfully, Emma passed me my sketchbook, and our hands touched for the shortest moment. Her one was so small, cool, and incredibly soft. It made me wish to hold it in mine for... well, much longer. The moment when our eyes met as well, the world around us dissolved into the island's fog.

It was just me and her for a while, alone on the top of the cliff, the island, the world.

All too soon, Dean's voice dispersed the spell, calling us, already on his way up the cliff. Then Emma was off, running after him under the splendid sunshine, leaving me enveloped in a faint scent of roses, flying back to me from the shiny cascade of her hair.

"Come on, you two, let's go! You'll make me be late!"