"One Must Die"

On a moonless, pitch-black night, a black enameled carriage drawn by four black horses pulled up quietly to a quay in the Southampton dockyards. It was met by five men: four burly dockhands who didn’t say a word, and a surprisingly sturdy, well-dressed fellow, tall and muscular with a hungry look in his eyes.

As the four waited for the carriage driver to unfasten the rear door of the carriage, one of them stole a look at the elegant fellow who was their paymaster for this job. He was tall, taller than any of the four workers, with such a lean face that it seemed he hadn’t had a proper meal in months. At the same time, he had broad shoulders and a powerful build, like one of the pugilists that fought for coins not far from the docks. His eyes seemed darker than the night, if such a thing were possible, and in the faint illumination of a single nearby streetlamp, his hair glowed an unnaturally pure white.

Once the carriage door was swung slowly open with an ominous creaking sound, the four dockworkers slid a long, almost rectangular box out of the back of the carriage, hefted it onto their shoulders, and made their way towards a long narrow gangplank leading up to the massive ship berthed at the other end.

As they headed towards the ramp, the well-dressed fellow hissed three words in a voice that resembled six-penny nails dragged across a sheet of iron:

“Careful with that!”

The command froze the blood of the workers, yet they continued their work without comment.

None of the four had any idea what it was they carried. None of them dared ask, not if it meant meeting the gaze of their employer. Best for them to keep working, take the overpayment of coins at the end, and make their way quick-step to the nearest open pub to drink away the unnatural chill.

The box was wrapped in a large oilskin that covered the heavy container from end to end, tied tightly in the middle of each side. Though there were handles affixed to the box, two on each long side, the tarp obscured them, so that carrying the box was more difficult than it should have been.

Half way up the narrow gangplank, the boat’s shifting movements caused the gangplank itself to rock up and down, a sudden jolt that caused one of the men to stumble. Steadying himself with one hand on the rope railing, his corner of the box slid off his shoulder. The other three quickly adjusted to compensate, and the fourth righted himself and got back into correct position.

“If my box hits the water,” the elegant man hissed, “you’ll follow it!”

One corner of the oilskin cloth had also shifted, briefly exposing that corner of the box . The wood was a deeply polished mahogany, dyed, it appeared, a glorious blood red.

The dockhand hurried to cover it back up, making sure not to touch the wood itself.

No one witnessed the incident, certainly none of the crew or the officers of the watch. For if they had, they would definitely have challenged the unauthorized baggage, and would most certainly have demanded a special “handling fee,” paid directly to them, immediately and in cash.

The great ship left the dock to unprecedented fanfare the next morning. Flags and pennons flew gaily from the topmost masts, high beside the funnels, and down to both bow and stern. Everyone in the south of England, it seemed, was there to witness the departure, a once-in-a-lifetime moment, much more than any of them realized at the time.

The voyage didn’t immediately head due west, as many onboard who hadn’t bothered reading the full itinerary discovered. Instead, it made a quick stop at Cherbourg, then northwest to Queenstown in County Cork, before leaving The Old Country—for the last time.

Leaving the Old Country was what drove many passengers to embark on this maiden voyage. Though many of the elite of two continents populated the top third of the ship, there were plenty of less-well-off passengers in the Standard and Steerage Class cabins in the lower decks. It took a great deal of trust, not to mention coin, to book passage on the new, untested ocean liner.

But none of them, not one among the roughly one thousand poorer passengers, had more to fear from their cross Atlantic transit, than one of the richest men high above them, the elegant, powerfully-built man with the voice like scraping nails. This first night away from land, he sat alone on a deck chair at the side of the Promenade deck, not because he welcomed company, but because he couldn’t stand being kept surrounded by steel walls in the enclosed decks. Out here, despite being stared at by various high society couples who thought his pale complexion was more befitting of the lower decks, he felt calmed by the crisp North Atlantic wind. He felt that if anything threatened him, be it glory-seeking hunter, misguided prelate, or vengeful widower, he at least had a chance of escape up here.

The fellow gazed across the dark ocean, no light anywhere except what was reflected from the ship’s own lights on the tossing waves, which also cast a soft glow against the rumps of the clouds overhead. He felt a slight pull from the mists of those clouds, a longing, an unspeakable desire to assume a shape he’d donned before: that of a sweeping, sinuous mist, free to flow and fly anywhere and everywhere.

He pulled the crimson linen scarf tighter around his neck. Despite the freedom that a misty shape might offer, he knew he was much too far away from land to find some dry purchase on which to settle, after his jaunt had tired him. No, he thought ruefully, I’ve made my choice: to load my most singularly valuable possession onboard this unsinkable ship, which will carry us to the Western Shore, where no one knows my past indiscretions, and where I can find a new land to bear my burden…

Something in his dark, deep past almost compelled him to add, God willing. He chuckled ruefully.

One of the passing strollers stopped and stared. Her fine, white-gloved hands twirled a furled parasol across her left shoulder, as she appraised the slightly off-putting but marvelously intriguing fellow. She noted that though he was seated, he maintained a rugged, confidant posture. His high cheekbones were accentuated by his not-quite sunken cheeks. His stark-white hair was curled and unruly as if he’d never seen a hairbrush, though it seemed to have been cropped at a proper length, or perhaps it had decided to just stop growing on its own. The bottom of his face bore a chin as sharp as this very ship’s prow, and his eyes were so piercingly dark that they could have flown straight into her soul, if he raised them from the horizon line and bothered to appraise her in return.

She stood there for a moment, bouncing delicately on her buttoned-up white shoes, debating whether or not to engage him in idle chatter in order to determine his prospects as a future husband, or to possibly just use him as an idle dalliance for the next few days of otherwise boring ocean travel.

But his eyes never wavered from their unblinking gaze. What is it that captures his attention so? she wondered.

The lady took her eyes off this remarkable man in order to glance out at sea. But whatever fixed his focus, she could not discern it.

Another couple strolled past the two of them and regarded the elegant man and the intrigued woman with some disdain. But no amount of public disapproval could halt the woman’s determination to engage this extraordinary fellow in conversation.

“Excuse me, sir?” she finally said aloud, with a slight affectation of concern. “I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

Without taking his gaze off the horizon, the elegant fellow said, “Madam, I doubt there is any situation on this Earth in which you would require the help of a man.” His voice was bold and strong and even, as if reciting a line from a play he’d memorized in childhood.

The lady was quite taken aback. No man had ever spoken so direct nor so impolitely to her. And yet, she thought, he was correct! How could he know?

Now she was more than intrigued: she was completely hooked!

Without asking his permission, she sat in the deckchair on his left, and began staring out at the inky blackness of the sky and ocean with him. No stars nor moon were visible. It was like looking at the edge of Reality itself, only there was nothing for your eyes to perceive to remind you that Reality still existed.

“May I introduce myself, sir? I am Lady Cynthia Wallace, of Harley Street, London, traveling alone on this magnificent ship to New York, whence I shall meet my maternal aunt and take in the sights of the bustling borough of New York.” She paused to take a breath, expecting the fellow would stand and bow before introducing himself in reply.

She was not so fortunate: the fellow’s eyes remained fixed on the imperceptible horizon, and his lips remained closed.

The Lady Wallace was wondering which would best get a stir out of the fellow, leaning over and smacking him with her parasol, or pulling up her skirt to show a glimpse of white-stockinged calf, when the fellow must have anticipated her deliberation, as if he’d read her mind. With a quick and deliberate sigh, he stood up, surprisingly swift.

He grimaced as if forced to grab a white-hot iron poker with his bare hands, and bowed a quarter-bow. He touched his brow with strong fingers and nails that might have been three months late for their latest trimming. “Madam, I am Duncan Cairncross, late of Edinburgh, hoping to cross this ocean with some semblance of privacy. Good evening.”

Duncan turned on his heel and was about to try and lose himself in the strolling ranks heading towards the ship’s bow. But something ahead made him pause, a feeling of danger, though no threat was visible. He’d lived far too long, however, to not heed that subtle warning, that twist in the gut, part premonition and part unease.

To his back, Lady Cynthia spoke, “Do you not find me pleasing company?”

The white-haired fellow thought a moment, and discovered that he preferred spending a few vapid minutes with this obviously man-hunting socialite over the prospect of encountering the unknown danger that lay in the other direction. He let out a harrumph of annoyance and slowly pivoted back around.

“Madam,” he said with a tight if thin smile, “I would love nothing more than to spend a few minutes in your delightful company. I ask only two things of you.” He slowly returned to his sitting position, like a lion settling back down upon a rocky summit from which to observe his kingdom.

“First, do not try and ensnare me with your womanly wiles. I am immune.” He said this with such firmness and sincerity that Cynthia truly believed him.

“Second, do not ask me where I’m from, nor where I’m going. For the extent of our conversation, however long it may last, pretend that our world is only this ship, which has neither left port nor will arrive at any other.”

Something in that statement sent chills down Cynthia’s spine. For that matter, it made Duncan quite uneasy too. It was as if he’d spoken words that should have never been spoke, like wishing a performer good luck before they take the stage.

But Lady Cynthia Wallace of Harley Street had bandied words with the most eligible of men across two continents, and already had it in her mind that she would add a third continent to that tally. And this fellow, in a few brief moments, already surpassed every man she had ever had the pleasure of toying with.

“My, you do say whatever is on your mind, do you not, sir?”

For the first time, Duncan turned his gaze on the woman and appraised his companion fully up and down, from her ankles daringly exposed by the high hem of her white chiffon evening dress, to her soft auburn hair, loosely gathered beneath a charming if too-wide bonnet. “Madam, I find it annoying when people couch what they mean in terms designed to hide their true feelings.”

“Oh, please, Duncan,” she said, dropping her hand on his strong forearm, “don’t call me ‘madam.’ It sounds like you’re talking to my mother!”

Duncan found her directness, and her daring at showing a little ankle, somewhat charming, surely unlike most of the women in Edwardian-era England.

“Well then, Lady Cynthia,” he replied, “if she were but a tenth as beautiful and half as charming as yourself, then she surely must have had her pick of suiters to choose from.”

Cynthia’s eyes fluttered. From any other man, the flattery would have been noted as a valiant if slightly cliché effort. But coming from this rugged, direct fellow, it nearly made her swoon.

The next four hours flew by in a blur. Despite his warnings, Cynthia got Duncan to reveal his purchase of a castle in the Highlands of Scotland, though he was somewhat reluctant to discuss why he had sold it and was leaving Europe, only that he felt as if war was coming to the Continent, “and I can’t bear to see so many fine young men waste their lives across a sea of hopeless battlefields.” But he did share that he’d made a fine acquisition of a manor house and grounds in upstate New York, where he hoped to live out the next decade or two.

“Alone?” Cynthia unhesitatingly asked.

Without hesitation, Duncan replied, “I have yet to find a woman who can keep up with my desires, my spirit, or my…” There he paused for a moment before continuing with that tight-lipped smile, “tastes.”

For her part, Cynthia admitted she was bored with the life of an unmarried socialite, and at twenty-six, had almost given up hope of ever finding a suitable husband. All her friends were married, some on their second or third try, and not one of them trusted their unattached friend around their roving-eyed spouses.

“Please, let’s not talk of monogamy,” Duncan asked. “Nothing says impossible like the terms monogamy or mutual defense pact.”

“Oh, so you follow foreign policy, do you?” she said, with keen interest.

“Do you?” Duncan replied, incredulous.

“Of course! Every thinking person should be aware of what countries say and do, since our own world can be so terribly affected when they make a poor decision. Countries are no better than marriages: make a bad choice, and everyone suffers. The only difference is with countries, it affects millions more.”

Duncan eyed her closer. Few of the men he’d met bothered watching the buildup of arms and alliances on the Continent with what he considered enough focus. None of the women did—except this surprising woman on his left, who quickly enumerated, with unusual insight, the looming dangers when so many countries had pledged to wage war on another country’s behalf if either were attacked.

“The alliances are so pervasive that one small spark could set the whole Continent ablaze.” She lowered her voice and leaned across their narrow divide to whisper, “Another reason I’m heading to America. It might be safer there, for the next few years or so, until these tangles all get sorted out.”

Duncan nodded his head slowly. “I have to agree. America might be more stable politically and financially, at least for a few decades or so.”

“So, you’re thinking of putting down roots there, are you?”

Duncan laughed that harrumph of his again, a sound that Cynthia was beginning to find most endearing. “I don’t put down roots, as much as find a secluded place that will allow me to live in peace as long as possible.”

“Well,” Cynthia said, mulling over that prospect, “that doesn’t sound too exciting.”

“I find more comfort in the woods and hills than I do in a drawing room with cigars and stuffed shirts.” He lowered his voice to lean in and whisper to her, “In a smoky drawing room, you can’t tell the weasels from the snakes.”

She laughed so quickly then that she almost snorted. Duncan found that surprisingly entertaining.

And for the next two days, the two rarely left each other’s side.

During their days, they explored the mighty ship, marveled at its luxuries, commiserated about how the Third Class passengers were separated from the rest of the passengers with locked iron gates—“To prevent the ones most likely to be carrying diseases from infecting other passengers, which would inconvenience them by having to go through quarantine,” one of the crewman explained patiently, a little too patiently for Duncan’s tastes—and gossiped a bit about some of the more well-known passengers they passed by. John Jacob Astor and family were the most notable, but others almost as rich caught their attention.

In the evenings, they spent languid nights at banquets and buffets. With his dinner, Duncan only drank water, which absolutely stunned Cynthia. But while he stunned her with his alcohol abstinence, he completely floored her in his consumption of meat. He ate every kind and type of red meat the great ship offered, the redder the better. He consumed them with an almost animalistic intensity, holding the meat between his two hands and gnawing into the flesh with his teeth, sans any utensil.

In between tearing into his dripping haunches of meat, Duncan regaled Cynthia with incredible tales of the private lives of their fellow First Class shipmates. This one, he’d indicate with a nod, was engaged in a torrid affair with his wife’s hair stylist, while his wife was doing her best to satisfy their chauffer, “who drives her absolutely everywhere,” he added with a devilish twinkle in his eye.

After a dozen more tales of equally scandalous behavior, Cynthia stooped him. “How do you know all of this?” she asked.

Duncan harrumphed again, and said something that baffled Cynthia. “It helps to listen in places where people aren’t expecting to be overheard.”

“You know so many incriminating details about so many rich and famous people,” she commented. After a moment’s hesitation, she offered a cautious observation. “You could make a small fortune by blackmailing just a handful of them.”

Duncan stared into her eyes, deep enough to make her almost feel lost, before he released her with a wink and a deep throated chuckle. “Who says I’m not?”

Despite the obvious pleasure they took in each other’s company, the first three nights they spent together ended in the same manner: winding up at her cabin door, Duncan bowed deeply like a true gentleman, wished her a good night’s sleep, then turned and heading off to somewhere she knew not. He never offered for her to come back to his cabin, nor even offered to show it to her. Nor did he ever ask to enter her cabin, nor make any physical advances upon her.

What’s wrong with him? she caught herself wondering at the end of their third night on the great ship. That thought was quickly followed by, Or is there something wrong with me?

On the fourth night, after another even more satisfying day together, she decided she would make as much of an effort as possible after dinner to see if he was interested in her physically, without literally dragging him into her stateroom. All through dinner and through the pleasant if ultimately unsatisfying conversation, she could only focus on what would happen after dinner, and whether her actions would indicate whether their relationship had any kind of future.

Again, as if he could read her mind, Duncan asked the question that was forefront in her mind. “You’re wondering if we have a chance at a future together?” he sked. He bit his lip, silently calculating some existential algorithm in his head, before coming to a decision.

He stood and offered his hand to her, the first time he’d done so. “Come with me. There’s something I need to show you.”

She took his hand and discovered it was incredibly cold. But not the cold of the icebergs they’d heard speculation might be lying somewhere off the starboard side. His hand was the cold of a terrifying dream, the chill of an abandoned fortress, the iciness of a witch’s curse.

But in that first moment of touching him, she felt neither fear nor terror, but an incredible aching, a terrible, unquenchable longing that seemed to stretch for centuries. She felt both pity and concern for him, wanting to both protect him and to somehow help him climb up into a better version of the World.

He led her away from all the opulence and gaiety of First Class life, down through narrow stairwells and into the depths of the cargo holds. He never relinquished his hold on her hand, as if drawing strength and possibly heat directly from her.

The path they took so confused Cynthia that she’d have never been able to find her way back up and into the light without his help. If she hadn’t had such unshakeable faith in Duncan, she’d have been terrified. But now, inexplicably, she felt confidant and alive, as if exploring a long-buried secret that would change her life forever.

Finally, they wound up outside a tiny one-person hatch at the end of a long passageway, attended by a single crewman on watch, who nodded at Duncan as if they knew each other well and he were in Duncan’s employ. The crewman unlocked the hatch and backed away, allowing Duncan to enter, followed by Cynthia, who stepped gingerly through the hatch.

Inside was a massive cargo hold, as big as any of the buildings on Harley Street. The vast space was filled with crates and bundled goods, even a modern roadster in one corner.

Duncan noticed her amazement as they walked through the tight walkways through all the crates. “That’s a brand-new Renault Coupe de Ville,” he noted with a hint of appreciation in his voice. “One of the finest motorcars anywhere in the world.”

“My!” Cynthia sighed in amazement. “They let you transport anything on this ship!”

Duncan bit his lip as he led her around a corner. “Even some things they won’t let you bring.”

Before she could question that cryptic comment, he pulled her gently down a cramped side alley formed by two towering stacks of wooden-sided crates that loomed above their heads. At the end, in the fading light, was a small open area where the boxes were further apart. There, laying across two smaller crates, was a blood-red mahogany coffin.

Duncan finally released her hand. Cynthia couldn’t breathe. Her mind raced through all the details she’d learned over almost four days with her companion, Duncan Cairncross, his uncommon strength, his desire to be left alone, his voluminous knowledge about so many people, his ice-cold hands—

She looked at him, and realized his face bore a fatalistic expression as if he expected her to run screaming away from, as if this had happened a dozen times before. Instead, she looked down at the long deep box, tried to speak, then finally found her words.

“Do you… am—am I in danger?”

“In danger?” he replied as if he hadn’t heard her properly. “Cynthia, you are in no more danger from me than from that automobile we passed! I’d no sooner hurt you than I’d hurt myself.”

“But I thought—I thought your kind—”

Duncan scoffed. “My kind!” He would have punched a hole in the nearest crate if Cynthia wouldn’t have been there to witness it. “There are no others of my kind! Believe me, I’ve searched! They’ve all either been burned alive by religious fools, hunted to death by glory-seekers, or had stakes driven through their hearts idiots fearful of what they did not understand. The times I’ve—”

Just then, a massive shudder went through the ship, as if a Leviathan of the deep had snatched the vessel in its clutches. Deafening, shuddering noises echoed through the hold, the cracking and rending of cold-iron plates, followed by a cacophony of sound as a torrent of salt water began to pour in along a massive fissure at the opposite side of the hold.

“Duncan!” Cynthia screamed.

He realized immediately that the great ship had just struck an iceberg. And he knew the vast amount of water that was pouring in, unstopped, would put lie to the boast of the world’s first “unsinkable” ship.

“Quickly! We must head up top!”

But the speed of the incoming torrent heaved boxes in the way, reducing the previously narrow lanes into impassible crevices. What was worse was the rising water level, which cut off the only hatch out of the cargo hold. Massively heavy crates now began to bob and float, as the water quickly began to flood the compartment.

“Duncan!” Cynthia called out again, this time more in control. “We’ll have to climb the crates!”

“To where?!” Duncan replied in frustration.

She indicated a thin line of light far overhead. “The cargo hold doors. That’s our only way out!”

They struggled, they climbed, they fought against the bobbing crates that threatened to crush them time and again. But when they reached the top of the heaving, shifting pile of flotsam, they were still what seemed like a mile below the doors.

“We’ll have to wait until the water floats the crates higher!” Cynthia yelled above the torrent.

“We can’t!” Duncan roared back. “The whole ship might go down by then. You’ll drown!”

She grasped both of his hands in hers. “You can save yourself, Duncan. I know you can! You’ll have to leave me here!”

His eyes bore into hers with all the resolve he could muster. “I’m not going to leave you, Lady Cynthia Wallace of Harley Street, London. I just found you!” He pulled her to his chest. “Besides, I wouldn’t survive a week without that box of dirt from my home town. It’s what keeps me alive!”

She wept, not because she would in all likelihood drown next to the man whom she had hoped would see her through the next few decades. She wept that this old soul, powerful as he was, would be helpless to save himself.

“Why can’t you just climb in the coffin?” she asked, in a pleading tone. “Surely it’ll float.”

“Not with the weight of all that dirt, and myself as well.” He said that ruefully, with all the confidence and sadness of someone who’d witnessed that before.

They lay there on the biggest crate as the minutes ticked away. They laughed, they cried, they hurriedly told each other secrets they’d never uttered to another soul. He told her about the New York manor, shared secret words that would alert the keepers there that she was to be the new mistress of the place, so that even if he were not with her, his house would keep her safe and warm.

They discovered a closeness in those last few moments that few lovers would have known after fifty years of so-called wedded bliss.

It seemed like a lifetime, but finally, the ship began to lean decidedly towards the bow, and began to list to port as well. As the crates shifted and brought them closer to the hatches, Duncan waited until the right moment, then threw himself at the tiny crack of light, catching himself by his fingertips. His strength was such that he ripped open a small section, then a bigger section, big enough for him to squeeze through.

He leaned back in and pulled Cynthia to him, then set her down on the hatch. He glanced around and realized all the lifeboats had left. He found a few life jackets, tied them around her, then went back in once more to the hold.

He returned bearing the coffin across one shoulder, which he hurled clear of the ship and into the ocean. Then he lifted Cynthia to his chest once more.

His eyes gazed into hers for the last time. Words failed her, but Duncan knew what to say.

“Sometimes, one must die in order to learn the true value of life.”

With her in his arms, he leapt down to the edge of the ship and gently tossed her out to the vicinity of the floating coffin. Then, with an anguished cry of grief, he transformed into a misty jet and soared into the steam and smoke that billowed from the funnels, disappearing into the empty sky above.

When the Carpathia arrived in the area next morning and began picking up what survivors remained, they found Lady Cynthia Wallace of Harley Street sprawled atop a rectangular wooden box. Somehow, the box refused to sink.

And when the ship got near, Lady Cynthia refused to be rescued unless they brought up the box, too. Not wanting to argue with the half-frozen woman, the crew did just that.

They warmed her and gave her dry clothes and warm liquids, while they placed the blood-red mahogany coffin in the deepest hold of the ship.

And after the rescue ship unloaded the survivors at the docks of New York, Lady Cynthia Wallace headed upstate to a manor and grounds in the Cairncross name. In the back of her hired carriage was a long rectangular box covered by an oilskin tarp, which at times during their trip, emanated a strange mist from within its dark folds.