Marian's Stairway
by Megan Leadbeater

   Beyond the breakwater was beautiful and largely unscathed by humans. The ocean was as calm and still as a mirror, showing night's mysterious face, freckled by stars. The full moon shone a broad, beckoning beam of light directly into the water. Such a phenomenon is known as "Stairway to Heaven." The stony breakwater stretched twenty meters out into the water and was designed to keep the waves away from a popular family area. Sleek, statuesque gulls and cormorants slept on a line of lonely, gnarled wooden pillars which stood in the ocean. Old frayed shark nets hung from these pillars like oversized spider webs in a sideshow haunted house. The sandstone cliffs diagonally opposite the children's beach were stabilized by unkempt grass sprinkled with orange, cylindrical Christmas bell flowers. The cliffs were perhaps fifteen meters high, with many hidden caves and crude paths known only by local children.

   A baitless fish hook shattered the surface of the water with a plonk as its line was cast. A cigarette butt landed on a boulder jutting out from the wall, the smoky scent emanating like charmed serpents. The ember glowed momentarily before a black boot ground it to an ashy mark. The owner of the boot was a man in his early forties by the name of Frank. As a social outcast, Frank preferred to spend as much time as physically possible on the breakwater facing out towards the ocean and indulging in his one escape, fishing. Some said he was avoiding his wife, Doris, but nobody really knew because they never spoke to him. And he had hardly spoken to them the past twelve years. His skin was as dark and gnarled as tree trunks from years of over exposure to the sun, and his jeans were almost white for the same reason.

   On the cliffs there was a soft rustling, as though the grass was parting on command, like when the sea parted for Moses. A teenage girl sailed through the gap formed in the grass, unmoved by its eldritch behaviour. Her long white gown finished a few inches above her ankles and at her wrists. On her face was a detached expression of determination. The moonlight made her skin appear eerily anaemic. This complete with her dress gave her an odd Amish quality, completely out of tune with modern society. She continued stealthily along the breakwater, slicing the warm, ambient feel of the sea air like a knife. Frank felt a cold, maternal hand on his shoulder.

   "I'll be home soon Doris." he responded nonchalantly.

   "Not Doris." spoke a demure voice.

   Only when a nasal deluge of questions on his whereabouts did not follow did he stand and turn around. He was speechless at the ethereal, innocent sight which was before him. Her silvery straight hair, like his wife's hair, hung
to her waist and swayed slightly in the stillness. He stared into her eyes, and it was like looking into his own eyes in the mirror.

   "Who then?" he said uneasily, for he had not recovered from the sight of this living, breathing being with the asphyxiatingly cold touch. She tilted her hand slightly so that the light radiating from the stairway glinted off her silver ring. There was an illegible inscription on it, but Frank knew it said 'Morrison,' Doris' maiden name.

   The ring was a Morrison family heirloom, passed on through the women in the family, only the line had stopped with the passing of his daughter at the age of two. An event he had neither forgotten or forgiven himself for. He looked again at his eyes, only not sunken with age and Doris' hair, only long and vibrant.

   "Marian?"

   "Yes." The demure voice spoke again. "I came here to help you because you did so much to help me."

   "Your mother and I did all we could...... but it was no use."

   "Please don't speak, I must leave soon." She motioned to the stairway.

   "You still have many years ahead of you, and so much to appreciate. My mother is alone, waiting for your return. You have both lost a daughter, but she has lost a husband as well."

   "You saw her?" Frank said incredulously.

   "She gave me this." Marian said, pointing to the ring. "She always wanted me to have it."

   "We never got to see you grow up."

   "Now you have. Please, stop punishing yourself and learn to live again before its too late." Frank knew she had to leave now. It was like a premonition, only not as foreboding.

   "Goodbye Marian" he said for the second time.

   "Goodbye Father." It was the first time she had said those words, because last time she was too young. Time stood still as her graceful, swanlike body disintegrated like Lot's wife as she looked back at the past. The warm atmosphere of the water returned, its smell reminding him of fresh laundry. The fishing line buzzed as Frank reeled it in. The birds on the posts were gone, as animals are often frightened by such strange occurrences. Still the water lapped at the walls of the breakwater, only now it was beginning to lighten with the hues of dawn. Frank picked up his tackle box and a song came into his head. It was his and Doris' song when they first met, and they named their daughter after it. He sang it softly as he walked along the breakwater towards the cliffs:

"In a sea of faces, in a sea of doubt
In this cruel place your voice above the maelstrom
In the wake of this ship of fools I'm falling further down
If you can see me, Marian, reach out and take me home....."

     He walked along a path through the cliffs, still singing, unaware that his daughter had once walked the same path. On a whim, he threw his fishing equipment as far as he could. "I won't be needing you ever again." he said joyfully. The tackle box broke open with a metallic thud. "I never did know how to open that." he smiled to himself. The Christmas bells seemed to ring softly with Marian and Doris' approval. He plucked some of them from the ground. He squeezed the tip of a flower, making it burst open like popcorn, something which had always fascinated him. Although they didn't smell, Doris would be happy. She liked bright things. After that night, nobody ever commented on or saw a lonely fisherman on the breakwater ever again.

©2000 Megan Leadbeater