PROFESSOR SARDIE was more desperate every day, frantic in his quest to find a wonder that would match the ones soon to be on display at Dreamland. He arranged for Coralie to make one final swim. She had always considered herself to be fearless in the water, but now she felt a wave of anxiety. For the past few nights she’d experienced a recurring dream in which she remained underwater for so long she grew gills and fins. It was a painful, bloody process. In every dream, when she attempted to climb from the river to its banks, she found she could not walk across the grass but instead slipped back into the watery depths, gasping for breath, confused as to what sort of creature she had come to be.
“Perhaps it doesn’t make sense to excite people for something that doesn’t yet exist,” she dared to say to her father as they waited for the carriage. She felt the base of her throat, for her dream had seemed so real she imagined she’d find a line of gills, as if she were becoming what she pretended to be.
The Professor laughed at Coralie’s fears, insisting a real showman could present his audience with a snapping turtle, call it a leviathan, and be believed if the story of its capture was told with enough drama and excitement. Blood helped such stories along, and for this reason he handed Coralie a small, sharp knife, the very one she’d used upon herself.
“This blade will do in lieu of fangs. If the hand of a fisherman is trailing in the water, take up the knife. Let there be blood in the water. That’s how the Hudson Mystery will find its way onto the front page, despite the struggles on the street.”
The liveryman brought them across the Brooklyn Bridge in the fading light of the day. The city was aglow, especially along Broadway, where the electric streetlights came on all at once, brilliant in the pale twilight. It had rained earlier, and when they reached the West Side, a single line of pink hung like a ribbon above the New Jersey shore. As they traveled west and then north, Coralie thought of the young man she had come across in the woods, and once again she was filled with a nameless longing. She had gone to Maureen for advice that very afternoon. How did she stop the attraction to this man?
“Is this someone you’ve given yourself to?” Maureen’s expression had been worried.
“Of course not! But I hear him call to me when no one is there.” Coralie had not mentioned that on these occasions her heart was in her throat.
“If you don’t want to think of a man, say his name backward three times. If that doesn’t work, write his name on paper, burn it, then bury it in the garden.”
Coralie had laughed. “What will that accomplish?”
“We all burn for what is bad for us,” Maureen had assured her. “Burn him in return. Maybe then the bastard won’t have such a hold over you.”
“Did Raymond Morris have a hold over you?”
“That was something entirely different.” Maureen had spoken in a voice so quiet she didn’t sound like herself. “You are young, Cora. So here’s my advice, should you see him again, all you can do is close your eyes.”
“And then?”
“Then pray he disappears, for you cannot change the way you feel. There is no spell or magic to work for that. Just be smart. Look at him clearly. See who he is.”
Coralie practiced Maureen’s suggestion as the carriage continued uptown through the dark streets. She closed her eyes and did not think of him. Instead, she imagined their garden; she thought of the runner beans she would plant, and the heat of the sunlight when the tomato plants began to flower. It did no good. When she opened her eyes all she could think of was the man in the woods. He was like a fever; she could feel him all over her. She was somewhat dazed, as she had been when she’d fallen ill as a child and Maureen feared she’d contracted the Spanish flu.
“What will you say to the authorities if you’re caught?” the Professor asked as they neared their destination. Coralie had no choice but to pull herself together. They had rehearsed her response several times. The Professor did not believe in chance or luck but in being fully prepared. That was virtue in his eyes.
“I decided to take on the Hudson River as a challenge to my skill as a swimmer,” Coralie responded by rote. She felt like a puppet on a string, but one whose heart was beating too fast, whose thoughts strayed dangerously far. If this was what love was like, it was disconcerting, something over which she indeed had no control.
The Professor nodded, satisfied.
There was to be a full moon, perfect conditions for his plan, although the river was running quite high. At this time of year, the murky spring currents carried roots and fallen trees and all manner of man-made items that had been frozen into the ice upstate and had recently been freed in the thaw. As the Professor prepared the monster’s mask, Coralie went to the grassy bank to remove her coat and her shoes. The chill of the air felt like pinpricks. She stretched, as she always did before a long swim, then practiced her breathing technique. The liveryman was nearby, letting the carriage horse graze. Coralie stole a glance and noticed he was staring into the woods. When she followed his gaze, she spied a large gathering of blackbirds, a hundred or more fluttering through the trees. She wondered if this was an omen, and if she should fear its meaning or be relieved.
“So many,” she said, marveling at the birds, forgetting she was not allowed to address the hired man. “I wonder if they speak to each other, like men and women, or if their calling goes unanswered.”
The hired man buttoned his jacket, as if this might make their conversation more acceptable. “Men and women rarely speak to each other, though they often talk.”
They were out of the Professor’s hearing and sight, so Coralie continued. “People might speak freely if they didn’t fear one another’s judgments.”
“Then let me speak freely,” the liveryman said. There were scars on his face and neck, hastily sewn by a surgeon who certainly couldn’t be called a credit to his profession. “I don’t think you should swim tonight.”
Coralie found she wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable conversing with this man, even though Maureen had confided he’d once been the boss of one of the toughest gangs in lower Manhattan, willing to go up against some of the established Italian gangsters of the Cosa Nostra and the Black Hand, who were so numerous Prince Street was called Black Hand Street. The liveryman had been to prison before coming to work as the Professor’s driver, a humbled man who’d done far too much damage when he was young, to others and to himself.
“Blackbirds can sense danger,” the hired man went on. “You’ll never see one in a storm. They take flight long before the first raindrops fall.” He whistled a trilling call. Soon enough one of the blackbirds came to perch on the branch of a nearby sycamore tree.
“You can speak to him!” Coralie was charmed.
The hired man admitted that he’d kept pet birds for a good part of his life, mostly bright parakeets and parrots from South America, along with his beloved pigeons. “A bird will never lie, just as a man will rarely tell the truth. That’s been my experience and no one will convince me otherwise. So I’ll speak as the birds do, with honest intent. The river looks rough, miss. It’s running wildly and it’s dangerous. An experienced sailor could drown in such conditions. I wouldn’t send my daughter into it, if I were lucky enough to have one.”
The Professor was approaching, and the two who had been speaking in confidence stepped away from one another. Not quickly enough, however. Sardie had taken note of their conversation, and he threw his employee a dark look. He then drew Coralie aside. “Did I tell you not to speak to him? He’s a criminal, Cora. I’m giving him a second chance, but be warned. He has killed more men than you will ever meet in your lifetime.”
Coralie gazed at the hired man, who held his horse’s reins as he whispered in the beast’s ear. She had a surge of trust in his judgment.
“The water’s so wild, Father. I wonder if we should put off this swim.”
“Is that what that fool told you? He has absolutely no idea of who you are and what your training has been. I’m not the least bit worried. This is your farewell to the Hudson River. Once it’s over and done, I swear I’ll find a creature worthy of the news you create.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re not a coward, are you? Tell me I didn’t waste all this time on you?”
Convinced she had no choice, Coralie went to the water line and waded out. When she was to her waist, she dove in, grateful for the silence of the river, which was broken only by the slap of the waves as she cut through the water. She felt herself taken up by the north-flowing current, which was indeed moving quickly, but she enjoyed the effortlessness of her swim and went where the river led her. The moon had slipped behind clouds, and Coralie came up beside a rowboat, unnoticed in the dark. As she paddled beside the skiff, she heard two men speak of their wives and of the fish they meant to bring home to them for supper. She wondered what it might be like to have a husband who spoke of you so tenderly.
She’d been instructed to draw blood as any true beast would, but Coralie had forgotten her orders. It seemed as if she had entered into a dream, spellbound by her own thoughts. Mist rose from the water in bursts of cloudy air. There was a run of sturgeon, large fish known to bite, but they ignored Coralie and swam along beside her. It was possible that they thought she was one of their own kind, as much a fish as she was a woman. As she was carried upstream, she imagined the young man, though Maureen had warned against this. She might have gone on floating for hours more, but all at once she hit something straight on. She was suddenly and achingly present. She wondered if she had collided with a sturgeon, for the thing she’d been driven into was large, yet more pliable than a log. When she gathered her wits, she spied what she believed to be a fish nearly her own size floating before her, pale blue in the muddy water. Both Coralie and this creature had become enmeshed in a soup of floating debris.
She had already passed the cliffs of the Palisades, which she recognized from her previous swim. She’d entered into the dangerous flux where the Harlem River was aswirl with eddies as the north and south currents met, and had been caught up in waterweeds, long wavering plants whose roots reached hundreds of feet below the surface. The tendrils held fast, pulling her down so that she took in mouthfuls of water. The fish trapped with her was immobilized, not able to struggle for its life as Coralie did. Without thinking, she grabbed on to the fish and tried to pull herself up so that she wouldn’t be dragged into the center of the whirlpool. She had expected cool, slippery scales; instead there was the woolly nub of sopping fabric. All at once she realized she was holding on to a drenched coat. In her arms was the body of a young woman, facedown, long pale hair flowing, arms and legs entangled in the ropes of waterweeds.