Generation Loss by Elizabeth Hand

by Burnt Harbor. It was playing
with a mouse, like a cat does." But what if one did come here?"
    "I
don't know." He ran his hand along a branch covered with lichen that
looked like peeling orange housepaint, snapped the branch off and tossed &
'They can swim, I think. Maybe one could swim over. I guess then it could swim
back to shore. Or maybe they eat each other. There never seems to be a real
long-term problem back on the mainland. People trap them."
    He
began to walk again. "You getting tired?"
    I
shrugged. That hangover was starting to rage behind my eyes. It wasn't even
ten, and I was ready to crawl back to bed. "Just fried," I said.
"I didn't sleep well last night."
    "The
Lighthouse didn't suit you?"
    "It
wasn't that. Too wound up, I guess."
    "Last
I saw, you were knocking back the Jack Daniel's. That would unwind me pretty
fast."
    We
walked on. Now and then I'd spot sea urchins on the moss, their spines the same
gray-green as the lichen. I stopped and nudged one with my foot. "How do
these get here?"
    "Sea
gulls drop them on the rocks to crack 'em open." Toby glanced at me
curiously. "So'd you see her last night? Merrill's daughter?"
    "Just
for a few minutes." I picked up the sea urchin. Several spines fell away
at my touch, not sharp but soft and brittle, like burnt twigs. "She
checked me in. And she came to my room after, to tell me about that place where
we ate. The Good Tern. So I guess I can thank her for my hangover."
    "I
think you can thank yourself for that," said Toby.
    I
rubbed my finger across the sea urchin until the rest of the spines flaked off.
What I held now looked remarkably like one of the small tussocks of moss
everywhere. I cupped it in my hand then carefully put it into my bag.
    "Those
are real fragile," Toby warned. "You want to watch, they break like
eggshells."
    "I'll
be careful." I looked around, shaking my head. "It's so strange. I
mean, it's almost winter and it's still green."
    "The
fog does that. It covers everything, the rocks and trees; then the moss and
lichens cover them and feed off the moisture. It's a paradise for
parasites."
    Ahead
of us the pines thinned out. The shadowy green world gave way to a bleached-out
stretch of stone and birch, a building barely visible through the trees. I
thought of Mackenzie's white face momentarily blazing in my headlights.
    She
was a cute kid. Probably she'd been running away—or, more likely, running off
with some boyfriend or girlfriend. I preferred to think of her on a Grayhound
headed south to Boston or New York, meeting a friend in Port Authority, heading
west. Who was I to stop her escape? I hoped she was a hundred miles away.
    "How
much farther?" I asked Toby.
    "Almost
there."
    I
blinked as we stepped into milky sunlight. We were at the top of a long slope
leading down to the rocky shoreline and a small cove. The slope was scattered
with trees—birch, oak, hemlocks. Tucked within the trees were two small
gray-shingled buildings. Both looked utterly derelict and abandoned.
    "You
were asking about the commune," said Toby, and pointed. "Most of it
was up at the top of this hill, but people salvaged it or burned it for
firewood. Those shacks are all that's left. Denny's old bus is over the hill a
ways. And that's Aphrodite's place there—"
    Among
the trees by the cove stood a clapboard building that looked as though it were
attempting to pull itself up the hillside. There were loose and missing boards
everywhere. The roof was sunken, the stone chimneys crumbling. The white paint
had weathered to a uniform gray and was filigreed with moss, and moss-covered
boulders thrust up against the walls.
    I
looked at Toby. "At midnight does it turn back to rocks and pine
needles?"
    "Not
what you expected?"
    "No.
It's so dark. Photographers want light."
    "Light's
better on the eastern side." He gestured toward the black water of the
cove. "It's old. Wasn't real big, so she kept adding on to it.
    "I
don't see any lights."
    Toby
looked up. Smoke threaded from