Nightlight by Michael Cadnum Page A

spaghetti sauce. Fungus, which he imagined to be deadly, erupted from the bark of redwoods.
    When he came upon them, they seemed to belong there, among the dripping fronds of redwood trees. He did not know what they were at first. Depressions in the earth, each the size of a narrow bed, like an army cot. Five of them, and only when he saw the headstones did he understand.
    The headstones were wooden, and the words carved in them were worn invisible. There were mere indentations where there had been names, faint depressions in the harsh grain of the wood. The headstones were glazed green with moss. Paul was struck with a desire to pray.
    His prayer would not be only for the dead. There was something shocking about these graves—their neglect, their solitude. Something bad, Paul thought.
    Something bad had happened here.
    He shook himself free of the feeling, but as he strode purposefully away from the graves, he could not help sensing that something should be done. Some act on his part was necessary; he could not guess what.
    He was a great fool, he thought. He was so badly in need of a vacation, that once he began one he became preoccupied with half-digested fears. He and Lise were indeed isolated, but it was a charming isolation. The redwoods were magnificent, and if they needed to return to the civilized world for any reason, all they had to do was leap into the car and drive back across the bridge.
    He entered the cabin, and did not move. Len was here, he could sense it! “Lise,” he called.
    â€œI’m here,” she said, emerging from the kitchen, drying her hands on a piece of gray terrycloth. “What did you see on your walk?”
    â€œNo word from anybody?”
    â€œNo, nothing. Why?”
    â€œI don’t know. I just felt suddenly—that Len must be here.”
    â€œI’ll fry him a chop in case he shows up.”
    â€œHe could, you know. I almost expect him.”
    â€œHe’s probably back in the City visiting his mother.”
    It was possible. He might keep an alternate toothbrush there. An alternate razor. It made sense.
    â€œWhat are those?”
    â€œBay leaves. For tomorrow night’s spaghetti. The Turkish laurel is better. But the native will do nicely, if I don’t use too many. Maybe half a leaf. They’re full of resin. Smell.”
    â€œWonderful!”
    The wet leaves reminded him of the five sunken graves, and he could not mention them to Lise. He did not know why. They seemed brutal, somehow, or obscene. He tried to convince himself that they did not bother him, but they might bother her.
    She opened one of the bottles of sauterne, and now that it was well chilled he could swallow it without too much revulsion. “I love it,” she breathed, and dressed as she was in an apron she had dug out of a bottom drawer with SOUP’S ON printed on it in red letters, she was the most alluring woman he had ever seen.
    â€œIt’s not too bad,” he said. He touched a raw chop.
    â€œI could stay in a place like this forever,” she said.
    The sentiment shocked him. “Not me. Although it’s a pleasant place,” he added. “There’s just something about it I don’t really like that much.”
    â€œHow can you say that?”
    How indeed? He swallowed some wine. “We’re on an island, really. A creek on both sides. I didn’t walk all the way around it. The island is shaped sort of like a bay leaf.”
    â€œHow wonderful!”
    â€œOr, maybe more exactly, like an eye.”
    â€œWe’ll explore it together when it stops raining.”
    The thought troubled him. “There isn’t that much to look at really. Even the creeks aren’t much. No doubt in the summer you can walk across either of them, stepping on the stones.”
    They slept in front of the fire. It spat and sizzled, then grew quiet as the light from it died. Rain pattered on the roof high above them, and from time to