Recess had only lasted for some five minutes when Jonathan joined Candy at the steps up the porch. "Is it just me, or is everybody crazy today?" he asked.

Candy looked up. "What do you mean?"

Jonathan kicked at the porch. "Nobody wants to play with me. Nobody even wants to talk to me!" he complained.

Candy sighed. "It's not just you. They've been picking on me all morning, too. Silly faces, pushing, staring..."

"What's wrong with everyone then?" Jonathan asked.

His sister shrugged. "Even Mrs. Henderson is acting strange. She keeps looking at me, like I make her nervous or something. But I'm not doing anything. And even though she keeps looking at me, she hasn't given me a single turn all morning."

Jonathan kicked some more at the porch. "Maybe it's the weather," he said at last.

"The weather?" Candy looked up at the bright blue sky. "What's wrong with the weather?"

"Nothing. Maybe. But the Captain says, that some people act real strange just before there's a big change in the weather. So maybe that's it. Maybe we're getting a thunderstorm tonight."

"Then how come we're not affected?"

"I don't know." A smug grin appeared on Jonathan's face. "Maybe the natives from Schooner Bay are supersensitive to it, with them being 'sons of the sea'. Fishermen, you know. And of course we're not from here, so..."

"Not everybody here is a fisherman," Candy pointed out.

"No, but according to Captain Gregg, all the families here descend from good, honest seamen. So they probably inherited it. It's in their blood or something."

To that, Candy had no reply, and in the end, Jonathan sat down next to her. "You don't want to go back to Philly, do you?" he asked, with the worry evident in his whole demeanor.

Candy shook her head. "I like it here. Well, most of the time. I'd just wish I had some real friends here. Or that my friends from Philly were here."

"Wouldn't do you much good today." Jonathan was now kicking his heels against the porch steps. "I do have some really good friends here, remember? But today, it's like they don't want to know me." He furrowed his brow. "I don't like it. Let's go and ask them together. You're two years older; maybe they'll listen to you."

He pulled a not unwilling Candy along, and together they cornered Tommy at the far end of the playground.

"What do you want?" the boy squeaked as Jonathan and Candy each took him by an arm.

"We want you to tell us what's going on. Why nobody wants to play with us," Jonathan informed him in his best intimidating tone.

Immediately, Tommy turned a violent scarlet. "I'm not supposed to talk to you!" he brought out.

"Says who?" Candy demanded.

"My Mum and Dad."

"Why?" Jonathan wanted to know.

"I don't know! Honest! They only said that you'd have a bad influence on me, with your Dad being a pansy and all!"

"What?!"

"Our Dad is not a pansy!" Jonathan protested.

"Well, everybody says he is," Tommy insisted. "And a criminal, too. In the clink. Ready to be hanged. And that's why they won't let me play with you anymore – I swear!"

Candy let go of his arm and pulled Jonathan along.

"What's a pansy got to do with it?" Jonathan inquired. "Do people turn into flowers once you bury them? Like seeds?"

"I don't think so." Candy sat down on the porch again and pulled her brother down next to her.

"Then what's a pansy got to do with our Dad?"

Candy rested her chin in her hands. "I believe 'pansy' is some kind of abusive term. But I'm not sure what it means." A sigh. "I guess it's still got to do with that essay I wrote last week. Although I don't understand how our Dad being hanged as a criminal comes in. I never wrote anything like that."

"Besides, he's already dead," Jonathan mumbled. And he frowned in thought. "But if you wrote about the Captain, then maybe 'pansy' is another word for 'sea dog'? I'll ask him when I get home, okay?"


This was getting ridiculous, Mrs. Muir decided. She had popped into town to run some errands before picking up the children from school, but wherever she went, the townspeople treated her decidedly odd.

There was Mr. Homer from the charity shop, who turned crimson the moment she'd walked in, and never once in their discourse came even close at looking at her, and who gave the distinct impression he couldn't get her out of his shop fast enough.

There was young Eileen O'Hara at the grocery store, ignoring her to the point that in the end, the only thing left to do seemed to be to simply put down the exact amount of what she needed to pay and leave the shop with her do-it-yourself bought groceries.

There was Mr. Peevey, who at first made big eyes when he spotted her in the street, and then disappeared into the nearest store – the sewing shop, of all places! – as if the devil were after him.

There was Mr. Davenport at the drugstore, who paled the moment she came in, insisted on helping her immediately (to which none of the other, deadly silent customers objected) and without a single word too much, and was clearly heard heaving a sigh of relief when she turned to go. And the moment she stood outside, excited talk broke loose in the store – so loud you could hear the chattering in the street.

There was Deke Tuttle, who quickly pulled down the blinds of his shop when she approached, even though the 'we're open' sign remained. And when she was a few meters past, she heard them being pulled up again.

Meanwhile, anyone she met in the street – and I mean literally everyone – either gave her a contemptuous glare and then quickly looked away and hurried on, or they simply made sure they wouldn't have to look at her at all.

When the treatment in the department store of the always so genial Mr. Wilkins went along the same lines, she'd had enough. And upon leaving the store, she went straight next-door, to the one man who might be persuaded to clarify the situation.

"Claymore!"

Claymore jumped in his chair. "Mrs. Muir!" He grabbed his desk – almost as if he suspected her to be his hostile ancestor. "What are you doing here?" Suddenly he got up and quickly, awkwardly, ran over to the windows to lower the blinds.

"What are you doing?" Mrs. Muir exclaimed in surprise as he pushed her aside to lock the door and lower the blind there, too.

"Just a precaution, Mrs. Muir. Excuse me." He peeked past the curtain. "Did anyone see you go in here?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Claymore, what's going on." It was an order, not a question, and he instantly responded.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Muir. It's just... we shouldn't be seen together."

"Why not? What's going on here? The whole town is ignoring me to the best of their abilities – and I want to know why. I realize that I'm an outsider in this community, but this is taking things a bit far."

"Erm... well... you see, Mrs. Muir..." He sought his way back to his desk in the semi-darkness under a lot of awkward hemming. And when he finally sat in his chair again, he blurted out, "It's the rumours."

"What rumours?"

"About you and..." A gulp. "Please, Mrs. Muir, take my advice: take a long, long vacation, somewhere far away from here. Australia might do – I'd be happy to arrange it for you, and I won't even hold you to your two months notice for the house. Just... get out of here as quickly as you can and don't come back until... maybe next year. Or the year after."

"Why?"

He fidgeted uneasily. "The rumours..." He tried to avoid her burning gaze, but this woman had always been stronger than him, and she practically forced him to look her in the eye. "I mean it, Mrs. Muir. You don't know this town as I do. Get out of here – get your children out of here. Life won't be worth living if you don't." His trembling hand went over his skull. "Believe me – I know," he breathed.

Something in his demeanor softened her. She dropped her challenging stance and calmly, almost soothingly she said, "Claymore, I have no intention of running away for a few silly rumours."

Claymore shot up. "Silly rumours!? Mrs. Muir, do you have any idea what stories are going around in this town? You're being..."

He was interrupted by the phone. "Claymore Gregg, how may I help you?" ... "Yes, sir, I have those documents. If you can hold for one moment...?" He held his hand over the mouthpiece before putting down the receiver on his desk. "A detective agency from Boston," he whispered half under his breath. Then he darted over to the filing cabinet, pulled open one of the drawers and took out a file.

"Yes, sir, I have the file here in front of me," he told the detective on the phone. "Read it to you? Of course." A furtive glance at his visitor and... "Robert Edward Muir, born March 17th, 1935 in Philadelphia..."

Mrs. Muir's eyes went wide, and Claymore continued uneasily, "Son of Ralph Joseph Muir and Marjorie Elizabeth Muir, née Stendal. Married Carolyn Emily Williams on August 6th, 1959 in New York. They got two children together, a daughter born in 1960, and a son born in 1962. Mr. Muir died in a car accident in Philadelphia, on October 30th, 1964."

"Claymore...!" Mrs. Muir hissed.

He glanced at her, but declared to the detective on the phone, "Yes, sir, this is the authentic certificate. No doubt about it – all the stamps and watermarks are in place." ... "Yes, sir, you are welcome to come up here and see for yourself. But I assure you..." ... "Yes, sir. Good day to you, too, sir." Gingerly, he put down the phone and refused to look at the lady in his office.

But Mrs. Muir gasped, "What was that all about? What does a detective agency in Boston want with Bob's details?"

Claymore stole a glance at her. She looked utterly bewildered. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Muir," he mumbled.

"Claymore, what's this all about? What are those rumours? Do they have anything to do with Bob?" She was trembling, he noted. "What can the people here possibly be gossiping about Bob? They don't even know him!"

"That's the problem," Claymore muttered.

But she heard him. "What's the problem?"

He closed his eyes for a moment – he really didn't want to have to be the one to tell her this, but there seemed to be no way out. "Mrs. Muir..." A deep breath for courage. "Mrs. Muir, there are some very ugly rumours going around right now about you and your late... or not so late husband. It's..."

"Not so late?!" That was all Mrs. Muir reacted to.

"Yes." Claymore heaved a sigh. "Rumour has it that you're no widow at all... that your husband is a scoundrel and a drug courier and a thief and I know not what..." He couldn't bring himself to mention the most disturbing part. "And that he's awaiting his death sentence in some jail in Venezuela."

Mrs. Muir stared at him, struggling to digest the incomprehensible. Until at last she sank down on the visitor's bench, which fortunately for her was just where she needed it to be.

Claymore watched her anxiously. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Muir," he told her quietly.

She just shook her head, as if she hadn't heard him. "Preposterous," she breathed.

"Yes." Claymore hemmed and hummed a bit, not sure what else to say. If he should say something. Or do something. Could do something. She looked so desolate, so forlorn... But in the end he sat down at his desk, and fumbled around with his papers a bit. Perhaps it was best to simply leave her to herself for a moment.

When the clock struck three however, she suddenly jerked out of her trance. "I need to go and pick up the children!"

"Yes." But Claymore made it to the door before she did. "Mrs. Muir, if there is anything I can do, you'll let me know, won't you? Even if it's something as down-to-earth as... say three one-way tickets to Beijing."

She gave him the ghost of a smile. "Yes. Thank you, Claymore." And after a hesitation, "You're a good friend."

He unlocked the door for her, spied around to see if there was no one in sight, and then hastily pushed her out the door. "Goodbye, Mrs. Muir." It sounded like a farewell forever.

It was but a few minutes' walk to the schoolyard. But every child she met stared at her with huge eyes, and every parent she met made sure not to see her. It was awful.

Candy and Jonathan were waiting for her by the school gate. They didn't look happy either.

"Hi Mum," Jonathan said with a total lack of enthusiasm.

She pulled him close for a moment, lovingly ruffling his hair. And Candy got a caress and a kiss on her head. "Let's go home," was all she said.

They were already in the car when she suddenly remembered something. "Where is Linda?"

"She's not coming with us anymore," Candy replied in a sigh.

"Her Mum says she'll see to it herself from now on," Jonathan added in a morose tone.

Mrs. Muir swallowed. "I see." And she started the car, and in oppressive silence, the Muirs drove off.


By the time they reached Gull Cottage, Mrs. Muir wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to keep up the calm and collected charade. The kids were awfully slow in climbing out of the car, and dragged their feet up to the house while she got her purchases together to carry them inside. Under the sound of Martha's worried entreaties to the children she dumped them on the nearest table and made for the stairs. One more moment and...

"Mrs. Muir, would you like a nice cup of coffee? I made a fresh pot!"

"No, thank you, Martha," she choked out. "Just leave me alone for a while. I've got some work to finish."

She knew the children needed her right now. Her comfort, her strength. But she couldn't. Not yet. How could she give them what she didn't have herself? So instead, she closed the door of her room behind her with a decisive click, turned the key in the lock, and without even taking off her coat she threw herself onto the bed and cried as she hadn't cried since the day she moved out of the home she had shared with Bob.

Within an instant, the Captain appeared at her bedside. "Madam, what is wrong? Are you hurt, are you alright?" Worry and anxiety laced his gruff voice.

"No. Just go away," she brought out. Right now she couldn't handle having the man in whose strong arms she longed to seek refuge so near, in the knowledge that she'd not be able to. Never be able to. Neither he nor Bob would ever be able to give her the physical comfort and closeness she yearned for – ever again. She was alone. Alone. A widow at thirty-three, with nothing to give her solace but her own tears.

She wasn't sure if the Captain had indeed disappeared, but frankly, she didn't care. The pain was just too raw – as if Bob had just died all over again. It was unfathomable that these people, who had never even met him and – she was sure of that – didn't even know his name, were capable of fabricating such horrible slander about Bob. Her dear Bob. If it didn't hurt so much, it'd be laughable! Scoundrel, drug courier, thief, death sentence... He had had his death sentence: five years ago! Wasn't one death sentence enough?!

She moaned in agony. Oh Bob, why did you have to die...?


Downstairs, the Captain found the situation only marginally better. In the galley, Martha was peeling the potatoes with a puzzled frown, and in the living-room, Jonathan and Candy were hanging in front of the television without even the slightest indication of being entertained.

He turned off the apparatus with a flick of his finger and positioned himself in front of them. "Now what's this all about," he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. "This ship looks like a blasted funeral parlour. Did somebody die?"

Candy merely shrugged, and Jonathan sighed, "Well, I suppose somebody died somewhere today."

"But not anyone you know."

The two kids looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Then why this gloomy mood? Did something irreversible happen at school today?"

"Sort of." Candy shrugged with a fatalistic air.

"What then? Speak up, girl!"

But Jonathan cut in, curious and hesitant at the same time. "Captain, are you a pansy?"

The boy shrank back under the instant fury that glared down on him. "I most certainly am not!"

Jonathan gulped. "Then what is a pansy?"

"A pansy is..." The Captain felt the colour rising to his cheeks, and quickly cleared his throat. "What's that got to do with it?"

"Well, you see..." Candy fumbled with the hem of her dress. "The kids at school aren't allowed to play with us anymore. Their parents say that our Dad is a criminal."

"Yeah. And a pansy," Jonathan added.

Candy nodded. "And they say we'd be a bad influence on other children. Even the teachers are acting strange. And we think it might have something to do with that essay I wrote last week, even though I never wrote anything about pansies or criminals. But since I really wrote about you, we thought perhaps you were the..."

"Pansy," the Captain filled in. He was beginning to get the picture.

"Yes," Candy confirmed. "So what exactly is a pansy, if not a flower?"

The Captain scratched his ear. "You know," he hesitated, "I think you two are a wee bit young to know about such things. Let's just say it's not a very nice thing to say of other people, alright?"

Jonathan stared at him with his mouth open. "You mean you don't know either?"

"Of course I know, blast!" was the gruff reply. "I just don't think it's something appropriate for you to know at your age. So I think I had better leave it to your mother to decide how and when to explain to you what a pansy is." He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace, clearly working up steam. "So the parents of your schoolmates are saying your Dad is a criminal, eh? And a pansy? Your mother's beloved husband and your father – a pansy?!" He grumbled, deep down in his throat. "Well, we'll see about that!"

He popped out of sight, and Candy let go of her breath. "He's boiling mad with them, isn't he..."

Jonathan grinned. "You just wait and see. He'll come up with something fancy to teach them a lesson!"


It took the Captain but a few minutes of listening in with the town's most notorious chatterboxes to get the full view of the extent of the slander the fair lady of his house was being subjected to. He could have strangled each and every one of them – if he'd had the physical substance for it, that is. But since he didn't...

That night went into the annals of meteorology as the Doom of Schooner Bay. It was a unique, one-off phenomenon, never before and never again witnessed. Scientists were baffled by the enigma, and the only analogy anyone (e.g. the newspapers) could come up with, was the biblical punishment of Sodom and Gomorra.

Out of nowhere, in a bright blue afternoon sky, a black cloud had formed. It had quickly spread itself, and within minutes, a true deluge from heaven had come over the small fisherman's town of Schooner Bay. And only over Schooner Bay – the curtain of rain ended promptly a mere fifty meters outside the built-up area.

And as the rain kept coming down with the volume of the Niagara, turning the streets into wild rivers and flooding cellars and dens, an uninterrupted barrage of lightning bolts crackled and thundered over the town, striking – oddly enough – only trees, electricity poles and deserted sheds. And fear in people's hearts.

And if that wasn't enough, a storm with windspeeds of over twohundred miles per hour swept the town, hurtling about everything that wasn't extremely securely fastened, as well as wreaking havoc in the harbour.

And all that only on the few square miles of the town of Schooner Bay, for the monsterstorm didn't move an inch from its target all night – Gull Cottage on Gregg's Road for example didn't get as much as a drop or a breath.

And back at the house, Candy and Jonathan watched the fascinating fury of nature from the side window. And Jonathan nudged his sister, and yelled over the crackling of the thunder, "I told you the Captain would avenge us!"