In the Shadow of Blackbirds Read online

  IN A CITY FILLED WITH

  THE DEAD AND DYING,

  WHILE A NIGHTMARISH

  WAR RAGES HALFWAY

  ACROSS THE WORLD,

  THE GRIEVING LOOK

  FOR ANSWERS IN

  PHOTOGRAPHS AND

  SÉANCES.

  IT’S 1918. SAN DIEGO.

  AND A GIRL WHO DOESN’T

  BELIEVE IN SPIRITS

  STEPS OFF THE TRAIN

  AND INTO A NEW LIFE . . .

  Image Credits

  Page vi: Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, LC-DIG-ds-01290; this page: Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, WWI Posters, LC-USZ62-8278; this page: National Media Museum / Science & Society Picture Library; this page: Wm. B. Becker Collection/PhotographyMuseum.com, © 2013 The American Photography Museum, Inc.; this page, this page, this page, and this page: Courtesy U.S. National Library of Medicine; this page: National Media Museum / Science & Society Picture Library; this page: National Archives (165-WW-269B-25)

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Winters, Cat.

  In the shadow of blackbirds / Cat Winters.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In San Diego in 1918, as deadly influenza and World War I take their toll, sixteen-year-old Mary Shelley Black watches desperate mourners flock to séances and spirit photographers for comfort and, despite her scientific leanings, must consider if ghosts are real when her first love, killed in battle, returns.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-0530-4

  [1. Spiritualism—Fiction. 2. Ghosts—Fiction. 3. Influenza Epidemic, 1918–1919—Fiction.

  4. World War, 1914–1918—Fiction. 5. San Diego (Calif.)—History—20th century—

  Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W76673In 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012039262

  Text copyright © 2013 Catherine Karp

  Book design by Maria T. Middleton

  Published in 2013 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  115 West 18th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  www.abramsbooks.com

  For Adam, Meggie, and Ethan,

  who patiently share me with my characters

  Contents

  1 A Year the Devil Designed

  2 Aunt Eva and the Spirits

  3 Mr. Muse

  4 The Mysterious Island

  5 A Transparent Figure

  6 The Buzz of Electricity

  7 Death

  8 The Expert

  9 Blue Smoke and Whispers

  10 The Butterfly and the Lightning Bolt

  11 Phantom

  12 Come Talk to the Spirits

  13 Ugly Things

  14 Stay Safe

  15 The Weight of Souls

  16 Of Rats and Crows

  17 Keep your Nightmares to Yourself

  18 The Pirate King

  19 A Bloodstained Sky

  20 Paul Spitz

  21 The Compass Phenomenon

  22 Living and Breathing

  23 The Cage

  24 Discoveries

  25 Cousin Gracie

  26 Soldier’s Heart

  27 The Darkest Hours

  28 Stephen’s Room

  29 Death, Again

  30 I Do Lose Ink

  31 Mary Shelley Black

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  • Portland, Oregon—October 16, 1918 •

  I STEPPED INSIDE THE RAILROAD CAR, AND THREE DOZEN pairs of eyes peered my way. Gauze masks concealed the passengers’ mouths and noses. The train smelled of my own mask’s cotton, boiling onions, and a whiff of something clammy and sour I took to be fear.

  Keep moving, I told myself.

  My legs shook and threatened to buckle, but I managed to clomp down the aisle in the brown Boy Scout boots I wore in case I ever needed to run at a moment’s notice. The heavy tread drew unwanted glances and at least one raised eyebrow, but nobody uttered a word.

  “Good morning,” I said to a woman with a puff of black poodle curls crowning her head.

  “Morning,” the woman grunted into her gauze.

  As I had hoped, all eyes soon lost interest in me and drifted back to their own concerns. I was merely a healthy-sounding sixteen-year-old girl in a navy-blue dress. I didn’t talk like a foreign spy, and I wasn’t sick with the flu. No harm there.

  Coal-colored traveling suits paired with fresh cotton masks gave the compartment a surreal black-and-white appearance, blurred slightly by the onion scent snaking in from the dining car. I imagined the cooks dicing up the pungent bulbs in a mad scramble to keep the flu from overtaking the train, their eyes watering, their foreheads dripping with sweat. I blinked away the sting of the air and took the sole empty seat, beside a woman of middle age and stout build, with thick arms and thicker eyebrows. An anti-influenza pouch reeking of medicine dangled from her neck, overpowering even the onions.

  “Hello.” She rubbed the pouch and looked me over. “I’m Mrs. Peters.”

  “I’m …” I hoisted my black leather bag onto my lap and answered with a shortened version of my name: “Mary.” The newspapers rustling around me more than likely carried an article about my father, and I envisioned a mention of me: Also present at the house during the arrest last night was Mr. Black’s daughter, Mary Shelley. The girl seems to have been named after the author of a certain horror novel with an extremely German-sounding title: Frankenstein.

  “Is that a doctor’s bag?” asked Mrs. Peters.

  “Yes.” I squeezed the handles tighter. “It was my mother’s.”

  “Your mother was a doctor?”

  “The best one around.”

  “I’m sorry she’s not on this train with us.” Mrs. Peters eyeballed the other passengers. “I don’t know what will happen if anyone collapses while we’re en route. No one will be able to save us.”

  “If we get sick, we’ll probably just get dumped off at the next stop.”

  She wrinkled her forehead and gasped. “What a highly unpleasant thing to say.”

  I shifted my knees away from her. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about the flu.”

  Mrs. Peters gasped again. “How can you not talk about it? We’re speaking through gauze masks, for heaven’s sake. We’re crammed together like helpless—”

  “Ma’am, please—stop talking about it. I’ve got enough other worries.”

  She scooted an inch away. “I hope you aren’t riddled with germs.”

  “I hope you aren’t, either.” I leaned back against the wood and tried to get comfortable, despite my surroundings and the nausea that had been haunting me ever since my father’s arrest. Images of government officials punching Dad in the gut and calling him a traitor flickered though my head like grotesque scenes on a movie screen.

  Steam hissed from all
sides of the car. The floor vibrated against my boots. My hands and knees trembled, and my teeth chattered with the frantic intensity of a Morse code distress signal: tap tap tap TAP TAP TAP tap tap tap.

  To escape, I undid my satchel’s metal clasp and pulled out a bundle of letters six inches thick, bound together by a blue hair ribbon with fraying edges. I slid a crisp cream-colored envelope out from the top of the pile, opened the flap, and lost myself in the letter.

  June 29, 1918

  My Dearest Mary Shelley,

  I arrived overseas four days ago. Our letters are censored, so I need to keep this message uneventful. The army will black out any phrases that indicate where I am, which makes me sound like an operative in a Sherlock Holmes novel. For example: I am in and soon we’ll be going to . Mysterious, no?

  I received your letter, and as much as seeing your words on paper sent my heart racing, I hated reading that my package never reached you. It should have arrived at your house nearly two months ago. I blame my brother. But I’ll write to my mother and see if she knows when and if it was sent.

  I also received your photograph. Thank you so much, Shell. That picture means the world to me. I look at your face all the time and still find it hard to believe that little Mary Shelley Black, my funny childhood friend and devoted letter-writing companion, grew up to be such a beauty. I would give anything to travel back in time to your visit in April and still be with you. If I close my eyes, I can almost taste your lips and feel your long brown hair brushing against my skin. I want so badly to hold you close again.

  Sometimes I can’t help imagining what would have happened if I hadn’t moved away at fourteen. What if my grandfather hadn’t died and my parents hadn’t rushed us down to live in his house on the island? Would you and I still be as close? Would we have grown more intimate … or drifted apart? Whatever the case, I feel robbed of your presence every day of my life.

  Never worry about me, Shell. I chose to be here, so anything that happens to me is my own fault. You told me in your letter you wished you could have stopped me from leaving for the war when we were together in April. I was determined to go, and you know better than anyone else I can be as stubborn as you sometimes.

  Write soon. Send me a book or two if you can.

  I miss you.

  Yours with all my love,

  Stephen

  A sneeze erupted in the seat in front of me.

  My eyes flew wide open, and Stephen’s letter fell to my lap. All heads whipped toward a skinny redheaded woman, who sneezed again. My lips parted to utter a taboo word—gesundheit—but I quickly clamped them together.

  “My wife has allergies!” said the woman’s companion, a man with thick, mashed-potato swirls of white hair. He scooted closer to his wife and tightened her mask. “It’s not the flu. Stop looking at her that way.”

  The watchful stares continued.

  At that moment, the train jerked into motion, knocking us all off balance. The whistle’s cry evaporated into the October mist. I tucked Stephen’s letter into my bag and gazed at the brick buildings passing by, followed by bursts of red and amber trees that offered small reminders of what I’d miss most about Portland. Autumn had always been my favorite season, with the smells of burning leaves and mulling spices and the arrival of bright orange pumpkins in my father’s grocery store.

  Rain soon drummed against the window.

  Everything outside turned to gray.

  Beside me Mrs. Peters knitted her furry eyebrows at the lady who had sneezed. “We’re all going to be dead by the time we get off this train, thanks to that woman.”

  I nearly replied that if we were dead, we wouldn’t be getting off the train, would we? But, again, I clamped my jaw shut—something that had never been easy for me.

  Everyone around me sat stone-still with straight backs, stinking of folk remedies. The stench of my neighbor’s medicine pouch and someone’s garlic-scented gum was strong enough for me to taste through the four-ply barrier of my mask. The wheels of the train click-clacked, click-clacked, click-clacked over the lack of conversation.

  Was I dreaming? Could it all just be a terrible, terrible nightmare that would end if I pried my eyes open? I dug my nails into my palms with high hopes of stirring myself out of sleep, but pain and half-moon marks emerged. I was wide awake.

  Surely, though, I must have stolen into the future and landed in an H. G. Wells–style world—a horrific, fantastical society in which people’s faces contained only eyes, millions of healthy young adults and children dropped dead from the flu, boys got transported out of the country to be blown to bits, and the government arrested citizens for speaking the wrong words. Such a place couldn’t be real. And it couldn’t be the United States of America, “the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  But it was.

  I was on a train in my own country, in a year the devil designed.

  1918.

  • San Diego, California—October 18, 1918 •

  AUNT EVA DIDN’T GREET ME ON THE RAILROAD PLATFORM when I arrived, which meant one of three things: she was running late, she hadn’t received my telegram, or she had been stricken by the flu. The third possibility made me shake with both dread and loneliness, so I refused to dwell on it.

  I slouched on a hard, uncomfortable bench in San Diego’s Santa Fe Depot and stared up at the white plaster arches that spanned the ceiling like rainbows leeched of color. Great wagon wheels that held electric bulbs also loomed above me, so heavy they required a battalion of metal chains to keep them fastened to the arches. Sea air breezed through the open entryway—a mixture of salt and fish smells that made my empty stomach growl. My back ached and my brain longed for sleep after traveling more than a thousand miles. All I could do was sit and wait.

  The posters hanging on the blue and gold mosaic walls had changed since my visit six months earlier. Back in April, signs in vivid red, white, and blue had screamed fear-inspiring slogans meant to rally us around the fight against the Germans:

  BEAT BACK THE HUN WITH LIBERTY BONDS!

  GIVE TILL IT HURTS—THEY GAVE TILL THEY DIED!

  ARE YOU 100% AMERICAN? PROVE IT!

  DON’T READ AMERICAN HISTORY—MAKE IT!

  I remembered Aunt Eva grumbling about “questionable taste” when she steered me past an illustration of a slobbering German gorilla clutching a golden-haired maiden with bare breasts. DESTROY THIS MAD BRUTE. ENLIST. U.S. ARMY! barked that particular poster.

  Aside from one navy recruitment notice, the propaganda signs were now gone, replaced by stark white warnings against coughing, sneezing, and spitting in public. The words INFLUENZA and EPIDEMIC watched over me from all directions in bold black letters—as if we all needed reminders we were living amid a plague.

  A half hour after Aunt Eva was supposed to fetch me, a new train arrived, and it was full of U.S. Army recruits on their way to Camp Kearny, on the northern outskirts of San Diego. After a great deal of fuss and shouted orders, officers in olive-green tunics and flared-hip pants marched through the station, accompanied by a silent herd of young men outfitted in flu masks and Sunday-best clothing. The boys were young—most of them not much older than eighteen, now that the draft age had dropped from twenty-one. Some of them saw me, and their eyes lit up above their gauze, even though I must have looked like a sack of potatoes slumped there on the bench and wearing my ugly mask.

  “Hello, dollface,” said a burly one with light brown hair.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” cooed a scrawny one in black trousers too long for his legs. “Got a kiss for a soldier?”

  Others whistled until the officers snapped at them and told them to remember they were respectable members of the U.S. Army.

  I felt neither flattered nor offended by the boys’ attention. Mainly, they reminded me of the way Stephen had looked the last time I saw him, with that strange mixture of bravery and terror in his brown eyes.

  Through the windows, I watched the boys proceed to a line of green military tr
ucks that waited, rumbling, alongside the curb. The recruits climbed one by one beneath the vehicles’ canvas coverings with the precision of shiny bullets being loaded into a gun. The trucks would cart them off to their training camp, which was no doubt overrun with feverish, shivering flu victims. The boys who didn’t fall ill would learn how to kill other young men who were probably arriving at a German train station in their Sunday-best clothing at that very moment.

  Don’t think like that, I scolded myself. That’s why they took Dad away. You can’t afford to think like him.

  I curled up my legs on the bench and leaned my head against my mother’s black bag. The depot grew empty and silent around me, save for the high-pitched wail of an ambulance screaming through the city streets.

  I let myself doze.

  A hazy dream about Dad cooking up a soup that smelled like San Diego tuna canneries flitted through my brain, and then I heard Aunt Eva call my name. I opened my eyes and saw a short youngish man in gray work clothes tromping across the tiles in grease-stained boots. No Aunt Eva. Her voice must have been part of my dream.

  My eyes drifted shut, but again someone said, “Mary Shelley.”

  I propped myself up on my elbows and blinked away my grogginess. The short man approached me with steps that echoed across the empty depot. He wore a familiar pair of bottle-cap glasses above his flu mask. Short blond hair peeked out from beneath his cap.

  I jumped to my feet. “Aunt Eva?”

  “I’m sorry I’m so late. They wouldn’t let me leave as early as I hoped.” She stopped a few feet away from me and wiped her grubby hands on her trousers. “I’m not going to hug you, because I’m filthy. Plus you’ve been crammed together with all those people on the train. As soon as we get you home, we’ll put you in a boiling bath to scrub any flu germs off you.”

  “What are you doing dressed like that?”

  “What? Didn’t I tell you I’ve been working in the shipyard since Wilfred died?”