A Tear in the Ocean

by H. M. Bouwman

  But when Rayel jogged to walk alongside her, her mom said, “You don’t need to hover. Just keep up. Behind me.”

  She fell back again, but not too far.

  When they finally reached the house, their housekeeper—it was a big house, being the king’s residence and the place where most government meetings were held—opened the door and said, “Dinner—”

  “You may leave now,” said Rayel’s mother. “We want some time alone, as a family.”

  The housekeeper nodded sharply, her lips tight. She had loved Solomon, too. Rayel put her hand on the woman’s shoulder as she walked into the house and the housekeeper walked out.

  Rayel’s father sat in the study as always. And suddenly it felt weirdly like a normal day, except that Solomon wasn’t there. Rayel tried to pretend, just for a few minutes as her parents murmured to each other, that Solomon was playing boats with his friends down at the docks and would be back for dinner. But the heavy rock wouldn’t leave her chest.

  Her father held an open book full of drawings of plants and birds. He was replying to something his wife had said. “Do we need to do this now?” Even as he asked, he found his bookmark and closed the volume. His head was uncovered already and he was back in his usual pants and shirt, his dress robe hanging on a hook behind his desk. Rayel’s father had a well-trimmed dark beard, but the hair on his head had long since departed. In the dim study, his bald pate glimmered in the lamplight so that he looked like he wore a glowing crown. Whenever she pictured her father in her mind, this is what Rayel saw: night after night, a man alone in his study with a crown of light on his head. Day after day, a bright head turned away toward the horizon and the sky.

  Rayel’s mother eased herself into a comfortable chair and propped up her feet, sighing. “This child better come soon,” she said conversationally. Her stomach rippled with movement as if the baby were agreeing. “And yes, we do need to do it now.”

  Both parents turned to look expectantly at Rayel, like they thought she was going to speak. But she didn’t know what she was supposed to say. And she didn’t like being stared at; usually people ignored her, usually she sat quietly in a corner, except when Solomon—

  “We need to talk,” said her mother. “Your father has some exciting news for you.”

  Rayel stood in the middle of the room, waiting.

  The Raft King crossed and recrossed his feet, reached for his book and then stopped, as if realizing the book wouldn’t help him now. “You are growing up,” he said.

  “Oh, for the sake of the sky and all the heavens,” said Rayel’s mother. “We’ve arranged your marriage. It’ll happen next week.”

  “My what?” She must have heard wrong. Not that marriages weren’t arranged; the best ones were—agreed upon by the parents and the child, the spouse chosen carefully with personalities and histories and values and ambitions in mind. But that a marriage had been arranged for her—without her interest and consent, and with her almost a decade younger than when people usually got married. She couldn’t have heard right.

  Her dad cleared his throat. “Your mother said you wanted—”

  “You want to be married,” said her mother. As if she’d ever said such a thing. “And you want this wedding to happen right away.”

  “Who . . . ,” said Rayel. She couldn’t figure out how to finish the sentence. This wasn’t the way marriages were supposed to be arranged.

  “Well, Cathuu, of course.” Her father, smiling, sounded surprised that she didn’t know. “Exactly who your mother says you want to marry.” He shook his head at her. “I can’t believe you didn’t guess.”

  “Must be the stress of the day,” said her mother.

  “I don’t . . . understand,” said Rayel.

  “Marriage!” said her mother, with a light bell of a laugh. “Sweetheart, rub my swollen feet.”

  The Raft King scooted his chair closer to his wife’s footstool and massaged gently. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “This baby is jittery today,” said Rayel’s mother. But she sounded happy.

  How could she be happy, with Solomon dead? How could anyone be happy again?

  “I don’t want to get married,” Rayel said.

  Both parents looked up in surprise, as if they’d forgotten she was there.

  “I’m . . . too young.”

  “Ray-elle,” said her mother.

  Rayel was in trouble. She could tell by the emphasis.

  Rayel’s mother leaned back in her chair to look up at her daughter. “You should be happy that someone so handsome and charming and talented wants to marry someone like you.”

  “He’s twice my age!”

  “He’s your father’s smartest advisor. And he’s interested in you. You, of all people. I mean, he could have just about anyone.” Her eyes raked down Rayel’s body and back up again. “Cathuu wants to marry right away.”

  “No use waiting if you’re both in love,” said Rayel’s father. He sounded like he actually believed what he was saying. Why would her mother have told him that? And why would Cathuu have agreed? Surely her father must have spoken to Cathuu about the marriage—a man who had never shown any interest in Rayel at all, ever. A man whose glance had always darted away from her as if she pained his eyes.

  “This will be a good union for the country,” Rayel’s mother said. She reached for a bottle of lotion and handed it to her husband, who uncorked it and rubbed it into her heels and arches. “Cathuu is a good manager, invaluable to your father. Someday he’ll help the next king rule, too. That kind of continuity is good for the country.”

  Rayel’s mother’s voice turned serious, her hand resting on her belly. “There is something else, Rayel. Something that is a little more painful to say, but you might as well hear it and grow from it. You did not behave . . . appropriately . . . with Solomon. You tried to turn him into your pet, your shadow. In truth,” she said as Rayel gaped at her, “you tried to steal his love from me. From his mother. It didn’t work, you know.” She was sniffing now, her eyes welling with unshed tears. “But I won’t let you do that with this new baby. You need to get into your own house, with your own husband. And you need to do it right away, before this baby is born.”

  And then Rayel understood the real reason her mother was sending her away: so that the new baby couldn’t reach for her the way Solomon did. Couldn’t love her.

  She’d never asked Solomon to love her best of all. She simply loved him with her whole heart, and he loved her back.

  “So,” said the Raft King. “The wedding will be next week. Aren’t you excited? Something to take your mind off . . . all the tragedy lately.”

  “It’ll have to be a quiet ceremony,” said Rayel’s mother. “With the country still in mourning—and me so pregnant. A small wedding. You’ll wear red.” Red was a favorite of Rayel’s mother, as it brought out the bright tones in her skin. “And we’ll twist your hair up and around your head, like a crown.” That was a good look on Rayel’s mother, with her perfectly formed head and long neck.

  Rayel turned and left the room.

  As she walked down the hall to her bedroom, she could hear them talking. “You said she wanted to get married,” her dad said.

  “Too many emotions today,” said her mother. “She’s thrilled—or she will be when she thinks about it. It’s a far better match than she has a right to hope for.”

  * * *

  • • •

  LATER THAT NIGHT Rayel stood outside Cathuu’s house. She’d walked clear across Raftworld in the dark, scooting into quiet gardens when she heard anyone approaching. She didn’t want to be seen spying on her fiancé.

  But she needed to spy. What in the world was going on? Why would Cathuu be interested in her?

  The light was on inside Cathuu’s house. His front window, covered with a bright orange curtain, glowed like a fire. On the path out
side the garden, Rayel lifted the latch—her fiancé was one of the few people on Raftworld with a gate that closed and latched—and stepped quietly inside, clapping her hand over the bells that were set to ring upon the gate being opened.

  Her fiancé. What a strange word. What a strange idea. If it weren’t so hideous, it would be funny.

  She considered knocking at his door and asking him why he wanted to marry her when he couldn’t even look at her. But when she neared the front door, she heard voices. Two men talking and laughing. She heard her name. Rayel.

  She froze and listened.

  The words floated out the orange window. Cathuu was talking to another man—she couldn’t tell whom.

  Cathuu said, “Yes, I really do plan to marry her. In all her . . . beauty.” Both men laughed. Cathuu had a rich baritone voice, and on the curtain Rayel could see his shadow moving across the room. He was built more like a rower than a politician, but that was part of what people liked about him: his look of belonging to Raftworld. Powerful. The shadow on the curtain outlined his broad shoulders and thick neck, his head wide and flattened a little on top, like he’d battered things down with it. She could not see his face but she knew it well: the straight white teeth, the ready grin, the chiseled features.

  She did not like him.

  He’d never been kind to Solomon. Or to her.

  “Congratulations, then,” the other man said. There was a pause while their shadows shook hands. “May I ask why?”

  Cathuu laughed. “Do you have to ask?”

  “She’s not next in line. I mean, technically she is, but the king had already named Solomon to succeed—and now, surely, he’ll name the next child. The king and—especially—his wife have always made it clear that Rayel isn’t meant to rule. They’ve never prepared her in any way.”

  Rayel’s fiancé grunted. “True. But the Raft King is sickly, and has been for a long time. If he dies soon, the throne won’t go to a baby. Not when there’s a perfectly good son-in-law with all the correct experience—and the popularity—to step in and take charge.”

  “I see,” said the other man. And it sounded like he did see.

  Rayel did, too.

  “My wife would be next in line. And—since she’s so slow and . . . so unlike a leader—that means I’d be in charge. I mean, does she have the looks to be a king? And the personality?”

  The other man laughed. “Does our own king have the personality? He should have been a bird-watcher.”

  “Even so, he is king.”

  “True. I see your point, though: she can’t be king. But—what if the king doesn’t die?”

  “I think he will.”

  There was a long pause. Long.

  Then the other man laughed again. “Do you mean . . . ?” He sounded admiring.

  “I simply mean he’s a sick old man. Who knows what illness might befall him?” A slight pause now, and then a cheery poof of air, as if her fiancé was blowing out his lips. His shadow shrugged. “If he lives—well, then I’m still his advisor. Nothing lost.” Rayel could hear her fiancé’s grin; it infected his voice with a thick stickiness, like old honey. “When I marry the daughter, my position is secure forever. Advisor for life. Or king. Now, let’s talk business.”

  The men’s discussion turned to other things—houses being added on one end of the raft—and Rayel backed slowly away from the window, turning at the end of the garden to slide the latch carefully upward and slip out of the yard unheard.

  She was not shocked to hear herself described as not a leader—she knew that was what many people thought of her. It was obvious to her—had been, all her life—that ugly people were seen as stupid, untalented. She’d become very good, in response, at hiding her thoughts from people and keeping her face blank in public. Let them think what they wanted. Solomon knew the truth.

  Nor was she shocked to hear that her fiancé wasn’t in love with her; that was what she’d gone to his house to find out, after all. And it was almost a relief to hear a logical reason for why he wanted to marry her: so that he could keep the power he had now—and maybe even get more power. Rayel reflected that if she had power, she might want to keep it, too. She could hardly blame him for that.

  No, what shocked her was the fact that her fiancé had called her father sickly. He wasn’t sickly. Her father had never even had a cold that she could remember, not in her entire life. And that long pause. The Do you mean . . . ? from Cathuu’s companion.

  Her father spent most of his time on the edge of Raftworld, watching birds, or at home with his books, content to let Cathuu attend his meetings and inspect the raft and take charge of public appearances. What if his advisor took advantage of that fact to suggest the king was sick? What if he then made the king sick?

  Cathuu was, at the least, hoping for the king’s death. But what it really sounded like was that he was plotting it.

  If he was married to Rayel, and the king suddenly died, it would probably mean that Cathuu would become the next king.

  3

  ARTIE, 1949. THE PRESENT AGAIN.

  ARTIE SQUINTED to see the musicians, but didn’t move closer, staying just outside the light of the bonfire. She had been listening to music off and on for two days and nights—mostly nights. Listening might be too weak a word: she’d been inhaling music, breathing it in and living on it. She’d meant to leave the Island right away, as soon as she got north and nicked a boat—to sail off and never be seen or heard from again—but the music had grabbed her and wouldn’t let her go.

  It wasn’t so much the Island songs, though she loved those. Even here in the northern capital, the tunes weren’t that much different from what she’d grown up with in the south. A little faster tempo, and maybe a little sharper-toned. But familiar.

  No, it was the Raftworld music that hooked her and pulled her in, warm and rich and multilayered, sung to a double-stringed guitar she’d never seen before, often with soft hand-drums that sounded like light waves slapping against the bottom of a boat. Island music was usually danceable; Raftworld music, on the other hand, made her want to sway. She wondered what the guitar would feel like in her hands and how it might sweeten as she strummed it and got to know it.

  She was careful, always, not to be seen. She hid in the shadows, not wanting to be noticed or remembered. In spite of the warm weather, Artie wore all her clothing: her leggings and tunic, her luck pouch, her warm jacket, even her ratty arm-warmers. She didn’t own shoes, or she would have worn them, too. Carrying everything she owned on her back—and her jackknife in her pocket—saved her having to find a storage spot to hide her things in. It also meant that her scarred arms and shoulders were covered. Her face she couldn’t help; the bruise, tender on her cheek, was probably noticeable, but only if someone actually looked at her, and no one did.

  She’d hiked north into the most important party in the past decade: Raftworld had arrived to the Islands, and for a week or more, the trading and festivities would continue. For Artie, the timing of the Raftworld visit felt almost magical.

  Things had been bad at home for a long time now. Artie’s mother, when she was alive, protected Artie from her stepdad when he got mad—sending her out to play or fish or just go away for a while. Sometimes Artie’s mom could get her husband to calm down. Sometimes that didn’t work, and he would hit her. Artie could tell when she got back from wherever she’d been sent to, and her mom had bruises from “falling down” or “bumping into something.”

  When Artie’s mom died—after a short but brutal illness, coughing and weak in her bed—Artie’s stepdad got worse. Or maybe it was just that now all his anger was aimed at Artie, and she had no one to protect her. She didn’t go to school—he said it was too long a walk—and he kept her away from kids her age and from other adults, except when he was around. He controlled everything. If she burned supper, or lost a fish from the net while pulling it in—or even if sh
e hadn’t done anything wrong, but he’d just had a bad day—his fists came out, or his open hand for a slap.

  There was no reason to stay. As her stepfather reminded her when no one else was around, she was just a lodger now. Not his real kid, and not someone he’d asked to raise. She came up with a plan the week her mom died: when she was a little more grown, she’d build her own cabin at the other end of the village and live on her own.

  But over time, it became clear to her that the other side of the village wasn’t far enough away. And three nights ago, her life had shifted again. Her stepfather had gone to a bonfire with friends—fellow fishermen—and had come home staggering and muttering. And he’d lurched into the house and hadn’t hit her—

  She shook herself violently and took a deep, slow breath. She wasn’t going to think about it—about him—anymore. That night, after he had fallen to the floor in a deep, disheveled sleep, she had put on all her clothes, stolen a small knife and a little food, and escaped. She was never, ever going to go back. She’d live by herself starting now. A little cabin far away.

  That night she started walking. Her stepfather might try to follow her, but he wouldn’t find her. She’d make sure of that. First: north, to the big city, where it would be easy to hide. Then she’d figure the rest out.

  And she’d stayed hidden, easily, for the whole first day after she reached Baytown. She finished her stolen food, and she sat in the woods outside town and thought. What was her plan now? Where could she go where she’d never be bothered?

  Raftworld arrived that day, and the party started: trading of goods and stories and news. And songs.

  The music carried into the forest.

  Oh, the songs. That first night after she arrived, when people started singing, she couldn’t—she just couldn’t—stay away. She had to see as well as hear—and she had to hear clearly. She had to know how they created that music. She knew all the Island ballads and, in private, sometimes made up songs and sang them to herself, but she’d never heard any like these Raftworld songs. The scale was even different.