The Music of the Deep: A Novel

by Elizabeth Hall

  She sat, dumbfounded. “Where did you get that?”

  “This?” He held it up slightly, the end tipped vaguely toward her head.

  She flinched.

  “I’ve had it for years. I’m out in the field a lot, you know. A man can run into all kinds of trouble out in the wild—snakes, coyotes. Once I surprised a mountain lion, taking a drink at a creek on a windy afternoon.” He held the gun up in front of him, pretending to site into the trees. “Comes in handy.”

  They sat for a few moments, neither of them saying a word. Another car pulled up into the lot, and two women got out. Daniel shifted the gun lower in his lap. They watched the two women in windbreakers, one a rusty orange and the other a bright green, colors that flashed loudly against the winter landscape of gray and brown and gold.

  He turned toward her again. “Your mother walks down here, doesn’t she? Since the path is so close to her house?”

  Alex went completely rigid.

  “I could swear I’ve heard her talk about it. All the birds she sees out here. She usually wears those little binoculars, right? The ones you gave her a few years ago.”

  Alex felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach; she could not take a breath.

  “Flickers. Pileated woodpeckers. Red-tailed hawks.” He examined the sky outside the windshield. “I have been listening, Alex. I have been paying attention. She walks here every day. Through those reeds.” He raised his nose toward the bank of reeds that obscured the path ahead, the reeds that had swallowed the two women in bright jackets. “I’ve noticed a whole lot more than you think I have.”

  Daniel held the gun up in front of his face and blew lightly on the barrel. “Looks good.” He smiled. He wrapped it in cloth and put the gun underneath his seat, flipped open the console and returned the rag to its original location.

  He turned his attention to his own window, looking out the side, away from Alex. “You’re my wife, Alex. Things have been rough, I know. But you’re my wife. And it’s time for you to come home now.”

  For years, she had not let herself think about those things, had even managed to bury them so deeply that she could pretend that none of it had ever happened. Now here they were, coming back to haunt her. Coming back to invade her thoughts and her dreams like weeds in a garden.

  Alex heard a sound at the front window, and it pulled her out of that awful memory. The sound was like fingernails on glass, a scratching, squeaking sort of sound. She stood and walked to the front window. It was dark outside; the cemetery a few yards away only visible in tiny snippets.

  There it was again, the squeak of something on the windowpane. A branch moved back and forth in the breeze. It was a rosebush, not quite completely devoid of leaves. The wind pushed the branch; the thorns scratched at the glass. One drop of moisture hit the windowpane, sliding down slowly. Alex shivered. In the darkness, it almost looked like blood.

  Cold air brushed against her arms, and Alex ran her hands up and down. She turned back to the room, back to her wheel. It wasn’t until she was sitting down, about to start spinning again, that it hit her.

  She could smell roses. On a dark December night, in the dead of winter, it almost smelled like she was in a rose garden.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Mama? There’s a man outside with his dog.” Four-year-old Robin stood inside the screen door of the cottage, looking out into the day.

  Emmie stood at the kitchen counter, kneading a loaf of bread dough. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved out to the front porch. The man was wearing a hat, pulled low on his head, and had just finished knocking on the Taylors’ front door. He turned and headed back to his truck.

  “Can I help you?” Emmie called out.

  He looked up at her, his eyes shadowed under the hat, and walked over to the bottom of her porch steps. “Do you know when the Taylors will be back?” he asked.

  “They went for supplies. Couple hours, probably.” Emmie looked at the man’s truck. A dog sat in the front seat, looking for all the world like it was ready to drive off as soon as its master returned. “Did you want me to take a look at your dog?”

  The man shrugged and murmured, “You can if you want to, I guess.” He opened the door of the truck, and the dog bounded out, heading straight for Emmie, who still stood on the porch. The dog stopped at the top of the steps, just next to her feet, and sat down, looking at her expectantly. His tail swished back and forth.

  Emmie looked carefully at the dog, letting her eyes take in everything about him. She bent down and put a hand on the dog’s head. She could see nothing amiss. “What’s wrong with him?” She raised her eyes to the man standing at the foot of her steps.

  He took a breath. “Well, he gets a bit surly if I try to take a bone away from him. Only listens to orders when they’re in agreement with his own plans.” He looked up at Emmie again, his dark eyes dancing. “And he’s a terror for passing gas in the evening. Sometimes gets so bad even he has to relocate.”

  Emmie laughed. “That’s it? You’re not here so that I can fix your dog?”

  The man smiled. “If you can fix that passing-gas thing, I’d be grateful. But no. I’m here to see my Aunt Kate.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Name’s Finch.”

  “Emmie.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Emmie felt her face flush.

  Robin had come out on the porch and she patted the dog, which promptly cleared her face of any remaining breakfast odors. She stood up and stared at the pickup truck in the driveway, a canoe perched on top. The girl folded herself in half, hanging her head upside down to get a better view. Her dark curls fell around her face like a messy curtain as she righted herself. “Is that your orca boat?” she asked, indicating the carved and painted orcas on the front and back of the canoe, currently upside down on top of the truck.

  “It is,” Finch replied.

  “Can I go for a ride?” The child turned to look at her mother. “Mama, can I go for a ride in the orca boat?”

  “Robin, this man isn’t here . . .” Emmie could not finish her sentence.

  “It appears that I do have a little time on my hands. Since my Aunt Kate isn’t home.” He raised his eyes and met Emmie’s again. “I guess we would have to check with your mom and dad.”

  Robin looked up at him. “My daddy died.”

  Finch dropped to his knee, and addressed the child in front of him. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He touched Robin’s curly dark hair, rubbing it between two fingers. “That’s some pretty hair you got there.”

  Robin sucked in her bottom lip. “Yep. I know.”

  Emmie put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Say ‘thank you,’ Robin.”

  “Thank you, Robin,” the girl murmured.

  Finch smiled. “I would love to take you out on the orca boat. But only if it’s okay with your mom.” He stood and met Emmie’s eyes again. “And only if your mom comes, too. I don’t think we can handle that canoe, just the two of us.”

  Robin took Emmie’s hand and started jumping up and down. “Can we, Mama? Can we? I wanna go in the orca boat.”

  The canoe sliced through the water in almost perfect silence. Morning mist, the color of a pearl, hung low over the water and kissed their faces with dew. Emmie sat in front, facing backward, so that she could watch the waters behind this man with the dark eyes. Finch sat in the stern, rowing rhythmically, using the excuse of navigation to cast several long looks at Emmie. Robin sat in the middle, wearing a bright yellow life vest, the dog sitting right next to her. She and Jack had already become best friends.

  It was as if they were inside a magic spell, gliding over the water effortlessly, the soft lap of the waves the only sound. Mist curled and twisted like smoke, sometimes revealing tall pines along the shoreline.

  They cut through the waters of Haro Strait, staying close to shore. The canoe was cedar, not more than twenty feet long, and the carvings on the front and back were of orcas, coming up out of the wood as if they were coming up
out of the water.

  “This is a beautiful canoe,” Emmie said, rubbing her hand along the smooth finish of the wood. “Where did you find it?”

  He looked at her from under his canvas hat. “I made it.”

  Emmie sat back. “You made it?”

  He watched the water around them, focusing on the steady rhythm of moving them through the mist. “I’m a fisheries biologist. Went to work for the Samish Tribe, as soon as I graduated from U Dub. They’ve been making canoes like this for . . . forever, I guess. And I was lucky enough to get to watch. When I mentioned that I wanted to try it myself, they smiled and nodded. Watched me make just about every mistake known to man. And then they stepped up and taught me how to do it right.”

  He moved them along the edge of the island, and Emmie felt the peacefulness of the sea on a still morning, the water around them like beautiful antique glass.

  “The Samish—most of the tribes around here—make some huge canoes, a hundred feet long or more. Use them for racing, for fishing. Beautiful handwork. And some of their canoes have been in the families for years—a hundred years or more. This baby,” Finch said, indicating the orca boat, “is four years old.”

  “The same as me,” Robin bubbled.

  “Do you race in this?” Emmie asked him.

  Finch shook his head. “I fish. For salmon.”

  “Isn’t this a little . . . I don’t know . . . unsteady? For fishing?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted, just barely. “Can be. Depends on what you hook.” He stopped paddling and let the boat drift slowly in the calm waters. He looked directly at Emmie, and she blushed under his gaze.

  “It’s quiet. No engine noise, no oil and smoke. No messing with a motor when you’re cold and wet and ready to go home. I’m not dumping any chemicals in the water. And it’s peaceful. Most peaceful place I’ve found. I can almost feel like I’m part of the water. Part of all the life out here.”

  His words hung in the air like poetry, like some magic spell. Emmie had to force herself to look at something besides Finch’s dark eyes.

  “When I was growing up, all my friends and I would try to find boats that made the most noise, the fastest speed across the water. We weren’t listening to anything; all we wanted was to beat everyone else. And we didn’t care if what we were doing might be hurting the life in the water. Didn’t care if we were polluting the water. We didn’t think about anything . . . except our own fun.

  “And then I went to work for the tribe. I saw them doing things in a different way. Slower. Quieter. They respect all life, not just their own. Not just human life. They think about the consequences of every action they take. About how it will affect everything around them, now and in the future.”

  His eyes were mostly hidden under his hat, and Emmie felt a small shiver on her spine. It was quiet. They heard the call of an eagle, and Emmie and Finch both looked up, catching the bird circling over their heads.

  “Sometimes, I come out here in the quiet and fish for salmon. Same as the orcas,” he added, looking at Robin. “Except that I don’t need as many as they do. One or two will last me for quite a while.”

  “Have you seen the orcas?” Robin had a hard time sitting still in the bottom of the canoe. The dog put a paw on her leg, as if trying to hold her down.

  “A few times. We like to fish the same spots.”

  “Can I see an orca? Can you make them come up?” she asked.

  He smiled again. “I wish I knew the secret, but I don’t. They’ll come and see us if they want to.”

  “I bet I know how to make them come up,” Robin said, leaning to one side and dipping her hand in the water. She started singing, a boisterous version of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” a song she had heard on the radio for months now. She had made it her own and sang it every time she was outside in the rain, an almost daily occurrence. She finished one verse and started another.

  And suddenly, not thirty feet from the canoe, one orca popped up in a spy-hop, holding his head above the water to examine the origin of the sounds.

  “There he is! Look! Look! There’s an orca!” Robin was so excited she bounced, rocking the boat as she leaned and pointed, and Finch put his oar in the water in an effort to counterbalance her motions.

  That orca went back down, but around them now there was a group of about ten, making their rhythmic dance to the surface, blowing out the old air into the morning mist, and grabbing more before submerging again.

  “Ooh, they have stinky breath,” Robin said, wrinkling her nose.

  Finch smiled. “Fish breath, huh?”

  They could hear the clicks and pops and screeches, the way the orcas talked to each other and checked out their surroundings. And right in front of their eyes, they watched one large male catch a salmon and share it with a smaller, younger orca.

  They all stared into the water as the orcas continued to fish for salmon not thirty yards away. “They share their meals. None of that ‘what’s mine is mine’ stuff with these blackfish. They always try to make sure that everyone in the family gets to eat.”

  The three people in the boat kept their eyes on the orcas moving around them.

  “We could learn a lot from them, if we were actually listening,” Finch said quietly. “They take care of each other. Travel in families. Stay together their whole lives, at least until the mother dies. Brothers and sisters, sometimes aunts and uncles and cousins around to help take care of the young ones. Pretty solid support system.”

  “I want to be an orca, Mama,” Robin whispered. “I want an orca family.”

  Finch smiled. “There is a story in the tribe about a young maiden, walking by the shore, gathering kelp. She was singing. And an orca popped up out of the water, just like that one did, so that he could see who it was that was making that beautiful sound.”

  Robin smiled.

  “He fell in love with the woman with the beautiful voice. And eventually, the maiden went to live with him in the sea. He married her.”

  Robin exhaled. “I like that story. I like the orca families.”

  They sat quietly, the water sloshing against the side of the boat, and watched as the orcas moved away, out into the deeper waters of the strait.

  “Those orcas have been around for a very long time. A lot longer than humans. The tribal people say that man is the youngest of all the creatures on the earth. And that we have the most to learn.”

  For the first time in her life, Emmie felt as if she were in the presence of someone who was as different as she was. Someone in love with the quiet, in love with nature. As if Finch were someone she had known for a very long time. Her breath grew steady and quiet, tuning in to this man at the other end of the boat.

  He rowed them back to shore. Robin leaned over the side of the boat, trailing her hand in the water. They could hear the songs of birds in the trees. When they reached the shallow water on the beach, Finch hopped over the side. He settled the boat in the water and reached in to lift Robin out. Jack jumped out beside the girl and started shaking furiously, making Robin laugh.

  Finch turned and held his hand out to Emmie. She slipped her hand into his and stood, the boat rocking slightly, as she stepped onto the beach. She could not meet his eyes, but with that one touch, Emmie knew her life would never be the same.

  NINETEEN

  Alex went back to him. She went back to the house she shared with Daniel. She slept in the same bed with him, just as she had for the past six years. Every morning, she came down the stairs and walked right over the spot where she had lain on her side, her blood and the blood of their child leaking out onto the floor.

  She had put all her hopes into that baby, as if that child held all the answers to everything that was wrong in Alex’s life. Everything that was wrong in her marriage to Daniel. She had let herself believe that the baby would solve everything, would magically change Daniel into the kind of husband that she wanted. The baby would give her life meaning, would give her somewhere to focus. />
  Now all she wanted to do was pull the covers over her head and lie in bed. She wished there was a way to just stop breathing, to just stop. To just send a message to her brain—that’s enough, no more. I can’t take anymore. She wished that somehow the brain would listen and would do as instructed, just shut down all those other systems—stop the heart from beating, stop the blood from flowing, stop the involuntary process of taking in air. Shut down. Shut off. She spent hours staring at a random spot in their bedroom. Everything blended together, melted into a pool of dirty snow water, all brown and slick and opaque with unbearable pain.

  If he had threatened her own life that day in the car, she might have said, “Go for it. Take your best shot.” By that point, she no longer cared if she lived or died; she had had enough of his rants and his angers and his threats and his insults. She had had enough of the punches. Enough of the blood.

  But Daniel had almost a sixth sense when it came to reading Alex. He knew better than to threaten her; he didn’t say that it was she who would suffer. A threat to her mother was worse than anything else she could imagine. She could not manage another loss in her life. Her mother was the only person she had left, the only person who loved her without any kind of agenda attached.

  There was no way she would leave him now, no way that she would take the chance that he might actually carry through on that horrible threat of shooting her mother while she was out walking. Alex lay on her side, feeling as if she had been sentenced to life in prison—the prison of marriage to Daniel Frazier.

  For weeks after that incident, she lay in bed beside him, not sleeping, staring into the dark corners of the room, unable to see anything but the endless universe of pain that was hers to endure.

  One night, she rolled onto her back. She could hear him beside her, his breathing deep and slow and regular. There was one brief interlude when his breath stopped. It lost its regular rhythm, arrested for just a few seconds before it continued again, a slight snore the only sign that anything had changed. She listened more carefully, her ears tuned to the rhythm of his breathing. For several moments, it was regular and deep, and then, once again, there was that pause, right before a raspy snore.