The Music of the Deep: A Novel

by Elizabeth Hall

“Well, they are the people in the know.” Caroline picked up her knitting needles again, still studying the stitches for clues.

  David leaned forward, his voice dropping a notch. “I don’t need a corroborating witness. I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. Heard it with my own ears.”

  All spinning and knitting stopped, waiting for him to continue.

  “Ryan Collins and his wife had a hell bender of a fight this morning, about five a.m. She threw all his clothes out in the yard, right in the middle of the rain. Said she had it on good authority that he was a lying, cheating, no-good scum bastard of a man.” He sat back for a moment and shook his head. “The words that woman used. You’d almost think she was learning to spin.”

  Caroline’s face flamed with color. Her arms dropped to her lap, her knitting now a pile of sticks and string. She made a sound, something similar to a balloon with a slow leak.

  David looked at her. “You’re looking a little flushed there, Caroline. Caffeine-induced hot flash?”

  Her voice continued to make tiny squeaking sounds, but she did not speak.

  “Alcohol-induced hot flash?” David’s shoulders dropped. “Oh . . . oh, Caroline. No. Oh, Caroline.” He shook his head several times. “When are you going to learn to leave the married ones alone?”

  Caroline shook her head back and forth and slumped forward, dropping her forehead into her hand. “But there aren’t any single ones. I never expected them to break up. It’s not like I’m in the market for a husband or something. I just wanted a little fun, you know?” She leaned back in the chair and took a deep breath. “I hadn’t had a date with anyone but Bob for almost a year.”

  “Bob?” Grace asked, her hand on her stopped wheel.

  David turned to look at Grace, lowering his glasses and looking over the top, as if considering whether or not she could handle this information. “Battery operated boy,” he murmured.

  Grace stared at him.

  “Required equipment for single ladies. Kind of like a blow dryer.”

  Grace sat back, slightly stunned. “Oh.” Her face turned coral-colored with the dawn of understanding.

  David sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. “Oh, you heterosexuals. I swear.” He picked up his spinning and then shot Caroline another look. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I did hear her say that he could just go live with that ‘Becky with the Good Hair.’” David lowered his glasses and examined Caroline’s messy bun. “Clearly, she doesn’t know it’s you.”

  All eyes turned to look at Caroline, sporting that same Pebbles Flintstone messy bun on top of her head.

  David leaned toward her. “What is that in your hair today, Caroline? A chicken bone?”

  Caroline slumped back against her chair. “Turkey. The wishbone. From Christmas. Completely washed and dried, I’ll have you know. Aren’t wishbones supposed to bring you good luck or something?”

  “You’re supposed to break the wishbone, Caroline. Not wear it,” Grace chided.

  “Hmm.” David pursed his lips. “Is that your perfume of choice, then? Dead animal? Eau d’ewww.”

  Caroline gave him a dirty look.

  David laughed until tears ran from his eyes. “Next time, why don’t you try sheep carcass. We could call it eau d’ewe. Perfect for a spinster, don’t you think?”

  Caroline scowled. “Very funny. Don’t knock it. Seems to be working.”

  David exploded with laughter. “Yes, I can see that. If you’re in the market for a vulture. Or Ryan Collins, who needs instruction from YouTube to tie his shoes. And comes with a WIFE.”

  “He doesn’t need any instruction in the things that really matter.” Caroline sighed. She shook her head. “Now what am I going to do? I sure as hell don’t want to live with him.”

  David sat back. “Well, that would definitely put an end to the sex. You will have wasted all that money.” He picked up the large box of condoms and shook it back and forth.

  Caroline leaned forward and grabbed it.

  “Don’t worry.” David picked up his spinning and waited, enjoying the drama. “That Collins woman has a hell of a temper. They’ve had some knock-down, drag-out fights. Once she figures out who it is—which shouldn’t be too difficult, if her olfactory senses are working at all—you may not have to live with him for very long.”

  Caroline’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Lovers shot by jealous wife,” David continued. “Good headline, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a little harsh, even for you,” Caroline responded.

  “David, that’s not funny,” Grace whispered.

  Alex stopped her wheel. She rested her hands in her lap, unable to breathe.

  “I’m not trying to be funny,” David responded, his eyes on his spinning. He looked up and met her eyes. “I’ve known that Collins woman since way before she married Ryan. And if I were you, Caroline, I think I’d sleep with one eye open.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  They stood outside the old Hadley house, spinning wheels and knitting bags in tow. David locked the door, and he and Caroline said their goodbyes and headed north on Main Street.

  “I’m going to go have dinner with my daughter,” Grace said. “Can you manage getting that wheel up the hill?”

  “I think I’ll be fine.”

  “Good night, then,” Grace called. “And Alex? Your spinning is looking pretty good. I’m glad you’re sticking with it. It’s so nice to have you in the group.”

  “Good night.” Alex turned to head up the hill to the house. It was only six in the evening, but the dark was solid. As she moved away from downtown, the streetlights were spaced farther apart, creating only small pools of light, surrounded by dark shadows. Near the gate to the cemetery, there was the amber glow of one lone streetlight, the last before the hill plunged into total darkness. Alex stopped there for a moment to catch her breath. It still surprised her, the difference that walking two blocks could make. The noise of town almost disappeared and the quiet descended, thick and heavy.

  Somewhere near the back of the cemetery, back in the trees, she could hear the sound of voices. A woman was talking; she heard the ebb and flow of a conversation. Sometimes the voice went quiet, but Alex could not hear anyone answer. She listened for a moment, hearing only the sound of one voice, rising and falling. She turned and noticed Emmie Porter.

  The woman stood in a corner of the cemetery, closer to the water and the trees. Her white hair glowed in the semidarkness. She wore her long coat, no hat, and a big thick scarf wrapped around her neck. Her voice carried in the air, but Alex could see no one else out there.

  Alex watched her for a moment, wondering what creature she was talking to, wondering if a deer lay wounded in the trees.

  Emmie turned and looked right at her. “Can you hear that?”

  Alex looked behind her in the street, and turned slowly back to Emmie. She shook her head.

  “Come over here,” Emmie said, and turned her gaze back out to sea.

  Alex left the spinning wheel by the cemetery gate and walked carefully through the stones, watchful not to hit one in the dark. She reached the corner where Emmie stood, and stopped a few feet away from the woman.

  “Listen,” Emmie whispered, tipping her head to one side.

  Alex waited, half expecting to hear another voice somewhere in the trees.

  Emmie looked at her. “There.”

  Alex heard it then, that kwoosh sound of an orca coming up for air. She met Emmie’s eyes and nodded.

  “Orcas,” Emmie mumbled. She turned and scanned the horizon. Overhead, the sky was paler. Dusk had painted the water a murky navy gray. “There.”

  Alex moved closer to Emmie, and she saw it, too. The gentle arc of an orca, coming up for air, the spume of expelled breath. It was followed almost immediately by another orca, another breath. As she watched, a line of orcas, about seven in all, rose to the surface, one after another, expelling spent air, taking in fresh.

  “The
y’re sleeping.” Emmie’s voice was hushed.

  Alex stood close to her now, and they both watched quietly as the line of orcas moved past Copper Cove, heading farther south.

  “They don’t sleep, not the way we do. They have to keep half of their brain awake all the time. If they ever go completely to sleep, they would die.”

  Alex glanced sideways, trying to get a look at Emmie in the darkness.

  “Every breath they take is a conscious decision. They have to remember to come up and take another lungful of air.” Emmie turned and looked at Alex. “Not like us. We can be knocked unconscious or put under anesthetic, and our bodies will keep breathing on their own. We don’t have to think about it.”

  Emmie’s voice stayed low and quiet. “Not the orcas. They have to keep part of their brain awake all the time, to remind them to come up for air.”

  They stood, listening to the rhythmic whoosh, whoosh of each orca coming up for air. The exhalations went all the way down the line of blackfish, and then the first one came up again, starting the queue all over again, like dominoes, one after the other.

  “They have a system—sleeping like that, so close to one another. In a line, one following the next. It’s a way to stay close enough to keep an eye on everyone else in the clan. A way to keep track, to make sure that everyone takes another breath. Always watching out for one another.”

  The two women listened. The breaths were a rhythm, a soft, melodious song that rose from the depths of the dark water. It sounded almost like music—the music of the deep.

  “Do they ever decide not to breathe? Not to come back up?”

  Emmie took a long, slow breath. “There’s no way to know what they’re thinking. But yes, there have been instances where an orca goes down and does not come back up.”

  Their eyes met in the dark. “Suicide?” Alex whispered.

  “I wouldn’t call it that. They might be sick, or hungry, or just too weak to keep going. It’s more like they know that they’re at the end. That it’s their time now.”

  The two women stood completely still. The sound of the orcas grew fainter as they moved farther south in the water.

  “There have always been people who knew when it was their time to die. Not that they were causing it to happen—only that they were aware it was coming. Going off to die, when the time is right. Dogs will do that, you know. Slip off somewhere, in a bush, to die quietly.”

  Alex nodded, and for no reason she could name, felt tears snaking slowly down her cheeks. She looked out at the water, away from Emmie. She could no longer see the line of blackfish; the sounds of the water completely obliterated the sounds of the orcas.

  “Your mother knew it was her time.”

  Alex inhaled; her shoulders twitched. It took a minute before she could find her breath. “How did you know? About my mother?”

  Emmie turned and looked at her. “It’s written all over you.” She stared at Alex for a full minute, their eyes locked on one another. “The color of death is swirling all through your body.”

  For a moment, Alex met the woman’s gaze. Then she pulled her eyes away, remembering what Caroline had told her about Emmie, about her ability to read minds. She wanted to run, to get away. She was standing too close to this woman who felt energy, who could see energy in other beings. Despite the cool night air, she felt sweat pop out on her lip.

  “I’d better go,” she whispered, without meeting Emmie’s eyes. “Good night.” She turned and headed back to the gate. She reached for the case with the spinning wheel and looked back into the trees in the corner.

  Emmie stood quietly, not talking. Her eyes were still focused on Alex.

  TWENTY-TWO

  From that first day that Finch took them out in the canoe, both females fell head over heels in love. Emmie could not stop thinking about that man with the dark hair and dark eyes, the one who loved the quiet and the sounds of nature as much as she herself did. Though she told herself it was silly, that he lived with the tribe, more than a two-hour commute away, she could not seem to stop herself from watching for his truck in the driveway. He had not been to visit his Aunt Kate during the first five years that Emmie lived there, but that didn’t stop her from hoping he would make an appearance again soon.

  Robin fell head over heels in love with the orcas. As soon as they returned from the canoe trip, she started to imitate the orcas. She jumped on Emmie’s bed, trying to twist her body the way she had seen the orcas doing when they breached. She moved across the living room floor, arcing up and down, exhaling, inhaling, and diving back under the imaginary water. She sat at the table and shared her dinner with her “orca family,” a ragtag collection of stuffed animals that had begun their lives as other creatures—dog, cat, teddy bear—but had been pressed into service as orcas, magically transformed into the aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents that Robin wanted.

  She pretended to talk to them in a series of clicks and whistles and sudden screeches.

  “Robin, do you want more mashed potatoes?”

  “Shh, Mama. I’m talking to my daddy.” She continued a series of clicks and pops and squeaks.

  Emmie leaned back in her chair and sighed. How precarious life must be for a little girl and her family of one. Even with Kate and Doc Taylor nearby, even with the occasional visits from Emmie’s mother, she realized that living alone—just the two of them—was not an adequate security net for a four-year-old. And for the first time since Dusty died, Emmie felt it, too—that need for connection. That need for someone else in her life.

  When Finch returned, three weeks after that first visit, both Emmie and her daughter were ready. He drove up in the yard, canoe on top of his truck, Jack riding in the passenger seat. When Finch stepped out of the truck, he threw one glance at his Aunt Kate’s house and headed straight for the door of Emmie’s cottage.

  He had barely made it to the top of the steps before Robin came flying out the screen door, yelling, “Finch!” and throwing her arms around his legs. For a moment, he was unable to move. He reached down with his left hand and cradled the back of Robin’s head.

  “Hey there, Miss Robin,” he muttered. Jack followed him to the top of the porch, and Robin threw her arms around the dog, releasing Finch.

  Emmie stood in the doorway, watching.

  Finch brought his right hand from behind his back. In it, he held a bouquet of wildflowers, thick with the scent of violets. He held them out to the woman with the dark hair. “For you,” he murmured. “I picked them myself.”

  Emmie felt a hum, rising from her toes to the top of her head.

  The three of them fell into a rhythm, a pattern of being together, that was completely natural. They took quiet walks along the beach or into the forest, Robin always running nearby, happy to scoop up a shell or a frond of cedar, aged until it looked like a copper feather. Finch showed Robin how to watch the crabs scuttling along the sand. He taught both of them how to dig for clams. Sometimes they found a spot to lie down on the ground and watch the clouds and the birds. Finch had stories about everything, from the flickers, with their bright orange feathers, to the tiny Anna’s hummingbird. The three of them supported each other in all the right ways, almost like Robin’s imaginary orca family.

  Finch loved his job with the tribe. Every time he came to the cottage, he had stories that he shared with his girls. Emmie liked her own life, too, even though it meant never being fully accepted by the people of Copper Cove. But she knew she was needed, knew that the work she did was valuable and necessary. She and Finch learned to share their lives in bits and pieces. He came to the Cove as often as he could. She and Robin went to visit him on the reservation whenever there was a ceremony or potlatch or just for an occasional break from Copper Cove.

  The arrangement worked well for both of them. Emmie and Finch were two quiet souls who loved nature and animals and had grown comfortable with long spells of solitude. The fact that they could share their lives with one another, even on a limited basis, was en
ough. Neither one of them ever asked for more.

  Once again, though, Emmie managed to inflame the gossips of Copper Cove. She didn’t care. Her life was full; they could talk all they wanted. They would anyway; she knew that. And so she learned to live with it.

  For Robin, that was not as easily done.

  As a little girl, Robin was as bright and outgoing and bubbly as a girl could possibly be, always singing and dancing her way through the day. She begged Emmie to let her listen to the radio, and on those rare days when she could be outside, she made up dances to go with her latest song craze. For a while, it was Stevie Nicks and “Landslide,” followed by “Dancing Queen” and “American Pie.” She knew the words to them all and sang with her whole heart.

  It wasn’t long after her first encounter with the orcas that she started to display another type of gift. Finch and Emmie were in bed asleep when Robin came to the door of their bedroom, deep in the middle of the night. “Mama? I had a bad dream.”

  Emmie propped herself on her elbows and looked at her little girl, standing in the doorway, a stuffed orca cradled in her arms. Her nightgown was like a pale blue pearl in the dim light. Emmie patted the bed next to her, and Robin crawled up between Emmie and Finch. The two adults lay on their sides, looking at each other as Robin settled in between them.

  “Tell me about it,” Emmie whispered.

  Robin took a disheveled breath, still soaked with tears. “I was swimming with my family. My orca family. We went everywhere, looking for something to eat. But we couldn’t find anything. My sister found one fish, and she shared it with us. But it wasn’t enough. I was hungry.” Robin wiped a tear from her face. “And I was getting cold.”

  Emmie met Finch’s eyes over the body of her little girl. It had crossed her mind a few times, wondering if Robin would have the same sensitive nature that Emmie did.

  Finch took Robin’s hand in his, gently rubbing his thumb over her palm. “You know what, Robin? That’s pretty darn special—to be able to feel what an animal is feeling. Not very many people can do that.”