I always thought there was something false about the castle, with all those trick mirrors, but I’ll miss walking along the seawall, looking out at the town and shore. There’s the boulder Cole hid behind when I first met him. It’s buried in sand now. And there’s where I used to sit with Elwyn.
Listlessly, I wade in the shallows, letting wavelets sweep around my ankles. Cold water, hot summer sun, endless blue sky. Reaching a rocky jag in the shoreline, I peer into the tidal pools, with their waving anemones and seaweed.
In one of them, just now, a stray sunbeam picks out a glint of gold.
Gold?
I look closer. My heart jumps. There’s a lobster down there. A lobster with a golden collar!
“Elwyn!” I plunge my hand in the water to grab the creature and pull him out dripping, his many legs flailing. “You’re back!”
I place him on a large rock and gaze at him lovingly. I don’t notice any particular love in his tiny eyes, but then, I startled him.
“What have you been doing? You must have had great adventures!”
He starts crawling down the side of the rock, heading for the water. I pick him up and set him back on the stone.
“Elwyn! It’s me, Cisley. Remember me?”
He starts off down the side of the rock. I set him back on top.
“No, you don’t! Not till you talk to me!” I hold him there. I remember now what Mother told me. She said she’d been speaking to me through Elwyn. Some of the time anyway.
My voice falters. “Mother?”
No response.
“Mother, are you there?”
The lobster struggles to get free.
“Say something!”
No spark of recognition. The Elwyn I knew is not there.
Mother is not there.
Lobsters can’t talk.
That fact has been obvious to everyone but me. Elwyn is a lobster. Lobsters can’t talk.
This is too hard.
“All right,” I say, taking my hand away, “go if you want to.”
The lobster stays where he is for some seconds, then slowly moves down the side of the rock.
I don’t believe you came back and then won’t speak to me!
The creature steps into the water. His golden collar glimmers dimly in the shadows.
As I watch, it grows brighter. He climbs onto a submerged rock, and his head pokes through the surface. For several seconds, we stare at each other. Slowly, he waves a feeler. He looks at me some more. The feeler waves again. Then he backs down off his rock and disappears.
“Wait! Were you waving at me? Or were you just doing some lobster thing?”
I watch the water for minutes. No sign.
Sighing, I splash through the foamy wavelets. I don’t know if I’m glad I’ve seen him or not. If Elwyn can’t talk, is Mother dead?
Dead or alive, she’s gone. More absent than ever. I feel like an orphan.
Then I remember I’m not.
In the distance, a seagull is soaring. But there’s something odd; it’s not flying the way a bird flies, but—yes!—the way a kite flies. I can just make out, far up the beach, a small figure running. Gwennie!
And now I hear a faint tapping sound. Up ahead on the bluff stands the little cabin, with two tiny figures climbing about on the roof. One is Father, hammering. The other, just starting down the ladder, Cole.
Father takes off his hat and wiggles it at me. Then Cole turns and sees me.
I wave. Something’s different inside me. Something that makes me walk a little faster.
I follow the curve of the shore into my new life.
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to my Braintrust, an elite group of readers I turn to for advice; and to the Heartland Writers, who tunneled through each chapter as it was written.
I’m grateful to Grace Townley and Spencer Lott for being a sounding board; to composer Bruce Wolosoff for turning an early story into brilliant music; to my agent, Jodi Reamer, for excellent representation; to Nancy Siscoe for wise and sharp-eyed editing; and, finally, to Wyatt Townley for invaluable brainstorming and constant encouragement. I am the lobster on her golden leash.
About the Author
Roderick Townley taught in Chile on a Fulbright Fellowship, worked in New York as an editor, and now spins fantasies from his home in Kansas. Critics have called his work “beloved from the first page” (Kirkus Reviews, Starred), “sure to become a classic” (VOYA), and “brilliantly conceived, superbly written” (Carousel). His novels include The Door in the Forest, The Blue Shoe, The Red Thread, Sky, and the trilogy of the Sylvie Cycle: The Great Good Thing, Into the Labyrinth, and The Constellation of Sylvie.
He lives at the edge of the woods with his wife, the poet laureate of Kansas, Wyatt Townley. You can read more about Roderick Townley and his magical books at rodericktownley.com.
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