The Turning

by Emily Whitman

  “Nope. I can’t stay.”

  Water gushed into the kettle. “Then what brings you?” The kettle slammed down on the stove. “Come here where I can hear you.”

  To my relief, the boots walked away. My body shook with another silent sneeze.

  “You seen anyone strange around here?” the man asked.

  I froze.

  “Strange?” said Maggie. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re all out searching. You know Stan Wylie? He had his boat tied up last night. Came out this morning and found the nets all pulled off the reels, hacked to shreds.”

  Maggie banged a mug down on the counter. “Bet it was kids. Teenagers, sneaking onto the island for a prank.”

  “Not in that fog. And you should have seen those nets. Slashed up like in a horror movie. We think there’s a psycho on the loose.”

  “A psycho?” Maggie gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t get carried away. I bet Stan did it himself. You know, for the insurance money. Why don’t you go ask him? Now”—she walked to the door—“I have work to do.”

  His boots tromped after. “Keep your eyes open. Call me or Stan if you see anything unusual. I’m keeping my gun loaded. Stan’s got a call in to the sheriff’s office on the mainland.” The door swung open and the boots stepped outside. “And hey, you know I told Jack I’d keep an eye on his things? That road of yours is all rutted up after the storm. I had to park before the turnoff. Glad to give you a price for fixing it.”

  “No thanks, Harry.”

  The door closed. The steps faded; in the distance, a motor started up and ebbed away.

  “Come on out,” said Maggie.

  I crawled out and a cloud of dust went flying. I wiped off my arms, my legs. My knife.

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t wear that knife anymore.”

  “But—”

  “No ifs, ands, or buts. It doesn’t matter what you did. Guys like Harry and Stan don’t ask questions first. If they see that knife, your dad will be the least of your worries.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You’re not leaving the house if that thing’s on your leg.”

  My hands clenched at my sides.

  “We have an agreement, son. You planning on keeping it?”

  I went into the bedroom and closed the door. I wanted to keep the knife close by, but hidden, in case Maggie decided to take it.

  I couldn’t hide it in the bed. Sometimes Maggie came in to crisp the covers and pat the bear, pretending to straighten up. The dresser was her territory, too. She’d filled it with more shorts, T-shirts, and a long-sleeved top. Sometimes I’d find her standing in front of an open drawer, folding and refolding the clothes like she needed an excuse to hold them.

  That left the closet. I turned the knob, holding my breath, as if the dead boy’s ghost would drift out along with the dust.

  The closet was packed. Big boxes crowded a high shelf, clothes dangled across the middle, and the floor was hidden under stacks of smaller boxes. Stray shoes lay scattered around like a boneyard of old body parts.

  I knelt and pulled out a stack of boxes. One was full of wooden animals. Another had tiny trucks and colored sticks. But I didn’t want my knife sharing space with the dead boy’s things. I shoved the boxes and shoes aside and reached into the dark.

  At the back wall, my fingers slid into a gap in the floor. I traced the edges. It was just long enough.

  I had to force myself to unstrap the sheath from my leg. My knife, the only thing I still had from Mam and my life with the clan . . . I balanced it on my palm, feeling its familiar weight. Then I gritted my teeth and thrust it down into the gap.

  As I let go, my hand brushed against something hard and cool. I wrapped my fingers around it—smooth, the length of my palm—and backed out of the closet. It felt like I was being given a trade for my knife. Slowly, I unfurled my fingers.

  There, on my palm, lay a beautiful seal carved from dark green stone. Flippers, claws, the swish of the tail—all perfect. All true. Her head and tail lifted in a crescent, and she looked at me with a hint of a smile. A familiar smile. And those intelligent eyes . . .

  This was no seal. It was a selkie.

  I leaned against the wall, rocked by the strangeness of it. A closet, in a room, in a house—what was a stone selkie doing here, in this human place?

  I brought the selkie up to the level of my face. She looked right into my eyes. Her head tilted a little to one side, like Grandmam when she had something important to tell me. Was it a message? Not from Mam; she hadn’t been inside the house. From . . . the Moon?

  She sees me, I thought. The Moon sees me! My chest filled, my heart too big to hold, like laughing and crying all jumbled together. She saw me stuck in longlimbs. She saw the clan swimming north through dangerous seas. I wasn’t alone.

  I pressed the selkie to my cheek as if I could soak in the courage I saw in her eyes. I took a deep breath. I’d be brave and strong here on Spindle Island. I’d be worthy of this gift, and I’d be worthy of the pelt Mam would bring by the second full Moon.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Song

  Maggie wouldn’t let me go swimming for days after Harry came. I stayed close to the house, listening for motors and the heavy thud of boots. And thinking about the sprite. I pictured her on top of the bluff, firm footed and graceful. I saw the confident set of her shoulders, her chin lifting as she looked out to sea, her hand raising toward mine.

  Harry had talked about the boat, and a gun, and people out searching. But he hadn’t said one word about a boy seen swimming away from the harbor. That meant I was right about the sprite. She wasn’t human. She hadn’t told.

  Maggie took out the calendar. “Full moon,” she said, drawing a line through a box with a circle in it. She turned a page and pointed to another circle. “One month till your mom’s due back. And that”—another page, and her pen stabbed down—“is when Jack’s coming home.”

  All those boxes! If I stayed in the house that long I’d lose my mind. I thought of the stone selkie in my shorts pocket. I’d vowed to be brave. Why was I cowering inside?

  The next morning I woke with the first crack of daylight. I scanned the horizon. There wasn’t a boat in sight.

  Halfway down the cliff, a fist-sized hole in the rock made a perfect cave for the stone selkie. I settled her there facing out to sea, as if she’d be watching for my return. Then I jumped down to the flat rocks and slipped into the water.

  The coolness rushed across my skin. For the first time in days I felt alive. I somersaulted and dove to the seabed. A striped greenling stared at me, flicking its fins. I grinned and gave chase. All along the rock face, crabs skittered and anemones waved. A wolf eel pulled its head back into a crevice.

  I rose, treading water. I’d come all the way to the rocky point. On the other side was the bluff where I’d seen the sprite.

  I was about to turn back when a song came rippling across the waves.

  The singer’s voice was clear and sweet. And the tune! In a few notes it curved from light to dark like the inside of a cresting wave. It called to me, to my blood, like I’d known it forever. It felt like home.

  I swam around the point with my head above water so I wouldn’t lose a single note.

  It was the sprite. Of course it was. She sat cross-legged at the top of the bluff, her eyes closed, as if she were drawing magic from deep in the earth. The sweet, sad tune drew me closer. The waves hushed and now I could hear the words:

  “Awake, awake, my bonnie maid,

  For oh, how soundly thou dost sleep.

  I’ll tell thee where thy babe’s father is,

  He’s . . . He’s . . .”

  She paused, then started again. “I’ll tell thee where thy babe’s father is, he’s . . .”

  The tune skittered to a stop, and in a cross voice she said, “Oh, rats!”

  The song’s magic fled. That didn’t sound like what a forest sprite would say. And the way her mouth pulled tight
in frustration was more like a . . . a human expression. And those shorts and T-shirt she had on—

  She was human! I startled backward with a splash.

  The girl’s eyes flew open and she leaped to her feet, staring right at me.

  She was human and she’d seen me twice! She’d been lying in wait for me, luring me closer with her song. Now she’d tell everyone. They’d catch me and take me away, and I’d never see Mam or my clan again.

  The current was carrying me toward the point. The girl started running along the bluff to keep up. I snapped to my senses and dove, kicking down to where the water turned dark. If she couldn’t see me, she couldn’t follow. I swam around the point and rose cautiously.

  A gasp came from overhead. She was looking down from the top of the rocks.

  “Don’t go!” she cried, raising her arms to dive. “Wait for me!”

  I kicked down deep and sped off. A moment later the water shook as she pierced the surface. The force of it rushed over me, circle after circle spreading out with the girl at the center. I swam faster. The water carried the beat of her strokes coming straight at me, as if the song had bound us together with an invisible cord.

  I couldn’t let her follow me to Maggie’s! I swerved and headed out toward open water, where the waves were too big, the current too strong, for that feeble stroke of hers.

  Behind me, her course shifted, too.

  I swam underwater until my lungs were about to explode. When I was so far from land she couldn’t possibly have followed, I rose in the trough of a wave and listened. The splashing had stopped.

  I gulped in relief. She must have turned back.

  But then why didn’t I hear her swimming back to shore?

  Chapter Thirty

  The Rock

  The wind was rising, the waves breaking higher around me. I rode up a towering crest and looked toward shore. Halfway back, something thrashed to the surface.

  A fish leaping, I tried to tell myself.

  But two gulls flew over and circled, shrieking their danger cry.

  The next thing I knew, I was swimming back toward the girl as fast as I could, riding the crests to keep her in sight. The splashing stopped as she sank underwater, then started again, wilder and shorter, and the waves were crashing, and the gulls were screaming, and I didn’t know if I’d make it in time.

  She was under the waves when I reached her. My hand closed around her wrist and I pulled. The moment her head burst through, her arms flailed out, raining frantic blows on my face and arms as she tried to grab on and climb above water. She was coughing and gulping, and kicking so hard I had to push her away.

  “Calm down,” I shouted, trying to get close again. But she was blind with panic—her nails raked my arm, and her fist struck my face. I backed off and dove. This time I came up behind her. I grabbed her shoulder, rolled her onto her back, and started swimming.

  Finally she realized I had her. Her body let go into stillness. Now I could settle her weight and swim on my side. Her black hair floated around her face like seaweed at high tide.

  It was too far to carry her to shore. Farther out in the strait, a crag jutted up from the water. It was our only chance. I lugged the girl through the rough chop, struggling to keep her head above water. Before long, I was short of breath and my arms were aching. The current sped up, rushing toward the crag. If it carried us past, I didn’t know if I’d have the strength to turn and fight my way back through. We were hurtling closer to the slap and crash of wave on stone. I grabbed the girl tighter—I couldn’t drop her now!—and, gathering all my strength, gave a powerful kick—

  My feet touched rock.

  The girl grabbed on to the solid stone, white-knuckled, coughing.

  There was barely enough room on the crag for the two of us. I sat with my feet in the water and stared back at the curve of Spindle Island, struggling to catch my breath.

  I could have left her then. I’d brought her this far, hadn’t I? Saved her when she was certain to drown. Wasn’t that enough?

  But her breathing eased, and I was still there.

  She sat up beside me, hugging her knees tight to her chest. She was shivering so hard, her whole body shook. But she was smiling. And her eyes, clear and bright and gray, were smiling, too.

  “You saved me,” she said. “Thank you.”

  To my amazement, I smiled back.

  I looked at her closely. There was the same alertness I’d seen on the bluff. Her chin was determined, her limbs strong and thin, her feet almost as calloused as mine.

  She nodded toward my upper arm. There were three long, red scratches.

  “Did I do that?”

  I shrugged. “It’s all right. You couldn’t help it. People don’t swim very well.”

  “Except for you. That first time I saw you, I thought you were a seal. And then you waved.” She rubbed her hands roughly up and down her arms. “You look so free in the water!”

  “But that’s how you are on land,” I said. “Like you belong.”

  The rest of the world, with all its dangers and rules, had disappeared. The wind sang across the water, and the waves struck the rock, now high and light, now deep and dark, like voices blending in a tune.

  “What was that song you were singing?” I said.

  “Back on shore? It’s one of Grandpa’s old ballads. It’s called ‘Sule Skerry.’”

  “Will you sing it now?”

  She shook her head. “I only sing when I’m alone.”

  I looked at the vast stretch of white-tipped water separating us from shore. “This is pretty alone.”

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Okay, but don’t laugh.”

  She started singing in a clear, true voice,

  “In Norway land there lived a maid,

  ‘Baloo, my babe,’ this maid began.

  ‘I know not where thy father is,

  Far less the land that he dwells in.’

  “It happened on a certain day

  When this fair maid lay fast asleep

  That in there came a gray selkie—”

  I missed the next line, because when she sang the word selkie, my heart stopped. No wonder the song had been calling to me! It was about my folk! But this was a human song. How could they have the rhythm of the waves, the joy and the longing, so right?

  Now the girl was singing,

  “‘Awake, awake, my bonnie maid,

  For oh, how soundly thou dost sleep.

  I’ll tell thee where thy babe’s father is,

  He’s . . . He’s . . .”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, now I remember!—

  “‘He’s sitting close at thy bed’s feet.’”

  She stopped.

  “Just a little more,” I begged.

  “Well, I know one more verse.” She sat up straighter.

  “‘I am a man upon the land,

  I am a selkie in the sea,

  And when I’m far from every strand,

  My dwelling ’tis on Sule Skerry.’”

  As the last notes drifted away, the sun broke out from behind a cloud. In the sudden warmth, the girl stretched her legs long and gazed at me, bright-eyed. “Do you think there really are any?”

  I gulped. “Any what?”

  “Any selkies.”

  What would happen if I told her? If I let the whole story pour out, the truth I’d kept locked and silent for more than a moon? But before I could speak, a boat’s motor throbbed the air.

  It was heading in our direction. The world came flooding back in.

  I leaped to my feet. “As soon as you see it, shout,” I said. “Shout and wave as big as you can!”

  “See what?”

  The throb became a distant growl. The girl jumped up as she heard it, too.

  I stared into her eyes. “Swear you won’t tell anyone you saw me.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  That wasn’t enough. Not for how much I was risking.

  “Swear to the Moon!” />
  Her face was solemn. “I swear to the moon.”

  The boat crested the horizon and I raised my arms to dive.

  “Wait!” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Aran,” I said, and I dove.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  What Maggie Heard

  The house was empty when I got home. Maggie’s shopping bag was gone. She must have walked to the store by the harbor. No matter how many fish I brought her, she kept going, even though she came back more exhausted each time.

  The shadows had shifted by the time I heard her trudging up to the door. That’s when I remembered the scratches on my arm. I ran to put on the top with long sleeves.

  I came into the kitchen as she was setting her bag down on the table.

  “You’ll never guess what I saw at the dock,” she said. Her body sagged, but her voice was lively. “It was the strangest thing.” She started pulling cans out of the bag. “I was in Jane’s store when Darlene Mitchell came running in. She grabbed the phone and called up old Bob Donahoe. ‘Come down and get your granddaughter!’ she cried. ‘Harry’s brought her in from the middle of the ocean!’”

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Maggie picked up a can and carried it to the cupboard. She came back for another. Then, “Where’s the coffee?” she said, rummaging in the bag. She pulled out a packet.

  “Then what?” I said.

  “Why, then we all went outside to see. And there she was, stepping out of the boat, wearing an orange life vest twice as big as she is. She’s a skinny little thing, half black, if you can believe it.” She poured the coffee into its canister. “Came to live with Bob, oh, it must have been three months ago. It surprised everyone. Bob’s a loner, like me. Comes into the store to pick up his packages, but otherwise he keeps to himself.”

  It was the most words I’d ever heard from Maggie in a row. I hoped she wouldn’t start coughing.

  She pulled out a mug. “The girl just stood there with her mouth clamped shut while Harry ran on and on. Said he was motoring along when he saw someone out on those rocks in the strait. Thought he’d find a kayaker who got into trouble. But it was that wisp of a girl, all alone.