by James, Ella
“Oh, yes.” I giggled.
“The queen pulls back up to the dock and Prince Declan hops in, and he and the princess exchange smiles, as best friends do. She says, ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ and he says, ‘Oh, of course. I would never dream of missing rainbow glitter dolphins on your birthday.’ So they set off, with their hats on—”
“What was everyone wearing?”
Mummy smiles, touching the skirt of her lilac dress. “Well, the queen wore a long, quite regal-looking purple gown. The princess wore her green gown with glitter and sequins. And Prince Declan wore blue.”
“Is blue his favorite color?”
“I believe it is.”
I stored that detail in my mind as the path flattened, tall grass fluttering around us. A cloud shifted in front of the sun. I looked up, and then out at the ocean—gray now, with more whitecaps and a slightly brownish tint in some spots.
“Mummy, what if there’s not time before the storm comes?”
“Oh—we’ll be fast. Gammy said she saw the dolphins earlier. We’ll go and be back straight away.”
Mummy’s mouth was pinched now as she looked out at the harbor.
“So they went on their boat ride,” I reminded her. “What did the prince say?”
“About what, my dear?”
“What did he say to the princess?”
“He…sang songs.” She smiled.
“He did?”
“Of course. The royal birthday songs.”
“What sort of royal birthday songs?”
Ocean sounds filled my ears—the slosh of water lapping at the island’s rocky ledge, the spray of waves clapping against the dock—and comfort filled me as we stepped onto one of the arms of Calshot Harbor’s semi-circle dock. To me, it always looked like two arms wrapped around a big, round basket—a pretend basket, of course—the hands almost meeting, but not quite. The dock’s arms jutted from the island’s ledge into the open sea, and through the small space where they didn’t quite meet, boats would pass into the shelter from the waves, docking along the inside of the arms.
Calshot Harbor was the only safe port at Tristan, and not a big or fancy one. Big ships couldn’t dock at our island at all. They’d anchor out a bit, and if someone wanted to visit, they’d have to hop into a dinghy.
Mummy told me that many other islands had beaches made of soft sand, where people would lie about in swimming suits, frolicking in the sun and wading in the water. Not our Tristan. It rose from the sea, a great behemoth chunk of brownish rock, its edges cliffs where the waves beat and currents raged, its center a cloud-swathed volcano. We had a mere patch or two of rock-strewn sand, and no one ever passed time there.
My Gammy always said Tristan was another world away, and I sensed that was true.
I’d heard tell of when the volcano erupted in 1961, and everyone was whisked away to England. How the Englanders thought we Tristan folk would gladly stay, but we came rushing back to sea as soon as the volcano settled down again. Perhaps it was another world away, but I didn’t know who wouldn’t love our island, with its cool winds and tingling fog, the cozy wool and sweet sheep, and the peak with smatterings of winter snow, and fishing boats and lobsters, and our cottages with lovely tin roofs. Surely it was the rest of the world that was really losing out, and not we proud and happy islanders.
Today a few boats waited at the dock, including our old skiff. We passed by a few men drinking ale and laughing, gathered ’round a bucket. I clutched Mummy’s hand. She smiled down at me, slowing as we reached our wee wooden boat.
“How did it get here?”
Mummy winked, and I knew the answer: Gammy.
Mum got in first and then took my hand to help me in. She held the orange life vest as I threaded my arms through the holes. It was cool and damp around my neck, smelling of salt water and mildew. I wrapped my hands around it, squeezing slightly as Mummy fussed with the snap of hers. When a piece of plastic broke off, she tossed it in the floor and shrugged.
“Only when you’re big like Mummy,” she said, shaking her finger.
“I’ll swim like a mermaid then!”
A ray of sunlight peeked through the gray clouds. I remember reaching for my halo, thinking Mum and I would need to take them off and set them in the boat’s belly with her discarded vest. Just as she leaned away, there he was.
My father’s skin was sun-darkened, his blond hair just one shade shy of brown, as if someone had rubbed dirt in it. From his perch there on the dock, he scowled down on us, and my stomach flipped like a frightened fish.
“What the hell is this then?”
I could see the redness in his eyes, the meanness all about his mouth, and I felt scared for Mummy.
“We’re going to find the dolphins! It’s my birthday!”
He glowered down at me, and I noticed the stains on his tee shirt.
“We’ll be back quite soon,” Mummy said. Her tone was tight and careful, a bit nice and a bit like she might perhaps be ready for a row. “We can talk then,” she offered softly.
Daddy stepped into the little wooden skiff. It rocked with his weight, water sloshing up on one side. “I don’t think so.” He sat down on the bench beside Mummy, folding his large arms. “I believe I’ll go.” He glared at Mummy like an angry villain. “Wouldn’t want to miss the fun.”
Unshed tears made my eyes ache. I swallowed hard and looked down at my sandal-clad feet. Mustn’t cry in front of Daddy. Mummy told me many times: no tears except when I was alone or with just her or Gammy. This was different, though. This was my birthday.
“Only Mummy!”
Daddy’s blood-shot blue eyes popped wide at my shriek.
“So you want to get out of the boat, then?” he snarled.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “It was a Mummy-Finley affair!”
“Not anymore. Let’s go,” he said to Mummy, flicking his hand at her. She jumped up to start the motor. She did whatever Daddy asked; she always gave him what he wanted. Who could blame her? When she didn’t, bad things happened.
I wiped at my eyes and wondered, as I often did, why Daddy was this way. I’d seen the other daddies. They were different. Holly’s daddy always held her Mum’s umbrella when it rained, and Dorothy’s daddy liked to ride Dot on his back. My daddy rarely looked at me, and when he did, I knew I was in for it.
As soon as we got off into the waves, the rain began—fat, cold drops that hurt my forehead.
Mummy said, “Let’s turn back, Pete.”
“I don’t think so. I want Fin to see the dolphins.”
Fin was what he often called me, despite me not liking it.
“I don’t like the rain,” I whimpered.
“Toughen up!” Daddy laughed, but it was too loud, making Mummy wince. Mummy steered along the eastern coastline, where the island’s rocky ledge stretched up toward the clouds.
I held onto my little wooden bench, pressing my legs together as the boat bounced over the waves. The rain beat down against the skiff, making a low roar. I saw Mummy’s mouth pinch. She looked tiny on the bench beside Daddy. She touched her battered flower halo, looking like she thought she should perhaps remove it, but I suppose she didn’t want to. Anna’s mum had pinned it into her hair. She caught me staring, pulled a towel from her bag, and passed it my way. I took it, gladly covering myself.
Under the towel’s blue and white stripes, I let my tears fall. I drew my legs up, feeling warmer, and I hoped the dolphins would come quickly so we could return to shore.
We hadn’t seen Daddy in a bit—not even at my birthday party in the village’s café. I hoped when we docked, he would disappear again. My mummy never smiled when he was with us, and I didn’t either.
The skiff jolted. My tummy pitched, and I peeked out from underneath the towel. Wow—the waves had gotten big. One sloshed right into the boat with us, landing on Mummy’s lap. My throat felt tight and pinched as she frowned at her pretty dress. I saw her fist tighten around the steering wheel.
“I’m turning back. With her,” she said to Daddy, shaking her head as if to say that for me, this weather was too dangerous.
“Just a bit more. I’ll say when to stop, not you.”
My heart was pounding, and my throat felt stuck. When Mummy turned the wheel despite him, Daddy grabbed her arm and twisted.
“Stop it, Peter!”
“You want me to stop, we’ll talk about something!”
She wriggled free of his grasp. “No, we won’t! Not now!”
Water spilled over the skiff’s low, wooden walls, a shock of cold soaking my towel and chilling my feet. Another wave splashed Mummy’s dress, and I started to cry.
“I want to go back—please!”
“Hush, you!” Daddy turned to Mummy, his face deep red. A bolt of lightning streaked behind him. “I want to talk about him,” he sneered. “Charlie Carnegie.”
“Peter!”
Water sloshed into Daddy’s face, and in that moment, Mummy got us fully turned back toward the harbor. Daddy growled, shoving his hair out of his eyes. Then he stood and tossed Mummy over the bench. He turned the boat around, and I fell in its flat, wooden belly, clutching Mummy’s legs. I’d been in storms before, but not one like this.
“Daddy!”
His eyes seared Mummy. “Charlie and Declan! Who is Declan?”
“He’s a prince!”
My Daddy bellowed, the sound so harsh it took a bit for me to realize he was laughing. Not the nice sort. His face twisted as rain pummeled us. He wiped his hair out of his face again, and then looked down at Mummy.
“I should fucking kill you for this.”
Horror seared me like a lightning bolt. Surely he wouldn’t do that! I hugged Mummy’s knees for dear life. Water splashed over the skiff’s sides, covering my legs. Father Russo said that when he’s frightened, he prays.
I moved a hand from Mummy’s leg to cross myself, which is how the Ave Maria begins, and that’s when Daddy snatched her up.
“No!”
The blow came so fast that when I drew my hand away from my mouth, I felt shocked to see the blood there. Still more water rolled over the boat’s side, so much I choked on it. Daddy had Mummy by her long, red hair, her head against his lap, her arms curled at her sides. I clutched her skirt, and Mummy kicked at me gently.
“Get away!”
Her words seemed like a line from a horrible story. I felt dragged down by my dress and tried to pull at it, realizing that the water now rose to my elbows. Thunder clapped, and Daddy wrapped his hand around my mummy’s throat.
“NO!”
I threw myself at him. The boat stalled, the front jutting up then slamming down atop the waves, as I clawed Daddy’s arms and Mummy writhed beside me. Lightning snapped across the sky, and thunder boomed, and Daddy jumped up, making the boat pitch as he dragged Mummy to her feet and screamed, “So tell me, trollop! Tell me about Carnegie! Is he going to save you? Can he save you now?”
Mummy tried to sink into the bottom of the boat beside me, but she couldn’t. Daddy held her shoulders. Another cold wave sloshed into the boat, smacking me so hard I choked and couldn’t get my breath. When I came to, I saw Daddy’s hands on Mummy’s shoulders, holding Mummy’s head into the waves.
Hatred that was cold as ice surged through me. I hit his back with all my might, and Daddy whirled toward me. I shoved his arm, and as he grabbed at me, I remembered something Mummy said—about the one thing that could hurt a man. So I drove my head into his crotch. The feeling as he tipped over the skiff’s side was one of swallowing a brick. When Mummy rose up, still gasping violently, my attention snapped to her: the blue hue of her lips, the blood that flowed from one of her eyes. Her gaze careened around the boat, and then she made a high-pitched sound.
“PETE! Oh, Pete! Christ on the cross!”
I tried to tell her, tried to tell her that I hadn’t meant to push him over. But Mummy shrieked and cried, and when a pale hand thrust out of the murky cauldron of the sea, she screamed again and turned to me. “Stay here, Finley! Do not move!”
The skiff rocked mightily as she jumped out. Water rushed in. I saw a flash of red—my Mummy’s pretty hair—then a dash of yellow as a whitecap stole her halo. And then nothing. Nothing.
Nothing.
Chapter One
Declan
April 2018
Smoke seeps from my lips, drifting out over the boat rail like a curl of fog. Tonight, the water’s placid, an inky black with smears of pastel starlight. Out here in the middle of the Atlantic, the sky at night is more glitter than darkness. Hazy swaths of purple, peach, and green sky twinkle with diamond-bright stars, their reflection gleaming on the curve of wave that runs alongside the boat.
I curl my hand around my cigarette and bring it to my mouth again.
I’m standing atop the cargo ship’s flat hull, hidden from most vantage points by the twenty-foot-tall boxy structure just behind me: the navigation post and captain’s quarters. At this hour, both are likely empty. The crew is down below deck, playing poker. Still, I turn the cherry toward my palm.
Better to stay hidden.
That’s been my game since I boarded Miss Aquarius back in Cape Town: wear my cap low, keep my mouth shut, and help out where I’m needed till I reach my destination.
I close my eyes on a long drag and lean against the railing. That’ll be tomorrow. Fuck.
I finish off the smoke and light another one.
It’s fucking cold out here. My T-shirt’s not enough, even with jeans. South of the equator, we’re headed into fall—in early April. Strange stuff. I swallow hard and look down at the deck under my feet. Then I cast my gaze up to the sky and fill my lungs with salty air.
When I feel something in my hand, I look down, finding a line of ash in my palm. I bring the Marlboro to my lips and take the last drag with shaking fingers before pinching the cherry out.
I should go below deck. Play some solitaire in my cabin. Instead I light a third smoke, and, with my free hand, rub my arms. Even after just a few months off, they’re smaller than I’m used to, making me feel like someone else.
Laughter trills into the quiet, voices rising as footfall thuds inside the stairwell to my left. Before I can turn toward the sea, figures spill onto the deck. I whirl around, snuffing my smoke out against the rail. Then I turn the other way, aiming to sneak around the navigation post, but there’s a loud “Hey, man.”
I turn slowly. Half a dozen guys are lined up in some kind of formation, making a semi-circle between the stairwell they just came out of and me.
I nod, meeting the eyes of the one who spoke. Kevin is his name. I think. He’s only an inch or two shorter than me, with blue eyes and close-cropped brown hair. He’s one of the Americans on board.
I step toward the stairwell, but Kevin catches my arm. “Hang on a sec. We wanna talk to you.”
I hear another say, “We barely know you,” at the same time as a third—not an American, judging by his accent—is saying, “been six days.”
I nod. Hold up a hand. “George,” I say, as I step between two of them.
“That’s the thing, though,” he sneers. “We don’t think it is.”
“No?” I look behind me.
They’re all grinning. “Hell no.”
“We been watching.”
“We’ve got an idea about you.”
My stomach pitches as a hand claps my shoulder.
“You can tell us.”
“We know you’re not George.”
One dude jerks a thumb at the captain. “You know Bo, don’t you? He’s the cap’n. No good lying to the captain.”
Bo steps closer. He’s older than most of the crew members, but still young. If I had to guess, I’d say no older than forty-five. He’s wearing khaki-looking shorts and a stained Costa tee. “I know what your papers say. But take your hat off, mate, and help me win a wager.”
I shake my head, stepping backward toward the stairwell. “Night, guys.”
�
��I told you it’s not him.” Someone’s in the stairwell, lighting a cigar. He grins around it.
At that same time, I lose my hat. I spin around and snatch it back, glaring at the fucker who took it. His eyes widen at the clear view of my face.
Gasps chorus around us.
“Holy shit.”
“I fuckin’ told you, Bo!”
The one in the stairwell spreads his arms, chuckling as he blocks me.
“That’s some damn good camo, brother. I need something, though, before you get to pass.”
He holds a slip of paper out, and the men gather around.
“Homer Carnegie on our boat, we’re gonna need some autographs…”
I fake a grin and take the paper. Six thousand miles from Boston, and I’m fucking outed.
* * *
Finley
I clutch the bottle to my chest and cross myself. Then I shut my eyes, bring my arm back, and throw it hard over the cliff’s edge. With my eyes shut, I picture its trajectory as it plummets toward the ocean. I inhale, feeling dizzy as birds caw above my head, and far below me, waves break on the rocks.
Vloeiende Trane, these cliffs are called; it means “cascading tears” in Afrikaans. The highest peak is two hundred meters above the ocean’s ragged waves. Midway between the cliff-top and the sea, water pours out of the rock in three long streams that look like tears from further out.
Standing atop Vloeiende Trane, the white caps look no bigger than a fingernail, the ocean’s swirling cauldron just a gentle dappling of greens and blues.
Deceptive.
I wipe my eyes and fold my arms over my chest. I won’t throw another bottle, I promise myself as I step toward the cliffs’ edge. I search the waves for a flash of glass, for something that will give me satisfaction, but of course, I see nothing.
That’s the point, though, isn’t it? Throwing letter-stuffed bottles into the void. It’s like a prayer. That’s its magic. Still, it hurts to know no one will ever read my words. I wipe my face again and whisper, “Give me courage.”
