by Mike Cranny
Archie remained where he was. Inside the Weather Glass, the music was getting louder. Cars pulled into the parking lot; people got out and went inside. It was definitely time to go. He pulled his collar up and looked down the road. Her taillights had long since disappeared into the distance.
He turned and limped towards the harbour and went out to the end of the dock. His wounds were starting to bother him. He leaned on the rail and looked out across the cold, moonlit sea, saw Cat’s Cradle Island, deserted once again, as a darker smudge on the horizon. As he watched, he thought he saw a pinprick of light where the old cult settlement was at Monkey Beach, like someone had built a fire there.
The wind was rising and he felt the chill. The slap of waves was loud against the pilings and the ozone bite of the sea in the air told him that bad weather was on its way. He was pushing it and he knew it — his healing wounds had started to hurt like hell.
As he limped back along the dock towards his car, a chant his uncle had taught him popped into his head. He started to hum the tune. He looked back to the Strait. The pinprick of light at Monkey Beach was larger and redder and he thought he could smell smoke on the wind. He took his cellphone from his pocket and made the call.
- The End -
