Storm-Wake

by Lucy Christopher

  “We’ll swim it to the reef, then carry it over through the sand channel; after that we’ll sit on it to …” She could not finish. She did not know to where.

  “’Til we know,” Cal said.

  “Just a look-see.”

  They carried the raft between them. It was heavier than she’d thought it would be, but Cal was stronger than she’d thought him to be too. He’d been growing—soon he’d be taller than her.

  At the shoreline, they placed their raft in the water.

  “Well, it floats,” Moss said.

  Cal frowned and pressed the wood as if daring it to sink. Moss looked up to the cliffs, picked out Pa’s cave. The cloth was still across the entrance; Pa wasn’t out watching the winds. Maybe they should’ve done this on Western Beach, to be sure he wouldn’t see them and scold them. Too late now.

  Moss took Cal’s cool hand. “Ready?”

  “Yesss.”

  They stepped into the water; it was warmer than it had been. They pushed the raft with their knees, then with their hands when the current slapped against their waists. When they passed Rocky Point, they flopped forward into the sea and moved the raft by kicking. Cal pulled himself up onto it soon enough, left her to swim alongside.

  She smirked up at him. “You should practice your swimming, you know.” She spun around, ducked underwater, and came back to the raft. “It’s fun! See? I can move my legs like a mermaid!” She showed him. “Like a dog, too!”

  But his eyes didn’t follow. They darted to the water far out near the horizon, then back to the shore. She remembered how Cal’s skin had stayed bloated for days after he’d washed in; remembered, too, how he’d shook with fear when Pa first made him bathe. But that was a long time ago. Was Cal still so scared of water?

  “Full storm-bashed,” Pa had said about him. “Half drowned.”

  That first day, Moss had traced the silver sheen of the scale tattoo pattern on Cal’s skin and called him “storm-woke” instead.

  “Woken by the waves,” she’d told Pa. “Something special brought for us.”

  Now Moss watched Cal extra careful. In deeper water, could he turn back to fish and swim gone, away?

  Soon, they got to the reef and hauled the raft up. Moss flea-jumped ’til she found the smooth sand channel through the sharp coral and showed Cal, making sure he followed it and didn’t damage the reef. Cal shifted the raft high to his shoulders and took most of the weight. As they started the slow journey across, Moss saw Aster in the cove behind them, spinning in circles and pawing the sand. Unlike Cal, she had never been back into the water. But Moss often thought she wanted to from how she watched the waves.

  Again, Moss looked up to the cave entrance—still no Pa. Though she felt a wind pick up, coming at them from the horizon. Maybe Pa was calling it in: his daily attempt at a storm.

  On the other side of the reef, the water was rougher and deeper; the colorful coral gone. They lowered the raft to the sea again. Moss held it steady while Cal got on, then gave him the wooden paddles. When she leapt aboard, she smiled, feeling the freedom of being just them on a raft. Since she’d first gotten there, she’d never been so far from the island.

  “How do we know when we at horizon line?” Cal said.

  She frowned. “It’s not a real line, remember? And we’ll just go for a little while, just until we see.”

  “See what?”

  “See something.”

  But a part of her wanted to go farther: as far as they could, until they proper knew, with no doubt, if there was anything else out there.

  “This island sits in a kind of bubble,” Pa had said. “The stormflowers keep it like that. Here, we are safe. Beyond, I do not know anymore.”

  Away from the shelter of the cove, the wind picked up. They rocked on the waves, uncomfortable.

  “See anything yet?” she asked.

  “Water.”

  “Anything now?”

  “More water.”

  “Anything below the water?” Moss peered over the side. “Like land? Like countries hiding, ready to come back up?”

  “More water.”

  It was the same as they’d seen from the top of the volcano: more and more of the same. Beneath them, the water got darker. Deeper. She could no longer see the seabed, not like in the shallower water before the reef. Anything could be down there: sea serpents and mermaids from Pa’s stories, or, just as easily, sharks and stingers.

  Maybe they’d been stupid to come. She looked toward the horizon. No land. No boats. No people. There weren’t even any birds. Just a darkening sky. Just water. She’d thought there’d be something: a sign of life, at least. Something under the sea.

  A raindrop slithered down Moss’s neck. It was getting colder, too. Soon, a current took them, gentle-teasing, spinning them, and Cal’s fingers gripped the raft. She sighed.

  “We should go back,” she said. Clouds were forming, as deep and dark as the day Cal and Aster came. “Let’s paddle.”

  But when they tried to turn the raft, it kept going out, moving even quicker toward rougher waves, caught by a wind. Pa had taken a long time to learn how to sail a boat; why should they think they’d be able to sail mere planks of driftwood? Why had she let Cal convince her this was a good idea? Harder now they tried, but the currents beneath them were stronger.

  “We’ve no control,” Moss said. “Should we swim for it instead?”

  Cal frowned as he watched the swirling water, the growing weather. She did not want to swim in that, either, not all the way back to the reef, but perhaps there was little choice. She touched the water, feeling it. Shock-cold.

  Then, quick-fast, she turned back to the horizon. Had she seen something—there, in the corner of her eye? For a second, then gone. That other island? Something? She turned as the raft tossed, trying to see it again. What was it? Just a bird? A rock? Treasure?

  She prodded for Cal to look too. She was still trying to make it out when the raft moved rough-quick, sharper than before.

  She clung.

  Now she had to pay attention. One moment they were steady; then they were almost tipping to the water. Wind raced around them as they spun. Gripping the edge of the raft, she tried to grab Cal, too, but he was limpet-strong to the wood, still trying to look out to where she’d pointed. When she followed his gaze and looked again, there was nothing. Just a trick of the light, maybe; a bigger wave than usual.

  When the rain came, it got harder to see.

  All she could do was cling on and hope that the wind was pushing them back toward the island, not farther away. The waves got rougher. And here came the lightning. She saw it rip the sky. They’d get hit if they stayed. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and, final-true, saw the cove—there—behind them through the mist and rain! She shouted to Cal to show him. He nodded, pointing out a way toward the reef, paddling again.

  But already there was a wave behind him, getting so high. It took her breath as she looked. Building higher. Getting nearer. Turning into a dark cliff. It was about to fall.

  The ocean drew them back, closer. The raft tilted up into it. Only when his body tilted too did Cal turn. She saw him open his mouth when he saw it. Shout something.

  Then it hit.

  Moss was flung from the raft. She felt its pieces hit her cheek as she heard it smash. She felt the cold, rough pull of the water. She couldn’t see Cal, but she heard him shout again. Then all she heard was the roar of the ocean. Pounding blood in her ears.

  She took a gasp, heart-tight, when she found the surface. Then back, over and over, she turned in the waves, getting dunked. Dragged. Something was breaking—cracking! She stretched her arms and legs wide, but did not touch Cal. Felt only water. How close was she to that horizon line? Was she about to forget, like Pa had said would happen if she went too far from the island? She’d be stuck in dark floods forever. She would lose Cal. Pa. Everything!

  She bobbed up to snatch a mouthful of air before being dunked under again, twisted and force
d in whichever direction the sea took her. She could not fight it. She opened her eyes underwater, tried searching for Cal. Had he gone, slipped back into the sea? Was he fish again?

  She gasped another breath at the surface, was taken under. She spun and turned and thought she touched seabed. Then something hard hit her elbow. The reef? Something soft brushed her face—seaweed? Her chest ached. She couldn’t keep under for so long with so few breaths. And it was darker now. Colder. Quieter.

  Breathe me in, the water said. Taste.

  She shut her mouth. Looked for Cal.

  Taste me, it said. Let me inside.

  No Cal. No air. But …

  Lights! Dots of color.

  Schools of fish? Or flower petals! Swirling all around, leading her. She reached out to touch them, and the colors darted away.

  Darkness again.

  Spinning.

  Then another current of light. Like something alive. Like Pa’s flower-air. She followed it.

  But now there was another noise, too. A human sound. A voice?

  It was coming straight from the black water. Somewhere close. She tried to look around. Saw only the sea. Blurred color.

  Was it Cal? Pa? Down here?

  No!

  She curled away when she heard the voice again, her ears throbbing. She pushed a hand over her left ear, cradling it. She burrowed into the seabed, away from the sound, dug her fingers into the sand. But her heart pounded, her chest on fire. She needed air. Needed to go up, not down. Couldn’t hide here! Thrashing like a hooked fish, she looked toward the surface.

  And saw him.

  Someone stood over her. Here, in the water. A tall, shadow man. But he was made from the sea. That’s how it seemed. He moved with the current. And, like that, he pulled her. Pushed her. Was this another of Pa’s sea creatures? A spirit?

  No! This was something worse. She felt it, bone-deep.

  She looked away, then back.

  He was still there.

  Then, sudden-fast, he moved. Clawed through the water toward her, opened his mouth to shout. He held his hands out and shoved the sea her way. The water came inside her lungs. Choked her! And now there were hissing noises everywhere. Angry swirling waves. She couldn’t see! Couldn’t look back at him!

  She pressed her hands harder against her ears; shut and opened her eyes. She focused on the water swirling, seaweed writhing, a shell in the sand.

  She was dying. It had to be! This is what it felt like.

  One breath. Could she just take one? Could she get to the surface?

  But that man was still there. She heard him. She dug at the seabed to escape. She could hide here, stay tangled.

  Drown.

  But she couldn’t wish it … quite.

  This time when she opened her eyes again she saw blackness and debris, weed and . . those lights. Those glorious glowing lights!

  Eel-fast, she followed them.

  Away from the shadow man. She did not look at anything else ’til she were sure. No watery man. No angry figure above her.

  Had she imagined him? Another sea creature dreamt from the deep?

  She swam.

  Until her knees and shins were scraping over coral, and the water was warmer. Until there was softer sand beneath her fingertips and she could drag herself along with it. Until she was being pull-pull-pulled through the shallower water, away from the deep cold … toward land. Safety.

  And she was spluttering.

  On a shore.

  Gasping.

  Air.

  Air.

  Air.

  Breathing.

  No watery angry man. Not now. No shoving or shouting. Only coughing and coughing. Brown water spewing.

  Air.

  Breathing.

  And hands on her. Steady and soft, holding her. Soothing. Someone was talking. Not the same frightening voice from underwater, not him. This voice was quieter, gentle-firm. She coughed and gasped.

  Air.

  Breathing.

  Sweet-good, it came inside. Whole big lungfuls.

  Someone was pulling her from the sea. Wrapping her into him and making her warm. Safe. Dry.

  Giving air.

  Breathing.

  Pa.

  He had pulled her back.

  Had he pulled Cal back, too?

  But where had that man from the sea gone?

  She shivered hard. She was like Cal when he’d first come from the ocean. Quick-fast, she checked over herself, but she was still her. Not a fishchild like Cal. Not … changed.

  She turned to search for him on the sand.

  “Cal?”

  “Be still now.” Pa’s voice. “You’ve been half drowned!”

  Had Cal been too? Had he seen that angry man down deep also?

  She turned her head. Where was he?

  She had to know. Had to see he was still here. Still Cal.

  Then cold, webbed fingers touched her arm and took her hand, and she gasped again. She crawled to him—behind her all this time!—and he smiled weak. Not disappeared. Not fish. But he was bleeding and shaking. Like her.

  What—she tried to say—what happened?

  Her mouth would not work.

  Cal’s eyes were wide as he looked over her, as he touched the tips of his fingers to blood on her wrist. There were red bloody stripes going down her arms, too.

  She turned to the sea. Was the angry man there, somewhere? Was he coming out from the water?

  “What were you doing?” Moss heard Pa’s voice behind her. He almost sounded as angry as the man down deep. “Were you trying to leave?”

  “No,” Moss said, she tried to. “Only trying to find …”

  She coughed again. Quick-fast, Pa laid his hands on her back, pressing her calm.

  “Was this Cal’s idea? Did he take you out there?”

  She was sudden-scared of the tone to Pa’s voice. She blinked at the sea. Where had he gone, that watery figure? Had Pa seen him too?

  “Was us both who went out there,” she said, staring to the waves.

  There were stormflower petals, streaming from the cliff, swirling around Pa, settling on his shoulders. He looked magic-fierce, like a creature from his stories, like he could be made from the sea too. The wind turned his hair to a mane.

  “Come back to the hut.” Pa led her from the water, clicking for Aster to follow close. Cal stumbled to his feet behind them as Pa squeezed Moss tight.

  “That adventure could have killed you,” Pa said. “You might have left, might have forgot everything. Do you know the risk—?”

  He looked over his shoulder at Cal. It was in a different way than before. His eyes narrowed, his lips pressed tight. Like he thought Cal was the only one to blame.

  When Moss stumbled, Pa picked her up and placed her onto Aster’s back. But he left Cal to walk alongside. As Moss sank down into Aster’s soft mane, she heard Pa talking.

  “We’ll build another shelter,” Pa said to Cal. “A hut only for you. Maybe it’s time you slept away from us, no longer in the same bed …”

  Cal stayed silent. But Moss knew he wouldn’t like his own shelter—not in the dark, alone; not without the warmth of her tight beside him, and the knowledge that, if he woke, she would be there to soothe him back to sleep.

  “You are different from us,” Pa said. “A spirit. Maybe you should be more separate.”

  Still, Cal did not speak back. But as Moss closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against Aster’s fur, she felt his cold, bleeding hand meet hers once more. She clasped his fingers tight and drew them to her lips, breathed warm air on them. I’m sorry, she tried to breathe there. I do not know this Pa either. Though she’d seen glimpses of him—hadn’t she?—in his Blacknesses, when he’d stayed dark for days. And those Blacknesses had been coming more often.

  “It’s not time to leave the island, Moss,” Pa said firm. “At least this adventure has shown you that. Maybe it will never be safe now. Never be time.”

  He glared at Cal. Like Ca
l had ruined everything. Like it was his fault if Pa’s flower Experiment never worked and the floods stayed. Like it was Cal’s fault the whole world went bad in the first place.

  “No, Pa,” Moss said. “Was me that did this too, I wanted to see as much as he did.”

  But Pa shook away her words. “From now on, Cal sleeps in his own hut. No more being the same. You’re not to be so close anymore!”

  When Cal flinched, Moss gripped his hand harder. She saw in the tight line of Pa’s jaw that something had changed inside him, and it was not a light-giggling change. This was a change made from shadows. This was his Blackness, back.

  One dark eye cracked open, then the other.

  Careful, careful, Cal woke. He did not want to scare it away—this dreaming. He must keep his head with it, half in.

  ’Specially so if the dreamings wake him.

  If they flicker.

  If they hurt.

  There were meanings here. Knowings. But already the images were slipping fast-gone.

  He blinked in thick dark, seeing enough to know he was in his hut, on his beddings, where he should be at this time. A moment earlier, though, he had been staring at ocean. He had been watching, waiting … seeing.

  He’d had this dreaming before, glimpses of it. And again, now, teasing him … gnawing. It were not bad dreaming. Were more … curious … than that. Again, he tried to catch at it with his mind. And—there!—for a moment, he saw.

  Dark water.

  A shape.

  Something in the waves.

  Something in their waves.

  These images were like weaselmice, biting at him, not letting go. Yet they were slippery-fast when he tried to take hold.

  He could not lie in the dark with only glimpses.

  He held his fingers to his head as if pushing back escaping brain bits. Then he shut fast his eyes. The ache! The flickerings! He turned his head sharp as if to catch them flickerings. He hissed to himself, tried to comfort his sore brain. Then he crawled out from under the blankets, rolled onto the floor. He had someplace to be. Something to know.

  But the pain!

  He cussed as he dressed. Moved with eyes near closed. Air. He needed that. And water. The cool kind. Maybe he would wake Moss and they would wash this pain from his brain together. Maybe they would jump inside the sea and he would flush himself clean that way. Then the flickerings would stop. Then he would see the images clear. The sea would help. Her leaf-green eyes would help. Her hand on his as they stepped to the water.