A Still and Silent Sea

by A. S. A. Durphy

  Gracie said. “I just thought—”

  “I’m glad you’re here to see this.” Her father said. He took a swig from the bottle. “This is what it looks like when a plan comes together. Everyone on the same page. Making history.”

  Gracie bit her lip. How much had he already had to drink? At a certain level of consumption, he swung from cool and distant to fiery and dangerous. “Russel’s missing,” she said.

  His eyes drifted away into some far-off distance. “Finding history is making history.” He focused back on her. “No, no, no. Don’t start again with that. Your brother is with Coira. I hired her for a reason.”

  “No, it’s real this time.” Gracie hugged herself a little tighter. “I can’t find him.”

  “Stop it.” Roger Stratis could be fearsome. His face darkened. He turned back to the table and had another pull of scotch. The crowd around them continued to talk and laugh, oblivious to the danger.

  Gracie tapped him on the shoulder again. “Your buried treasure is gone too.”

  He waved a hand at her. “Enough.”

  “Waylan and Coira and Russel and the artifacts are all gone.” Gracie measured her words, resting on each syllable. “You’ve lost them, and you need to come help me find them.”

  Her father spun on the bench with the casual grace of one comfortable with dealing out violence. The palm of his right hand caught her on the chest above her folded arms.

  Gracie lost her balance and fell back on her butt.

  Hot tears welled in her eyes. She looked around the room for support. The dense gathering of men took no notice.

  “It’s about your mother. Is that it? It’s always about your mother.” Her father stood and stepped over to her. He smiled down at her, an expression filled with incongruity. He offered her his hand to help her up. “Off to bed with you. You can tell me more mysteries tomorrow.”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow.” Gracie wiped at her eyes with her right hand, backed away from her father, and sprung to her feet.

  “That’s the spirit,” her father called after her.

  She squirmed her way through the crowd back out of the tent. When she was free, she stood out in the mud and took in several shuddering breaths. Her shoulders shook with each sob.

  Step after step, she moved away from the dining tent. She looked up at the sky. It was late, but daylight lingered. How much time before dark? She’d have to find her brother in a hurry. Her boots moved faster and faster. She was running. Away from her father. And toward Russel. With any luck.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  ABERLOUR A'BUNADH

  The sound of the archaeologists’ party carried deep into the pasture. The tents had receded far behind her, but still, Gracie could hear the din of laughter and conversation. Below her, she followed a muddy path with one fresh tire track set deep in the mud. Shoe prints moved along with the tire imprint. No child-sized shoes, but kidnappers probably carried away most children.

  Try getting Russel to walk even when he wasn’t being stolen. Not an easy task.

  Gracie passed the dig site. The hole disappeared into shadow. To the west, the sun peeked over the horizon, the sky around it filled with fiery oranges and deep purples. The wind picked up and pushed at her corduroy jacket. Gracie shivered and buried her hands in her pockets.

  The tracks continued past the hole and moved to an old, tilting barbed wire fence. A cow lowed up ahead. A herd of the hairy Galloway cattle grazed on the other side of a rickety gate. To follow the tracks, she’d have to move through the gate and the cows. Galloways were a friendly breed. She’d be fine.

  The gate latch flipped up with a clatter, and the hinges squealed as she swung it open. Several of the enormous animals turned their heads and looked over at her. Their eyes watched for a moment and then turned back to the green grass below. Gracie closed the gate and latched it.

  A muddy path led from her spot, through the herd, and off to a road several hundred yards beyond. The tire and footprints followed the path, and so her own two boots moved her in that direction.

  A few more steps and she was in amongst the cows. The sound of the occasional moo, shuffling hooves, and munching grass drowned out the last sounds of the party that chased her from behind.

  These animals were massive but treated Gracie with the indifference she deserved. She put her head back down and followed the path.

  The herd thickened and then thinned back out as she moved on. Gracie slowed as she approached a calf. It stood in her way watching her with dark, oversized eyes.

  “Hey, little guy,” Gracie said. “Where’s your mama?” She held out her hand to the calf, fist in a ball like she would for a strange dog.

  About twenty yards to her right, one of the cows snorted loud enough to catch Gracie’s attention. She turned her head to see a fifteen-hundred-pound animal begin its charge. It churned its legs, kicking up large divots of grass and mud. Gracie’s own feet rooted in place.

  The beast thundered toward her. Both the calf and Gracie stared at it in disbelief. When the charging Mama Cow moved to within about five yards, Gracie’s feet unplanted themselves. She moved to her left, rolled under the motionless calf, and popped up on the other side. Mama Cow rushed by on the other side, followed by a small breeze. Gracie pressed herself against the calf’s flank. Its back was about a foot shorter than her, so it seemed like a good place to hide and peek.

  The calf gave off a soft, pungent, almost pleasant scent. Gracie took a deep breath. Then the calf kicked its legs and took off like a shot. Gracie was left to stare down the turning mother all by herself. Mama Cow pawed the ground and snorted again. Gracie turned and ran for the road.

  Only about fifty yards to safety. How fast can a cow run? Grass brushed by her boots and tickled her ankles. She looked over her shoulder, the cow had closed to about ten yards back. The big animal was pretty fast in a straight line. Maybe not so good at obstacles?

  The rest of the cows grazed and lowed, oblivious to the death race going on near them. A few cattle here, a few there. Gracie dodged toward the nearest cow and looped around it. She did it again with the next cow and the next. She spared a glance over her shoulder. Mama Cow had fallen back maybe fifteen yards. Gracie passed the last cow of the herd and entered an open stretch to the fence and the road on the other side. About thirty yards to go.

  Racing out in the open, her lungs burned. She pushed herself. Almost there.

  She spared a glance back. Her pursuer had cleared the last cow too. It was picking up speed, trying to run her down before she made the fence.

  The thunder of its footfalls grew louder. Ten yards to go. At a full sprint, Gracie flipped her jacket over her head, inside out. She held it out front. Mama Cow’s heavy breathing filled Gracie’s ears.

  A few more steps and Gracie was there. She tossed her jacket over the barbed wire and vaulted over the fence. Gracie landed with a painful jolt on the asphalt of the empty two-lane road. She scurried across the road and looked back.

  Mama Cow had swerved to miss the fence and circled back around to stare Gracie down. That jacket was a goner. No way she was going back near that cow.

  Gracie sucked in oxygen, her chest heaving. She looked down at herself. She’d torn the knee of her canvas pants and cut her left palm. Not so bad. Better than getting pulverized by a cow. She stood up straight.

  Mama cow still paced on the other side of the fence. “Not friendly. Got it,” she said.

  The cow gave her an angry low in response. Her book was still in her jacket pocket, hanging on the barbed wire. Gracie said goodbye to First Love, turned, and walked south down the road, hoping to pick up the trail where it passed through a gate and crossed the road. Somewhere ahead.

  Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ

  The muddy trail led up a gently sloping hill. Gracie found the deep tire track and followed it west, away from the road. The sun had disappeared a while ago, and twilight lingered with long gray shadows cast everywhere. In summertime Scotland, each pie
ce of the day seemed loathe to give itself over to the next piece. And so, Gracie trudged up the hill in unremitting twilight.

  The wind picked up and knifed through her thin, cotton Oakland A’s t-shirt. She shivered. Here’s hoping Mama Cow enjoyed that old jacket.

  Beech and larch trees spread out on the hillside around her. Their leaves rustled in the breeze.

  Another sound played right at the audible boundary. Gracie raised her eyes from the path and scanned up ahead. There might have been a clearing. She looked back to the path and quickened her pace. Despite the effort, she shivered again. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the temperature on the hillside dropped. Scottish weather was nothing if not volatile.

  Gracie stopped to listen. There was a noise from up ahead. Crying. She ran several more yards and stopped to listen again. It was Russel’s crying. Recently, he had mastered a plaintive tantrum whine that no other earthly creature could duplicate.

  In the fading light, objects tended toward murky outlines. Gracie opened her eyes wide, willing them to see. There was definitely a clearing up ahead and some sort of building just beyond. She moved up past mossy trunks and clinging branches.

  At the edge of the tree line, she stopped, heart thundering in her chest. She leaned close to the trunk. The moss was soft and gave off an earthy, acidic smell. It was almost like reuniting with that calf.

  Beyond the clearing, nestled into the sloping hillside, sat the ruin of some ancient building. It might have once been a church. A stone cross next to a gaping front door suggested as much. But that time had passed long ago. It was now a long rectangle of crumbling stone walls about fifteen feet high and not much else. The glow of a flashlight moved around inside and escaped through empty windows.

  The sound of Russel’s crying was gone. Now a soft woman’s voice carried out of the church. “There was a man lived in the moon, lived in the moon, lived in the moon,” she sang. “There was a man lived in the moon, and his name was Aiken Drum. And he played upon a ladle, a ladle, a ladle. And he played upon a ladle, and his name was Aiken Drum.” Gracie didn’t need two guesses as to who was singing. She’d heard Coira sing that song to Russel in her lilting voice many times in the last few weeks.

  What was she doing in the ruins of a church with her brother? Where was Waylan? And why did twilight last forever? Gracie scanned the ground for a weapon. She found a heavy two-foot long stick and picked it up. She then crouched low and moved toward the church.

  Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ

  By the time Gracie peered into one the church’s ancient windows, night had finally settled in. Clouds moved in from the east, and they brought an extra cover of darkness. Gracie pushed her hair out of her face and took in the scene. In a muddy corner to Gracie’s right, perched on some fallen stones, Coira held Russel in her arms. She rocked slowly back and forth, now humming her lullaby.

  To Gracie’s left, Waylan paced from one crumbling wall to the other, back and forth. He had the flashlight. Between him and the door rested a wheelbarrow laden with priceless Viking treasure. She could see the silver dragon cross perched on top, shinning in the artificial light. He’d folded a green blanket under the artifacts, probably for protection on the bumpy ride. “We can’t stay here much longer,” he said. He looked at his watch. “It’s almost high tide. We’re going to miss the boat.”

  “He’s heavy. Another minute, please,” Coira said.

  Waylan kept at his pacing. “I’m not thrilled about bringing him. I’m not sure what’ll piss off Doctor Stratis more. The missing boy or his artifacts.”

  “That’s why we’re keeping him,” Coira said. “That should be an easy decision for a father.”

  Keeping him?

  Clutching the stick in her right hand, Gracie pulled herself through the window. She winced as the stones pulled at the cut on her left hand. She dropped down in the middle of the church, between Waylan and Coira. A puff of dust spread out from her feet and hung in the air around her; little motes danced in Waylan’s light.

  “My ass you’re keeping him,” she said. She pulled herself up to her full five-foot height, standing legs apart, stick raised. Her head swung back and forth, trying to watch both of them at once.

  “Now that’s why we shouldn’t have stopped,” Waylan said. He stopped his pacing and scratched his head. “Now we’re gonna be late.”

  Waylan stood about ten feet to Gracie’s left. Russel and Coira sat about five feet to her right. Russel’s eyes were wide and wild watching his sister and her stick. Gracie took a step toward Waylan and swung her makeshift club in a looping arc. It didn’t come close, but Waylan did step back.

  “I don’t have your dumb book, Gracie. Must have dropped it. Go home,” Waylan said.

  “Give me Russel.” Gracie took another savage swing at him. Still not close.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. We’ve got a plan.” He scratched his head again. “Although to tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”

  Gracie stepped closer to Waylan and swung the stick again. He stepped in, caught it with his left hand and twisted it out of her hands. “You’re a total dick, Waylan,” Gracie said and swung her right fist at his stomach. She made contact, and pain ran up her right arm.

  “Ouch,” Waylan said.

  His right arm flashed out and gave her an open palm shove to the chest. Gracie fell on her back and rolled in a backward somersault. A loose stone jabbed at the back of her ribs. More sparks of pain spread through her body. She came out of the roll and used her momentum to close the distance on Coira. Both Russel and his nanny had wide eyes as she descended on them.

  No more stick, so Gracie opted for an elbow. Hitting someone with a fist really hurt. Gracie spun her right elbow into the side of Coira’s left shoulder and with the same motion pulled Russel out of her arms. Gracie stepped back and held him between the two thieves. He really was heavy.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit.” Coira rubbed her left shoulder and looked over at Waylan with seething eyes. “Get him back.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Waylan said.

  Gracie backed up to the stone wall. Russel trembled, his arms squeezing around her neck. Her back touched the wall and an open space to her left. The window she had entered by.

  “Get him back,” Coira said.

  Waylan shrugged at Coira. “Okay,” he said. He took a step forward. “Sorry, Gracie.”

  Gracie turned and lifted Russel through the window opening. She let go, and he dropped out of sight into the grass outside. Waylan lunged at her. She put both hands on the rough window ledge and pulled herself up. She had one leg out and one in when Waylan got to her. He reached for her leg and Gracie braced herself against the stones and kicked out at him. Her boot caught him in the jaw and spun him around. He fell to his hands and knees.

  Kicks work better than punches. Good to know.

  The clearing was black as could be. She could hear Russel whimpering below her. Using that as her gauge, she dropped into the soft grass next to him. She scooped him up into her arms and ran off toward the tree line.

  “You okay?” Gracie said.

  “I want you, I want you, I want you,” Russel said.

  “You got me, Shorty,” she said.

  Behind them, she could hear Coira wailing. “Get him back. Get him back.”

  Gracie peeked over her shoulder. The flashlight hadn’t left the church. Brother and sister made it past the clearing and disappeared into the trees.

  Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ

  The woods lit up with a flash. One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand. Thunder boomed across the countryside. It wasn’t raining, but that was about to change. “I wanna go back home,” Russel said.

  Gracie put her finger to her lips. “Quiet now,” she whispered.

  “I wanna go.” Russel burrowed himself further into his sister’s arms. She held him tight, kneeling in the soft earth under a broad oak tree. The tree’s spreading habit was familiar and reassuring. Out in the cleari
ng, Waylan and Coira walked their wheelbarrow down a trail a couple hundred yards away. They headed north-east. The flashlight bobbed as they moved away from the church, toward the sea. They were going to their boat.

  “Auntie Coira took me on a trip,” Russel said.

  Gracie winced every time Russel piped up. “I think she had a longer trip in mind.” Gracie kept her voice low. Waylan made no moves in their direction. With the wind shaking the trees overhead, she couldn’t hear them. Doubtful they could hear Russel.

  “Her took me to Scotland.”

  “You were already in Scotland, Shorty.” Gracie rubbed her clammy palms on the back of Russel’s puffy jacket. At least they’d dressed him right.

  How close had she come to losing him?

  She still had more to lose. “We’re not going back to camp just yet.”

  “I wanna go back.” His eager blue eyes looked up at her, barely visible in the gloom. She couldn’t afford a tantrum right now. But she wasn’t going back.

  Gracie, Russel, and their father had suffered a terrible loss when her mother died. They weren’t losing anything else. Especially not her mother’s dragon, slithering its way around that medieval cross. It wasn’t getting stolen away.

  “What’s dad always say about adventure?”

  “No good.”

  “That’s right. Adventure is just bad planning,” she said. The bouncing flashlight moved off into the night, crested a hill, and disappeared.

  “Yep,” Russel said.

  “Want to help Coira and Waylan have an adventure?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded up at her.

  “Well then, we can’t go back to camp just yet.” Gracie shifted him around to her back. “Hop up. Piggyback ride.”

  Russel climbed up on her back and put his arms around her shoulders. Gracie looped her arms under his legs. She stood. Maybe he wasn’t that heavy. They moved out of the trees toward where the flashlight had disappeared.