Her father straightened and held the stick up to the light for a moment, twisting it back and forth. “Good eye.”
She smiled up at him. “I’m learnin’.”
He tucked the stick into his gather bag and started to walk away.
Sarah leaned over and looked into the pile of sticks again, spying two more figures hiding in different sticks. She pulled them out and rubbed them against her coat, double-checking each before trotting a little to catch up with her father. “Here, Papa. You left these.”
He stopped and turned, taking the sticks from her, examining each for a moment before tucking them into his gather bag. “Oh, thank you. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” He grinned. “I’m still learnin’, too, I guess.”
His warm smile made her giggle and she picked up a stick of her own to walk with. She dragged it behind her, letting it score the sand as she walked. Occasionally she gave it a shake to form a squiggle as they continued down the long beach.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cape Grace: May 14, 2339
OTTO SAT IN THE AUDIENCE at the community center and watched as Sarah finished her last day of school. Almost every child in the village of Cape Grace who’d turned ten in the previous stanyer sat in the front row of the auditorium while adults gave speeches. Otto counted twelve heads in the front but he only had eyes for the brunette near the end of the row. She sat very politely and clapped when everybody else did.
“Doesn’t seem possible, does it?” the man sitting next to him said.
Otto smiled. “Not really. I still have empty formula cans in my shed.”
“I use ’em for nuts and bolts.”
“Most of hers have bits of driftwood in them.”
“You savin’ them for her?”
“The cans?”
“The driftwood.”
The thought took Otto unawares. “I don’t know. Guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
The man held out his hand. “I don’t think we ever got introduced. I’m Artie Tatum.”
Otto shook. “Otto Krugg.”
“Sarah’s dad. I know.”
“Tatum? Bobby’s father?”
A brilliant grin lit up the man’s sun-stained face. “You know Bobby?”
Otto nodded at Sarah. “She does.”
Tatum nodded. “Gotcha.”
A woman in the row ahead cast them a baleful glance and the two men sat back with amused—and abashed—grins for each other.
After a relatively short ceremony the twelve students paraded across the stage. Mr. Ward handed each a rolled certificate of completion, shook hands, and posed for a moment for the official photographer to snap a picture.
When the last child had their picture taken and resumed their seat, Mr. Ward took the podium again and held up his hands for quiet. “This isn’t the end of your academic journey. For most of you it’s just the beginning. You’ll be getting information sent to your homes about courses and subjects available through the St. Cloud education network. Parents and guardians, please take advantage of that information. It’s a tremendous opportunity for your scholars to gain depth and insight into a number of subjects. Some of which might include fishing.” He paused for the polite laughter to subside. “Now, I’m tired of listening to me talk. Let’s go next door to the cafeteria for ice cream and cake. Whad’ya say?”
His announcement drew cheers and applause. The double doors opened and the crowd began oozing in that direction, let by a dozen very excited students who wouldn’t have to get up for school in the morning anymore.
How many of them would be going to work on the boats instead?
After getting a small scoop of ice cream and a piece of cake, Otto retreated to a quiet spot out of the way to eat and keep an eye on his daughter. How much she’d changed since starting the school. Five short stanyers saw her shoot up and lose the last of her toddler awkwardness. Rail thin but browned as a nut from the time she spent on the beach with him.
It made him at once proud and sad. She’d be moving into puberty soon, growing up. He knew how difficult being the shaman’s son had been. Would it be any easier for her as the shaman’s daughter?
As if reading his mind, John Ward braced his shoulders against the same wall and nodded to Otto. “She’s something special, that one.”
“Thanks. I think so,” Otto said. “I’m a bit biased.”
“You’ve a right to be. She’s amazing. Sharp, curious, strong.”
“Stubborn as a terrier with a rat,” Otto added.
Ward chuckled. “Yeah. We noticed that, too. That’s not a bad thing.”
“Depends on what rat we’re talking about.”
“There’s that,” Ward said with a nod.
They ate ice cream off the tiny fiber plates for a while.
“You know what she’s going to do with her life?” Ward asked.
Otto glanced at him. “It’s kinda early for that, isn’t it?”
Ward shrugged but didn’t look at him. “Half these kids are going to work on the family boat. Mr. Roberts over there is planning on taking some business courses so he can be an accountant with the company like his grandfather.” Ward paused to lick the last of the ice cream off the disposable spoon. “Fruit don’t fall far from the tree here, if you see what I’m saying.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen it a lot. Proud stock. Strong roots.”
“They don’t all work out.”
Otto grimaced and tossed his empty plate into the trash. “Seen that, too.”
“You ever counsel any of them?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I just listen and, sometimes, carve a whelkie for them.”
“Do they work?”
“What? Whelkies?”
Ward nodded.
Otto took a deep breath and blew it out his nose before speaking. He faced the kids but his gaze was someplace else. “Near as I can tell, the whelkie’s a focus. It’s pretty. It’s rare in the world. Not everybody gets one. It’s a symbol of some kind of future. Mostly people read into them what they need.”
“More of a crutch than a guide?”
Otto grimaced and shook his head. “I could be biased there, but I see it as more like a weathervane. Depending on where you are when you look at it and what’s going on around you, it can point out a direction. It won’t tell you that a storm’s coming, but it’ll at least get you to look that way.”
“Huh.” After a few moments, Ward asked, “Do you have one?”
Otto looked at him and grinned. “I’ve got a pile of them in my shop. Why? You thinking you might want one?”
Ward chuckled.
“Yeah, I got one,” Otto said.
“It work?”
“I’m still here. Weathered a lot of storms. Figure there’s at least a couple more on the way.”
“That’s true for everybody,” Ward said.
“Not everybody has a daughter wants to be a shaman,” Otto said.
Ward grunted. “Any ideas what you’re going to do about it?”
“Same as any father. Best I can.”
“Lemme know if I can help. She’s out of school but as long as she’s here in Cape Grace, she’s in my district. There’s lots of things a smart young thing like that can learn. Things that’ll keep her here and walking the beach.”
Otto turned to see Ward’s sad, tired eyes looking at him. Otto nodded his thanks.
Ward tossed his plate and spoon into the trash and moved on around the room, smiling and shaking hands—chatting with parent and student alike.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cape Grace: May 16, 2339
SARAH KRUGG STOOD AT the end of the path and surveyed the beach ahead of her. The prospect of walking the beach alone filled her with excitement and dread. “You sure you don’t want to come along?”
Otto shook his head. “You’re old enough. You don’t need me.” He held out a gathering bag. “You’ll want this.”
She looked at it for a moment before realizing it wasn’t the old, bat
tered bag her father used. She took it and ran a hand over the supple fabric. “My own?”
“Your own,” he said. “If you’re going to walk your own beach, you need your own bag to keep the things you find.”
She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat before slipping the shoulder strap over her head and letting the bag hang on her hip. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled at her and jerked his chin toward the sand ahead. “I’ve got work to do and so do you, my girl. Now, git.”
She nodded and faced the beach again, the morning sun dazzling off the water. Her first few steps out onto the sand felt awkward, self-conscious. The new bag bumped her arm as she walked. She turned to look at her father.
He raised a hand in a silent wave before turning to climb the low headland that separated their cottage from the beach.
She watched him go, walking with his staff tinkling with the music of shells and pieces of sea glass, until even his hat disappeared behind the grassy ridge.
A stray gust caught a strand of her hair and slapped it against her cheek.
She laughed and turned to face the beach once more. “I’m goin’,” she said and bent to her work.
The long familiar beach felt foreign without her father, different somehow. Strange that the lack of his tinkling staff and shuffling boots might make such a big difference. With a shrug and a full nose of salt sea air, she pressed on in earnest—determined to return with at least a few items in her bag.
With no one to watch her, no one to chivvy her along or slow her down, she meandered left and right as she passed piles of wrack and weed. Occasionally a bit of wood attracted her attention—the shape of a wing or the curve of a tail drawing her eye. The voice of the world soon engulfed her—the quiet words of the gulls mixing with the hollow rush of wind over her ears and the rhythmic susurration of sea over sand.
The beach ended at the rocky headland leaving Sarah slightly dazed. The long walk had passed so quickly. She glanced up at the sun and looked out to sea. The tide had turned while she’d been engaged in gathering her shells and driftwood. If only she’d thought to bring a sandwich. Her lips felt tight from the sun. She took a moment to poke through the weed caught in the stony crevices but found only wet rock weed.
With another glance at the sky she turned back toward the cottage. The day would be more than half over by the time she got home, the sun high in the sky and baking the softer sand on the upper beach. She trudged along, looking this way and that but setting a more or less straight path back, ignoring her earlier footprints. The sea would erase them soon enough.
A sparkling piece of sea glass caught her eye. She stooped to pick it up and found a seal trapped in a stick next to it. Both went into her gather bag. When she stood, she noticed her footprints from earlier and remembered turning over the pile of weedy treasure. She hadn’t seen either the glass or the stick earlier.
“That wasn’t very observant.”
She stood there for several moments, letting the onshore breeze blow through her hair, filling her ears and her nose with chilled, briny air. She nodded, then continued on her path.
As she approached the headland she looked up and saw her father, sitting on the grass, watching her. She waved at him and his smile showed white against his skin. He waved back but didn’t get up.
“Did you find anything good?” he asked.
She ran over to him and gave him a hug around the neck. “I think so. At least some kindling.” She patted her bag.
He smiled and clambered to his feet. “You had a good walk.”
She nodded and took his hand, leading him toward the cottage. “Yeah. Was fun. Kinda lonely and I wish I’d taken a sandwich.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Need a drink of water,” she said. “Sun is hot out here.” She turned to look out to sea, squinting against the glare.
“I’ll get you a water bottle to carry,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d walk all the way to the end and back.”
She grinned at him. “Me neither.”
“Why did you?”
She shrugged and continued along the path. “Just listening to the world. It sounded good. I kept finding new sticks. Then I was there.” She shrugged again. “Just was.”
He nodded. “I can understand that.”
She smiled at him and tugged his hand. “Come on. I want a cookie to tide me over till lunch.”
“It’s lunchtime already. Why don’t we have lunch and then a cookie?”
She nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. Let’s do that.”
He laughed, the sound bouncing back from the side of their cottage and spreading out across the headland. It was a good sound. She liked hearing it and wondered why he didn’t do it more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cape Grace: November 2, 2339
SARAH STOOD AT THE window and stared out into the gray. Wind whistled through the eaves and sleet rattled against the window in an occasional splatter, the icy crystals tapping the glass like a handful of sand. She sighed.
“No fun, is it?” her father asked, looking up from his reading on the sofa.
“It’s boring.”
“You could do something. Are you caught up on your coursework?”
She crossed to the sofa and curled up beside him, his bulky sweater smelling of yarn and comfort. She leaned into his side. “Coursework is boring.”
“Some things are.” He looked down at her. “Most things get kinda boring after you do them for a while.”
“Carving doesn’t look boring,” she said, letting just the tiniest bit of pleading into her voice.
He laughed. “Nice try, shortcake. You’re not strong enough to carve yet and I’m not letting your fingers get close to a sharp blade until I know you can handle it.”
“I’d be careful.”
“I know you would, but if something were to happen and you cut off a finger, I don’t know what we’d do.”
She stared at him. Hard. Then sighed again and flopped down on the couch beside him. “Wanna play a game?”
“What kind of game?” he asked.
“Cards?”
“Like what? Solitaire?”
She laughed. “Only one can play solitaire. Chess?”
“You’re offering to play chess with me again?” he asked, his eyebrows rising.
She shrugged. “I won’t get better if I don’t practice.”
He closed the book and stood. “Well, let’s have a game or two. If it gets too boring, you can always practice cooking.”
The thought of fresh cookies brought her upright on the couch. “Cookies?”
“I think we have everything to make them, if you want.”
“You help?” she asked.
“I’ll help,” he said. Sleet chattered against the window. “Day like today, about all you can do is stay inside next to a warm stove.”
“Or carve,” she said.
He laughed. “Come on. Them cookies won’t make themselves.” He rose and pulled her upright. “Cookies or nap.”
The warmth of the cottage, snug against the elements, felt safe. It made her yawn and blink.
“Maybe nap instead,” her father said.
She shook herself and headed for the kitchen. “You’re not getting’ away that easy.” She grinned at him. “Cookies first.”
“Then nap?”
The eagerness in his voice made her giggle.
“Maybe,” she said, turning her head and stifling a yawn so he wouldn’t see and insist on the nap first.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cape Grace: March 24, 2341
SARAH FOLLOWED HER father through the aisles of the hardware section of the chandlery. The spicy scent of the rope melded with an undercurrent of lubrication oils. Half a dozen fishermen carried on a round-robin conversation near the check-out, laying down a background drone of half-heard voices. She glanced at the arrangements of tools and supplies, waiting whenever he stopped.
He
needed a new whetstone for the bench in their workshop. It wasn’t something they could order online because he wanted to feel the stones before buying. He’d been mumbling about grit and hardness for a couple of days already and she was getting more than a little tired of it. The long winter of heavy coats, extra leggings, and frozen noses dragged on, seemingly forever, but she felt the beach drawing her.
She sighed. It would be a couple of more days before the tide shifted enough to let them walk during the warmth of the day again.
They stopped at the counter in the back of the store.
Mercer Roman leaned forward over the counter and smiled. “Hey, Otto. How’s the shamaning going?”
Her father laughed and shook Mercer’s hand. “I’m still listening. How’re things going at home?”
Mercer glanced down at Sarah, shifting his weight back a bit before looking back at her father. “Better. Winter was tough, but I think we’re on the mend.” He glanced back at Sarah again before looking away.
Her father nodded. “I need a new bench stone for the shop. Whatcha got?”
Mercer started pulling various blocks of stone and ceramic from the cubbies, going through the characteristics that all blended into numbers and words that washed over Sarah like breakers on the beach, unable to parse any significance from the tumble of grits, hardnesses, and solutions. She wandered down the counter, eyeing the merchandise within. The first display of fish knives arranged in a flower pattern drew her along to the next display of household cutlery. Broad-bladed chefs’ knives and stubby paring knives gave way to tableware. The next display stopped her cold.
Pocket knives.
She stepped closer to the glass, peering in at a bewildering collection of folding knives. Many sported a single, broad blade. Some displayed two—a longer and shorter. A couple of them seemed to have everything under the sun with gadgets fanned out from each end of the handle.
She glanced back to where her father and Mercer continued to discuss the relative merits of sharpening stones. If she had a knife, she could start carving. She stared into the glassed-in display, her fingers clenching with their desire to hold one of the knives—any one of them would do, even the simplest ones.
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