Cape Grace

by Nathan Lowell

  She sat back in her chair. “It’s just a baked mouta,” she said. “I made it all the time at home. I learned from my fa—”

  He stood, slamming his chair backwards so it fell over with a clatter. “It’s fish.” He screamed it into her face, leaning across the table, a spray of beery spittle catching her cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Bobby. You never said you didn’t like fish.”

  He slapped the plate off the table, batting it toward the sink where it smashed into the cabinet before cascading to the floor. “Do not ever serve me fish after I’ve been out fishing.” He stomped around the table.

  For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was going to bat her, too, but he just stormed past, grabbing a jacket from the hall closet and slamming out the front door.

  “That went well,” she said, eyeing the mess smeared on the cabinet doors and streaking down to the floor. With a shrug she began to eat. The fish came out just right, the white flesh flaking perfectly and the savory stuffing adding a nice counterpoint. It would only get cold and the mess would keep until she’d finished her meal.

  A single tear escaped her burning eyes, but she caught it with her napkin before it fell.

  * * *

  Sarah curled up in the bed, pulling the covers up around her shoulders. She heard Bobby stumble through the door, dropping his boots with a pair of thumps before he climbed the stairs to their bedroom. She closed her eyes and focused on long, slow breaths.

  The smell of beer arrived before he did. How much did he spill on himself to get that much stink? Maybe it was just her nose expecting it.

  He shambled into the bath and peed for what seemed like half an hour. At least some of the beer got into him, judging from the amount coming out. She bit her lower lip to keep from giggling. Fear coiled in her gut and she focused on her breath. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. The noises from the bathroom, the sound of his clothes dropping to the floor. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.

  The bed lurched as he fell onto his side. Please don’t let this be one of those nights.

  In through her nose. Out through her mouth.

  He wrestled with the covers for a few minutes, then scrunched around shaking the bed for another minute or two. Eventually he stopped. His breathing evened out and he started to snore.

  In through her nose. Out through her mouth. She focused on her breath, feeling the movement in her body. In a couple of hours he’d leave again. Would he sleep on the boat? Take a nap between hauls? She lay very still, eyes closed. With any luck she’d sleep a little before the crew came to pick him up.

  In through her nose. Out through her mouth. The air filling her, moving in her, and leaving her.

  Her life had become one breath after another. Why had she thought this would be satisfactory? Why did her father think this was a good idea? The shaman is supposed to look out for the people.

  Who looks out for the shaman?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Cape Grace: September 3, 2351

  OTTO SMELLED IT IN the air. The stink wafted past, sometimes as a bare whisper like wood smoke from a distant fire, sometimes as a tear-inducing searing of his nostrils. It distracted him from his walk. He turned his head this way and that, a bloodhound on the trail, but he couldn’t find it. It seemed the same wherever he went. He sighed and poked a pile of weed with the foot of his staff.

  The beach felt empty without Sarah along. She hadn’t walked the beach with him for a month. The wedding took her away as surely as if she’d been forced to leave St. Cloud.

  A piece of wood caught his eye. He stooped to pick it up and brushed some crud off it to get a better look. He straightened, holding it to the watery light of an overcast afternoon. For just a moment, he saw a whale in the curve of the wood, its eye staring back at him. He nodded and slipped it into his bag. It didn’t get any easier as he got older.

  He shook the idea out of his head and leaned on his staff, tilting his face up toward the sky and turning so the onshore breeze hit him full in the face. Even that didn’t drive the stench completely away.

  “Maybe I should get a dog,” he said. He snorted and continued down the beach.

  Odd that he’d never felt alone before. How many years had he walked the beach and listened to the world? His gaze raked the sand in front of his boots but he had to stop and look closer every few steps. He stopped again. The end of the beach looked very far away. He turned and looked back toward the cottage.

  “Five Mile Beach,” he said. “When did it get so long?”

  Maybe a dog would be a good idea. Lots of people talked to their pets. At least he wouldn’t feel like quite such a fool if he was talking to a dog.

  The stench wafted around his head, curling under his nose before slipping away again.

  He shook his head. It had to mean something.

  Didn’t it?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Cape Grace: January 28, 2352

  OTTO ENTERED THE MED center and the attendant pointed him to a curtained alcove. “She’s resting now. She’ll have another couple of days before we can let her out.”

  He nodded, numbness eating into him. Fear for his child, anger at the man who put her there, and a healthy dose of self-recrimination. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  He entered the alcove and the attendant wheeled in a stool for him to sit on. It took him a moment to gather his wits. He almost didn’t recognize her. The autodoc had her covered from the waist down, just the upper hatch open. Her face, swollen and discolored, looked out of place, her lower lip swollen to twice normal size, her cheek sporting a bruise around a bandage. Her hair lay flat on her scalp. Her eyelids flickered as if she were dreaming. Dark bruises showed on her forearms where they stuck out of the gown. She looked for all the world like a broken doll, something he might find washed up on the beach. Behind it all the regular beep of heart monitor kept a monotonous beat.

  He swallowed hard.

  The attendant touched his shoulder and pulled him out of the alcove, taking him back to the entry.

  “She needs sleep. It’s nature’s anesthetic and helps her heal.” She paused and looked at him. “She’ll be fine physically. There’s no concussion. No broken bones. A couple of cracked ribs but they’ll be mostly healed by the time we let her out of the autodoc. A few more days.”

  “Does that look like she fell down the stairs?” he asked her.

  The attendant shook her head. “That’s the story we got.”

  “It’s not what happened,” he said.

  She took him by the arm and led him outside. An icy wind cut off the bay, roaring past Otto’s ears, but she pulled the door closed until it latched. She crossed her arms over her chest in a huddle against the cold. “It’s the story we have. As long as she keeps corroborating it, our hands are tied.”

  “That’s not what happened,” he said again.

  She nodded. “I’d say somebody beat her.”

  “Somebody?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve seen this before. You’re the shaman. You know how these things work.”

  Otto turned his face to the scouring wind, letting it tear at his eyes and cut his cheeks. “I do. If they don’t file charges, everybody’s hands are tied.”

  The attendant nodded. “And what happens if she does?”

  Otto looked at her. “She’ll be away from him. She’ll be safe.”

  The attendant shrugged and gave a short nod before looking up. “She’ll be away from all of us unless she’s got a job.”

  Otto nodded and looked up at the sky. Maybe he’d had it wrong. “Maybe Flanagan was right,” he said.

  “Pardon?” the attendant asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Something somebody said a long time ago. Not important.”

  She nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “She’s pretty drugged up right now. I wouldn’t expect to get too much out of her for the next twelve stans.”

  “Can I sit with her?” he asked.

&n
bsp; “As long as you’re quiet. I don’t think you can wake her up, but I’d rather not find out I’m wrong.”

  Otto nodded. “I can be quiet.”

  She stared into his eyes. “Do you know where her husband is?”

  Otto shook his head. “No idea.” He paused. “He hasn’t tried to see her?”

  She shook her head.

  “Comstock should know,” Otto said. “I heard the bus leave for the ridge earlier.”

  “You think he was on it?”

  Otto shrugged. “Who found her?”

  “She called EMTs. They found her at the foot of the stairs.”

  “Was she lucid?” he asked.

  “She was talking to the EMTs for a few ticks after they arrived. She passed out as they were loading her on a stretcher. The autodoc worked on her for about two hours but she’s been decanted since then.” She paused. “That was a few hours ago. How did you find out?”

  “Chandlery. Martin asked me how she was doing.” He rubbed his palm over his lips. “I didn’t know.”

  “Sorry. Hell of a way to find out.”

  He nodded.

  She shivered and opened the door. “Come on. Sit with her if you like. Just. Quiet, yeah?”

  He nodded. “Quiet.”

  The attendant took him back inside and settled him on the stool. He nodded his thanks and unbuttoned his woolen coat. He stared at the autodoc, the status lights on it mostly green with a few yellows. In his mind he went back to the day she’d been born. The red lights. The flat-lined display. He glanced at the readouts above her head, feeling reassured by the steady blip and the numbers on the screen. She was alive.

  He sat there—lost in his own thoughts—for some unnoticed amount of time. The medical staff changed shifts somewhere in there.

  A different tech came into the alcove. “Mr. Krugg? Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low. “Can I get you anything?”

  Otto shook his head. “I’m fine.” He offered a smile. As fine as he could be while his only child lay in the autodoc.

  “Her vitals are stronger,” the tech said. “We’re cutting back on the medications. She may wake but she’ll be groggy. You never know what she might say.” He gave him an encouraging smile. “You sure I can’t get you a cup of tea or something? You’ve been here for a very long time.”

  Otto stood, suddenly aware that his butt felt numb from sitting without moving for so long. He stretched and shook his head. “I’d like to stay if that’s allowed?”

  The attendant nodded. “You’re welcome to, but you’re not doing her any favors by not eating or drinking.”

  Otto’s stomach agreed with a loud rumble. He smiled in spite of himself. “I’m fine. I’ll go home and sleep soon.”

  “If you’re sure,” the attendant said. “It’s no bother.”

  Otto shook his head and took his seat again.

  The attendant patted him on the shoulder on the way out, drawing the curtain behind him with a hissing of metal on metal.

  A few hours later, Sarah’s eyes fluttered and blinked open and the attendant came into the alcove, smiling. “You’re awake?” he asked.

  Sarah blinked several times, her head turning toward the sound. “Yuh. Wake. Autodoc?”

  “Yes. Rest. You’re fine. We’re just helping you heal up.”

  Her eyes drifted shut. “Stairs. Fell.”

  The attendant sighed and made a notation on his tablet before giving Otto a sad smile and leaving the alcove again.

  “Papa?”

  Otto looked over to see her looking at him. He wanted to rush to her, to hold her, to comfort her, but felt frozen in place by the enormity of the situation. His muscles wouldn’t move. “I’m here,” he said.

  “You got what you wanted,” she said, her eyelids fluttering closed for a moment before opening again with a jerk. “I’m married. I can’t be deported.”

  “Not like this,” Otto said, ice sliding into his chest. “Not like this.”

  She shook her head, just the tiniest movement back and forth. “Didn’t matter, did it? You wanted me here. Here I am.” Her eyes closed again.

  Otto glanced at the lights, assuring himself that she was still alive. The beeps spread out and her breathing settled down. The ice in his chest felt like fire.

  The attendant came back. “Good. She’s asleep again. Did she say anything to you?” he asked.

  Otto stood, barely able to straighten his back. He nodded.

  “She’s still drugged. Was it something funny?” He grinned at him. “Patients say the damnedest things sometimes.”

  Otto pulled his coat around him, fingers managing the buttons without his will. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t funny.”

  The attendant nodded, peering into Otto’s eyes for a moment. “She’s sedated. Don’t put too much stock into anything she might say.”

  Otto sighed and swallowed. “Thank you. I’ll be back in the morning.” He glanced at the chronometer on the wall. “Well, later in the morning.”

  The attendant nodded and held the curtain open for him.

  Otto shuffled out of the alcove, feeling old and defeated. Afraid for Sarah and buried in a blanket of remorse. Had he forced her into marrying? Should he have been less accommodating? Less willing to let her follow her path? After stanyers of telling her to get a job or get married, could he have said “Not Bobby” and meant it?

  The night sky glowed with the light of millions of stars. The wind had died down, leaving an icy stillness that matched his own. He turned his steps toward the cottage but didn’t remember the walk, only surprise that he arrived.

  * * *

  He woke early the next morning, dragging himself out to the kitchen to make tea. The cottage felt cold, too quiet. He’d been there alone for months but the cold seemed to come through the floor, the quiet echoed in his head. The kettle shrilled and he slopped boiling water on his hand trying to charge the tea pot. A handy towel blotted it off and he ran cold water on the burn. Compared to the pain in his gut, the burn served as only a minor distraction.

  He finally got a cup of tea and took it to the shop. He started a small fire in the stove, the warmth and crackle giving him something to think about besides the cold and silence. His stomach rumbled but he ignored it. It might be empty but that only meant there was nothing to come back up. He took a deep breath and pulled a stick out of the pile. A raven stared out at him—one wing high, the other low. He nodded in greeting and began roughing it out. His knife growled against the wood, pulling the raven forward, freeing it from the stick. He focused on the bird, on the moment, on the next cut. He didn’t forget, but the familiar movements of fingers and hands let his heart relax. He took a sip of tea and found it cold. Glancing around, he saw the small fire had consumed its fuel and burned out.

  He placed his knife on the bench and examined the raven taking shape. He nodded. The shape looked right, nearly there. He had another stan of rough work before he’d be able to pull the final shape out. He’d have time later.

  He stood and swept the chips off his lap, brushed down the front of his shirt and cleared the seat of his chair with a hand. The chips crunched under his feet. He’d sweep them later. Feed the evening fire with them. Taking his cup to the kitchen, he dumped the cold tea from mug and pot, rinsing both and placing them in the drainer. The tide would be high in another stan. He had time to visit the clinic.

  He let his body remember how to put on the heavy coat, how to pull on the knit cap. He didn’t think. He wouldn’t let himself think. He could think later. Now he had to dress for the weather. He had to step out into the cold sun. His staff reached for his hand and together they led the way down the familiar path. He arrived at the clinic after some nameless amount of time. The door opened as he approached and Ed Comstock stepped out, blinking in surprise.

  “I was just on my way out to see you,” he said, zipping his parka up. The brilliant yellow Pirano logo blazed against the blue nylon shell.

  Otto nodded. “What can
I do for you?”

  Comstock shook his head. “That’s my line, Otto.” He paused, blocking the door. “How are you holding up?”

  Otto shrugged. “My daughter’s been beaten within an inch of her life by her husband. I’m not happy.”

  Comstock nodded and took him by the arm. “I just got kicked out. She’s sleeping now. Let’s get some tea, huh?”

  Otto pulled his arm away. “I’m fine. I just want to see her.”

  Comstock stepped aside and waved at the door. “I’ll wait. You won’t be long.” He smiled. “Then we can get some tea.”

  Otto nodded and stepped into the clinic. The attendant looked up. “Mr. Krugg. She’s resting comfortably.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “You can look but she’s asleep. It would be best if she stayed that way.”

  “She’s medicated?” he asked.

  The attendant nodded. “She became restless overnight. The autodoc closed up for some follow-up treatment after you left.”

  “But she’s all right?”

  The attendant nodded. “She’ll be fine. The supervisor says another day here and then she can go home.”

  “Home?” Otto asked, feeling his eyebrows climbing his skull.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Comstock has arranged for an aide to stay with her for the time being. He was just here. You must have seen him leave.”

  “May I see her?” Otto asked.

  The attendant pressed his lips together but nodded. “Quick look, but then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  He led Otto to the alcove and pulled the curtain aside enough for Otto to peek in. Sarah’s face had lost some of the swelling, but the bruises stood out against the light colored gown. The autodoc held her in its cocoon; several of the lights had turned yellow. He looked at the attendant. “You sure she’s better?” He kept his voice to a whisper, barely louder than the monitoring equipment.

  The attendant nodded and motioned Otto to follow as he went back to the front of the clinic. Once there he nodded again. “Yes. She’s getting better. An infection flared up in the night but it’s being taken care of.” He shrugged. “As good as the autodoc is, as much as we know, the human body is still driven as much by spirit as muscle.”