Saundra Mitchell - Mistwalker

And I was right. The harbor was empty, mostly empty—the Jenn-a-Lo remained. She pulled at her slip, untouched and unworked. Beyond her, terns circled Jackson’s Rock, an endangered halo drawing attention to the lighthouse.

Something (some one ) drifted across the island’s cliffwalk. A hook drew through my belly. I shielded my eyes to get a better look at the thing on the island. It glinted, like a piece of glass catching the sun. Drifting through the trees, it flashed once more, then faded.

There were reasonable explanations. Maybe somebody from the Coast Guard was out there, checking on the beacon. Could be Fisheries and Wildlife counting active nests and live birds.

Before I could puzzle it out, Denny Ouelette veered toward me. “What are you staring at, dummy?”

My throat snapped closed. Denny was related to Terry Coyne, by marriage, not blood. Still, standing that close to her made my nerves fire. Lawyers had told me not to talk about the case; common sense agreed. Better to keep my mouth shut. Things were tense enough.

“My gran has to sell her house on account of you,” Denny said. She was shorter than me, and made out of delicate parts. Tiny hands, doll mouth—she looked breakable. But we’d grown up together, and I knew better.

Out of reflex, and sincere, I said, “I’m sorry.”

Like a snake, Denny coiled. Her eyes narrowed, and I could see her calculating. Could she break my nose with one shot? Had I sounded snotty enough for her to get away with it?

Adrenaline buzzed through me; in a sick way, it almost felt like happiness. Already, I could taste blood; I savored the anticipation of the blow.

Her sums must have come up short, because the blow never came. Instead, she spat on the ground—near my shoes, but not on them. Then she pulled her hair from her coat and stalked up the hill to first class. Her perfume, sugar and light, lingered even after she disappeared inside.

My anticipation turned sour, and an ache started in my head. Somewhere on the top of the hill, Bailey waited for me. Seth, too. I could tell them about Denny. I could tell them anything. Then they’d stand too close and be too good.

A cool breeze threaded through my hair, bringing in the sea, washing it over me. I took one more step toward school, giving my feet the chance to make me behave. But they turned instead. Toward the harbor, toward Daddy’s boat and the ocean.

But I’m the one who took the step.

It was a perfect day to be on the water, and there was only so much perfect to go around. I was desperate to go out, the sun bleaching my hair brighter and the wind chapping my lips. I wanted back all the things I’d lost, all the things that had slipped away.

I wanted; it wormed through me. It writhed under my skin.

It didn’t take long to walk to the harbor. Gliding over the warped wood of the dock, I felt my blood surge again. I was heat, inside and out. Herring gulls pierced the sky with their bodies and their cries. Jumping on deck, I didn’t bother to pull on my life vest. I went straight to the wheel; I steered straight out to sea.

As soon as I got past Jackson’s Rock, I planned to throttle down and check the GPS. We had traps out; they needed to be pulled. It was a lot slower to run a lobster boat alone. Some people thought more dangerous, but it was possible.

To hell with black, biting worms and slinking around on dry land. To hell with bad-luck ladies onboard . . . I couldn’t bring myself to cuss Daddy, but he had it coming for banning me from the boat. He knew how to hurt me because we were the same. I was his reflection; we were made of salt and sea and legacy, both of us.

As I left shore behind, the color came back to my world. I breathed again. My eyes opened. Then I cursed under my breath.

There are phantoms on the ocean. Ships sailed by the unseen; fae women and horses running beneath the waves. Mermaids and sirens, and all kinds of monsters—generations of sailors have seen them all.

That’s why I cussed instead of gasped. Because that morning when I went back to sea, I looked past the waves to the mist-shrouded cliffs.

And from them, the Grey Man looked back.

My celebration is simple. I raise my hands, and every music box plays at once.

To other ears, it might be cacophony. Minor keys sob while major keys elate, none of the times deign to match. Each coil runs its own length—some songs ending after a phrase. Others linger, gold notes that swirl in the air around me like dust motes.

In the end, just one tune remains. An old Irish song, and I knew all the words once. I forget them now.

One of my father’s men liked to play it when we sailed home to Boston. He stood in the crow’s-nest with a pipe and played the ballad into the wind.

Of the lyrics, I remember a single line: “It will not be long, love . . .”

Oh, promises. Promises! She looks to the island, and she sees me here. Though I’ve wanted it, longed for it . . . been so achingly aware of it, this is the moment when she’s real. The moment that’s the same for her: when I become real to her, too.

Laughter rolling through me, I raise my hands again. I turn in the gallery, and every music box sings. Again, again, again!

Bailey put the thought in my head. That’s what I told myself, putting my stern to the Rock.

A thin finger stirred in my brain, making my head ache. The pain pulsed along with the engine. It got worse when I tried to pin down what I’d seen.

A bright streak for the black eyes, a low, thrumming thunder for the full curve of the lips. It was a strange, beautiful face, haloed by silver hair, cloaked in fog. Thinking about it made my head hurt so bad, my stomach turned.

I’d never been seasick, and I wasn’t gonna start. Playing back the plots in the GPS, I turned the Jenn-a-Lo to our waters. It wasn’t long before I came up on our first buoy. Throttling the engine, I stepped on deck and reached for the gaff. As I leaned to pull the first trap, I hesitated.

It felt like somebody was watching me. Turning slowly, I looked at the open sea all around. The day was too clear, too perfect, to be hiding anyone. The Marine Patrol and the Coast Guard never tried too hard to hide. What was the point? By the time they caught you doing something, it’s not like you had anywhere to run.

“Knock it off and fish,” I told myself.

Hooking the first trawl, I dragged the wet line into the hauler and switched it on. A trap rose to the surface in a sparkling ring of bubbles. A skinny lobster clicked at me, lazy and halfhearted. Maybe it felt like it had to put on a show.

Pulling it free, I turned it over. Deep, dark green against my orange Kevlar gloves, it waved its swimmerets in surrender. No eggs clustered beneath the tail, no notch to mark it a breeding female either. The beast spanned the length of my metal ruler and then some. A keeper.

I tossed it into the live tank and scooped new bait into the bag. Tied that in the trap, then checked my position. Careful to cover my tracks, I dropped the trap exactly where Daddy had.

He’d never know I was on the water.

The school might call, but I’d missed plenty of days onshore. The rest of the fleet had followed the lobster out deep; I’d be out and back before they sailed in for the night. Best yet, there was no reason to question my money from the co-op. Lobster was richer than bloodworms, but I could parcel it out.

It was slow, hauling traps alone. Stopping at every single buoy, pulling and emptying. Baiting and dropping it over the rail, only then moving to the next. It was slow, and it was hard.