Saundra Mitchell - Mistwalker

The stern raised against the sky. An awful cry filled the air, the hauler wrenching against its bolts. Our soda cooler tumbled down the deck, crashing into me. Ice fountained from it, frigid bullets against my skin. Even that was lucky. If there had been a full load of traps on deck, I’d have already been dead.

The boat crashed down. The cooler bounced up and out, flung into the sea. The hauler gouged the cabin wall again, right next to my head. It left a deep welt in the wood. Ice cubes skittered beneath my feet.

Slicked with sweat, I dragged myself into the cabin. Righting myself, I twisted the key. The engine growled, then caught. It didn’t make a difference. The next wave hit. Daddy’s hula girl, hanging from the radio, went horizontal.

I cracked my head against the windshield. A wave crashed inside my head, this one dark and full of sparks. A hot streak of blood spilled down my temple. I ignored it. Instead, I flipped all the lights on. The radio, too. I had to get my bearings.

The engine was running, but it would be dangerous to steer into the sea blind. There had to be other boats out, farther out. Daddy’s Girlfriend would have advice too.

As warning lights flashed, the bilge alarm went off. The radio whispered white noise. In the cacophony, I caught a snatch of an automated warning. Storm surge in conjunction with unexpectedly high tide causing three- to four-foot waves. Danger to small vessels, and no freaking kidding.

Alarms blared around me. Taking on water! Check engine! When I keyed the mic, the static went quiet. But no one answered my call. With the lights on, I saw the chaos clearly. Sharp, angry angles of waves ahead of me, peaked like meringue. Then, the slow rise of the Jenn-a-Lo ’s bow, anticipating the strike to come.

It hit, and the boat lunged once more. More water spilled onto the deck. That wasn’t enough to sink the boat. The bilge pump was already on, pumping as fast as it could. The Jenn-a-Lo was made to stay dry. We hauled traps onto the deck all day long, draining them out the sides.

No, that wasn’t the problem.

Another wave struck. It came down like a fist. That was the problem.

The ocean, when it was riled, could drown a boat. Not sink it—drown it. Shove it beneath the surface and hold it there. It wasn’t sinking if you filled with water all at once. It was drowning, drifting. A graceful submission. Gliding to the bottom to lay with other boats and other sailors, all sacrificed to the great blue.

Trying to find my way up, I gagged on the acid of cigarette ash. Rubbing grit off my face, I lurched when the ocean punched the Jenn-a-Lo again. Cords hung everywhere. They dangled like innards, the guts of some black beast cut open. Everything stank: salt and ash, spilled bait, fear sweat. I was flashes of cold and hot at the same time, trying to find my feet.

The mic swung close. I scrambled to catch it and keyed the button. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is the vessel Jenn-a-Lo, call sign ZMG0415.”

The sea answered, groaning like it was possessed. Like it was alive. I dropped the radio and turned. A wall rolled toward me. Black, streaked with silver, it was its own constellation. Poseidon rampant. Neptune at war.

All at once, I was calm. I wasn’t going to have to explain what I was thinking when I took the boat out. I wasn’t going to have to plead guilty or let a defense attorney tear me up. I wouldn’t ever see Seth driving around with another girl.

A sharp touch of regret twisted in me: I wouldn’t see Bailey again. My mother. My father. One more sunset on the Atlantic.

Before that registered, the wall came down. I was swallowed by the sea.

I don’t know. Usually I don’t know.

I see one of the human lights floundering beneath my beacon, and I thrill. Who it is matters not. It’s a mystery I can’t solve, and I don’t try. I snatch a jar from the cabinet. These vessels whisper and rattle, so alive in my hand. Into the elements, I rush.

Though I stay there most of the time, I’m not bound to the lighthouse. It’s the island that contains me. Thus, I can run to the shore when it’s time to add to my collection. When someone breathes his last, his soul rises to the beacon road. I open my jar, and his essence coalesces in it.

The whole spark of a human being is a beautiful thing.

I tremble in anticipation as I take my jar and rush to the water. A storm and stars, lighting and a full moon. It’s an extraordinary night! One more silver, swirling vial of life to line the shelves. One more tick off my immortal clock.

But when I reach the shore, I see autumn colors instead of an indeterminate glow. Copper hair, dusky mouth, I see her. This time I know her name. The shape of her hand. I recognize the essential parts—this isn’t another light, this is Willa.

I drop the bottle. Its bulb shatters on the rocks, and I wade into the water. When I go too far, I peel apart. I’m red-hot strips of agony, then nothing in an infernal cold. Then I form again on the shore, whole. Complete. Watching her go under.

This can’t happen. One more out of a thousand is not enough: collecting her ruins everything. She’s my hope. My escape! She’s walking on the far shore this year instead of a millennium hence. She comes to me and touches my things. She’s real and alive; I need her to stay.

There are no mannerly waves tonight. They roll and crash, making walls of driftwood, pushing them ever closer to the wood that shadows my rock. I can’t get closer. My agonizing insubstantiality persists. There are borders to my curse, a gate through which I cannot pass.

So I call the mist. I wind it around the island, wool on a spindle. I hope that it will calm the seas, just enough to bring her to shore. Not just her soul, but the whole of her.

Since the curse has been so very accommodating, I wish. On my breakfast plate, I want proof that she’s well, that she more than survived the night. The curse will grant it; a wish like that couldn’t be more contrary to its desires.

The waves roar yet, now blanketed in haze—but I see her light. With each surge, it flows toward me. I hold out my hands. To catch her; perhaps to call her. As if I’m some saltwater god and not a monster in a tower.

She can’t be lost. I’ve waited too long. I’ve been too generous, too careful, too kind. Despite my strange-made flesh, I’ve been so very human, and it’s time. I deserve this. I deserve her, deserve the chance to kiss her. To make her love me enough to die for me. All these things should be mine.

I wade in again, the island sure beneath my feet in spite of the inundation. The next wave crashes through me. There’s a trembling, the curse threatening to shear me to pieces again. I’m almost too far out. My contradictory bones ache from the cold, but, oh, lucky hand! I catch a length of what must be her hair.

Winding my wrist in it, I drag her into the air. It’s brutish, but it works. Once I’ve pulled her from the surf, I can better grasp her. I can even be gentle—scooping my arms beneath her, hefting her sodden shape off the ground. Her edges trail like seaweed.

Suddenly, her edges sharpen. She’s less a haze of light and shape, and more a girl.

No, she’s a mermaid made real, cradled in my arms and breathing! Gloriously, wonderfully breathing. Her face is battered. Bruised and swollen. Her skin cast in faint shades of blue. A vicious shudder rolls through her, and though she’s stiff with cold, she curls toward me. Catching my shirt with one hand, she clings to it.