It was hours later when his drifting spirit was recalled by a disturbance he could not identify. He stood up and moved to the open door, looking out toward the ocean. There was something out there that he could not identify but it felt . . . wrong. Perhaps even evil. A shiver ran down his spine and he turned back to the fire, closing the door behind him.
THREE
The rising sound of the wind and the increasing slap of waves against the hull woke Claire from a restless sleep and drew her up to the wheelhouse of Island Girl. The barometer had fallen sharply and the wind was already gusting to thirty knots. She knew that if it kept veering, she’d be in for a rough night. For a moment she listened to the creak and groan of the hull as the timbers worked and strained, sensing the movement as the boat bucked against the lines that held her to the float.
She had her father to thank for both her boating knowledge and her sea sense. He had instilled in her the lore of the ocean as he steered his fishboat from one school of salmon to the next, holding her in front of him at the wheel, telling her stories, passing on his love of the sea as he hauled the net. By the time she started university, the rhythms and moods of the ocean had become almost second nature. Sea temperature, the movement of fish, wave patterns, tides, weather, navigation—it had all seeped into her pores over the years so that even now, after a degree in marine biology and two years of mostly desk work at the Pacific Maritime Research Centre, she couldn’t imagine being far away from the water for long. Like the sea life she studied, she needed it to live.
She should have known that earlier. Much earlier. Before she met Garrett. Before she let herself fall in love with him and follow him first to Ottawa and then to Dallas as his career blossomed and hers languished. Before she had wasted three years of her life trying to force herself into a mold that she could never fit. Before her discomfort and frustration and misery drove her to ask him for a divorce.
She should have known long before she married him, when he first started hinting that she sell her boat. And maybe somewhere deep down she had, because the boat was the one thing she had held on to.
She had her father to thank for the boat too. Island Girl had been the last boat her father had owned and his final gift to her. She had moved aboard when she returned from Dallas, finding solace in the familiar spaces and routines, letting herself be soothed by the chuckle of water past the hull. Even when she decided to return to university, she stayed aboard, commuting from marina to campus by kayak whenever the weather allowed, hauling the sleek little vessel across the wide expanse of sand that hugged the base of the cliffs at Point Grey, below the sprawling campus of the University of British Columbia. She quickly came to know most of the students, food vendors, palm readers, and psychics who hung out there and was secure in the knowledge that she could leave the boat under their watchful eyes while she climbed the four hundred and seventy-three steps that led up to the university and her classes.
A peal of thunder pulled her back to the present and she quickly shrugged on her rain gear and stepped out onto the deck. Braced against the storm, she worked her way carefully along the cap rail, testing knots for tightness, checking cleats and gunwales for roughness, sliding her fingers down each line to check for wear. The rain worked its way past the collar of her raincoat to trickle in a cold stream down her neck, but she ignored it, intent on the task at hand. When she had satisfied herself that everything was in good shape, she stepped down onto the dock and repeated the process there.
She was almost finished when some sound, some change in the timbre of the wind, some alteration in the pattern of the waves, disrupted her concentration. It was so faint, she was not sure she had heard it. She strained her senses to locate the source, but there was only the wind and the rain.
The next two mornings brought more of the same weather, although the color of the sea and sky slowly changed from black to gray: heaving gray sea, brooding gray sky, and a sinuous curtain of silver-gray rain. The wind howled from the southeast, knocking the tops off the waves and hurling the spray into streaks of white foam.
It took three days for the storm to ease enough to reveal the familiar contours of the land. By noon on the third day, the rain had become a fine mist and a pale sun appeared. The forest was wet and dripping, the leaves shining with a metallic glint as they flickered in the wind, the green of the undergrowth newly bright. Overhead, small white gulls wheeled in the sky, screaming a challenge to the elements.
Claire pulled on a jacket and stepped out onto the deck, glad to be able to get outside and stretch her legs. She flexed her shoulders and inhaled the clean rain-washed air as she took in the sparkling world that surrounded her. Jumping down to the float, she checked the lines that tethered Island Girl. Three days of twisting and pulling had done little damage, but she retied them anyway, sliding protective sections of rubber hose into place where the rope passed over the scuppers. Satisfied that all was well, she wandered slowly up the wharf and followed the path to the old lodge.
Close beside it, just past the edge of the meadow and running right across the island from Shoal Bay in the north to an unnamed rocky indentation on the southern shore, was a shallow depression. Although dry most of the time, for a few days each month when the moon was near full, the tides rose high enough to fill it with water, turning it into a channel that cut the island in two. Little more than knee-deep, it was perfect for the kayak and she had used it several times for easy access to the waters lying south of Spider Island and the protected reefs and outcroppings that could be found there. Right now, with both the full moon and the storm surge working together, the channel was deeper than she had ever seen it.
She glanced up at the sun. There was plenty of daylight left and the other side of the island would be protected from the wind. Even if she didn’t make it back before the sea retreated and turned the channel back to a dry gulley, she could leave the kayak pulled up into the rocks on the south shore and go back for it the next day.
It was midafternoon when Claire emerged on the other side of Spider Island. Without the wind, the day was pleasantly warm and she lost track of time as she paddled through schools of darting silver herring. Although she would have liked to spend the entire afternoon doing nothing else but drifting with the current, neither her conscience nor habits ingrained by both her father and years of study and research would let her. She had already lost three days to the storm. She couldn’t afford to waste another one if she was to fulfill the terms of her contract. Easing the kayak up to one of the shallower reefs, she peered down through the clear water at the spiny red urchins and sunflower sea stars that clustered in the dark crevices of the rocks. Soon she had her sampling net out and was filling her notebook with detailed notes.
Daylight was fading and the tide had ebbed by the time she got back to shore. Since the channel had long since reverted to a dry gully, she dragged the kayak high up into the rocks and tied it securely to a tree. The tides would stay high for at least a couple of days. Tomorrow or the day after, she would return and paddle it back. She was returning later than she had planned, but the clouds had cleared and the moon was already up, bright and full, lighting her way. It would be an easy walk back to the lodge. In a couple of hours, she would be back on board Island Girl.
The smell of cigarette smoke stopped her as she emerged from the forest and started into the meadow. That and the creak of a board as someone moved on the deck of the old lodge. It was so completely out of place, so unexpected, that she froze in place before instinct made her step back into the trees, where the darkness was suddenly comforting. Her eyes scanned the moonlit clearing ahead of her and roamed the familiar shape of the bay, searching for some explanation. She found it as they reached the dock: an unfamiliar and ghostly shape loomed up into the night sky, dwarfing Island Girl.
She could just make out the outline of a large yacht, but it was like looking at a negative image instead of a print: the hull was so dark it merged into the night, a deeper shade of black. Two rada
r antennae were mounted high above the bridge, moonlight glinting off the turning arms, and a dim trail of bubbles foamed at the stern where an exhaust was disturbing the water, but there were no other signs of life. Only the moon, reflecting off the black hull, gave the vessel form and definition.
Looking at it, Claire recalled Walker’s question. This had to be the boat he had asked about, and his description was apt. It was strange. Eerily so, although she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.
Shrugging off her initial shock, she mentally chided herself for letting her foolish imagination run away with her. It was the darkness that made the yacht seem strange, its black hull melting into the night. That and the surprise of finding it there so unexpectedly. And of course whoever it was on the deck of the lodge had to have come from the ship. She herself often wandered up in the evening to sit and look out at the bay glittering under the dark canopy of stars. It was only natural that others would too. She would go and introduce herself. It would be nice to spend an evening in conversation after a summer of relative isolation, maybe share a coffee.
As she started forward, the deck boards creaked again and she heard what sounded like a chair scraping against wood. Then a harsh voice pierced the night, the words carrying clearly on the cool air. “She ain’t coming back tonight. It’s too late.”
The voice hung there, alien and surreal, floating on the night air. Once again Claire found herself inching back into the shadows of the forest. A chill of fear shivered across her skin and crept down her spine. Her pulse raced and she felt her hands clench into claws. She dug her fingernails into her thighs as she crouched, waiting to hear some response. But there was only the thundering of her heart and a silence that hung heavily over everything. That too seemed wrong. There must be at least two people there. And who were they talking about? Her? Surely not. They didn’t know her.
Movement caught her eye, and a dim figure appeared at the edge of the deck. Even in the darkness, she could see that it was a man. He was tall and slim, but she couldn’t make out any details except for his hair. It was cut very short and it was so white, it caught the moonlight and glowed against the black sky. He stood there for a moment before slowly turning toward where she stood, hidden in the trees. As he moved, the same moonlight glinted off the metallic object he cradled in his arms, and a surge of fear stole her breath. It was unmistakably a rifle.
Time slowed to a standstill. She could hear the sound of her heart beating so loudly she was sure the man would hear it. A minute or maybe a lifetime later, the reply she had been waiting for reached her.
“Fernandez does not like loose ends. He said to make sure she can’t talk and that’s what we’re going to do.”
She didn’t know how long she stood frozen in the shadows, but gradually the awareness that she had to move seeped into her consciousness. Slowly, placing each foot with exquisite care, she inched backward farther into the darkness of the trees. When the lodge was no longer visible and she was completely enveloped by the forest, she turned and crept back along the trail toward her kayak. It had been a pleasant, joyful walk on the previous occasions she had used it. It had seemed so easy and welcoming, but now it became the most difficult journey of her life.
An owl swept overhead, its outstretched wings pale and silent in the gloom, and she covered her mouth and fought back a scream as she cowered under a tree. The normal sounds of the night, familiar sounds she had heard over and over again since childhood—the quiet rustling of leaves, the scurry of small animals chasing through the leaf litter, the click of branches swaying in the night breeze, the whisper of roosting birds—all brought fear and terrified her. Her heart raced and her breathing seemed unnaturally loud. Brush tore at her clothes as she passed. Twice she tripped over unseen roots. Returning to the kayak took most of the night.
By the time she emerged again on the other side of the island, the first glimmer of dawn lay on the water, touching the waves with a faint gilding of gold. The start of a new day. Normally she found it exhilarating, but today it only added to her fear as she felt the cloak of darkness slip away. Exhausted, her body cold and clammy and aching with every step, she clambered awkwardly up the rocks and slid into the familiar confines of the kayak. She was dirty and tired, so tired that she could no longer think straight. She needed to rest. Slowly her head dropped forward onto the paddle that lay across the cockpit coaming in front of her.
FOUR
Walker used the storm as a gift. He rose early, stripped off his shorts, and hobbled outside into the rain. The heavy drops stung his shoulders, forming rivulets that ran down his body and pooled at his feet. Normally he bathed in the creek, but this was different; a cleansing rather than a cleaning. It cleared and focused his mind, made him feel more alive. It joined him with the creatures and spirits that inhabited the land with him. It heightened his senses and calmed his soul. Allowed him to hear the voice of Dzunukwa, the wild woman of the forest, carried on the wind that moaned through the cedars.
He spread his arms and tilted his face up to the sky, relishing a feeling of well-being. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt at peace with himself. This was not an easy life, but it was a good one and it suited him just fine.
The people had embraced him when he returned to his village. They knew his story, had seen it played out a thousand times as the legacy of loss created by the white man spread its diseased tendrils through the nations and tribes and clans. They had mourned his pain and celebrated his spirit. The elders taught him well. They shared their knowledge, gave him back his name and his clan, taught him new skills, honored his being, gave wings to new dreams. But it still wasn’t enough. He needed a purpose, a place, a role to play in life.
He was helping two of his uncles shape a canoe, carefully adzing the wood to tease the boat out of the tree, when he’d first met Percy. Percy had been his salvation. Percy, with his simple philosophy and deceptively complex program, had taught him how to live again.
Breathing deep, Walker shook the rain from his hair and headed back to his cabin. He would spend the next few days doing chores: sort and store his food cache, make new fishing gear, repair the net he had made from strips of cedar bark. Then, when the storm had cleared, he would head out again in search of the fish that would see him through the winter.
The salmon that graced the crest of his clan, his 'na'mima, had always been generous and gave themselves to him freely. Perhaps he would take some back to the village, give some to his grandmother and to old Joe. He hadn’t been back since spring, and it would be good to see his people again. He could stop off at Percy’s camp on the way. It would take him several days and more to get back, and the storms were already starting. He would need to go soon.
Two days later, shortly after sunrise, with both the wind and the rain still slanting noisily into the cove, Walker lifted his head from the net he was working on. He was not sure, but he thought he had heard a new sound. Not quite a sound, but more a change in the tone of the storm. He closed his eyes and reached his senses out into the swirling air, but nothing reverberated. Still, he thought there had been something.
He pushed open the door and walked outside, but there was only the steady hiss of the rain as it beat on the saturated ground, the angry howl of the wind in the trees, and the roar of the waves crashing on the rocks. He would have to wait till it cleared to load his gear into the canoe, and he could not launch until the water had calmed, but he was filled with a sudden sense of urgency. He had heard two ravens call at dawn and it had sounded like a message.
The cabin was a sanctuary of warmth and quiet, filled with the smell of cedar. Walker picked up the net from where he had dropped it on the floor and spread it out over his knees. Maybe it was nothing. Two days spent in the gloom of the cabin, surrounded by the noise of the storm, was enough to make anyone restless.
It was to be yet another day before the waves diminished and the storm surge released its grip on the cove, but by the morning of the fourth day he was out on t
he water before the sun had risen.
The boat hung suspended between sea and sky, the gray wood of the hull blending with the silver surface of the ocean and the soft gray gleam of morning light. She lay tilted on her side, the starboard rail and part of the cabin underwater. An eerie silence wrapped the bay. The morning chatter of birds, the soft rise of fish, the gentle drone of insects, even the sound of dew dripping from the branches, was stilled.
Walker edged the canoe closer to the wreck, sliding slowly past the bow. The knot in his gut grew tighter as he approached the stern. He already knew what he was going to see. Over the past few days, he had experienced a growing sense of unease. He had felt it first when he saw the black ship, but he had dismissed it as some lingering association with his old world. It had returned during the storm, when he had sensed rather than heard or seen some disturbance. He had dismissed that too. He should have known better. If he had learned anything out here, it was to trust his instincts.
The canoe bumped gently against the curve of the hull, and he reached out a hand to touch it. It looked undamaged, although that made no sense. If it had run aground in the storm, it would have hit the rocky bottom many times before coming to rest. Even if it had settled farther out and been lifted in by the tide, it should show the scars of its passage.
Slowly, heart pounding, he drifted toward the stern. The name was partially submerged, but it didn’t matter. The letters were clearly visible. In faded yellow paint they spelled out the words Island Girl.
As the tide fell, Walker slid out of the canoe and worked his way around the hull, half swimming and half walking. He ignored the cold that puckered his skin and sent stabbing shafts of pain down his legs. He peered in portholes and checked fittings. He saw that the kettle had fallen off the stove and was floating in the water that covered the cabin sole. It was the only thing out of place. The switches on the electronics panel were all off. The anchor was winched tight to the bow, with the brake set. The life buoy was clamped firmly in its fitting.
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