Song of the Deep

by Brian Hastings

  I dash back up the slippery cliff steps, leaning against the wind as I go. I hesitate as I get to the gap. I’ll have the wind with me, but now I’m carrying a bucket half full of razor clams. I won’t be able to use my arms in the jump, and I can’t get a solid running start because the path is slick with rain. Taking a few steps back, I wait for the wind to pick up. I clutch the bucket with both hands and run toward the gap, pushing off the edge as hard as I can. My foot slips on the edge, and I topple forward in mid-air.

  I hit the ground hard on the other side, my legs sticking out over the gap and the clams spilling onto the rocky path. I scramble forward, away from the gap, and scoop up the clams. It looks like I lost a few over the edge, but I’ve still got plenty.

  The rain pelts me as I climb the rest of the way up to the house. At the top of the stairs I look back out toward the sea. The waves are taller than I have ever seen before. I hope my father decides to come back early. I can’t wait to see his face when he smells freshly steamed clams.

  Back in my room, I watch the waves down below, looking for the bobbing lantern of my father’s boat. I pick up my sketchbook and draw. I draw jagged towering cliffs that hang like an open jaw over the waves of the sea. I draw Fergus sitting on the dock, his mouth wide open like a trash can. My walls are covered in drawings. Looking from one side of the room to the other, you can see how my style evolved from happy yellow suns poking out of corners to brooding, charcoal-shaded portraiture. Lately I’ve been drawing seascapes. I try to make each one tell a story of the secrets that lie beneath the surface.

  I keep restlessly looking back out the window. The wind is beating against the side of the house, making the door rattle in its frame. I look back down at my drawing and see that I’ve sketched a tiny boat, cradled by giant waves. I stop and stare up at the ceiling. There’s a drawing there that I must have done when I was five years old. It shows my mother and father and me all playing and laughing in the waves as a smiling sea serpent swims in the background. That was the last picture I drew of my mother.

  The rain is pouring harder than ever now. I’m starting to grow anxious. I light the candle and put on my jacket. Out at the cliff edge, I can barely see the white crests of the waves in the darkness. I cover the top of the glass shield with my hand to keep the rain off the candle. I watch the lights of the ships bobbing in the waves, knowing one of them must be my father.

  One by one the lights turn to the left or to the right and then disappear. I hold the candle up high, hoping my father can see it through the rain. The sea is dark now. There are no more lantern lights on the waves. Maybe my father’s light burnt out? Or maybe it was broken in the storm. I stare out at the blackness of the sea. And I wait.

  The rain pours down, and I wait.

  My legs shake from the cold and my soaking hair covers my eyes, but I keep the candle held up. I know he’s out there somewhere, looking at my candle and trying to get home.

  I wait.

  I try to imagine his proud smile when he sees the clam shovel I made for him.

  My arms ache from holding the candle up. I stare out into the darkness, listening to the distant crash of the waves. The candlelight is fainter now. The wax is almost gone.

  The wind has died down. The rain is a constant, steady stream.

  I wait.

  The candle’s tiny flame flickers and disappears. I’m in total darkness.

  I kneel down at the cliff edge and stare out toward the sea, waiting for a light to appear.

  I lie down for just a moment, resting my head on my arm.

  I can hear my father’s voice.

  “Hold on to me, Merryn.” I look around for him in the darkness. The ground is tipping under my feet. There are waves all around us. We’re on the deck of his boat. My father pulls me toward the hatch, helping me get below deck. A huge wave crashes down over us. Water spills through the hatch, soaking my clothes.

  I reach for my father’s hand. Through the hatch I see something heavy and red crash onto the deck. My father is knocked backward and the hatch slams shut. I rush back up the ladder to reopen it. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s a giant red tentacle arm wrapped around the hull of the boat.

  The boat shakes violently back and forth. I lose my footing and fall down, banging my head on the floor. I hear my father’s voice.

  “Merryn! Merryn!” He’s coming down the hatch. Suddenly we’re pulled downward very fast. The sound of the wind is gone. Everything seems quiet. Water is rushing into the hatch, rising quickly inside the tiny cabin. My father picks me up and holds my head up as the water pours in. We’re sinking. Not just sinking, but being violently pulled downward through the water.

  My father’s face disappears below the water in the boat. He’s still holding my head above water. I reach for him. I grab his hands and try to pull him up with me.

  And then I wake up.

  I’m still lying on the ground at the edge of the cliff. The rain has stopped.

  It wasn’t just a dream. I can’t explain how I know, but it was too real to be just a dream. I was there. My father was there. He’s down below the waves right now and he needs my help.

  I know what I have to do.

  3

  SCRAPS OF HOPE

  I hurry down the cliff steps, leaping the gap without breaking my stride. In the shed I take inventory of everything I’ve got to work with. There are gleaming scraps of gold-colored metal, a few sturdy planks of wood, a half dome of glass, and piles of the strange mechanical contraptions that I can’t even name. My father makes up some exotic explanation for each of the treasures he brings home. A half dome of glass was once a monocle for a giant cyclops octopus. A little propeller was a merry-go-round for playful hermit crabs.

  I look back and forth at the jumble, trying to decide where to start. I grab the biggest pieces of metal and start hammering them into curves. Each one has to align perfectly, so I carefully measure them as I go. They’re surprisingly malleable, as if they were made to be sculpted. When the biggest scraps are all laid out and curved into shape, I use a hammer and awl to poke careful rows of holes along the edges. I bolt each piece together, one by one, securing the bolts as tightly as I can.

  I take a step back. Am I crazy to think this is going to work?

  There isn’t much metal left, so I start collecting the sturdiest pieces of wood I can find. I sketch out a design in the sand and make some quick calculations. I saw the wood into carefully measured lengths and nail them together. The wood fits snugly into the metal frame, forming a tight seal. The outer frame is starting to take shape.

  As I check the seals on the bottom of the frame, I spot a tiny hole at the front of the hull. It’s barely bigger than an inch in diameter, but I’m not sure I have enough metal left to patch it.

  Sifting through the dwindling pile of treasures, I find a striped orange zephyr whelk. I hold the colorful seashell in my hand—it’s about the size and shape of an ice cream cone. What was the song my father sang about this one? There was something special about zephyr whelks. I try to recall the melody, and then stop myself. What am I doing? My father needs me. Every second matters.

  I wedge the zephyr whelk into the hole in the front of the hull as tightly as I can. It’s not a perfect solution, but I’m in a hurry. Maybe the little seashell will bring me luck.

  I glance back toward the sea. The sun is already high overhead, and I feel a wave of panic. How do I really know my father is down there? If he is, how long can he survive under the water? My whole plan suddenly feels foolish. I look out at the dock to see Fergus staring back at me.

  “What should I do, Fergus?” The pelican turns away and looks toward the sea. He doesn’t believe in me either. I feel a huge weight pressing down on me. What am I thinking? I’m twelve years old. I can’t do this. I’m just going to get myself killed.

  The wood-and-metal frame I’ve built looks like a big bathtub. How did I ever think I would be able to ride inside it, let alone use it to find my
father? I suddenly feel more alone than I have ever felt. I wish my mother was here. I wish I had someone to tell me what I should do.

  I close my eyes. A light wind blows gently through my hair. I listen to the soft sound of the surf reaching toward me up the shore. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder. My father! I want to whirl around and embrace him, but my body is frozen. I feel the hand gently stroke my hair. The smell of wild orchids surrounds me. I remember my mother used to make necklaces out of their purple petals, one for her and one for me. I feel long soft hair graze my back, and a gentle kiss in my hair. I turn around.

  The beach is empty. The smell of wild orchids is gone. Even Fergus has disappeared.

  But so have my doubts. I know what I need to do and I know I can do it.

  Suddenly I’m working faster than I thought possible. My hands are moving in a blur, as if they already know what to do. I finish the roof, bolting everything tight and double-checking each seam. I pull a little propeller and an axle out of the scraps. The next step will require some parts I don’t have, but I think I have a solution.

  I race back up the cliff steps. My purple bicycle is leaning against the side of the house.

  For just a moment I hesitate. I remember the pride on my father’s face when he gave it to me on my seventh birthday. I think of how many months he must have saved to be able to afford it. It’s a beautiful bike. Bree and I used to ride together, down the dirt road, past the rolling green hills to the ruins of the old stone church. This bicycle has seen its share of adventures. And now it’s time for it to become something new.

  I wheel it down the cliff steps. At the gap I have to lean down on my stomach, lowering the bike by the handlebars. I let go, wincing as it clatters on the rocks below.

  It’s okay. I just need its parts now.

  Down at the shed I disassemble the bike piece by piece. I take the chain, pedals, and handlebars and start putting them together inside the frame. I find some old gears from the pile of treasures and bolt them in on little axles. The bicycle’s seat goes in last. I adjust the height as best I can, but it’s definitely a little cramped in there.

  Next I take the curved half dome of glass and carefully maneuver it into the front of the frame. It shudders as it slides against the metal, but it locks solidly into place.

  At last I bolt a hatch onto the roof. The hinges are old and rusty, but it’ll do as a way to get in and out. A little voice in my head questions why I’d need to get out and how I’d do so, but I ignore it.

  I step back and admire my work. It’s tiny and it’s rickety and some parts are a little rusty . . . but it’s my very own submarine.

  The golden metal of the hull gleams in the sun. I peer through the curved front window at the handlebar steering yoke inside. I tighten the bolts on the propeller and rudder, securing them onto the wooden rear frame.

  I grab onto the front of the hull and start dragging the sub toward the water. It takes all my strength to pull it across the sand. Is it going to be too heavy to float? What if it sinks to the bottom of the ocean with me inside? I keep pulling. My legs are aching with each step, but eventually I feel the cold water of the surf lapping at my heels. I’m almost there.

  With one last heave I pull the submarine out into the rolling surf.

  It floats!

  I open the hatch and climb inside. The sub sinks a little farther under the water with my added weight. Half the front window is sky and half is sea. This is it. I know there is no turning back from here.

  What would my father say if he could see me? I think he’d be proud of what I’ve built . . . but he would never, ever allow me to risk my life to rescue him.

  I’m sorry, Dad. I have to do this.

  I close the hatch above me and dive down below the waves.

  4

  VISIONS

  The seafloor bends downward in front of me. I pass over the ripples of sand dappled with the dancing light of the sun coming through the waves. The sand gives way to a field of smooth colorful stones. Tiny silver fish dart past my window as I glide by.

  Looking up, I see the sparkling sunlight on the waves high above me. I wonder if I could make it to the surface in one breath. My hands reach out to the metal walls. They are cool to the touch, but I can’t feel any water. I check the hatch above me. Everything looks dry. As long as the glass doesn’t crack, the submarine is watertight.

  The relief I feel at being dry rapidly disappears when my lungs start to ache. Suddenly, the walls of the sub feel like they are getting closer. I’m breathing faster, but the air feels stale. This isn’t all in my mind. I’m running out of air. My body is telling me to get out of the sub—now.

  It’s okay, I tell myself. Don’t panic. Everything is okay.

  I look up at the bottoms of the waves, far above. I try to think, but I can’t focus. It hurts to breathe. The surface is far away now. I’ll never make it back if I swim. My muscles are getting weak from lack of oxygen. Why didn’t I think about how little air I’d have before I took the sub deep underwater?

  With all my weight I push down on the right bicycle pedal at my feet. The gears rotate. I hear the propeller in the back start to turn. I pump the pedals as fast as I can. The sub is starting to move. I pull back on the handlebars, trying to steer the sub up. But I’m still sinking.

  The surface looks farther and farther away. I use the last of my strength to keep pedaling. There is no more air. My muscles are too weak to move now. My body collapses onto the floor of the sub.

  I see my father. He’s in a tall lighthouse under the sea, its light shining through the depths.

  “Keep going, Merryn,” he calls to me.

  The beam of the lighthouse sweeps toward my face.

  The blinding light makes me squint. Why does that lighthouse look familiar? I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere before.

  I hear my father’s voice coming from far away. He’s singing a song to me. It’s a melody I had long forgotten. I open my eyes. My lungs don’t hurt anymore.

  There is a tickle of a breeze on my ankles. Puzzled, I look down at my feet. The breeze is coming through the zephyr whelk. But how?

  Now I remember the song my father was singing—it was the one about the zephyr whelk. Ancient explorers used the shells to breathe in the depths of the sea. I had always thought the stories of the explorers were just fairy tales . . . could they actually be true? Suddenly my lungs feel tight again. The sub is no longer moving, and the air from the zephyr whelk has stopped. I resume pedaling, and the breeze picks up. I think the shell must be filtering the air out of the water as the sub moves forward, just like the gills of a fish.

  And just like a fish I have to keep moving in order to breathe. It seems the sub needs to stay in constant motion to filter air in. If I stop pedaling for more than a minute, my air will run out.

  I pedal slowly but steadily, heading deeper into the sea. That was a close call, but I feel more confident now. Maybe I have luck on my side. Or maybe someone is watching over me. Either way, I have a good feeling that I’m going to find my father.

  5

  FOREST OF LIGHT

  I can no longer see the surface of the water above me. The sea is an endless inky darkness. I have no concept of distance or space. Giant shadows pass slowly over one another in front of me, black gliding over darkest blue.

  There are tall undulating shapes passing by me, like arms reaching out of the darkness to grab hold of me. I feel something brush against the right wall of the sub.

  I lean toward the window, and as I do something leans toward me. There’s a face, floating in the water. It’s the face of a horse. Its eyes are a pure glowing white, and its head is sleek black with a faint green glow illuminating its edges. Maybe it’s just my eyes playing tricks on me.

  The head turns away and I see the silhouette of its body, outlined by that eerie green glow. The front of the creature’s body looks like a galloping horse, while the rear looks like the tail of a serpent. The mane and tail look like they are
made of long flowing strands of seaweed, glistening and translucent in the shimmering green glow.

  Every child knows the fairy tales about kelpies: beautiful horses made of the twisting underwater plants. They lure children into the water, and then pull them down to the depths below. The stories get into our heads and make us see things in the darkness. That’s all it is.

  Yet I can’t stop myself from following it.

  The kelpie’s graceful flowing tail fills me with a feeling of peace and calm. It turns its head back toward me before diving deeper down. I follow it, heading deeper into the thickening shadows.

  The glow of the undulating creature is hypnotizing. Where is it going? I want to stroke its beautiful mane. I can’t take my eyes off it. How can any creature be so perfect and beautiful?

  It’s turning back toward me now, but its eyes look different and strange. They are dark and hollow instead of white. All at once, as if a veil has been lifted from my face, I see the truth. The horse’s body unravels, spreading out into long tangles of flowing kelp. The kelp is moving, stretching out, surrounding me. I feel a sudden downward tug from behind me and my body lurches forward.

  I am yanked downward. I lose my grip on the handlebars as I’m flung up against the roof. Strands of kelp are wrapping around and around the sub, tightening their grip. I get back onto the seat and try to pedal, but it’s too late. The propeller is jammed with kelp.

  Hold still, I tell myself. Save your oxygen. If the sub isn’t moving, the zephyr whelk isn’t filtering air inside.

  I try to wiggle the pedal gently. Maybe I can loosen the propeller just enough to get it moving. But with each wiggle of the pedal, the kelp tightens its grip.