He released his hold on the throttle, steering himself farther offshore. He’d run it. Besides, it might ease off yet. Few minutes later he started doubting himself. A swell rose ahead of him, foaming a sickly white as it slapped against his bow, near cresting his gunnels. No, sir, this was one gale that wasn’t going to reach its peak after twenty minutes’ building. She was going to blow long and hard into the night, and she was building fast. He glanced back and was startled to see the silent wall of grey almost upon him, a tentacle of which crept out, circling cold around his neck. He shifted around uneasily and saw the black, rocky ledge of Old Saw Tooth coming up before him, foaming like a mangy dog through the half light. Jeezes, now, how’d he let this happen? He swore and steadied himself as the wind started picking harder. The bow of his boat rose up on a swell, and he sickened to see that it was part of Old Saw Tooth’s undertow. With a growing fear, he watched helplessly as it took him off course, steering him toward the black, jagged rock ledge. He sank down the other side and was immediately lifted by another, his bow pointed fully at Old Saw Tooth now, a sheet of spray shooting over the molars upon which he imagined his father and his brother clinging, their boat bashing about them.
A hoarse cry sounded on the wind, followed by another, full of warning, and he cried out himself as his bow rose higher, higher, on the swell and he lost sight of land, of Old Saw Tooth. Immediately it crested and he dipped downwards, his innards relieved as Old Saw Tooth reappeared, still some distance ahead.
The cry sounded again, “Hey! Hey!” hard, hoarse cries, and he stared around in fright, searching the sea, dreading the sight of his father’s drowned head bobbing out of the water and screaming before him. “Hey! Hey!” and he rose, shouting, screaming, “He-ey, He-ey,” back into the wind.
Two straight-back figures appeared on shore, racing along the water’s edge, waving frantically with both hands, shouting, “Hey! Hey!” It was the Trapps. Another hard gust hit him. He lurched sideways and quickly hunched down by his engine, cutting back further on his throttle. Grabbing the tiller, he cut her too sharply shoreward and was near broadsided by the wind. He straightened a bit, smelling for the first time Old Saw Tooth’s foul breath of rotted kelp and gull shit. He steered farther toward shore, fighting from veering too sharply. Another hard gust, another swell, rendered his rudder useless, and he could see Old Saw Tooth’s palate. Jesus Christ, and he was full of crazed disbelief at how he’d let this happen, at how sudden, how bloody sudden it all was.
“Screw you, you bastard!” he roared, and seized by fear, he shut down his motor, jarred his tiller as far leeward as he could, and grabbed his paddles, plunging them into the sea. Minutes. He was minutes from Old Saw Tooth’s maw. He plied on his paddles with the might of a madman, his shoulders tearing against their bones. Another swell and his boat rose awkwardly on her side. He was fully broadside to the wind now. “Turn! Turn! Turn, my baby, turn!” he roared at his boat and was fisted in the face by a slather of sea froth burning his eyes and filling his mouth. He spat and cursed and kept rowing, blinded, knowing nothing of his course now. He dipped powerlessly down the hollowed sea and wiped at his eyes, seeing for one sweet second his bow veering shoreward. A groundswell. He was being nudged by a groundswell. With a cry he grabbed back his paddles and, half standing, plied them with a fierceness that near broke his thole-pins. Another man! Christ, for another man to start his motor! Now, now, he needed his motor! He plied his paddles, frightened to let them go.
The shouts on shore grew louder. “Here! Here!” He stretched out his arms and pulled, his hands gripping the oars like the talons of a great bird—twice, thrice, and then he dropped the oars and lunged for his motor. Jabbing the start button, he lunged onto the tiller, shoving it ninety degrees shoreward. He felt it, felt his boat take him, moving him—not the sea now, moving him, but his boat. And his rudder, he felt it, too, dig into the sea. She was taking her course; his boat was taking her course. His bow turned full side to the wind as he plunged through the lengthening swells. Good, good, rather drown upon a sounder than be smashed against your brazen molars, he silently screamed at Old Saw Tooth. Almost ashore now. Almost ashore. He’d wait another minute before cutting his motor and running aground. Another minute and he’d cut his motor. He could almost see the whites of the Trapps’ eyes. He jabbed off the motor and grabbed the thole-pins, bracing himself. The keel of his boat dug into the beach rocks, and he lurched forward, painfully wrenching his shoulders. The Trapps were immediately beside him, one on either side, up to their knees in water, taking hold of his gunnels and dragging the nose of his boat ashore. He leaped out and sank to his knees, near kissing the rocks. But, no, he’d save that for later, he thought, staring up at the grim-faced Trapps staring down at him. Climbing weakly back up on his feet, he nodded his thanks.
They nodded back and dragged his boat up on shore. Finding strength, he held on to his gunnels and hauled with them.
“We’ll keep watch on her,” said one of the Trapps, as the other climbed aboard and threw out his anchor. Ensuring the drag-line was tightly tied to the stern, they dragged the anchor just above the landwash.
Sylvanus stood watching. It surprised him how weak and quivery his legs felt.
“That’s good. She’ll be fine there,” he said as the brothers wedged the anchor between a couple of big rocks. He nodded his thanks. Closest he’d ever been to a Trapp, aside from the odd passing in boat. Good-looking bunch, for sure, their faces clean of hair, their features nice and smooth. But there was a grimness to their jaws, as though they were locked onto a maddening thought.
“Supper’s on, if you wants,” said one, the elder by the looks of his crinkled eyes.
Sylvanus looked toward their houses. Gone were the little yellow suns. Up this close, it looked more like cold blue moonlight spilling from their windows.
“Nay, better get home,” he said. “Mother’s off her head by now.”
The younger one pointed at a cut in the treeline. “Over there’s the road,” he said.
Sylvanus nodded, wondering if they were the two who fished his brother out of the sea and brought him home. He turned to his boat, his fish. “Be back in the morning, I suppose,” he said. “Appreciate your help.” A last nod of thanks, and he set off onto the footpath that took him up over the hill and onto the old horse road that would take him near to the head.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EVA
SYLVANUS WALKED HARD, grateful for the light left in the sky and the trees sheltering him from the wind. He was cold. With the sluicing he’d taken, his pants and undergarments felt like wet blankets draped around him. The path steepened, and his legs, still quivering from fright of Old Saw Tooth, were now aching with fatigue. Was a long day since five o’clock this morning, he thought wearily, and raised his arms over his head, stretching, trying to shift about some of the wet clothing that was starting to chafe his skin. Ten, fifteen minutes of walking, then another five to ensure he was definitely over the head, he cut off the path into the woods. Fighting dead sticks and boughs, he held out his hands, shielding his eyes against the bared limbs, invisible in the near dark, snapping at his face. Cripes, he hated the woods.
Finally he broke through, his relief shortened by the wind lashing him back. Thank Jesus he judged it right and was on top of the cliffs of the head—the far side from the path leading down through the woods and home. He bent into the wind, and thought to drop on his knees and scuttle across the bald cliff top like the dog. And he might’ve, if not for a black shape sifting out of the woods and floating toward him. Already spooked this evening, he now froze, the hair rising on his neck. The wind snatched at the spectre, tearing back its shawl, and he cried out with relief to see his mother, her face severe in its anxiousness as she fought against the winds, trying to reach him.
“Jesus Christ!” he swore, leaping forward and grabbing her outstretched arms. “What the hell you trying to do, frighten the shit out of me?”
She crumpled against hi
m, her thin arms holding tight to his waist, her face digging into the wetness of his garments. He hung his head, knowing full well why she wept.
“Jeezes, Mother, you knows I’m not going to stay on the water in a bad blow.”
She pulled back, raising her fist, shrilling like the she-devil. “But you did. You went off too far, didn’t you? And couldn’t get back in time!”
“You knows I got back in time. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“By the grace of God! By the grace of God, you’re here.”
“For God’s sake, Mother—”
“For my sake,” she shouted, and her voice fell, barely audible over the moaning of the wind as she pleaded, “For my sake, you stay off them open waters. Promise me you’ll stay off them open waters—else, go fishing on the skiff with Manny and Jake.”
He balked. “Oh, cripes, now don’t start with that—” But she was turning from him, bending into the gale, hobbling toward the edge of the cliff, her shawl flying off from her sides like darkened wings.
“Mother—Mother, where you going?” and he leaped after her, taking her roughly by the arm before she was blown off the cliff. She fell to her knees, her shoulders stiff to his touch, her hair all loosened and whipping about her face. He held tighter as she leaned forward, staring out over the cliff and down to the sea. The woods were fully dark, the sea, a leaden grey, its swells oozing greyish as they broke up on the backs of another and up over Old Saw Tooth.
“I saw him,” she whispered.
He leaned closer to her, wrapping his arms around her, trying to edge his body between hers and the winds squalling around them.
“Saw who?” he asked.
“Your father. I saw him. I was crouching here, watching—just as I was watching for you—and I seen it happen—his boat carried on a swell.”
“Oh, jeezes, Mother.”
“It capsized. They both went overboard—I saw them. Your father come back up, clinging to Old Saw Tooth. He was staring up at me. He was late. He knew I’d be here, watching. He saw me—I know he did—I held him—with my eyes, I held him. I would’ve held him for all eternity if he hadn’t looked away. But he had to look away—to search for Elikum—”
He struggled to breathe, his arms holding her too tightly, trying to shut out with his mind what his eyes had already seen.
“Elikum,” and she moaned. “I seen him—just once. His head come up, and then his hand, his arm—like he was waving goodbye to me—or else reaching out for me to save him,” she ended harshly. “Then he was gone. When I looked back, your father was gone, too.”
“God, Mother,” he choked, the wind colder against the tears wetting his face as he looked out over the sea, seeing his father clinging to Old Saw Tooth, and Elikum reaching up from his watery grave, grasping for the hand of a mother who could not save him. And she had stood here, this mother, reaching down from a wind-torn cliff, battling the sea with the strength of her eyes to heave back her man, her boy. And he heard her screams as Elikum sank beneath his last farewell, and he heard her screaming again as Old Saw Tooth grinned wickedly up at her, licking his chops over the feast of her man.
“I stayed a long time, watching,” she whispered. “Watching—and waiting—waiting for them to come back up. Pray to Jesus I never got to sit here, watching for you agin,” she ended bitterly, pulling back to lash her eyes onto him. But the light was nearly gone, and he caught just the faintest gleam of her tears.
“I won’t drown! Swear to God, I’ll never drown.” He wept, pressing his face against hers. She trembled and he held her more tightly, infusing her body with what warmth was left in his. “Lord, how could you keep this? You should’ve told me, told somebody.”
“Eva.”
The softly spoken name shivered through his ear like a snippet of wind, near jolting him out of his skin. It was Adelaide, kneeling beside him as if she’d been there for some time, her face barely discernible in the fallen light, her tone full of anguish as she spoke again,
“Eva,” and her voice caught on a sob. Reaching her arms around the old woman’s shoulders, she pressed herself against Eva, trying to warm her as he himself was doing. “You should’ve told somebody, Eva, you should’ve told,” she said tightly. “Carrying this all these years.”
Eva was still staring out over the sea, giving no indication she heard or was aware of the younger woman’s presence. Presently, her hand crept out of her shawl, patting Adelaide’s.
“Would’ve been harder for the boys.” She pulled away from them both, her tone surly once more as she looked to Sylvanus. “I only tell now to save you from your own foolhardiness—if only to spare your mother extra burden.”
Adelaide’s eyes were on him. “What were you doing out there? Why’d you wait so late to come home?” she flared. “Lord, Syllie, you keep your mother worrying like this.”
He touched her shoulder lightly. No matter her words. He heard the fright in her tone, and he felt her tremble as he had his mother. A shiver cut through him, more from the cold wet of what must’ve been his mother’s pillow these past years than from the night’s chill and his wet clothes.
“Let’s get home,” he said, and slowly unfolded himself, standing, buffering them both from the wind as they rose alongside him.
“I don’t know who’s the more foolish,” Adelaide admonished, tucking her arm through Eva’s and hurriedly leading her across the cliff toward the trees. “Certainly, it’s the both of you,” she chided, “for being out on a night like this.”
“Pay attention, Addie,” said Sylvanus as she near stumbled. Keeping directly behind, he held out the flaps of his oilskins like a tent, shielding them as much as he could. It was much darker in the woods, the path barely visible. “Here, let me get ahead,” he said to Addie, but she shushed him back.
“I’ve walked this way enough times,” she said, carrying on feeling out the path with her feet. She paused as Sylvanus, in his tiredness, tripped over a tree root. Cursing, he grabbed a branch, catching himself from pitching headlong and tumbling over them both.
“You’ll be the death of us yet this night,” cried Adelaide, reaching back to help steady him. Her hand was soft and warm as it found his, and he relished her squeezing his fingers for a second before relinquishing it and grabbing onto a branch to keep her own footing. He relished her chiding as well, for there was a warmth in it, like the relief of a distraught mother whose negligent children have wandered off and are found, cold but safe. And after they had reached the foot of the hill, he followed obediently as she ordered him home while she trekked across the footbridge with Eva.
He watched after them, worrying for his mother’s crimped figure leaning heavily against Adelaide. As if feeling his concern, Eva looked back. Waving him inside, she stood a little straighter—making herself look strong so’s he wouldn’t worry about her, he figured, as Adelaide tugged her along. “Cripes, Mother,” he groaned.
Trudging inside, he skimmed off his clothes and fell into bed, without washing, without supper. His eyes closed wearily, only to be emblazoned again with the images of his father and Old Saw Tooth, and of Elikum. And his mother—that she had seen, that she had seen. He listened now to the roar of the ocean crashing against the head, and for the first that he could remember, he hated this jealous bitch of a sea mother who would snatch babies from a land mother’s breasts and hide them in the massive rolls of her own. He turned, tormented, upon his pillow, trying to shut out her rumbling as she tore at the shoreline, and the moaning of her dead tucked into her bosom, forever fitful in their slumbers, forever rolling upon different shores, seeking the beach upon which they were spawned, and heralded by a wind endowed with the cries of their grieving loved one.
He drifted toward the sound of his mother’s voice calling to him. He raised his head, trying to see her, to answer her; but an explosion of water hit him, toppled him, and immediately the sea bitch was upon him, pawing him, dragging him under, muffling his mother’s screams calling him back. But he was t
oo far afloat, too buoyant, with nothing to grab hold of, sinking, sinking, the sea mother wrapping him in her cold, wet blanket, heavy, heavy, the weight of it too heavy and cold, numbing him, sinking him—sinking—
“Syllie!”
He tried to breathe, to fight—couldn’t—couldn’t move. The cry sounded again, calling him back, holding him. He tried moving but couldn’t, couldn’t move, couldn’t move. The voice called again, more faintly now, and he strove harder toward it—just a bit, if he could move just a bit, a hand, a finger—the voice was weakening, weakening, drowning amidst the frightening roar of the sea mother.
“Syllie!”
He thrashed, jolted. Something had him, was tugging him, pulling him up. He gasped for air, his eyes, unseeing, his chest stricken with fear. The hag, the hag had him; her fingers, tentacles of cold, damp fog, encircling his throat, choking him, her face appearing before him, fused, twisting grotesquely behind the thin white membrane of a caul.
“Syllie, for gawd’s sake!” It was Addie, his Addie, leaning across him, grasping at him, shaking him as he wrenched at the folds of her white cotton nightgown.
He sat up, his chest pounding, sweat running in rivulets down his face. He wiped it off, hating the wet, clammy feel of it. He tore off the blankets, hot all over, wanting nothing, nothing, touching him.
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