Trouble Cove
Page 15
The wolf howl raised goosebumps on her arms. Chills ran up her spine. All at once, she found herself racing down the length of the beach calling, calling to someone who was most surely there.
“Here, I am here,” she called still running, between gasps for breath. Oh surely, it was surely someone?
In the dark of night, who could tell? Her loneliness had seemed so complete, so utterly permanent when she offered to mind the lighthouse, she had no idea how she could come to feel worse. Yet, her long empty afternoon contemplating a lifetime emptiness had taught her ‘worse.’ Oh, she’d wish no one the harm of a sinking ship or stranding at sea, but oh, let this be someone.
A young man desperate for help, and be just the right age to be a proper suiter.
A man’s voice, more clearly, called, “Help. I cannot see the shore!”
Her mind was all a muddle. A man alone, not far off the beach? This could be no foundered ship. Surely this is what she was to watch against? Unknown men invading the coast? Only one voice called!
“Helloooo,” she called into the endless dark of night. She would not be surprised to hear nothing. Her mind had conjured visitors before. Still, she moved to light the small hurricane lamp at the end of the walk, and carried it hastily down to the beach. It had been a voice. A person. She did not really believe it.
She slowed to a walk as she reached the small dory. A madness, thinking someone had called.
“Help,” he called, again.
There! On the rocky point of the tombolo she knew well. At low tide, you could easily wade out to the point, though a lot of water stood between rock and beach at the moment. Still, she had the spot fixed in her mind. She needed only to keep a good thought as to the direction of shore.
Without further thought, she dragged the dory down to the water.
“I’m coming,” she called. The freezing water took her breath, but she needed to wade out into the waves to shove off. The arc of the rocky point protected the crescent scrap of beach, so she was well off before knee deep. She set to with both oars with a will, nigh onto expertly.
Yes, a proper miss yet well able to ply an oar, thank you very much. She leaned into each pull, stretching back, back. The dory’s sharp bow cut through the sea like an arrow. “Practical skill,” she muttered aloud. Practicality had landed her here, most assuredly.
She’d ruined her family’s Christmas by steering her sister clear of one particularly dashing although likely nigh-onto criminal suitor. Everyone had liked him. Wouldn’t you know?
She’d not managed to attract even one reasonable suitor for herself, what with her insistence on being too sensible. If only she could have dressed like her sister and chattered enchantingly with all the men!
She flushed, thinking back to how she’d discussed newest types of lights with Patrick. She guessed she should have acted witless and simply admired him.
At the time, he had seemed happy to explain how clarity could be effected. “Even a tiny beam can reach over impressive distances.” He had showed her his various designs, as well as small, working models of the great light they were building.
She must have bored the poor man to tears! She heaved on her oars with savagery. Why hadn’t she used better sense? She ought to have talked about, about…oh dear, what did her sister constantly chatter about with her admirer? Shopping? Artwork? Gossip?
Her dory, fueled by fury, flew.
The long wailing call repeated, closer. The voice seemed stationary. The victim could not be adrift, she guessed, but on the rocks. Alysa looked anxiously around, for the toothy rocks would not be kind to her vessel, either. She’d not want to fetch up on them suddenly. She’d heave her vessel to port, as soon as she could make out the dark shadow of the rocks, and let the current slow her approach.
It seemed a sensible plan.
Sensible. A sideways wave caught the nose of the dory and sent a frigid splash onto her lap. She leaned away, too late to avoid a having a whitecap come over the gunnels. She gasped as gallons of water swamped the dory. She scrambled to heave the oars and regain control, she could not that port side slip lower!
She dug in, fast. She’d got passed the protection of the rock outcropping, she guessed.
“Halloooo,” she called, waiting for a response to give her direction.
“Help,” answered, more clearly, and near. Very near—and to her left.
She leaned into the oars again. “Coming,” she called, hoping she sounded confident and not half as panicked as she felt.
At least the waves weren’t huge. They were enough, but not storm waves. Another just barely slopped over the dory’s leading edge. She could hear a fair bit of water sloshing around in the boat now. She yanked desperately on her the oar, No, it was no good at all. She’d keep the waves out, but turned off course.
Darn the darkness, she could scarcely see the pointed rocks.
A crashing wave sent the dory sideways and she struggled to get it straight again. She leaned into the oars. She’d get there, or she wouldn’t.
She’d do her best and if both of them went together, at least she was not alone in this last hour. Perhaps alone most of her life, but tonight, at least one other soul stood not far off! Out of the night, a dark shape loomed. She reached out an oar, not quite believing he was real, but he seized the far end of the oar.
“Hang on!”
The man struggled into the waves. He had to scramble into the freezing water and over slick rock, likely covered with razor-sharp barnacles. She could think of naught but his pain.
“I’ve got you.” She stretched ridiculously far forward. He plainly could not grab with any strength. She seized on his belt and heaved. He landed halfway in, along with too much sea. One more heave and he was safe. She pushed off the rock with haste, and spun the craft expertly into the surf. She’d make straight for the beach.
“Thank you,” the man gasped. “Thank you.”
Really, she’d failed again. Gone to sea to save one lone man, and it had to be an elderly fellow with a scruffy beard. She heaved at the oars. I must put a letter in the mail to let Mother know I’ve bored the one I liked and landed one too old. Landed, like a fish…she giggled. Oh dear, she was quite losing her mind.
“No light,” the man gasped. “Thought I’d got beyond the point.”
She craned to look backward toward the beach. Utter darkness met her gaze. Her heart sank. She might well end up crashing too.
The wind sent the waves in all directions and she couldn’t clearly judge a direct route back to the beach. She listened for the surf. The waves hit the rocks beside her, and slapped loudly into her dory. Distantly they raged around the lighthouse.
Listening gave her no idea of direction.
Once more, she scanned the darkness and there, impossibly, one light twinkled.
She blinked. One single candle glimmered steadily against the dark.
“Patrick.” Warmth flooded over her. He had returned; returned and come looking for her!
Who else could send out a tiny Christmas twinkler with such power?
She aimed for it. She could not doubt she must make this one, final, desperate effort. She had not the strength to continue fighting the oars forever. She leaned all her weight against the oars, three pulls, four, and at after the fifth, risked a look over her shoulder.
Yes, Patrick stood there by the water’s edge! The island’s stormy seas bringing us together, Alysa thought, exactly as they did for Elizabeth and Daro! Yesterday’s Alysa might have doubted…
Patrick held his model light aloft as he waded into the freezing sea to meet her. “Alysa, you are the most courageous person I have ever met!”
“Your light saved us,” she assured him. “It was your light. I saw it all the way out at the shoal. It gave me direction. You are simply brilliant.”
“You went out there without any hope of help! I never even told you I planned to return, to bring you Christmas dinner. Alysa! You went with no idea of safety for yourself. I
cannot imagine anything more courageous.”
“It was your light, your brilliant design that has saved us both.” She blushed furiously yet knew…she knew! His face was completely alight.
“My dear, it’s no more than a light. You are a heroine.”
There in the dark, soggy and freezing and the wind whipping her hair wild, she said, “It was the only practical course.”
Patrick laughed out loud even as he bent to assist the older man from the dory.
Miss Ariel Grayson—yes, of the famous family—guessed she’d been right all along. At Christmas, anything could happen.
The old artist found himself assigned with yet another painting of a young couple—proving hope and joy continued, wherever it found a chance—in spite of the war.
A word about the author…
Northeastern North America is a composite of beauty and history, from north to south. Author Nancy Lindley-Gauthier has thrilled to follow the Cabot Trail by motorcycle, whale-watch at the Baie de Gaspé, and journey along the St. Lawrence Seaway. Her novel Trouble Cove shares a vision of lives on Cape Breton Island at the start of the twentieth century, in a time of turmoil but also of trust.
If you have enjoyed Trouble Cove, please visit my websites:
nlindleygauthier.wordpress.com/
http://anothershoestringadventure.weebly.com/
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