“But I only speak English, so how will I know what they’re saying?” I asked.
“Do you think we’re all speaking English?” the man with the funny accent asked. Football Player chuckled.
Great. I was listening in English when people weren’t even speaking it.
“We’ll see you next week!” Granny said. With that, people started popping out.
I wasn’t sure what to do so I thought about my room and things faded out, going gray like through smoke. Then I was back in my room.
During the next week, I listened in on conversations even when I didn’t want to. Gavin Mills talked way too much about how people smelled, for instance. He kept saying things like, “I wish Mrs. Ruddick in algebra didn’t smell like pig’s breath.”
Either I wasn’t at a place where I needed to grant a wish or making Mrs. Ruddick in algebra smell differently wasn’t in my wheelhouse because I never felt like I granted anything.
However, I can say that I was starting to have a real wish. That was that the people in my high school would stop saying “I wish.” It’s like I’d be gossiping with Sage and suddenly someone in the cafeteria would say “I wish” and I’d completely miss the rest of the conversation! It happened so much she started getting pissed off at me and wouldn’t repeat herself.
Almost a week after the meeting, on Sunday, I started feeling weird, like I was getting cramps, even if it wasn’t that time of the month. My mother fluttered around, wondering what toxins I could have ingested. I really just wanted to curl up in bed. Finally, she let me alone.
I knew I needed someone to make a wish. I considered going back to the wishing well, but it was late in the afternoon and I wasn’t sure anyone would be there. I closed my eyes, wanting to be somewhere someone was going to make a wish.
When I opened them I was lying on a rooftop, in the cold and rain, wearing only my sweats. Barefoot. Fortunately the roof wasn’t that steep.
“I wish we could get another puppy,” a little girl said.
I breathed out and blew at her. My breath looked like pale pink smoke. It felt good to breathe out. An image appeared in my mind. It was kind of smoky pink at the edges, like the breath I exhaled. In it, the little girl was dancing around because her father surprised the family with a puppy. It would happen tomorrow.
“Great,” I thought. “Now get me home.” Just as suddenly, I was back in my bed. My cramping sensation was gone. I felt amazing, even if I did think the whole puppy thing was a little bit sappy and cliché. But I knew without a doubt that little girl was getting a dog.
Monday night I got to share my granting story. Of course I was also stuck in a chair that had more broken coils than stuffing. At least I’d remembered to put on socks and slippers.
“I have a question,” I said.
“That’s what we meet for,” Paula said with a smile.
Sheath Dress Woman nodded. She was in another formfitting outfit but this had a blazer, also covered in cat fur. Granny was in a different dress, this one equally worn.
“Can we wish for things too?”
“Of course,” Granny said. “But someone else has to answer the wishes.”
“If it’s really important, you can make sure someone will be around. Like tell Grace you’ll be wishing at five o’clock on Sunday on the corner of Main Street and First in downtown Duvall,” Sheath Dress Woman said.
“Which is how Connie did it,” Granny said. “She said, Grace meet me at the corner of Main Street and First on Saturday. I have a wish. So I got there, carrying a huge amount of wish-grant pressure, believe me, cause it started up late Friday night. I didn’t have any way to get her a message to hurry it up. Anyway, I got there, and she said she wished to know what cats wished for. So there you have it. She’s our cat fairy godmother.” Granny smiled widely.
I nodded. I was so not going to wish to talk to cats. In fact, I might wish that someone would shoot me if I asked to talk to cats. Football Player would probably grant that.
So that was how I became a fairy godmother. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes it’s a royal pain, like the time I was at prom with Tyler. We were getting hot and heavy and I started to feel the pressure build massively up. I hated it when it came on quick, which it does sometimes. I had to excuse myself and go find a wisher.
Mostly though, it felt so good to grant a wish, any wish, that it was addictive. I granted a lot of little kids puppies and kitties. I granted more A grades than I can count. I cured some allergies, got people some money, and helped lonely folks find love. I got someone’s brother out of jail and cured a mother’s cancer. Every wish went straight to my heart. Most felt wonderful.
Of course, there was the time that Courtney Duncan wished to eat everything she wanted and never get fat. I granted it and I felt relieved, but sort of like I had done something bad and gotten away with it. Granny, er Grace, explained that was because she was making a wish that would harm her. It wasn’t my fault that I’d granted it. We don’t judge, but hurtful wishes never give you the high you get with good wishes. I found out that the next year, Courtney ended up hospitalized with a feeding tube because she got sick and just couldn’t regain any weight.
I learned that if someone asked me for something that allowed them to give something to another, they could become a fairy godmother. If I wanted to offer my power I could become mortal again. Or I could bestow the power on them and remain a godmother.
My mom said I was becoming a nicer person. That made me feel weird. My girlfriends noticed too. I was always the cynic in the group but that was changing. I talked about hope far too much. Some of the girls Sage and I hung with started getting a little bitchy about me, calling me Goody Hopeful. Sucky name, I know. Especially for me.
The name calling makes me mad but then I hear them wishing for things. Lauren is the one who rags on me the worst. And yeah, it bothers me, a lot. Of course, I hear her wishes, which makes it hard to stay mad. She wishes all the stuff I’d wish for about my mom. You know, the get off my back stuff. I wish I were good enough stuff. But then I heard her wish that she wasn’t grounded for getting an A- in physics. Once she wished she wasn’t grounded for missing a word in one of her cheers. Yeah, grounded for a week because she missed one word in a cheer. Apparently there are cheerleading scholarships out there and Lauren’s mom expects her to get one. Her mom totally makes mine look like mother of the year. And well, to be honest, I know my mom loves me. When I hear Lauren wishing, I’m not sure she knows that about hers.
I sort of hope that I’ll hear one of her wishes, a big one, when I have to grant one. I figure maybe then she’ll back off the name calling and be a little nicer. And even if she didn’t, I’d know I was the one who granted her wish.
Until then, I remind myself that we all have wishes that we think won’t come true. You just never know. Someone with the power to grant that wish just might be listening. And it just might be me.
Starfish at Ebbtide
Lisa Silverthorne
Lisa Silverthorne’s story, “Starfish at Ebbtide,” could easily have appeared in one of our Fiction River Pulse Pounder editions. And she does have a story upcoming in our Pulse Pounder Countdown volume, which will appear next.
Her stories, whether fantasy or not, often have an element of suspense, which is probably why she’s appeared in nine of our volumes so far—and sold seventy other short stories to major markets. Her most recent novel, Rediscovery, just appeared.
Lisa is a frequent visitor to the Oregon Coast, and “Starfish at Ebbtide” shows her knowledge of this unique part of the country. She writes, “I wanted to capture its beauty, magic, and mythological nature. The sense of wonder in its sandy beaches, misty forests, and rocky shorelines. Its shipwrecks and empty lighthouses underpinned with sorrow and shadowed with tales of despair. And the lifetimes of difficult (and life and death) decisions made along this stretch of coast. “Starfish at Ebbtide” is about one of these decisions and the young woman searching for the strength to
make it.”
Beware rainy nights when the beaches mist with fog and chilly winds, sharp with brine, swirl across the cold sand. As autumn’s magic sets the forests ablaze and the oceans alight and winter’s sleep approaches, the coast becomes dangerous to mortals. Sea witches abound and sea sprites spark against cresting waves, eager to cast curses. And the Haystack Sentinels that tower over Oregon’s coast might just grant a wish. So, if you dare, in those darkest hours before sunrise, when the last tide ebbs and the tide pools glisten, wish on a starfish. But make sure you’re brave enough to pay its price.
Grandma’s fireside stories burned through my brain as I fastened the top button on my jacket and wrestled black tangles of curls into a purple scrunchie. Grandma said that locals had a healthy respect for the Sentinels. She’d seen their magic save lives, homes, and marriages—or destroy entire families and whole towns.
Either way, that magic was my last hope.
Wiping hot, stinging tears out of my eyes, I rushed along Cannon Beach’s dark shoreline, my green Wellington boots squishing across the cold, storm-soaked beach. They rasped against my jeans, wool socks hugging my calves, as I hurried toward Haystack Rock.
And the tide pools.
My cell phone jangled in my pocket, blowing up with ringtones. I ignored Mom and my two sisters’ texts, half-listening for Rachel Plattan’s Fight Song (my boyfriend, Zac’s ringtone), expecting him to somehow just know what happened tonight and text me.
My breath caught, heart pounding like a drum solo against my rib cage. I ached to hear the Rocky theme song blare from my pocket. Dad’s ringtone. Texting me to come back to the house. Because he was home. Because he was safe.
It was long past midnight on a school night, way past when Dad should’ve been home from work. Like three hours way past. Instead of his deep, playful voice filling the house, there was a hollow doorbell and a subdued cop at the front door. Misty eyes focused on Mom, not my sisters and me. Stone faced. Careful, clipped words like a nail gun firing off each statement with blunt force into my chest. Right through my heart.
Ma’am, your husband, Daniel Halsted, has been in a serious car accident. Tkat.
Three vehicle crash...one driver pronounced dead at the scene. Tkat, tkat.
Three airlifted to Portland...level one trauma unit...on a respirator. Tkat, tkat, tkat.
I smashed my eyes closed, cold wind scouring away the tears, lips salty as I reached into my jacket pocket and switched my phone to vibrate. For a moment, I stared at the crisp black tattoo marking my index finger with a tiny infinity symbol. Just like Zac’s—I couldn’t help smiling. Our little secret. Hope Mom didn’t notice it any time soon.
Sand crunched as I kicked sea foam out of my path, heart aching as Haystack Rock loomed dark and misty over the windy beach.
Just got my driver’s license. Today. Of all days. Thanks, life! Been waiting all day for Dad to come home so I could show it to him. I brushed my sleeve across my face, wiping away a new flood of tears.
To thank him for suffering through my learning to drive. Terrified lane changes. Thousand-point parallel parking maneuvers. Safely, he’d say in a quiet, calm voice, never yelling. Even when I almost sideswiped a Land Rover on I-5. Safely, Em.
I traced the outline of my new driver’s license in my pocket beside the pearl sweater pin Grandma gave me before she died last year. It was her mother’s. Losing Grandma broke my heart into a million pieces. I wouldn’t lose my dad, too.
Not now. Not like this.
Ahead, a silvery crescent moon gleamed through the fog, illuminating the Haystack monolith, so stark and massive against the long ribbon of silver-lit sand and dark swath of churning ocean.
A mournful fog horn called out for an answer as the frothy tide ebbed, revealing rocky tide pools swirling around the Haystack.
Grandma said that call was the Cannon Beach Sentinel, forever separated from her lover to the south, calling out to him on the tides. Yearning to hear his voice. His answer. Grandma said they were human once. Desperate for a wish, but it carried a terrible price. A curse. They had magic to grant wishes, but only when autumn turned to winter.
Silly kid’s stories, but I was out of options. I had to take the risk. To save my dad.
“Emma,” whispered an unfamiliar voice across the mist.
I turned, my breath sharp in the rainy chill. Not a single light shone from the endless row of dark beach houses overlooking the ocean, windows pearly black against empty footpaths winding down grassy hillsides toward the beach.
I stepped over sand dollars and ruffled kelp streamers, Wellies kicking up frothy sea foam as my name echoed again across the waves until I reached Haystack Rock’s craggy, barnacled outer rocks. The huge basalt sea stack glimmered with strange gold light.
Stepping over a tide pool with dozens of tiny, light green anemones, I moved around the Haystack’s larger rocks, avoiding the endless clusters of razor-sharp gooseneck barnacles. They gleamed, awash in electric purple light that danced across the rocks.
The Sentinel—she was here. I felt her presence in the fog.
Ahead, a large tide pool shimmered, water alight with a serene aqua glow that lit up Haystack Rock, ethereal lights glittering as bright as fireworks.
“Emma Halsted,” called the female voice.
Dewy air glistened, a translucent form coalescing out of the rock. Flickering with human form.
She stood at least six feet tall, maybe taller. Long, wavy hair the color of sea foam flowed around her oval face, skin a pale, dusty aqua as she turned toward me, her stormy, moon-bright eyes turbulent with emotions I couldn’t read. An ocean swell rose around her and then receded, water falling into a luminous blue gown at her shoulders, around her hips. Barefoot, she walked toward me, gown pulsating with stars as she stretched out her arms, fingers splayed and sparkling with sea spray.
The Sentinel.
I couldn’t speak. Grandma’s stories were true.
I just stood there staring at the Sentinel’s bright face and the ocean’s light bathing Haystack Rock and its surrounding tide pools. From the dark shore, the mist contained all of it, cradled it in sand and light and the gentle whisper of waves.
“You’ve come for a wish,” said the lithe woman in a fluid voice that melted on the air like spun sugar.
Who or what was she? An apparition? Part of the mist? Something my aching heart conjured to save my dad. And his chances were slipping away.
I nodded, my heart pounding into my throat, tears blinding my swollen eyes. Grandma said the Sentinel had been human once. Maybe she’d understand?
The Sentinel frowned, rubbing her forehead. “There is so much noise.” She pointed toward my hip. “From there. In your pocket. Clear it. It hurts my head.”
I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket, screen awash in text messages. My sisters, Liv and Taylor, filled the first screen as I swiped through the messages, flicking past Liv’s six wru wtf texts and Taylor’s string of cm pls wru texts. None from Zac. Not sure why. But Mom’s texts went right through me.
Emma where are you? On the way w/dad to hospital Liv n Tay otw too W R U?
...
Em, turn on your phone!
...
Answer my texts! Your Dad’s bad. Don’t want to tell you all this in a text.
...
Em. Call me. Now.
...
Dad’s critical. He’s on a respirator. Emma, don’t make me do this thru texts call me back! We need you here!
...
Emma. There’s not much time. You have to get here. Now. To say goodbye.
“It’s my dad...see, he’s—” My voice broke. I looked away, turning off my phone.
It was almost too late, didn’t she understand?
The Sentinel let out a breath. “Yes, I see it. I can focus now.”
A fog horn bellowed across the ocean, cutting through the fog. The Sentinel turned toward the sound, looking south, the corners of her lips lifting into a smile. She sang a
clear alto note that lamented through the mist, the tide carrying off her message.
The Sentinel’s unblinking gaze settled on me again. With my eyeliner smeared, nose running, tears leaking down my face, I was a scary mess. She studied me for a few more long, awkward moments and then bent down, brushing her fingers across a shallow tide pool beside her.
“He is here,” she said as images rushed across the tide pool’s mirror-like surface. “Look.”
Several, green interstate signs rushed past, one of them read Hillsboro as Dad’s black Honda Pilot passed underneath, moving with highway traffic toward the sun hanging low on the horizon.
He looked so GQ in his grey suit and purple tie, salty black hair clipped close on the sides, longer on top, side part. He tapped his gold wedding band against the steering wheel in time to some old Bruce Springsteen CD I gave him for Father’s Day. The one Liv hated and I loved.
Grinning through my tears, I nodded. “That’s my dad.”
I laughed, remembering him saying how he preferred his old fogie albums to discs and those new-fangled pod players (as he called them) because the sound quality was better. Until I explained that he could carry his entire music collection on one device—or stream everything from the cloud.
What happens if it's sunny and not cloudy, he’d asked me, straight-faced at the dinner table. Does all the music disappear?
Really, Dad? I rolled my eyes at him as his infectious laugh filled the house. He shared a private wink with Mom while Liv stared at her phone, ignoring everything now that she was in college. He laughed again when Taylor insisted on a stretch Prius limo for her prom in four years. For the environment.
Images flickered across the tide pool, panning across the highway median to a little red coupe heading toward Portland in the left-hand lane. Everything looked normal until the coupe tried to switch lanes, swerved back at the last minute, overcorrecting, and then accelerated across the median into oncoming traffic going west.
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