Elder Spool pauses, his eyes still closed, and the room falls silent. The crowd has become one and we breathe and sigh in unison. The anticipation is palpable. I glance over at Delphine—I had momentarily put her out of my mind—and see tears in her eyes. I’m surprised, but I turn back quickly as I don’t want to miss the sacrifice.
Elder Spool opens his eyes for a split second to line up the dagger with the lamb and then plunges the metal deep into the animal’s throat, almost severing its head. The body twitches once, and then once more, and then is motionless. A reverent stillness hangs in the air for several moments. Then Spool lifts the bloody dagger high once more, a smile on his face.
“Glory hallelujah!” he shouts.
“Glory hallelujah!” we all shout in return. I find myself on my feet, caught up in the moment.
“Glory hallelujah! Glory hallelujah!”
We chant the words again and again as the lamb slowly bleeds out on the altar.
Chapter Two
As the last of the lamb’s blood drains out on the alter, the elders move forward in unison and lift the altar in the air. Their faces are solemn and they carry the sacrifice between them. A hush settles over the room as they walk silently between us.
“Where are they taking it?” whispers Marissa.
Abigail and I shrug.
“They save the blood in special containers,” says a fair-haired man sitting beside Abigail. “At the next full moon the elders will perform a secret ritual to further appease the Gods.”
“Thank the Gods for the elders,” says Marissa, her eyes wide.
I take another long drink of my cider, my eyes on my father as he takes the sacrifice out of the village hall with the other elders.
The music starts up again, faster this time, and I am carried away by the beat. We push aside tables and chairs and the dance floor widens even further. Abigail takes my hand and we break into primal, frenetic dancing. There are no partners this time. I stomp my feet and throw my arms in the air: I feel wild and free.
Drinks are passed and spilt. I taste my sweat mixed with cider and at one point I trip over someone fallen to the ground. We lie together for a moment, our heads joined like some gargantuan eight-limbed creature. My fallen friend laughs and I laugh, and suddenly it is the funniest thing in the world to be lying on the ground, feet flying around our heads, drops of cider raining down.
I eventually pull myself up and seek a chair to rest my weary body. I am examining a small cut on my arm when someone slides next to me. It is Delphine—beautiful, amazing Delphine. I kiss her. It is a long, deep kiss. I sense her surprise but she doesn’t pull away. I run my hands through her hair, taking a strand in one hand as I had done earlier in the night. She smiles and leans forward and kisses me again.
She pulls me to the side of the room and I lean in to kiss her once more. I’m surprised when she turns away. When she looks back at me, something unknown passes over her face. She brings her hand to her mouth and bites the nail on one finger.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
No Chris. I need to tell you something. Can I trust you?
I’m suddenly aware of my beating heart. “Of course,” I say, taking her hand in mine.
Something terrible will happen. I fear it will happen soon.
“What are you talking about?” My head is clouded as I try to make sense of what she is writing.
This will seem strange but I need you to trust me. The world is continuing to heat at a horrifying pace and the sea will rise again soon. I’m sure. There will be another catastrophic flood. This time it will destroy Martha’s Vineyard.
“But the sea hasn’t risen in one hundred years. It’s okay Delphine, nothing terrible will happen. We’ve completed the sacrifice. We are here, together. Life is good.” I smile and bring her hand to my lips, kissing it tenderly. Delphine pulls her hand from mine. She is frowning and scribbling furiously.
It’s a bunch of nonsense! It’s a cruel, barbaric practice!
“What’s nonsense?” My cider addled brain swims into sharper focus. Some part of me realizes that this is becoming a dangerous conversation.
The sacrifice, all of this, it won’t help us. Chris, will you help me?
“Delphine,” I say in a low voice. “You should not express that. Not here.” I look over my shoulder but we are alone. Delphine looks around quickly and then composes herself. She inhales deeply.
You’re right. I shouldn’t have spoken of the sacrifice in that way. I’m just overwhelmed and worried for the safety of the island.
“I understand,” I say. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Yes. I need to explain myself better. But I need to know I can trust you. Will you help me?
I look at her face. I sense I am sinking into something deep and troubling. She takes my hand in hers and presses it against her chest. Beneath her skin I can sense the rapid firing of her heart. I reach up to stroke her cheek with my other hand: “Yes,” I say, perhaps agreeing too quickly. “Anything. Tell me what you need.”
As Delphine elaborates her fears, the noise of the revel fades behind me. I am incredulous as I read her words. Half of what she has written seems like a foreign language.
“What is a ‘polar ice sheet’?” I ask her. “And a ‘meter’—what’s that?”
The polar ice sheets were vast masses of ice at opposite sides of the planet. One was in a place called Antarctica and the other was in a place called Greenland. Much of the ice has melted now.
“And a ‘meter’?”
It’s an ancient unit of measurement. One meter is roughly two cubits. My family has continued the tradition of the harbormasters and measured the tides in the old way.
When I tell her my doubts, she is insistent. She has me almost convinced, although… I’m not entirely sure. What she is saying seems inconsistent with just about everything else I hold true.
You must think about the island, Chris, about the people who live here.
She kisses me deeply, and before I know what I am doing I find myself with her notes in my hands. Delphine touches her lips to mine once more and looks into my eyes. Her eyes are burning with intensity.
In the flickering light I make my way to the musicians. People bump and grind against me but I push on through the crowds. Climbing on to the stage, I stand behind the singer, trying to get her attention by stepping into her peripheral vision. From here I can see everyone spread out before me. They writhe and shake to the beat of the music. My previous cider-fuelled courage is waning. I glance back at Delphine and she urges me on with a hurried wave of her hand.
With a deep breath, I step forward and tap the singer on the shoulder. She jumps, startled, and turns to me. The other musicians are still playing but are watching us closely now. My mouth is dry. I cough, clear my throat, and say: “I need to say something.”
“What?” She says. “Are you serious? Go away.” I glance back at Delphine and shrug, not sure what to do next. Delphine shakes her head furiously and gestures at the notes in my hand.
“Please. It’s important,” I hear myself say to the singer.
“I don’t care, move on.” I feel a flash of anger.
“Do you know who my father is?” This makes her pause. “Elder Kennedy is my father, and he’s asked me to give everyone a message.” The lie is out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I regret it immediately. But the singer is nodding now and has moved back to hush the musicians.
The music fades then splutters to a stop. The room becomes silent. It is as though I am about to fall into a bottomless, dark hole. Bewildered partygoers turn to where the musicians had been playing, where I now stand alone, and they shrug and whisper to one another. Someone shouts for more music but the musicians have already melted into the crowd. I am alone with a thick, heaving circle of people looking at me expectantly. People are pushing against one another, curious to see what is going on.
I glance back at Delphine, who stands on a bench seat at the edg
e of the room so we are face to face, and she smiles encouragingly. My heart is throbbing in my throat. I take a long sip from the cider glass I hadn’t realized was still clenched in my fist and scan the room for my father. It is a small relief when I do not see him.
“I am Chris Kennedy,” I say. People seem to recognize my name. I raise my voice louder. “I have a message from Delphine Grace, the meteorologist from Vineyard Haven.” I look down at the crumpled sheets in my hand and pause. Someone coughs loudly and the whispers start again. Projecting my voice as best I can, I read from her hand-written notes.
“My name is Delphine Grace and my family has kept meteorological archives since before the Great Floods. I maintain daily climatic and tide records for Martha’s Vineyard. This responsibility has fallen on my family going back to when one of my forebears was the harbormaster. It is a task I have devoted my life to.
“I have investigated hundreds of years of records and noticed that while the average temperature has continued to rise steadily, the sea level rise has tapered off and has barely risen in the last one hundred years. This makes little sense.
“I believe that there was enough ice on the planet—mainly held at the polar ice sheets—to raise the sea level well above Martha’s Vineyard if it all were to melt. Based on the temperature rises over the last several centuries, a large quantity of this ice has already melted. It is likely being held somewhere, such as an enormous natural dam.
“It could breach whatever is holding it back, causing flooding and terrifying tsunamis. We would not survive this. Every one of you would be dead. There is a real possibility that this could happen at any time.” I pause and peer around the darkened room, which is now in complete silence. My throat is dry and I take another long drink. Abigail’s shocked face finds me but I turn away quickly and continue to read.
“We are not safe here. A sudden large rise in sea level that would submerge the island may occur soon—”
“What is the meaning of this?” It’s my father, his voice cutting through the air savagely. Everyone turns in the direction of his voice and the crowd parts like the tide pulling away from the shore. “What is this blasphemy?”
I see him in the shadows. He is coming towards me now and I take an involuntary step backwards. I look over my shoulder but there is nowhere to go. When he realizes it is me standing on the stage he stops, his bluster gone momentarily. He gathers himself and strides closer to me until we are only one cubit from each other.
“Chris, what are you doing?” He asks quietly, his voice tense. Although he remains composed, I can see his fury seething just below the surface.
My father is tall and dark, cut from the same cloth as Rich and me, although his hair is greying above his ears. With his ceremonial paint, the bloodshot whites of his eyes appear as though they might burst from his face. I flounder as he stares at me. I take another step backwards, trying to widen the gap between us.
Delphine’s notes are still clenched tightly in my hand. My father reaches out, takes the notes from me and quickly scans them. I’m acutely aware of the hundreds of faces watching us. I’m suddenly embarrassed and ashamed. I feel like a kid again, caught by my parents doing something wrong. I look down at the dusty floor and kick the ground. I know that every eye in the room is on us, watching and waiting for my father’s reaction. My father lowers his voice even further. He is barely whispering now.
“Where did this come from, son? What is this blasphemy you’re disturbing the revel with?”
“Father, did you read her notes? She’s a meteorologist,” I say. Someone in the crowd sniggers.
“Who is ‘she’”?
I looked around for Delphine and see her. She is still standing on a chair looking over the crowd. Everyone seems to crane to hear the conversation between my father and me. I beckon her over and the mob turns as one to face her. She comes nervously, a forced smile on her pretty face as she pushes her way to where we stand.
“Elder Kennedy, this is Delphine Grace. She’s a meteorologist.” Delphine holds her shaking hand out to my father but he ignores the gesture.
“Ms. Grace, did you produce these notes?” he asks her, his voice curt. Delphine looks at me for help. “You need to answer me. I’m not sure you quite understand the seriousness of what has been done just now.”
“She doesn’t speak, she’s deaf,” I say. I don’t meet my father’s eyes. My father looks incredulous, then furious.
“You disturbed the revel with the insane, blasphemous notions of a disabled person?” He speaks more loudly this time and people in the crowd laugh and smirk. My face is burning and I notice a dark figure moving behind me. I turn to see Elder Spool, who stares at me with his flat, grey eyes ringed in black.
“You should let me handle this,” Elder Spool says to my father.
I’m surprised to see my father nod and then take a step back. Spool takes hold of Delphine by the shoulders and pushes her towards the door. When she realizes what is happening, she panics. She thrashes her arms to be free of him and looks back at me frantically. Spool’s grip is unyielding. More people are laughing now, enjoying the spectacle.
“Let go of her!” I yell.
My father reaches for me but I twist out of his grasp and run after them. I stumble over someone’s leg, can’t catch myself, and trip. I careen into them, knocking the three of us to the ground. Laughter echoes loudly through the village hall. When I look up, there is a wall of jeering faces. The sight is unnerving in the gloom.
Elder Spool is on his feet quickly and dusts himself off. He stands, hands on hips, a sinister smile on his lips. I feel hands on my back and I look up to see Marissa helping me stand. I try to give her a grateful smile but Marissa’s head is bowed, and she doesn’t meet my eye. Once I’m up, she disappears quickly.
I pull Delphine to her feet. The taunts intensify and the sound is maddening. Delphine keeps her eyes down and we hurry to the front doors and escape outside. The cool night air slaps me in the face. I do not dare turn back to my father or Elder Spool. I do not have the courage.
We walk some way from the revel and stop. I say to no one in particular: “What have we done?” My words fall flat. Delphine does not answer me. Instead, she stops and stares up at the night sky. I watch her from a distance of about ten cubits.
When she finally turns, the contours of her face are sharp and angry where the moonlight catches her face. She looks at me expectantly. I wait, unsure of what to say. Delphine pulls out the small notepad, held in its well-worn leather cover, and flicks past several pages filled with writing until she finds a clean page. Her hands are slender and her fingers deft. She writes in her graceful script, already so familiar, and then hands the book to me.
This danger is real. They shouldn’t just dismiss me like this. I’m not disabled. I’m not insane. We must do something, please.
I pass her back the book and look at her wide-eyed, shaking my head. My mouth is dry and my head is aching. I massage my temples. I’d like to believe I’m misremembering the scornful heckling but the scene is seared in my memory. I reach for her hand, desperately unhappy.
“Delphine. We can’t bring this up again; at least not tonight. They’ll throw you in the pit if you keep on with this. Perhaps we can seek a private counsel with my father and the other elders at sun up? But tonight is not the night.” I speak slowly, watching her eyes on my lips.
She shakes her head furiously and writes again: Please Chris. I’m so worried. It could happen sooner than we think. It could happen tonight! I didn’t plan to say anything at the revel but it was the perfect opportunity with most of the islanders gathered together.
I take her by the shoulders and lean in to kiss her. Delphine struggles under my hands and pulls away, incensed. She snatches the notebook from me and turns, hurrying toward her village. I call her name but her back is turned so she won’t even know I’ve called to her. I should go after her. I should find my father.
My eyes close and I wince. The embarrassme
nt is so sharp it hurts. I wish I never came to the revel. I want to be at home now playing cards with Rich. I want to be anywhere but here.
The music has started again. The revel is continuing without us as though the disturbance never occurred. Although something tells me that this is not the end of things. My father publicly accused us of blasphemy. There will be some kind of consequence I am certain.
I stand there like a fool for a few moments longer, unsure where to go. I can’t go after Delphine. I need to digest what has just happened. Although I’m not sure I can go home and explain it all to Rich. I can’t stay here and I dare not go back to the revel.
Instead, I walk to the sandy beaches near my home. The night is quiet and I lose myself in my breathing and the rhythmic beat of my feet, in the shiny blanket of stars overhead, and in the salty breeze that blows from the east. I reach the beach and sit in the dunes. The sound of the ocean washes over me. I think about Delphine’s notes, her fears for the future of the island.
I imagine a great wall of water rushing towards me, drowning Martha’s Vineyard, and killing every member of the community.
Then I pray that Delphine Grace is wrong.
Chapter Three
The island is tranquil when the hot sun rises over the ocean; day breaks swiftly. The heat warms my body and I turn my face upwards, eyes closed. The usual morning bustle of fishermen and farmers is noticeably absent. The only sound is the laughter of children who, finding themselves unexpectedly free of parents and chores, play with enthusiastic abandon.
Rich finds me lying on the beach watching the sun climb over the horizon. He listens aghast as I recount the upset Delphine and I caused at the revel. Our conversation is interrupted by a gentle cough. Behind us is Abigail’s mother. She is as pale as Abigail is dark and her skin is luminous in the early morning light.
“My dear Chris,” she says, kneeling next to us in the sand. Hot tears prick my eyes without warning and I wipe them roughly away.
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