earlier, when she felt she was ready, so no one would hear her if she screamed. But she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t even called out, except to wish that the world would end, that the man who had done this to her would keel over and die, that daylight would never appear again.
Lucinda had the baby with her now. He was perfect in every way, hidden in a shawl so that he might have been anything, seashells found on the shoreline, asparagus picked from the garden, a dove fallen down from the sky. She unwrapped him and kissed him, though she’d been afraid to do so before, lest she feel anything. Now all she felt was emptiness, vast as the open sea. She carried him on a path in between the dying whales until she reached the low-water mark, where the reeds were as tall as bulrushes. The salt was so thick it looked like a crust of ice. She stood there in the moonlight, under the pink clouds, watching as the sun began to rise, breaking open the world into bands of yellow and blue, of daylight once more, inevitable daylight in a world in which there didn’t seem to be any choices. Only instinct, the sort of action a desperate woman might take on a morning such as this.
Larkin was alone on the road at this early hour. He had his wooden cranberry scoop over his shoulder, where it rested easily; the scoop was a part of him, another arm, another hand, dyed the same red as his flesh. He smelled the blackfish before he saw them, and then the vision rose before him as he took the turn onto the dike road. The whales had already begun to rot, and the air was thick with mayflies and salt and a bad egg smell. Larkin thought he was imagining this odd vision, for it seemed that mountains had grown up along the shore. He wondered if perhaps he had gone mad somehow, though he was known to be one of the most reasonable and calm men for miles around.
He took the first path that would lead him down to the bay With every step, he saw more clearly that what was before him was real. Hundreds of corpses, a fisherman’s dream, acres of flesh and oil, free for the taking. Already, the dogs in town had begun to bark. Those few fishermen who were left, old Captain Aaron and even Henry Hardy, would soon awake with tears in their eyes. Could a gift really come to them when it was least expected, a windfall, a promise, a reason to get out of bed? It was a lean time, and more than three hundred local men had gone off to fight for the Union. Those left behind were old men, like Henry Hardy and the captain, or boys like the Bern brothers, too foolish to find their way home let alone reach some far-off battlefield. There were only a few family men left, like William Reedy, who had to care for his flock of seven children eight, actually, at the present time.
The men in town were the ill, the wounded, the lame, the overburdened; those who clearly could not be asked to fight. Larkin Howard had something wrong with him as well, though he looked well built and healthy He was blind in one eye and deaf on that side as well. He’d had a fever as a child, not long after his parents died, and when it was done and he’d risen from his sickbed, unattended to in his lodging rooms, one eye was fine and the other was cloudy. Someone spoke to him, the lady of the house, Mrs. Dill, who expected him to work for his keep. Larkin had seen her mouth move, but he couldn’t hear a word, not until he swiveled round to his left side.
Because of his failings, Larkin had never learned to shoot a rifle. He had never left town; never been to sea. He still had a ringing in his one bad ear. On this odd morning, he shut his cloudy eye and looked out at the bay. The pink light was striking the pools of water, turning them red. The tide still had a bit to go till it reached its lowest point, and more blackfish were being stranded as he watched. The smell was unbelievable. Larkin pulled his neck
Lucinda had the baby with her now. He was perfect in every way, hidden in a shawl so that he might have been anything, seashells found on the shoreline, asparagus picked from the garden, a dove fallen down from the sky. She unwrapped him and kissed him, though she’d been afraid to do so before, lest she feel anything. Now all she felt was emptiness, vast as the open sea. She carried him on a path in between the dying whales until she reached the low-water mark, where the reeds were as tall as bulrushes. The salt was so thick it looked like a crust of ice. She stood there in the moonlight, under the pink clouds, watching as the sun began to rise, breaking open the world into bands of yellow and blue, of daylight once more, inevitable daylight in a world in which there didn’t seem to be any choices. Only instinct, the sort of action a desperate woman might take on a morning such as this.
Larkin was alone on the road at this early hour. He had his wooden cranberry scoop over his shoulder, where it rested easily; the scoop was a part of him, another arm, another hand, dyed the same red as his flesh. He smelled the blackfish before he saw them, and then the vision rose before him as he took the turn onto the dike road. The whales had already begun to rot, and the air was thick with mayflies and salt and a bad egg smell. Larkin thought he was imagining this odd vision, for it seemed that mountains had grown up along the shore. He wondered if perhaps he had gone mad somehow, though he was known to be one of the most reasonable and calm men for miles around.
He took the first path that would lead him down to the bay With every step, he saw more clearly that what was before him was real. Hundreds of corpses, a fisherman’s dream, acres of flesh and oil, free for the taking. Already, the dogs in town had begun to bark. Those few fishermen who were left, old Captain Aaron and even Henry Hardy, would soon awake with tears in their eyes. Could a gift really come to them when it was least expected, a windfall, a promise, a reason to get out of bed? It was a lean time, and more than three hundred local men had gone off to fight for the Union. Those left behind were old men, like Henry Hardy and the captain, or boys like the Bern brothers, too foolish to find their way home let alone reach some far-off battlefield. There were only a few family men left, like William Reedy, who had to care for his flock of seven children eight, actually, at the present time.
The men in town were the ill, the wounded, the lame, the overburdened; those who clearly could not be asked to fight. Larkin Howard had something wrong with him as well, though he looked well built and healthy He was blind in one eye and deaf on that side as well. He’d had a fever as a child, not long after his parents died, and when it was done and he’d risen from his sickbed, unattended to in his lodging rooms, one eye was fine and the other was cloudy. Someone spoke to him, the lady of the house, Mrs. Dill, who expected him to work for his keep. Larkin had seen her mouth move, but he couldn’t hear a word, not until he swiveled round to his left side.
Because of his failings, Larkin had never learned to shoot a rifle. He had never left town; never been to sea. He still had a ringing in his one bad ear. On this odd morning, he shut his cloudy eye and looked out at the bay. The pink light was striking the pools of water, turning them red. The tide still had a bit to go till it reached its lowest point, and more blackfish were being stranded as he watched. The smell was unbelievable. Larkin pulled his neck
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