andpulled a bucket from a tangle of old rope and began to bail the bottom of the skiff. I had just begun when, through the water bubbling into the boat, I heard another sound behind us. I stopped mid-bail and peered out toward the sound. Where the fog had not yet burned off, sunlight suffused it. A thick cloud of light blinded me. I heard a muffled splash and then a pause—it was hard to tell how distant; sound traveled easily on the water. Another splash. Mordecai listened too. We sat motionless.
“A pair of dolphins,” Mordecai declared.
I held my tongue and listened.
“An errant buoy,” Mordecai ventured.
A splash, and then another. Closer.
Mordecai plied the oars. A few inches of water now soaked my feet, seeping through the seams of my boots. Crow hopped down and splashed his wings in the water; I spoke to him sharply. He nipped my boot and lifted off, toward the sound, disappearing in the fog. Wind shivered along the face of the water. To the west the island dissolved in spray from the oars and reappeared.
“The plaster, get the plaster. The jar …”
I reached into Mordecai’s bag and began to pull things out: a pair of Turkish slippers, a torn signal flag, a dried lungfish that crumbled in my fingers.
“At the bottom, under the eel skins.”
I pulled out a jar half full of white powder.
“Take the oars.”
I dove between Mordecai’s legs and started to row.
He pried off the cap.
“I had hoped to cast the other …” He began to lift a wrapped shape from his bag, then eased it back. He glanced up toward Crow, who hovered above the boat, flapping, staring toward the splashes. “It makes no matter.” He dipped the open top of the jar into the water in the hull, stirred with a long finger, and smeared the white paste along the crack. The plaster soon hardened, and the leak stopped. We switched places, Mordecai again taking the oars.
The splashing was louder now. Through the thick light I saw the curved hull of a skiff, the line of an oar. A blue back, straining. Mama’s man.
Mordecai saw him, too, and leaned hard on his starboard oar. The bow swung around and pointed to Mouse Island.
“But the rocks …”
He didn’t reply, only bent deeper into his oars. We were not far now; patches of gray rock showed through the fog and the breakers boomed. The light chop of open water shifted to long swells as we neared the island. The skiff rose on a swell and started to dip toward the rocks, toward the roaring surf. A sudden jolt: I held on tight and leaned over the side. We had struck a rock under the surface—more rocks, dark and jagged, loomed in the water under us, all around us now.
A loud crack, behind us, cut through the noise of the surf. I looked back to see a boat shoot straight up from the water, twist in the air, and smack down with a vast jet of spray, landing hull up. An oar spun out and struck a rock, shattering. A blue shape arced down into the water.
I shouted at Mordecai, but he didn’t look up, intent on avoiding the rocks, trying to crane around to see our path. I shouted again, but he couldn’t hear me through the breakers. I reached out and grabbed his knee so that he would look up and began pointing, trying to direct him through the rocks.
Twice I twisted around and thought I saw the man moving toward us, gliding through the churning water, slipping around the rocks. Even if the man had survived his boat smashing on those rocks, surely he wouldn’t have the strength to swim after us. But there it was again: a face lifting to one side, mouth spouting water. A blue arm driving down, lifting, driving down again.
It seemed to last forever, struggling through. We missed striking one huge rock by a hairsbreadth and glanced off another, its sharp peak jittering along the bottom of the skiff as we passed over. Then the rocks began to thin and I leaned out to try to see how close wewere to the island. We were starting to round the point at the near end of the island, we were
“A pair of dolphins,” Mordecai declared.
I held my tongue and listened.
“An errant buoy,” Mordecai ventured.
A splash, and then another. Closer.
Mordecai plied the oars. A few inches of water now soaked my feet, seeping through the seams of my boots. Crow hopped down and splashed his wings in the water; I spoke to him sharply. He nipped my boot and lifted off, toward the sound, disappearing in the fog. Wind shivered along the face of the water. To the west the island dissolved in spray from the oars and reappeared.
“The plaster, get the plaster. The jar …”
I reached into Mordecai’s bag and began to pull things out: a pair of Turkish slippers, a torn signal flag, a dried lungfish that crumbled in my fingers.
“At the bottom, under the eel skins.”
I pulled out a jar half full of white powder.
“Take the oars.”
I dove between Mordecai’s legs and started to row.
He pried off the cap.
“I had hoped to cast the other …” He began to lift a wrapped shape from his bag, then eased it back. He glanced up toward Crow, who hovered above the boat, flapping, staring toward the splashes. “It makes no matter.” He dipped the open top of the jar into the water in the hull, stirred with a long finger, and smeared the white paste along the crack. The plaster soon hardened, and the leak stopped. We switched places, Mordecai again taking the oars.
The splashing was louder now. Through the thick light I saw the curved hull of a skiff, the line of an oar. A blue back, straining. Mama’s man.
Mordecai saw him, too, and leaned hard on his starboard oar. The bow swung around and pointed to Mouse Island.
“But the rocks …”
He didn’t reply, only bent deeper into his oars. We were not far now; patches of gray rock showed through the fog and the breakers boomed. The light chop of open water shifted to long swells as we neared the island. The skiff rose on a swell and started to dip toward the rocks, toward the roaring surf. A sudden jolt: I held on tight and leaned over the side. We had struck a rock under the surface—more rocks, dark and jagged, loomed in the water under us, all around us now.
A loud crack, behind us, cut through the noise of the surf. I looked back to see a boat shoot straight up from the water, twist in the air, and smack down with a vast jet of spray, landing hull up. An oar spun out and struck a rock, shattering. A blue shape arced down into the water.
I shouted at Mordecai, but he didn’t look up, intent on avoiding the rocks, trying to crane around to see our path. I shouted again, but he couldn’t hear me through the breakers. I reached out and grabbed his knee so that he would look up and began pointing, trying to direct him through the rocks.
Twice I twisted around and thought I saw the man moving toward us, gliding through the churning water, slipping around the rocks. Even if the man had survived his boat smashing on those rocks, surely he wouldn’t have the strength to swim after us. But there it was again: a face lifting to one side, mouth spouting water. A blue arm driving down, lifting, driving down again.
It seemed to last forever, struggling through. We missed striking one huge rock by a hairsbreadth and glanced off another, its sharp peak jittering along the bottom of the skiff as we passed over. Then the rocks began to thin and I leaned out to try to see how close wewere to the island. We were starting to round the point at the near end of the island, we were
Similar Books
