almost past the rocks, and I glimpsed what looked like calm water on the other side.
A hand shot up from the spray and seized the blade of Mordecai’s oar. He lurched and grasped the oar with both hands, bracing his feet against the side of the skiff, struggling to hold on. With a single great jerk the hand pulled Mordecai and his oar half over the side.
“Mercy! Mercy!” Mordecai screamed, doubled over, clinging to the oar, his bottom half now starting to slide over the side as the hand pulled hard.
I leapt onto Mordecai and wrapped myself tight around his knees, trying to make myself heavy, to pull him back. The man’s head surged up out of the water. His face was gouged all over. His eyes blazed red with salt. He reached for me. The skiff jerked and pitched and Mordecai suddenly let go of the oar and fell back. Wood cracked against bone and I saw blood gush from a black gash on the man’s forehead. He threw back his head and his mouth opened in a huge howl. Blood poured down from the gash and filled his mouth with red, then the sea closed over him.
I held on to the rim, looking back through torn spray as the skiff jolted through the waves. I thought I saw the man’s head bob up, but then we slapped down into a trough, the rocks now directly in front of us, and I lost sight of him. Through the noise of waves and wind I heard a deep bawl. It sounded like my name. That voice again, like something I had dreamed. Mordecai leaned out with his long arms, pushing, struggling to stave off the rocks, and then one last bump and bounce and we were finally around the point, the sea suddenly smooth and quiet.
My heart still slammed against my chest. I felt Crow’s claws settle on my shoulder and reached up with a shivering hand to smooth his wet wings.
“Mordecai?”
He was draped over the side of the boat, arms and hair trailing in the water, breath in long rasps. “I am quite well.”
A thin stream of red ran into the sea from his dangling wrist. I crouched beside him and scooped water onto the wound, a long pink tear in his white flesh. I looked at it closely; the wound was shallow, but an alarming amount of blood continued to flow, and he was clearly in pain. I pulled the bandanna off Mordecai’s hair and used it to tightly bind the wound.
When I had stopped shivering, I twisted the water from my hair. I knew we were not far from where we’d struggled with the man in blue. I turned nervously on my seat to look all around the skiff for the dark gliding form among the whitecaps. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had recovered to track us, breathing as easily beneath the waves as above, so strong and fishlike a creature he seemed.
We had rounded the point to the south side of Mouse Island, the seaward side. No jagged rocks, no breaking surf, only a long, low slope of gray rock curved before us, some twenty yards across. I stood to see more clearly and felt a surge of cold sea on my legs. The plaster plug was gone, forced out in the rushing water. Mordecai’s boots soon sloshed ankle deep; the water gurgled around my knees. My scalp suddenly smarted. Crow was pulling a hank of my hair straight skyward, screeching. The skiff was sinking.
Crow let go of my hair and lifted off as something passed over my head and around my waist, a thick loop, not rope but something softer. It tightened and jerked me backward out of the skiff, bent over, legs and arms trawling in front of me through the water. I looked up through my own wake, spluttering and choking, to see another such loop, a lasso, pass over Mordecai’s head and around his waist. He reached for his suitcases before he, too, was pulled from the skiff and towed backward through the waves. I wondered if it was the man in blue, if he had after all reached the island and was hauling us to land. I tried to turn my head and through the spray could just see three figures on the island behind me, see the taut ropes stretching back to them.
A moment later my underside
A hand shot up from the spray and seized the blade of Mordecai’s oar. He lurched and grasped the oar with both hands, bracing his feet against the side of the skiff, struggling to hold on. With a single great jerk the hand pulled Mordecai and his oar half over the side.
“Mercy! Mercy!” Mordecai screamed, doubled over, clinging to the oar, his bottom half now starting to slide over the side as the hand pulled hard.
I leapt onto Mordecai and wrapped myself tight around his knees, trying to make myself heavy, to pull him back. The man’s head surged up out of the water. His face was gouged all over. His eyes blazed red with salt. He reached for me. The skiff jerked and pitched and Mordecai suddenly let go of the oar and fell back. Wood cracked against bone and I saw blood gush from a black gash on the man’s forehead. He threw back his head and his mouth opened in a huge howl. Blood poured down from the gash and filled his mouth with red, then the sea closed over him.
I held on to the rim, looking back through torn spray as the skiff jolted through the waves. I thought I saw the man’s head bob up, but then we slapped down into a trough, the rocks now directly in front of us, and I lost sight of him. Through the noise of waves and wind I heard a deep bawl. It sounded like my name. That voice again, like something I had dreamed. Mordecai leaned out with his long arms, pushing, struggling to stave off the rocks, and then one last bump and bounce and we were finally around the point, the sea suddenly smooth and quiet.
My heart still slammed against my chest. I felt Crow’s claws settle on my shoulder and reached up with a shivering hand to smooth his wet wings.
“Mordecai?”
He was draped over the side of the boat, arms and hair trailing in the water, breath in long rasps. “I am quite well.”
A thin stream of red ran into the sea from his dangling wrist. I crouched beside him and scooped water onto the wound, a long pink tear in his white flesh. I looked at it closely; the wound was shallow, but an alarming amount of blood continued to flow, and he was clearly in pain. I pulled the bandanna off Mordecai’s hair and used it to tightly bind the wound.
When I had stopped shivering, I twisted the water from my hair. I knew we were not far from where we’d struggled with the man in blue. I turned nervously on my seat to look all around the skiff for the dark gliding form among the whitecaps. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had recovered to track us, breathing as easily beneath the waves as above, so strong and fishlike a creature he seemed.
We had rounded the point to the south side of Mouse Island, the seaward side. No jagged rocks, no breaking surf, only a long, low slope of gray rock curved before us, some twenty yards across. I stood to see more clearly and felt a surge of cold sea on my legs. The plaster plug was gone, forced out in the rushing water. Mordecai’s boots soon sloshed ankle deep; the water gurgled around my knees. My scalp suddenly smarted. Crow was pulling a hank of my hair straight skyward, screeching. The skiff was sinking.
Crow let go of my hair and lifted off as something passed over my head and around my waist, a thick loop, not rope but something softer. It tightened and jerked me backward out of the skiff, bent over, legs and arms trawling in front of me through the water. I looked up through my own wake, spluttering and choking, to see another such loop, a lasso, pass over Mordecai’s head and around his waist. He reached for his suitcases before he, too, was pulled from the skiff and towed backward through the waves. I wondered if it was the man in blue, if he had after all reached the island and was hauling us to land. I tried to turn my head and through the spray could just see three figures on the island behind me, see the taut ropes stretching back to them.
A moment later my underside
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