spring. She felt emotionally resurrected. The cause of this revitalization deserved further detailed study, and it would get it.
The first confirmation of Rory’s presence on the smaller beach was a cast-off plaid abandoned in the gritty sand in a careless pile.
Hexy smiled in satisfaction.
The plaid was soon followed by a pair of crudely stitched leather shoes, also flung away by a hasty hand so that they’d fallen upside down and unmated; and finally by the finely made borrowed shirt, which had been dropped too near the tide line. The latter was now being taken out to sea by the cold, thieving waters that had crept up on the land.
Slowing to a stop, Hexy stood over the dead-white shirt, mesmerized, watching its gaping neckline slowly drawn down into the water, where it gasped like a drowning man for a last mouthful of air. It brought to mind the manyfishermen who had died in this very sea. And also men who were not after the sea’s bounty, but were simply unlucky in encountering rough waves and had been battered on this cruel, cold shore. She knew firsthand that not everyone escaped such storms with a mere mal de mer. Her own brother had not.
Something moved at the base of her brain, and a terrible thought about her brother began to stretch its curled limbs and claw at her mind. The intrusion of the expanding notion threatened great pain, and Hexy found her heart racing and her breath coming in gasps. Her brother’s bloodless face rose suddenly in her mind.
Hexy, help me .
“Rory Patrick?”
Help me. It’s dark here and I am alone .
“Where are you?”
Unexpected, and perhaps even imaginary laughter floated over her, breaking the conjuration and sending the dark hallucination back into hiding before it overwhelmed her. The laughter was odd, a sound she had never heard before.
Hexy exhaled sharply. She had to stop this. She had grieved long enough. These nightmares had to end or she’d become one of those hysterics who couldn’t stir from the house without smelling salts.
Shaking off her sudden morbid thoughts, she waded into the surf and retrieved Mr. MacKenzie’s borrowed shirt. Once lifted from the water, it was no longer sinister. It just looked like an empty, wet shirt.
“Rory?” she called softly, looking about uneasily for the garment’s missing wearer. The water lapped at her own clothing and invaded her slippers with cold and grit. There were a few places that he might be, and she didn’t want to look into any of them.
Disgusted with her alarm, and with what was shaping up as an inconvenient infatuation with a slovenly stranger, she began wringing out the sopping garment and retreated up the shore, hoping to escape the water before the sea had climbed all the way up her skirt.
“You are making a bad habit of leaving your clothes on the beach,” she told him, as if the air would carry her message to his ears. “One of these days you’ll be caught stark naked somewhere—and then what shall you do?”
In timely answer, a movement out at the surf line caught her eye. Two figures, one pale and human, one darker and larger, seemed to be grappling in some playful embrace.
“What?”
The rollicking bodies cut and then recut the sea’s delicate silver line as a peculiar sort of barking reached Hexy’s ears over the waves’shushing. The sound of the inhuman voice seemed to grasp her ears, to catch her attention in some invisible but inescapable net. This had been the laughter that disturbed her morbid reverie.
Unaware that the tide was again slowly creeping up her calves and wrapping her skirt about her legs, Hexy stood for several minutes, watching in charmed fascination as the two figures played, then finally parted. The paler one, whom she was certain was Rory, began to wade back toward the beach. With a last high bark that raised the tiny hairs on her nape, the darker figure waved a flipper and then dove beneath the surf.
Hexy turned bemused eyes on Rory.
Several things about the
The first confirmation of Rory’s presence on the smaller beach was a cast-off plaid abandoned in the gritty sand in a careless pile.
Hexy smiled in satisfaction.
The plaid was soon followed by a pair of crudely stitched leather shoes, also flung away by a hasty hand so that they’d fallen upside down and unmated; and finally by the finely made borrowed shirt, which had been dropped too near the tide line. The latter was now being taken out to sea by the cold, thieving waters that had crept up on the land.
Slowing to a stop, Hexy stood over the dead-white shirt, mesmerized, watching its gaping neckline slowly drawn down into the water, where it gasped like a drowning man for a last mouthful of air. It brought to mind the manyfishermen who had died in this very sea. And also men who were not after the sea’s bounty, but were simply unlucky in encountering rough waves and had been battered on this cruel, cold shore. She knew firsthand that not everyone escaped such storms with a mere mal de mer. Her own brother had not.
Something moved at the base of her brain, and a terrible thought about her brother began to stretch its curled limbs and claw at her mind. The intrusion of the expanding notion threatened great pain, and Hexy found her heart racing and her breath coming in gasps. Her brother’s bloodless face rose suddenly in her mind.
Hexy, help me .
“Rory Patrick?”
Help me. It’s dark here and I am alone .
“Where are you?”
Unexpected, and perhaps even imaginary laughter floated over her, breaking the conjuration and sending the dark hallucination back into hiding before it overwhelmed her. The laughter was odd, a sound she had never heard before.
Hexy exhaled sharply. She had to stop this. She had grieved long enough. These nightmares had to end or she’d become one of those hysterics who couldn’t stir from the house without smelling salts.
Shaking off her sudden morbid thoughts, she waded into the surf and retrieved Mr. MacKenzie’s borrowed shirt. Once lifted from the water, it was no longer sinister. It just looked like an empty, wet shirt.
“Rory?” she called softly, looking about uneasily for the garment’s missing wearer. The water lapped at her own clothing and invaded her slippers with cold and grit. There were a few places that he might be, and she didn’t want to look into any of them.
Disgusted with her alarm, and with what was shaping up as an inconvenient infatuation with a slovenly stranger, she began wringing out the sopping garment and retreated up the shore, hoping to escape the water before the sea had climbed all the way up her skirt.
“You are making a bad habit of leaving your clothes on the beach,” she told him, as if the air would carry her message to his ears. “One of these days you’ll be caught stark naked somewhere—and then what shall you do?”
In timely answer, a movement out at the surf line caught her eye. Two figures, one pale and human, one darker and larger, seemed to be grappling in some playful embrace.
“What?”
The rollicking bodies cut and then recut the sea’s delicate silver line as a peculiar sort of barking reached Hexy’s ears over the waves’shushing. The sound of the inhuman voice seemed to grasp her ears, to catch her attention in some invisible but inescapable net. This had been the laughter that disturbed her morbid reverie.
Unaware that the tide was again slowly creeping up her calves and wrapping her skirt about her legs, Hexy stood for several minutes, watching in charmed fascination as the two figures played, then finally parted. The paler one, whom she was certain was Rory, began to wade back toward the beach. With a last high bark that raised the tiny hairs on her nape, the darker figure waved a flipper and then dove beneath the surf.
Hexy turned bemused eyes on Rory.
Several things about the
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