The Rattled Bones(64)

I pick up a stick from the ground and I write what I know. I scratch the two words into the dirt. YOU’RE HERE. I place the stick below the words, underlining them. Then I turn toward Sam. I move quickly, watching my footing over the uneven ground as I jog to him. The granite juts out in places, surrenders into bowls at other points. Sam’s whistling a tune only feet in front of me as I close the distant between us. It is unmistakably “Pinball Wizard.” Sam carries this bit of Gram and her eccentricities out here, lets her favorite song live in the wind. His footsteps seem carefree, childlike. Dad used to say that you could gauge a person’s happiness by the heaviness of their step. Did Dad ever walk on this island? Did his feet grip the hard granite underneath each step the way mine do now? Sam drops below my sight line as he makes his descent to the dig site. He takes his whistle, The Who’s song, with him.

I’m about to call to him, tease him for his choice of music, when I’m slammed to a stop. The wind pushes me, or something else. Hands. Two strong hands at my chest. They shove at me, thrusting me off-balance. Their push is hard and deliberate. I fall onto the hard rise of my tailbone and pain sears my spine. My eyes search the island, but I can’t see anyone.

Could it be my girl?

My heart thunders. I scramble to my knees, force myself upright. I step toward Sam, but the thick, hard hands rake across my throat, squeezing my air. I choke. These hands find my windpipe and press. Too hard. So hard. I try to pull away, but the hands rip at my shoulders, my hips, my hair.

They pin me to the granite rock, a hulking mass pressing out all my breath. I try to choke out Sam’s name, but the words can’t make sound. I gag, try to breathe. Hands are on my shirt, pulling, tearing. I scream.

The scream ripping from me isn’t mine.

It’s from the wind, or the trees. So similar to the baby’s cry.

The screaming rises around me, magnifying. It drowns out the sea and the gulls. Fear pulses within my ears. I smell the thick tar of tobacco, dusty as if trapped in facial hair. The invisible man smells of rage and hate, and it makes my tongue burn. I beat at him with my arms, but his hips press too close to mine. He holds me down, my legs pinned, my one arm restrained. He wrestles me with his rabid strength. And there’s another scream. I want it to be Sam. I want him to be here, to help me. But it’s the baby’s wail. My ears fill with the wretched screech. My fingers find the man’s hands, and I claw at them. Flesh packs under my nails as I dig. Time slows, and I feel his blood trickle onto my own. The man traps my free arm, pins it. My wrists are bound by his strength, the skin on my hands scraping as they scratch against the coarse granite.

Then I see him.

His shoulders blocking the sun.

Wide shoulders, all muscle.

Sam’s shoulders. His hands are on me, his face searching mine. “Rilla!” he calls. “Rilla!” His voice is loud and echoing, as if he’s trying to wake me from a dream. I flail at him, my fists crashing against his chest, his head. My legs kick at his side. Sam falls to his knees on the ground next to me. “Rilla?” His voice is so soft now. I punch at his figure, scream at him until he’s washed of color, out of breath.

“What did you do?” I yell. “What was that?”

“You were screaming, so I came running, and then you attacked me.”

“I attacked you?”

He shakes his head, surrenders his hands. His palms are clean, unscathed. Where are the scratches I left? The blood I felt dripping down my arms? I search my own hands, looking for cuts. For proof. “Rilla. What happened?” His voice breaks with tenderness.

I bring myself to kneel. “I was pulled down. Something . . . no, someone knocked me down. Held me down.” My throat burns from the pressure there only seconds ago.

Sam gathers me in his arms, and I can hear his heartbeat thud. I let him hold me, his hands so different from the ones I felt only moments ago. “There’s no one here, Rilla. You’re safe. I promise.”

“It was so real, Sam.”

“I believe you.”

“How?” Anger rises in me for feeling so helpless. For another person’s weight stealing all my strength. “How can you believe me?”

“The way you were calling for me.” He takes a stuttered breath. “Like someone was hurting you.”

“They were.” I can’t explain it, can’t put it into words. “Something’s here, Sam. On this island. Something is trapped here.”

I press my gaze to Fairtide, to the color of Gram’s gardens. Gather what’s real.

“It’s okay now. Just breathe.”

The hands were on my chest, grabbing at my throat, my hair. I check my shirt for the rip I know I’ll find there, but the front is clean. My leggings too.

“Did you see someone?” Sam is careful with his words, like he doesn’t want to push me.

“No.” I shake my head. “I felt . . . there was . . .” I bring my hand to my temples. “It was more like a memory.”

“This happened to you before?”

“No. Not my memory.” I watch Fairtide, unsure how this spot can seem so familiar to me. “It was like I was trapped inside someone else’s memory. The girl’s memory.” I know how strange this sounds, how strange I must have looked. And yet.

“How is that possible?”