The Rattled Bones(8)

My breath steadies, but only some. There has never been a time when I feared the water. Any water. Is that what this is? Me, afraid of the sea in the wake of my father’s death? I shake the thought from my head. I hear the chanting verse in my memory, Come here, come here, my dear, my dear, and I know this isn’t about me being frightened of the sea; this is me fearing my brain could be too much like my mother’s. Because what if my mother didn’t just talk to the Water People? What if they answered her? What if they sang to her?

Come here, come here, my dear, my dear. The verse taunts me now, begs me to call it real or imagined. How is it the same song that soothed me when I heard it only days before? I tuck my chin to my knees and rock the way Gram rocked me for so many of my childhood years.

A shrill cry sounds from behind me and I whip around. Stand. Expecting the girl. But it is only an osprey calling from atop a high tree gray with death. Her massive nest is fat and round, crafted expertly with woven twigs and flotsam. Bits of bright yellow buoy rope and sun-dried seaweed jut out of the sides. My heart relaxes. I know this environment. The high-hanging sun. The surrounding saltwater blue. The silver-gray outcroppings of rock. I pull in a calming breath and let it fill me. Then another.

Then I hear the sound again.

This time it’s not a bird. The scream starts as a stutter until it builds into a deafening screech. The infant’s shrill cry packs my ears, forces every thought to evacuate my brain. I press my hands over my ears and crouch against the rising hopelessness in this baby’s scream. I fall to my knees just as I see a flash of the girl, the unmistakable black braids, her flowing dress. She darts into the trees, clutching a bundle to her chest. Her long yellowing dress sways out behind her, its skirt floating until it frays into strips of cloth that swim like tendrils before disappearing. No, fading. The hem of her dress dies away like the edges of smoke, undefinable and vaporous.

When the last pale wisps of the fabric disappear into the tree line, soundlessness fills the air.

I shake my head, clear my ears. The wailing has stopped. All is quiet until there’s the thrum of an engine announcing an approaching boat. I will it to be Reed, here to tell me that this is a normal island. That nothing is strange. But no. If Reed tells me everything is okay here, then I’m the strange thing on this island.

I focus only on the infant. The cry that carried too much fear. I push my own fear down and head into the stand of trees, darting under their dark canopy of shade. My heavy steps crack twigs, the sharp edges of wood tearing at my soles. Spruce pitch is everywhere, clinging to the bark of the trees, cramming the air with its Christmas scent. I search the forest for the girl and the infant, the pair that is somehow surviving in this cut-off place.

I call for them.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” The breeze answers me, combing through the high boughs with its whistle. I duck around the lowest branches. “Hello!” I yell this once or maybe a dozen times before the answer I both want and dread reaches me from beyond the woods.

“Hello?” It is a male voice, his tone deep and bellowing. His greeting a question.

I go still, a tickle of dread climbing my spine. Because I’m in the woods and I’m not alone, and for the first time since arriving on this uninhabited island, it occurs to me that this may not be a good thing.

I make my way beyond the tree line and see the Rilla Brae safely bobbing over her anchor. I walk toward the shore, wincing at the slicing cuts on my feet, trying to steady my fear.

“Hello!” the voice calls again, and now I see the dark-haired boy and his eager wave. I recognize the logo on the starboard side of his boat: UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN MAINE. The familiar institution drives away some of my anxiety.

Some.

I return his wave with a small flick of my hand at my hip.

He bends over his rowboat, tugging it onto land, away from the hungry mouth of the ocean and over the spot where I first saw the girl laboring only days ago. I watch him. This visitor isn’t a seaman; he’s uneasy with his knots and he’s awkward in his command of the small boat that is white and spotless. Virgin fiberglass. So different from the weather-beaten wooden skiff I thought belonged to the girl.

By the time I reach the beach, the boy is all smiles and eager words. “Hey. I thought I might have company today.” He flicks his thumb in the Rilla Brae’s direction in explanation. He extends his hand. “I’m Sam.”

“Rilla.” I link my fingers behind my back. “What are you doing out here?”

His hand retreats. “Direct. I like that about Mainers.”

His words confirm that he’s “from away”—a transplant to our state.

Sam reaches into his skiff, pulls out a worn canvas bag that looks more appropriate for a safari. He maneuvers the bag’s strap over his shoulder in a way that tells me the satchel’s contents are heavy.

I take a quick glance at the forest’s edge and form an absurd question, choosing the words carefully. Or not. It’s hard to know what will sound mad. “Do you have a baby?”

His seal-dark eyes pop wide. “A baby.” It is not a question.

“I heard—” What did I hear? And what will I sound like if I admit it out loud? “I thought that was a baby’s seat.” I gesture to the inside of his University of Southern Maine boat, which even Gram’s failing eyes could see holds no gear for an infant.

He looks to his anchored craft, then back to me. “It’s just me.” He offers a half smile. “Sorry to disappoint.”