The Scent Keeper(47)

I took the other path, the one to the bluff, pushing my way through the whispers of the overgrown bushes.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

But I didn’t stop, any more than I had five years before, when I had run that path with a pack full of bottles. The leaves scratched at my hands and face, but I kept going until I stumbled free of the last gasp of underbrush and the bluff was before me, cold and gray, the sky and water beyond it endless.

So many nights I had come here in my dreams; I knew every line in the stone, every scent of the sky and water. I could smell the leaves turning to dirt in the ground, just as they had been back then. I could smell my fear, see my father flying by me. Time was rounding in on itself.

I forced myself to the edge of the bluff, and looked down at the water. I made myself stand there until I saw his face.

And then I was doubled over, sobbing.



* * *



I don’t know how long I was there. I cried my way back through Fisher and school and the cove and those last days in the cabin without my father. I cried until I couldn’t stand, until I couldn’t sit, until I felt the stone, cold beneath my cheek.

It was the smell that pulled me back—diesel—and the sound of a distant motor. I rose to my feet, feeling the shake in my muscles, scanning the water in front of me. A few moments later, a small boat came into view, rounding the edge of the island, two men standing at the front. I ducked down. I didn’t know the boat, but I recognized Henry at the wheel, saw Martin standing next to him. And suddenly, I knew where they were headed.



* * *



I flew down the path, counting days in my head. How had we gotten it wrong? When did we lose track? And how much time did I have before the tide went slack? Not much, I realized. Roots grabbed at my feet; branches whipped against my face. I kept going. I had to get to Fisher.

I reached the clearing and threw open the door of the cabin, but he wasn’t there. I scanned the room—one of the foraging baskets was missing. I thought of Fisher, coming back angry and hurt, grabbing the basket and heading out, wanting to prove that he belonged here, too.

The lagoon, I thought. The last place I wanted him to be.



* * *



When I finally burst out of the woods, I saw the three of them standing on the beach. Fisher and his father faced one another like a pair of pillars holding up nothing. Henry stood to one side. I saw Fisher’s hands, clenched by his hips. I caught a whiff of something rank, sharp and hungry.

“Stop,” I yelled.

Henry spotted me, and his face flooded with relief.

“Emmeline,” he called.

Fisher turned toward me, and his father’s fist pulled back and cracked into his jaw.





AFTER


“That’s enough,” Henry said, with a firmness I’d never heard before. Even Martin stepped back. Fisher stayed on the ground where he’d fallen, staring at his father. The mark on Fisher’s jaw was red and angry, but it was the look in his eyes that scared me.

Henry pointed to the channel. The first tips of the rocks were starting to appear through the water.

“We have to go,” he said. “Now—or we’re stuck here for a month.”

It was too fast. Too much. Half my mind was still running down the path toward the lagoon.

“I’m not going,” Fisher said, getting to his feet.

His father started toward him again. There was no way to win this, I saw that then. Martin would never leave without his son; he couldn’t bear the insult of it. He’d beat Fisher into submission.

Or—and this was suddenly almost more horrifying—Martin would stay here himself. For a moment I had a vision of him touching the trees and our things in the cabin, his scent infiltrating everything. I couldn’t stand it.

“Stop,” I said again. “We’ll go.”

Martin paused. Fisher looked at me, my betrayal written all over his face.

What had I just done?

“Okay then.” Henry saw the opening and moved quickly, leaving no room for discussion. “Martin, you’re with me. Fisher, you take my boat through the channel.”

I saw Martin bridle.

“Fisher knows the boat,” Henry said to Martin. He turned to Fisher again. “After the channel, you follow me back to the cove, got it?”

Fisher didn’t move.

“Now,” Henry said. “Or not at all.”

Fisher shot me one last look, and strode toward the small white boat.

“My father’s bottle,” I said suddenly to Henry. “It’s still in the cabin.”

“No time,” Henry said.



* * *



If the journey out to the islands had seemed long a month ago, it was nothing compared to the ride back. Fisher and I barely made it through the channel, the rocks scraping against our hull as we exited. Once in open water, the only sounds were the roaring of the motor and the slap of the wake against our bow. The sky began to darken. Fisher stood at the wheel, silent, his grip stiff. I’d always thought he resembled his mother, but as he stood there, his shoulders rigid, his mouth hard and graceless, he looked like nothing so much as his father.

“Fisher,” I said.

“Not now.” He shook his head, and whether it was because of the waves or his father or me, I didn’t know. I wondered if, this time, he would ever tell me.