The Deepest Blue(15)

“I will row this boat,” Kelo’s father said softly but firmly.

They know, Mayara thought. And the realization felt like sunshine on her face. She wanted to laugh out loud, but she had better sense than that.

Kelo had planned for this. His father must know—he wouldn’t have been the usual choice to row a death boat, since he was unrelated to any of the dead. And Grandmama . . . She must either know or have guessed. She wished she could hug her grandmother’s bony shoulders and tell her how much she loved her.

But she wouldn’t be able to tell her that, maybe not ever. She might never see Grandmama again. Or her parents. Or her aunts. Or . . . Then again, I might. Quit wallowing. You’re alive. Stay that way, and you might find a way to see them. Die, and you certainly won’t.

As the boat was pushed into the waves, it rocked, free of the shore. She then felt it tip to the side—Kelo’s father must have climbed in.

The drummers began a slow rhythm, and she felt the boat slide through the sea as Kelo’s father rowed, matching his strokes to the drumbeats. She felt and heard the crash of the breaking waves against the hull of the boat as it jerked with each wave. Drops of water seeped through the sail shroud, worming down her neck and pooling behind her back.

One lone voice sang now on the shore, a soprano, and for an instant, Mayara couldn’t name the singer. She knew the voice was familiar, but whose?

The sea calls to me, and I to the sea:

Come to me,

Take my sorrow,

Carry it away in your arms of blue,

Until sweet memory is all that remains,

All that remains of you.

Mother.

She was singing the final lament.

As they passed the breaking waves, the boat rose and fell gently, propelled forward, and Mother’s voice began to fade, swallowed by the wind. Mayara strained to hear.

And then the only sound was the dip of the oars into the water and the light touch of the waves on the hull. At last, she felt hands on her, rolling her toward the side of the boat. Her heart beat faster. Her pack of supplies was pressed against her stomach, tied securely so she wouldn’t lose it as she swam. She curled her hand around the rope that would free her from the shroud and hoped the stones had been tied to the net, as Kelo had said they would be. She didn’t have a clear memory of their being tied—shouldn’t she have noticed? Maybe not. And it’s too late now.

She exhaled fully, and then sucked in air, as if for a dive, pulling in fast puffs at the end, hoping she was silent enough. As she was heaved up the side of the boat, she heard a whisper: “Be well.”

Kelo’s father.

And then she was dropped into the sea.

She sank, pulled by the stone weights, and felt a burst of panic. Instantly, she calmed herself. She’d done dives with more gear than this. Counting to three, Mayara waited, and then she pulled the rope.

The shroud unraveled around her and drifted down, sinking beneath her. Kicking smoothly, she spun in a circle beneath the water, looking for Kelo. His father had, wisely, pushed her off the boat first. He would have known she could stay under for longer than Kelo.

She heard a muffled splash and a spray of water, and she pinpointed the source: a wrapped body falling from the shadow of a boat’s hull. Not her and Kelo’s boat.

Mayara watched the body sink slowly below the water.

It was both sad and beautiful, as the blue embraced the white sail, pulling it deeper and deeper. She lost track of the seconds for a moment, and then another, closer splash, again muffled through the distortion of water.

Kicking, Mayara swam to the body as it began to move. Kelo!

His shroud fell away, and acting on instinct, he kicked, propelling himself upward. She wrapped her arms around his waist, keeping him from rising to the surface and being seen. He nodded at her, his hair swirling gently around his head, and she released him.

They both swam.

Kelo swam like a dolphin, all smooth movements, and she shot through the water behind him as if she’d been born there. He’d never trained to hold his breath like she had, but short term he was a strong swimmer. I hope that’s enough.

She didn’t know how long they had between the sinking of the bodies and the symbolic turn to the north. She thought she could count on Grandmama to speed the tradition along, and then keep the villagers facing away from the sea. Just need to swim far enough from the boats.

Mayara kept her eyes on Kelo, ready in case he faltered. She also kept her senses open for spirits. If one saw them . . . If the Silent Ones were watching through their eyes . . . But the only spirits were by the shore, playing in the shallows and the tide pools, not paying any attention to the two humans swimming through the ocean.

Kelo began to slow.

She knew what he was feeling: the pain, the screaming in every cell for air, now! Propelling herself through the water, she caught up to him. He treaded water beneath the surface, apology in his eyes—he couldn’t hold on any longer. He had to breathe.

She grabbed his arm and swam upward, bursting up behind a wave.

Both of them gasped, and then Mayara yanked them down again and swam on.

They repeated this as they swam, with her timing it so they would rise behind the swell of a wave, until they were far beyond the shore of the village. Stopping to get her bearings, Mayara treaded water.

The escape plan may have been Kelo’s idea, but now they were in her territory. “North,” she said, leading the way. She knew the island from the sea, all the coves and caves, all the cliffs, all the reefs. And she knew exactly where they should go.