Storm-Wake Page 2

  “Too much danger there, Moss,” he warned. “Never go there alone.”

  He waited for her to nod before continuing.

  “Do you remember what I told you once?” Pa said. “That this island’s not on any proper maps? Whenever someone leaves it, they forget. It no longer exists. Only in dreams do people remember. It’s a secret land—the greatest secret. And to imagine, some people didn’t think the world had any more secrets!” His eyes were wide as he looked at her. “There are always secrets, lurking beneath. Remember that, Moss; you cannot ever know everything.”

  Moss rested her fingertips on one of his drawings of a stormflower. It was so very nearly the same as the real thing: only missing its sweet smell.

  “I drew that one just from dreaming about it,” Pa added. “Long time ago. That dream came real.”

  * * *

  Each day, Moss walked their crescent cove to check for washed-in treasure. Often, Pa came with her. If they were lucky, some days brought wood and storm-drowned fish, plastic bags and bottles. Other times, they walked far to check Western Beach also, or climbed halfway up the volcano to see the horizon. They never saw the other island, and rarely any decent wash-up, either. Though Pa sometimes went off on his own, beyond the volcano to Lizard Point, and came back with different treasure, sometimes even fresh books.

  “Too dangerous,” he’d remind her, each time she asked to come too. “Lizards might eat a sweet-tasty chick like you.” Then he would tickle her ribs until she squealed happy.

  Moss had gotten used to the full-flower sweetness in the air, and to how it made her light-stepped as a flutterby. She’d gotten used to seeing dabs of flower-color everywhere: in the dirt and sand, in the rocks and branches.

  But one day, the air was pure-fizzing … as it’d been when the flowers first full-opened. This day, again, she felt the storm proper. In her bones and skin. In the pressure in her skull. She pulled her coverings close.

  A skull storm.

  Another of Pa’s sayings. She’d never heard Pa say it to describe the weather, though; only himself. The fierce-swirling pain in his head. She shook off her own ache. The wind was pulling her to the sea, and she felt swirling too.

  “Could petals change a person to a storm?” she’d asked once, as she’d watched him at the Experiment.

  Pa had picked up more petals, squeezed their juice inside the vase, licked his fingers. “Who knows what they can do? We’re only beginning to find out.”

  “Could the flowers make a friend, then? Another dog, or person? Family?”

  “One day, maybe.” Pa had knelt close. “But I’m your family, Moss-bird. Me and Jess. Me and these stories.” He’d pointed around the cave, at the books he’d rescued from their boat and the sea. He’d tapped the end of the dog’s nose and then smudged that wetness to Moss’s. “We have to be patient for more.”

  “Patient is boring.”

  He smiled. “Jessie will be making more dogs soon.”

  It was true: Jess had a belly swollen with puppies, half-made from an island dog. But, maybe, Moss didn’t have to wait that long for something new.

  She dug her toes into the sand, and looked again to the swirling sea. This was the kind of storm that brought in whole forests of treasure. She skipped to the tide-line, spinning and stretching her arms, making her skirts fly and her skull-storm head throb. She was dizzy with the thrill, the storm inside her now too. When she stopped, the whole world spun. Their whole island.

  She watched waves begin on the horizon line, saw how they grew. Maybe she was being silly. Maybe, out there, was only more water. Maybe the flowers hadn’t soaked up any floods: The rest of the world was still dark ocean.

  But maybe not, too.

  She sneezed as a petal landed on her nose. Then blinked. Because, just then—out there—something had changed. Hadn’t it? The horizon line moved. A little. There was a kind of … arch. Moss sank her toes into the water’s edge, squinted. Far out, the water arched again. But there were no reefs right there for water to break on. So what was it?

  She remembered a picture from one of Pa’s books of a boat, sinking and rolling, drowning its passengers. She thought about how their own boat had smashed. Could a shipwreck be happening again? She started forward fast into the choppy water.

  Then stopped.

  She was crazy. The horizon only held back more ocean, a few storm treasures, birds at sea, stingers, and sea snakes. It would take time for floods to go down. Take time for someone to build a boat and sail it here. But, still, Moss thought she saw something bobbing. Not big enough to be a boat, but …

  She watched to see where it might come in. Was it driftwood or scraps of material, a bicycle tire? They’d made good use of those washed-in things before.

  That curve in the wave came closer. From how it moved, it looked—almost—like something alive. Moss watched so serious she didn’t notice colder seawater come smashing at her calves. But she did see lightning flare far away, heard thunder a few moments later. It wouldn’t be long until the storm was full here. She would stay until the rain came—at least until then. Until storm mist swamped everything.

  From far up on the cliff behind her, she heard Pa singing his bird-trill tune, sending flowers out. The sea hissed back, churned harder. Petals swirled and settled in the water, bled color before they sank.

  The waves grew. And Moss saw it again, this time a bigger, frothing white wave, rising above the others. It arched again until, now, it was no longer a wave but a neck. With a …

  … long nose.

  Hair.

  It was a creature before her! A beast in the sea.

  Swimming?

  A monster from one of Pa’s stories?

  Perhaps she was dreaming, drowsy from the flower-scent in the air. Moss kept her eyes steady, looking so careful. It had two flicking, pale ears. Eyes and a mouth. Did Pa or the flowers make this come? She was buzz-flying, but she did not run to him for answers, not yet. Instead, she opened her arms wide in welcome.

  The wave-creature raced closer. She saw its eyes; its long, straight back; how it arched its neck. That creature shouldn’t be able to do this. She knew this, even if she could never remember seeing one of these creatures before. Because … this was a horse. She’d only ever seen them in Pa’s books, heard about them in his stories. Somehow, here, in front of her—a pale, powerful, swimming horse.

  She shook her head. The horses in Pa’s stories lived on land, were covered in leather and buckles and ridden by humans. This horse seemed part-sea. Hadn’t she just seen it rising from the waves?

  Then she realized. Pa’s stories, told beside the fire.

  Waterhorses.

  Kelpies.

  Magic spirits.

  They’d come real. One had.

  It stepped from the water, glistening and smelling of seaweed; so bright against the sun, almost like it had fish scales all across it. It snorted, pawed the sand. Moss was not proper scared, but she stepped backward all the same. It seemed as if the creature might run right over her if she did not. It kept its eyes on hers—huge eyes, dark with a thousand watery secrets. When Moss breathed in, the horse’s sweat-salt air came inside her. She could touch it; it was close enough. It watched her and waited, almost demanded something with its bold stare.

  “You are welcome,” she whispered.

  She did not know if the creature understood. ’Course Pa had taught her that animals could not speak, but it was not just animal: not just any one thing. Her hand moved toward it; she could not fight the urge any longer. She had to feel if it was warm and real.

  The horse bent its neck, tilted its head. She rested her fingers on its glinting pale shoulder, felt it flinch. There was fur there, soft and warm, not scales like it had first seemed. The animal did not disappear like she had half expected it to. Instead, she felt muscles, taut and stringy beneath the fur; she felt strength.

  Moss saw the whites of its eyes as the horse looked to something behind her. When Moss turned, she
found Pa had climbed down from the cliff and striding toward them, his clothes and hair rising with the wind.

  “A horse?” He stared at it, wide-eyed too. He looked back at the water. “A real one?”

  “It came from the waves.” She paused. “Or maybe, from the flowers?”

  Pa nodded. “I saw them swirling down to the sea.”

  “They made a companion!” Moss smiled at Pa’s frowning. “From the water! Of course, Pa!” It was what she had asked for in the cave: what she’d wanted. The flowers had listened! “It’s a water-spirit, like from your stories. The flowers made it!”

  Pa reached to touch it too. There was flower juice on his chin, caught in his beard hair. He laughed sudden-sharp, grabbed Moss’s hands, and whirled her to the wind. She spun so fast the beach blurred.

  “The flowers work!” he said. “I don’t know how, but they …” The wind caught his words as he spun and spun. “… they make things change, make things beautiful that were swirling-dark before!”

  They slowed, and he pulled a hand away to tame Moss’s tangled hair, the excitement still bright in his eyes. Moss knew why. With the flowers, Pa could bring winds. Could bring waterhorses! Pa could change a sick world.

  She stretched out her calves to feel light rain. Slow-cautious, she touched the edge of the horse with her toe. The horse skittered. “Are you scared of it?”

  “Her,” Pa said, his eyes running over the horse’s body. “She’s too beautiful for being scared, no? Besides, we created her. Or the flowers did—created her from our stories. Why be scared of our stories?”

  “Your stories,” Moss said, soft.

  The horse jigged on the sand as if she wanted to run.

  “Everything is starting to shift,” Pa murmured. “To change.” Pa tilted his pale eyebrows at Moss’s expression. “It’s like I pull something in, will it to be different. It’s like something responds. Flower-magic!”

  “She’s so pretty,” Moss said. “Wonder-bright.”

  Pa’s eyes were soft as he watched her. “Pretty like the sea aster, don’t you think?”

  Moss remembered the gray-purple stormflowers that grew near sea’s edge on Western Beach and lived only on salt water, the stormflowers that made flutterbys dance-happy.

  “Sea aster,” Moss said, tangling her fingers in the horse’s mane. “Yes!”

  It was the perfect name!

  The horse’s nostrils widened, and again she pranced back. When Pa made to touch her too, her muscles strained through the skin on her neck, rippling through her body. Moss grabbed Pa’s arms as the horse reeled away.

  “Maybe she’s not to be caught,” she said. “Not full-caught, anyway.”

  Moss saw the pollen-spark in Pa’s eyes as he watched the horse go.

  “A sea spirit,” he whispered. “Our storm-woke sea spirit.”

  It was only now the horse was gone Moss saw something else had come in. This something else lay on the wet sand where waves still washed at it, next to a clump of kelp. It was dark and crumpled, still moving with the beat of the waves, still covered in seaweed. Maybe it was a black plastic bag, still half full of old trash and covered in weed—plastic bags had washed in before and had been full useful. But as she stepped closer, she saw that it moved different than that. As if it were almost … breathing. As if it were a creature underneath the weed: another wonder-strange sea beast!

  “Pa, come quick, there’s something more!” She drew him away from staring after the horse. “And it’s alive! Here, something more here that’s storm-woke!”

  She pulled back the seaweed fast.

  Gasped.

  It was so much smaller than the horse! It was crouched over itself, all spine. She moved closer still. As she saw it proper, she realized … it looked like them. A human!

  “Someone from the Old World?” She grabbed Pa’s arm and pulled him forward. “Someone’s come!”

  “No, can’t be.” Pa held her shoulder, frowning. “It’s something stranger, Moss—look closer. His skin is stranger than ours!”

  When Moss looked again, she saw it too: This new creature was different. So much darker and slicker. This creature looked as if it really were covered in scales.

  Pa bent, urging Moss to take another look. “Not like us.”

  Now she saw it proper. It wasn’t exactly scales this creature was covered in; rather, he had the pattern of scales threaded through his dark, shiny skin.

  “And his fingers, Moss! Look-see!”

  Moss saw it—the faint blue webbing between his fingers, right up to the first knuckle. His scale-patterned skin pulsed like an ocean ripple. He gurgled up saliva, struggling to breathe, as if he’d almost been drowned.

  “Another sea spirit?” Moss asked. “Like from your stories? What is it this time?”

  Pa frowned. “No, I think something even stranger than that.” He looked to the sea. “How did it come? From what?”

  Moss flexed her fingers. “Maybe I made it this time.”

  Maybe this was her own special treasure. Made from her dreams. Was it possible she had the calling-magic like Pa too? Possible the flowers might listen?

  The rain fell. It felt soft, too soft, after the wild winds that came before. Moss heard the raindrops drum gentle against the sand, but it was only when water slid down the back of her neck and made her shiver that she felt it true. The sea spirit, or whatever it was, shivered too. She knelt beside him. He looked so thin, like he might break, like he might even cry.

  Pa knelt next to her. “Maybe he changed from a fish in the sea?”

  “Or the flowers made him too?”

  Pa shook his head in wonder. “A mystery!” Again, Pa stared toward where the horse had galloped-gone. “I always knew this island would be full of secrets, but this … these things …”

  Slow-gentle, Moss brought her hand to the new creature, and he uncurled, a little. It reminded Moss of the stormflowers she’d seen uncurling in rain. He smelled of the ocean, something wild and deep—like the black sea bass that came on spring tides. But he could almost be human, couldn’t he? Like them? He shivered and hissed, dropping stringy saliva near Moss’s leg. She moved away, scraping her feet on the tiny beach stones.

  “What does he want?”

  “He can’t speak, I don’t think. But you could teach him, maybe.” Pa watched Moss with a smile playing about his lips. “Don’t think he will eat you.”

  Moss slid farther away.

  Pa touched the top of her head, nudged her back toward the creature. “It’s good to be wary, Moss, but I’ve also taught you to help others.”

  “You said there are no others yet!”

  “There’s this.”

  When Moss looked at the fishboy once more, she searched for his eyes. At first, he would not give them to her; he shied away by pointing his head to the stones. Moss wondered if the creature was scared, like how she had been when they had first arrived on the island. She could remember that feeling, just.

  “I will teach it.” She tried out the words. They felt fine.

  The fishboy jerked when she said them. Maybe he did understand something after all.

  She crawled forward until she sat direct in front. He still would not look at her. She reached to touch him again and, this time, she kept her hand against him and felt his spine, hard through his skin. There were solid bones there, real enough. He looked so human; there were just those little pieces of him that were different: his scale pattern, the webbing, the glint of his skin …

  “I will help you,” she said.

  He looked at her then; she caught the flint in his gaze. His eyes were dark like his skin, but there were flecks of gold inside their centers. They caught her breath with beauty.

  “Will you name this spirit, too?” Pa said.

  “What if he already has a name?”

  “A spirit with a name?” Pa shrugged. “If he does, he cannot say it.”

  Moss was still looking at the new creature’s eyes—they were such strange eyes
, glinting like sun on water.

  “Callan,” she said.

  She had read the name in one of Pa’s storybooks and remembered it. Powerful was one of the words she paired with it in her mind. His body seemed so shivery; perhaps a name like this might make him as strong as his eyes were bright.

  “Fine choice,” Pa said. “In another part of the world, there was once a mountain range called Callan.”

  And that seemed right too.

  She pressed Callan’s wet, cold skin, left her fingers against it until they turned damp.

  “Maybe you will be another new species,” Pa told him. “A fishboy made from flowers, to join a mare made from waves …”

  Callan’s teeth chattered, like his mouth was full of tiny, sharp knives. He didn’t look like he was going to run off like the horse had.

  “We should find him coverings,” Moss said.

  Pa nodded. He pulled Moss to her feet. “Run back to camp and get the fire going. The storm is all but stopped.”

  He was right. Now there was sunlight piercing the swollen clouds, stopping the rain almost as quick as it’d started. Often when Pa smiled, the weather did too.

  Moss hurried across the beach toward the hut, but paused to look back at Pa and the fishboy. Pa crouched over him, his arm across the boy’s back. He was talking to him gentle-soft, saying he would come to live with them and that they would look after him.

  She did a cartwheel just for fun, then laughed to see seabirds quick-diving for fresh storm-drowned fish. Moss stretched her fingers and pointed them to the ocean, made them how Pa made his when he sent the flowers out.

  “A companion,” Moss whispered. “A gift!”

  It didn’t seem real, after so long, after thinking there was no one else.

  Cal copied how Moss’s mouth moved and the sounds she made. Quick-fast, Cal copied the sway and flow of how she threw nets from the rocks to the waters where the fat-bellied fish liked to breed and linger. Not long, either, before he was digging, with Moss’s same short, sharp movements, for razor clams in the wet, hard sand when the tide went back. Some days, Moss thought of him as her shadow.