Chapter 39
Goliath tosses his head, throwing off the flies.
As we ride back to the big house, I wish it were so easy to toss off my buzzing thoughts.
Was I aboard that fated green vessel of misery when my mother jumped?
Perhaps she’d planned to deliver me to Nowhere herself, but the lure of the water had proved too much.
But turning into a sea wolf? Even with all I have seen of the sea wolves, it seems a stretch.
“I tried talking to him, but he just needs space,” Koa is saying, meaning Jeddah. “He runs off sometimes. Anyway, he’s your alibi. You’re going to have to let the seals go. Jeddah’s not a bad person. He just hates fishing. A man needs something he can take pride in.”
Jeddah told me he wanted to attend the university. What would you study? I asked.
I haven’t decided. Not fishing.
I sag in my seat, suddenly glad for Koa’s muscular chest behind me.
The derby is tomorrow, I’m being investigated for Mr. Sanders’s death, and with my only real proof that I didn’t do it—the letter—missing, I must depend on Jeddah, a person who despises me, to save me.
“Why do you have such a soft spot for him?”
“Soft spot ain’t for him.”
A little mist clouds my vision, knowing that Koa chose to stay here looking after me, when he could’ve been flying airplanes.
He didn’t want me to look for my father’s killer.
He only went along with it out of a sense of duty to me.
My mark feels hot, and I squeeze a cold hand to it.
Koa has been the best of friends and, if I could let myself imagine a life with him, would probably be the best of lovers.
But I cannot imagine a life with him, not only because I might be locked away soon.
I will always be climbing trees, and he will always be pulling me off them. Neither of us can help our nature.
My mark continues to heat. It is not a painful searing as with an actual burn, but a hot tingling that focuses my attention.
The tree cover ends, opening onto a scene of watery turmoil that’s hard to make sense of.
A thousand feet from the marina, the incoming ferry has come to a stop.
Around it, sea wolves are carving up the water, easily twice the number Nash and I encountered.
Dropping a curse, Koa urges Goliath faster.
Sea wolves leap, some in full breach, belly flopping onto the water with the sound of planets colliding. Tails whack. Violent gusts bellow from blowholes. The sea looks like hot spitting oil in which the ferry is boiling.
Mr. Cosmos is on that ferry.
A crowd lines the banks, not just those waiting for the transport, but shipbuilders with their dark caps and ground workers along the sea path, still holding their trimmers. At the mouth of the marina, the Quebedeaux sisters have dropped their suitcases and are clutching each other.
Koa slides off Goliath, then yanks me down. “I hope you have a plan here, ’cause you’re not going to like mine.” He seizes a man by the sleeve. “Go fetch whoever’s in the Rifle House and tell them to bring all the irons.”
I barely hear the last part, as I am already running down the planked walkway.
I hone in on the sea wolves, and one by one the other sounds peel away—the chatter from the sea path above, the clatter of boats knocked against their slips. These are not Feather’s jubilant, curious crowd, and Shadow and Scull are nowhere among them.
Rifles clamor past me toward the Endeavor, boots rattling the dock, but I push on to the end of the marina where the water runs deepest. The sea wolves’ clicks and cries pull me forward, tugging harder than Doc’s distant bark to clear the gangway.
His voice is only a buzz in my ear. Long-held memories wash over me, making my atoms sit up and vibrate. Lifetimes logjam into a single moment.
An inner ear attuned to spinning. Soft golden sand slipping away. Digits finding water and finning. The smell of salt. The lash of spray. Legs retreating and tails emerging. Oceans churning and pitching and surging. Passing ice. Finding space. Moving along currents. Seeking grace.
Am I witnessing their history? Their implausible but breathtaking progression?
Memories turn darker, like the ocean when a cloud passes over the sun.
The scent of bullets. Slippery lime. Diesel engines that rankle the spine. Familiar corridors filling with poison. Growing twisted, a fury of noise.
A heaviness sets into my bones, knowing that what I see is not progression—it is collapse.
An extinction.
The ocean calms. Then, quick as shooting stars, the sea wolves drop from the surface and are gone.
I stagger, nearly pitching into the water. But someone catches me in a blur of red-and-black tattoos. “Easy there, Miss Lucy,” Doc says, addressing me for the first time, weathered face beaded with sweat. “I’d say you got them to heed.”
Held up by his rangy arms, I relax, letting the growl of the Endeavor motoring away return me to the present. “Well, heck to breakfast,” I tell him weakly.
His lips blow a sharp exhale, and a smile digs into his sharp cheeks. “Heck to breakfast.” He sets me back on my feet.
Face wet, limbs trembling, I slog back down the walkway, slowed by the weight of what I have heard and seen, unsure of what to do with it. Words drift down to me.
“I scarcely believe me eyes.”
“That was a spell she cast, mark my words. She was giving them orders.”
“Only demons have such powers.”
“Orkus.”
The word slithers to my ear. The sea path has become a gallery of accusing faces, some open and staring, others twisted in horror. They think I’m the Orkus, just like Koa predicted.
They’re afraid of me.
The crowd swells at the end of the marina as if to cut off my path.
“You think she did in our Mr. Sanders?”
“Look at that crazed look in her eye.”
“Look at that birthmark, an evil tumor spreading its cancer.”
Their voices rise in judgment, their fear tipping into fury. My lungs lock up, and I brace myself for the moment the crowd rushes me.
But then a figure quietly breaks through the onlookers.
I nearly weep at the sight of Mr. Kagaoka approaching, his steady, dark eyes open wide enough for me to see green streaks on his brown irises.
A thumb-sized dahlia marks a bright spot on his lapel.
He offers me his arm, and under his protective influence the chatter stops.
He is a bringer of peace and order, like the garden he so carefully cultivates.
“I have seen many things, but not that,” he says kindly. “What made those sea wolves leave?”
“I’m not sure.” My words shake loose as I watch the crowd fall back as we pass by. “But I didn’t cast a spell. Sea wolves are complicated. They come and go as they please.”
Mr. Kagaoka doesn’t press me, and neither does anyone else. A ladybug slides out of his flower, drunk with pollen. Removing the bloom, he spins it before my face. “Here is a little universe of complications.”
Tubes of dark pink petals gradually unroll as they move away from the center, the pink bleeding into gold.
“But look.” He pulls the bloom farther away. “Not so complicated, right?”
“Right.” The sea wolves let me into their inner thoughts for a reason. Perhaps, to these predators whose memories pour like poetry, I am a compass rose of sorts. Someone who can chart a new direction for them.
We continue toward Nowhere Road, leaving the astounded crowd behind us. I suddenly remember something about cherry blossoms. “Mr. Kagaoka, does the word ‘sakura’ mean anything besides ‘cherry blossom’?”
“The sakura represents the ephemeral nature of life. Blooms only last a few weeks and must be enjoyed before they are gone.”
Somehow I doubt the island bosses care much about that. “Is the word ever used a different way?”
He frowns. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Now is not the time to tiptoe around for answers, when my own time here is looking pretty ephemeral. “Might the word mean anything special to Mr. Tavernish or Mr. Gotze?”
“I doubt they have cherry blossoms. They require too much care to prosper here.”
We reach the zigzag path, and my eye travels up Chapel Hill to the church.
It is the highest building on the estate, and the closest to God.
The only one who can see everyone’s complications is Father Pinnyhorne.
I am just a simple priest, not one for riddles, he said, but I think he is wrong about that.
He listens to the penitent unpack their riddles every single day.
Has he kept my secret? And how many others is he keeping? Mr. Tavernish spoke to him for thirty minutes. Did the lime man unburden himself to the priest? He certainly has many burdens to unload, and though he isn’t Catholic, the priest’s door is open to anyone.
“Yes. Thank you anyway.” I begin to make my way up the zigzag path.
“Unless…” Mr. Kagaoka continues, scratching his smooth face. “I am told there was a company named Sakura Salmon that tried to start a cannery in West Sound.”
“What happened to them?”
“The owner pulled out after seal heads were found on the property. That was all before I came here, over a dozen years ago, but I remember because Japanese keep track of each other.”
The whistling of the breeze between the trees is as loud as birdsong. Jeddah couldn’t have left those seal heads, as he’d have been a child. So who had? A hammering starts up in my heart. I am closing in on some gruesome truth, but who is standing in the middle of it?
Mr. Kagaoka heads back to the garden, and I slog up Chapel Hill, trying not to look at the creamy death camas that pop from the slope like ghosts from a graveyard.
A voice warms my ears. “Lucy.”
Narrow-fitting trousers have been tucked into Nash’s shiny boots, and a light sweater coat drapes his loose-fitting shirt.
His Poggie fishing hat brings up a strange mix of joy and fury, as does the darkening bruise near his left eye.
I continue stamping up the hill, angry at him for playing me for a fool.
Butterflies part in front of me, but I don’t even stop to identify them.
When we were younger, I was nothing to him, the girl whose presence during tutoring meant he and Daniel had to behave like gentlemen.
Now that I am someone of importance, someone useful, I’m suddenly interesting. A hundred no-thank-yous to that.
“I was going up to the house to see you,” he says. “How are you?”
“As you can see, I am well. Are you going fishing?”
“If that’s what it takes to catch you.” He holds out an arm. “May I escort you?”
“I can hardly stop you. How is your father?”
“Awaiting trial. I will have to return soon.”
“That must be difficult. How may I help you?”
“You’ve already helped me. When my uncle died, I just wanted to get out and never come back again. Strange as it is, Nowhere has been a bit of a refuge for me. Course, I could go without the scrapping.” He rubs his chin, annoyance crossing his face.
“Do you need money?” I ask.
His eyes become sharp. “If I did, it would not be from you. Woe is the man who needs money from the girl he loves.”
I wheel on him, my boots spinning the gravel. “Love? Is love what happens when the girl you’ve scorned all your life comes into a fortune that should go to you?”
His gaze switches directions, searching for answers that are not readily at hand. “What are you on about?”
“I know I was a servant, but Daniel always spoke kindly to me. He wouldn’t ever have stolen things that didn’t belong to him.” I continue marching up the hill, getting more steamed by the second.
He rushes to catch up. “Are you talking about the kiss I stole? Er, kisses? I’m happy to return them.”
A furious flush works up my neck. “Your wit will not work on me. I’m talking about my letter from your uncle. The one that proves I didn’t kill him.”
“Kill him. What?”
“The sheriff suspects me.”
His expression sobers. “I recall that letter. But I didn’t take it. How would I?”
“I told you my maid was keeping it in her floorboard, and you unleashed that charm of yours to fetch it.”
“Unleashed my what?” A disbelieving laugh blows out of him.
“Dora.” I jab my bandaged hand at him. Flossie seemed sure that Dora was in the kitchen making breakfast all morning, but Dora could’ve slipped away. “Try to deny it.”
“I deny it.”
With its glossy white paint, the church gleams like a star.
Did Jeddah confess about the seal heads?
If so, Father Pinnyhorne has known who was killing the seals this whole time.
A crime like that would certainly merit the painting of an entire church.
But only two seals had been killed when he started the work.
Why did he continue killing seals after confessing?
I cross the fountain courtyard, not seeing any sign of the priest. The church doors stand open, so I slip inside, hoping not to disturb any parishioners.
But the pews are empty. The smell of candles and lemon furniture oil fills my nose.
I dip my fingers into the font of holy water and cross myself.
Father Pinnyhorne must either be in the talk box or his small office in the back.
Nash enters behind me, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He crosses to a pew and reaches for a Bible. “I will swear it.”
“Shh,” I hiss, lifting off my hat and angrily fanning myself.
After removing his Poggie #1 hat, he holds up the book. His hair sticks up in dark blond waves. “I solemnly swear I did not steal your letter or cause anyone to do so.”
“I’m hardly convinced. You’re not even religious.”
Shuffling noises emanate from the confession box, and then Father Pinnyhorne emerges from his side.
It is proper to avert one’s eyes when the confessor leaves the box.
But I cannot help staring when a figure in a calico dress emerges from the other side, a straw hat covering her hair where a mobcap usually sits.
What is Cookie doing here? She never leaves the kitchen with dinner just an hour away. Of course, sinning doesn’t stick to a schedule.
Spotting us, Cookie nods once, then disappears out the side door without a word.