Chapter Fourteen #4
“We’ll replant,” Clay reassures me. He’s had failed crops before; he’s learned that there’s no time for regret, for bitterness. But I hate to think of all the wasted hours planting the potatoes, only to lose most of them in the end.
I stand up from the soil, fingers coated in dirt. “I’ll go make us some tea.” I need a break from digging, frustration mounting inside me. But before I can start toward the house… my eyes catch on a shiver of movement.
I blink, focusing on the lower shoreline.
Three shadows are moving up from the rocky edge of the island.
Three men.
My eyes must be lying—a trick of the sea mist. I pinch my eyelids closed, open them again, and the men are closer now. Striding toward us.
My gaze flicks past them, to the ocean.
A ship, a good distance off. It’s massive.
A freighter maybe, a shipping vessel. I can make out the windows along the hull, the metal railing, and even figures standing at the bow.
But the exterior is a cold steel gray, with sharp, angular lines.
Modern. Well-crafted. It’s no freighter. It looks military.
“Clay,” I hiss.
His head lifts, follows my gaze, seeing the men. “Get inside,” he whispers, standing up slowly.
But it’s too late. The men are only a few yards off. Tall, shouldered together. One of them has a gun strapped to his belt. The others, I can’t tell for sure. But they don’t look particularly threatening—their gait is easy, eyes swaying across our island, surveying it.
Still, my heartbeat slams against my eardrums.
The one in the middle lifts a hand over his eyes, shielded from the sun. “Ahoy,” he says. And for some reason the word makes me wince. It feels odd, out of place—maybe it’s just hearing a stranger’s voice after so long. A voice that isn’t Clay’s.
But neither of us respond.
The three men stop a few paces back from the garden, like tin soldiers, moving in unison.
The man in the center is clean-shaven, from his face all the way across his scalp.
Not a stitch of hair present, aside from his blond eyebrows.
He looks like he’s in his early forties, with crisp blue eyes and a sharp jawline.
His uniform is black with six gold buttons on the front, gold bands around the sleeves, and a collection of medals at the breast. It feels formal—too formal for visiting an unknown island.
But what do I know of naval protocols and attire?
“Our apologies for intruding like this, but we tried signaling by radio. Didn’t get a response.”
Clay angles himself in front of me, shoulders back, eyes leveled on the men. “No radio here.”
“Ah, makes sense. You’re not really a ship, are you?” the man says. And yet, there is no astonishment in his voice. No trace of disbelief. He takes in the floating island as if he’s seen things far stranger. Far more unnatural.
“I’m Admiral Kochek,” he says. “This is First Officer Bosch, and my second, Langston.”
Bosch, on the left, nods at us, cracks a smile, which is barely visible through his full beard, nearly to his chest. But Langston hardly looks our way.
His eyes swing to the house behind us, then down to the greenhouse, scanning, measuring, calculating.
He too is masked by a wiry beard, not nearly as long as Bosch’s, but still, I thought naval crew weren’t allowed to grow facial hair. I thought it was a rule, or something.
“Are you a U.S. ship?” I ask, my voice cutting through the damp air.
The admiral’s eyes swing to me, flattening his eyebrows, mouth puckering slightly.
“The USS Kingston,” he says. We stare at each other, his blue eyes so piercing they’re almost hard to look at.
“We only came ashore to”—he shifts his weight, broadening his stance slightly—“assess what it was we had come across. I have to admit, we’ve never seen an island adrift before.
Although a few of the men said there is an old fable about a floating island, much like this one. ”
“And a man who lived alone on it,” Bosch interjects, his dark eyes swinging to me.
“Indeed,” the admiral adds. “But it seems there are two of you.”
“My wife,” Clay asserts protectively, straightening himself even more, a barrier between me and the men.
“Ah yes, good for a man to have some company. It can get awful lonely out here by yourself.”
I try to read his tone, but my ears are struggling to pick up anything that might be off.
Maybe because this whole encounter is off.
These men have just walked up onto the island as casually as anything.
And maybe my mind is trying to find something strained or deceitful in their voices, but it isn’t there.
My eyes flick back to the ship in the distance.
There is no flag waving from the mast—only what looks like radio antennas of varying sizes and lengths. I’m almost certain it’s a U.S. Navy ship, but it seems odd that there would be nothing identifying it. Unless that’s the point: to remain unmarked. Covert and stealthy.
“Could we trouble you for something warm to drink?” the admiral asks. “It was a cold paddle over.”
Clay is all muscle and tension beside me.
But after a moment he nods. “If a pot of tea will suit ye, I think we can spare it.” His voice is tight, stiff, yet perhaps like me, he can’t find anything wrong with these three men.
Nothing obvious, anyway. So better to seem agreeable, invite them inside, and soon enough they’ll be on their way.
The admiral sits at the kitchen table, casually leaning back in his chair, with Bosch seated beside him.
But Langston mills about the kitchen, walking to the back door, touching the cupboards.
There’s a nosy curiosity about him. I expect the admiral to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but his attention is on Clay, who sits across from him at the table, after I insisted on making the tea.
“How long you two been out here?” the admiral asks.
I pause, holding the kettle over the sink. How long? A question not easily answered. But when I look to Clay, he keeps his eyes steady on the two men. “Few years.”
The admiral nods. His wide chest strains against the seams of his coat. “I’ve seen some peculiar things out on these waters, but this is certainly a first. I didn’t notice any sails on the island. How do you navigate?”
I pull four mugs from the cupboard. Langston walks to the stove, looking down at the kettle as the water begins to steam, as if he’s marveling at the kettle itself.
“The winds decide for us,” Clay answers, his posture conveying an ease that I know he doesn’t feel. His shoulders are drawn back, legs ready to stand, react, if needed.
The admiral blows out an exaggerated breath. “Tough way to make a go of it. But I suppose we’re all managing the best we can, considering.”
This comment sticks in my mind. What does he mean? What does the world beyond our island look like after another decade since we last saw land? Since I saw James?
I step closer to the table. “What year is it?”
The admiral lifts his head to me. And I notice Clay’s shoulder flick the tiniest amount.
“You have been out here a while, eh?” the admiral asks. “No radio, no calendar, it seems.”
Neither Clay nor I respond.
The admiral clears his throat. “Ma’am, it’s the year 2062.”
The kettle begins to whistle from the stove, and I move toward it, grateful for a reason to pull my eyes from the admiral’s. 2062. I pour the boiling water into each mug, but my hand trembles. The fragrant scent of spearmint leaves rising from the steam. 2062.
“You two should be careful,” the admiral continues, as I place the mugs on the kitchen table. “These waters aren’t safe this time of year. Traders passing through here would gladly take what you have.”
“Traders?” Clay inquires.
“Afraid so—” The admiral takes a sip of his tea.
“Oh, lovely,” he remarks, nodding to me, then continues.
“Their ships can be hard to identify. They’ve captured most of the freighters moving through this area.
Smaller vessels too. They might try to lure you in, pretending to be in distress.
Better just to keep on moving if you see another ship, even if they’re calling out for help. ”
“Not much we can do one way or another,” Clay answers, touching his mug but not drinking. “Like I said, we aren’t able to navigate. Couldn’t sail away from danger even if we wanted.”
Hearing Clay say this aloud is like a landslide moving slowly over me, clotting my mind with mud. I’ve never considered this—our inability to flee danger. I’ve always worried about where the winds might blow us next, but I never imagined that we might need to escape something.
Or someone.
“Right.” The admiral nods, takes another drink.
Beside him, Bosch tests his tea with a small sip, like he’s checking it for poison, then he downs the whole thing in one gulp. Langston has moved to the sink, and I hand him a mug. He takes it but keeps his eyes on me—dark and lidded, with something behind their coolness.
“Can you tell us where we are?” Clay asks, resting an elbow on the table. “If we’re close to the North Atlantic jet stream?”
Bosch smiles, quick and then gone. But the admiral looks more serious. “You’re close, just north of it. But I suspect, at the pace you’re going, you’ll end up farther north, past Sarkak.
I frown, watching the men.
“Sarkak?” Clay asks.
A quiet settles over the kitchen. Each of us eyeing the other.
“Sarkak Island,” the admiral clarifies, as if we should understand.
“Is that near Greenland?” I ask.
Langston, standing a few paces to my left, lets out a full-bellied laugh.
“It is, ma’am,” the admiral confirms, a peculiar light in his eyes. “Sarkak was once called Greenland. They are one and the same.”
Clay finally looks at me over his shoulder. The world has changed more than I could have imagined. The renaming of countries doesn’t happen easily, or without violence. War and loss of life.
An iciness crawls up from my toes, and I suddenly want these men gone.