The Light Over the Ocean
One day she was pottering about on the west shore when a great roar enveloped her senses, low and chest rattling, then cold and harsh through her lungs, then a piercing ethereal scream that whispered away. She opened her eyes. She was kneeling. She looked up.
A star was ascending over the western ocean, so brilliantly white that it flashed blue and green on its edges.
The Magistrate was anchored at the southern pier; she would never run so fast in the rest of her life as she did that day, yet the shore seemed to lengthen and the seaweed seemed to stretch out and the trees clawed back at her arms and shirt and hair. The air in her chest felt rough and sharp as she pounded down the pier. The ropes were slimy, crusted to the mooring, and felt as heavy as a planet.
She leapt into the ship and set off. She didn't dare to look up until she was out of the harbour and into the western ocean.
The sky was clear. On her left, the sun shone bright and fierce.
She went back into the cabin, counted her supplies (a week's worth, thanks to Benedict), leafed through Christopher's maps, found Agnes' binoculars. There was mold creeping along the back wall but the cooler was sound. She hefted the spare life jacket, examined it, put it on. There was room to spread a map along the floor, and a red pastel lodged between the desk and the windowsill. She thought for a bit, and made a few marks and arrows on the map. One mark was on the mainland. The sunlight was pale gold across the bow when she went outside again. A fresh breeze chilled her a little, and she looked contemplative.
A white light leapt out of the horizon, riding a tail of velvet blue. It slowed, glittering like the first star of night, and faded from sight.
She looked back to the island. There were no seagulls.
She went into the cabin and started the motor.
A star was ascending over the western ocean, so brilliantly white that it flashed blue and green on its edges.
The Magistrate was anchored at the southern pier; she would never run so fast in the rest of her life as she did that day, yet the shore seemed to lengthen and the seaweed seemed to stretch out and the trees clawed back at her arms and shirt and hair. The air in her chest felt rough and sharp as she pounded down the pier. The ropes were slimy, crusted to the mooring, and felt as heavy as a planet.
She leapt into the ship and set off. She didn't dare to look up until she was out of the harbour and into the western ocean.
The sky was clear. On her left, the sun shone bright and fierce.
She went back into the cabin, counted her supplies (a week's worth, thanks to Benedict), leafed through Christopher's maps, found Agnes' binoculars. There was mold creeping along the back wall but the cooler was sound. She hefted the spare life jacket, examined it, put it on. There was room to spread a map along the floor, and a red pastel lodged between the desk and the windowsill. She thought for a bit, and made a few marks and arrows on the map. One mark was on the mainland. The sunlight was pale gold across the bow when she went outside again. A fresh breeze chilled her a little, and she looked contemplative.
A white light leapt out of the horizon, riding a tail of velvet blue. It slowed, glittering like the first star of night, and faded from sight.
She looked back to the island. There were no seagulls.
She went into the cabin and started the motor.