CHAPTER 37 
Axel had implored her to spend the night on the Kellys’ island first. They should set off at first light, he’d said; they’d be far more useful once they had rested. She had gritted her teeth against the proposition. She must go right now, even though the sun has started to sink, a slice of orange dripping its thick juice across the sky.
As they make their way to the dinghy, she notices a figure lagging behind. She turns to see Quill stopped halfway along the beach.
“What’s the matter?” she calls.
Quill approaches. “I’m scared.”
She shakes her head, puts an arm on Quill’s shoulder. “Don’t be. We got through that storm, didn’t we? This is nothing, we’re just… taking a turn in the lugger. Think of it like that.” She continues toward the water; Axel is already readying the dinghy.
“Ghosts,” Quill calls out after her.
Eliza stops in her tracks.
“I am afraid your father will be a sea ghost now.”
Her brow folds, but she cannot find the words to answer. Quill traces a winding snake’s trail into the sand with a toe. “If we find him, it means the sea spat him out. It didn’t want him. It means he’s a bad spirit.”
Eliza does not flinch. She does not shout. Instead, she gives the smallest of nods and sets off toward the dinghy, leaving Quill on the beach, watching her go.
The lugger creaks as it slips through the water, dog tired now. The low sun casts a sepia glow across the deck and the sails bloat with the rising wind. Without Quill to guide them, picking their way around the reefs is a dangerous duty. They could easily find themselves stricken. With every minute that passes, the light diminishes, the sun stepping one foot out of the door, then two, leaving it open enough for only a watery dribble of light. The air is swamp-thick, bristling with rain that needles the skin. Eliza thrusts herself against the rail, skirts billowing in the wind. She clutches at the scope, scouring every inch of sand they pass. When she lowers it, the brass leaves a perfect red ring around her eye.
The lugger swings westward, rounding the top of the island; that’s when the orchestra starts. Rain drums on the deck and the wind comes in gasped percussion to the sea’s roar.
When they come to the island Joseph had pointed out, the channel before them is choked with mangrove bushes. It is far too tight for the lugger to squeeze through.
“We’ll have to take the dinghy.” Her voice is half-lost to the wind.
“Eliza.”
“The island is just through there.” She wipes the rain from her face. “We need to check it. What if he stayed behind when Winters went on to trade? Or perhaps he was able to swim back if the storm hit them.” The words die in her throat as she tries to picture her father, exhausted and terrified, being able to swim across such a stretch of water. She straightens against the doubt. “We have to keep going. Come on.”
“No.”
The word comes like a hammer stroke. She looks to him; his shoulders are slumped.
“There’s no light left. We’ll be lost in this weather.” His tone is pleading now. “It’s safer to wait here; we’ll sleep back on the island.” He sighs. “He’s not here, Eliza! We tried. You are soaking wet; you’ll be lucky not to catch your death. You’re shaking. We did all we could. I mean, good God.” His chest heaves. “He’s gone, Eliza, can’t you see that?”
She is surprised by her own calmness.
“If you are not prepared to look for him, then I will do it alone. I’ve said it more than once. I said it when we first met.”
Axel scoffs. There is no more to be said. She turns to the dinghy and starts unbuckling the ties.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Eliza. You’ll die if you go out on that thing on your own. It’s dark. You’ll be tipped overboard!”
“I didn’t come this far to give up.” She thinks of her mother, of Ned. Those who have already been taken from her. What does she have left? “He could still be alive.” Axel shakes his head. “There is a chance of that. A chance.” The wind sets up its plangent wail. “We found Winters, didn’t we? And as long as there is a chance to find my father too, I have to try.”
She pulls herself onto the gunwale, crouches with knees to her chin, and claws at the knots. Axel watches her as she tugs and heaves. She doesn’t stop when a gust of wind threatens to topple her. She lets the rain drag the hair across her face. But the dinghy won’t shift. Just as she is about to cry out in frustration, Axel marches over, reaches and easily loosens the buckles. It is fueled by annoyance but sets in action a string of motions. The dinghy plummets downward with a rattle and smacks the water. Without pause, Eliza pushes herself off the lugger and into the boat, landing messily. She staggers in the near darkness. The surrounding water sucks greedily at the wood.
“I won’t go with you, Eliza. This is a terrible idea.”
“I didn’t ask you to. Pass me the lamp.” Reluctantly he takes it from the cabin top and leans over to pass it down. It stutters and spits. She places it on the thwart.
“I’ll be fine,” she shouts as she pushes herself off. “Come and look for me at sunrise if I’m not back. Or perhaps Quill will decide to come.” She strains to be heard above the thickening rain. Axel watches as she slots the oars into the rowlocks. He skirts the edge of the lugger, keeping her in his sights as she pulls slowly past. She rounds the front of the boat, her white dress a glowing ghost in the darkness. With a glance back at the island and an eye to the heavens, Axel shifts himself up onto the bow. But when the moment comes he cannot do it. Cannot summon the courage to push himself off the edge of that lugger. Instead, he watches her go, swallowed by the mangroves like an insect down a great bird’s throat.
With a snap the rain comes on twice as strong, but Eliza’s eyes are fixed firmly on the channel ahead. There she’ll be sheltered from the wind, and beyond it she can already see the gray bodies of circling birds. Clumsily she tries to scoop out the water pooling at the boards. Clouds have snatched any light from the stars. Her teeth begin to chatter.
When she reaches the mouth of the channel, it’s as if the wind has been snuffed out. Bushes whisper as she pulls on slowly past, sharp roots scraping noisily at the bottom of the boat. She hears the soft squelch of mud on the banks, thick enough to swallow her whole, and writhing with invisible things. A bird cries out in the mournful gloom, and a nearby splash signals something hurling itself into the water.
She picks up the lamp and holds it out in front of her. The channel is full of noises—ticks, creaks, and snaps. She can feel the scratch of biting animals, senses the weight of the things in the trees. With a trembling hand she holds the lamp out farther, its weak glow illuminating slick, oily roots. As she drifts, leaves glisten bright in the spotlight, so green and so glossy it makes her think of Bannin’s bungalows. The tiny shapes of frogs leap with gentle plops into the water; flies descend on the lantern in a black, swarming cloud. Then she starts to see them. Here and there, low in the water. Eyes. Unblinking and inhuman, they drift away as the dinghy gets closer, each set slipping under the surface like two tiny falling moons.
She doesn’t see anything approach the dinghy, but she senses its large presence in the darkness. In an instant, and with a rush of water, something propels itself upward near to her elbow. She cries out. It sets the dinghy rocking. She thinks only of the lamp, her sole light. She looks frantically around the surface, the lantern picking out laddered ripples. Something flaps from a tree and her eyes leap upward. Another splash comes near her arm and she half-stands in fear. She has stopped rowing now and the boat begins to turn in slow circles. Somewhere in her mind an image is materializing. Showing itself through the shadows. A rose, a white one. She remembers crushing its petals between her fingers as her father had talked, his words seeping back to her through time.
“There’s only one thing you should do if you find yourself alone in saltie territory,” he said. She’d only half-listened as she thumbed white confetti into her palm. “Eliza.” She had looked at him, framed from behind by the sun. “One thing, Eliza. Keep as still as you possibly can.”
Slowly she reaches for the oars and holds them still so there’s enough resistance to calm the boat. Her muscles are coiled so tight they quiver. In this position she can slowly drift in the current. But the inertia is excruciating; her skin screams out for movement. Every inch of her wants to charge through the channel and get to the island as quickly as she can. But she forces herself to remain still. After a time she allows herself to turn her head slowly left to right.
Above her, heavy clouds part to reveal a bright full moon. She can see its dark spots like watching spirits. The air shimmers. She can see more clearly now. The banks are alive with spindly mangrove trees. The planets come out to watch now too, and stars in the shape of a fiery cross. Their light gives a strange clarity to the surroundings. Time hangs suspended as the boat drifts along the swamp. A breeze whispers over the water. Eliza’s eyes follow its path and land on something peculiar.
There is a shape there.
In the trees.
Something that should not be there at all.
It is unmoving, solid, high above the waterline. She cannot bring herself to breathe. The water around her ceases to move. There is no longer darkness, just a river of light. Something has set fire to the air and it burns so bright she can see that, finally, she is where she was supposed to be all along. Memories tear through her, passing fast like playing children. She’s on the beach with him, searching for empty crab shells; she is in his arms, shrieking with excited glee. After a flash in her mind that leaves bright marks on the insides of her eyelids, she sees him returning from sea, stepping off the Starling with a clear smile and open arms.
Her ears roar as she pulls on the oars now, sending the boat clumsily toward the bank. Is that movement she sees? Can it be? She is thankful for the moonlight, bright as the sun, picking out branches slicked with algae, illuminating something pale and out of place among shadows. A loud splash announces itself nearby but it is easy to ignore. She raises her eyes until the moon unveils something else: skin, human skin, fleshy like the inside of an old peach. She wants to spit the bitter taste from her mouth, but slowly, painfully, she moves her eyes farther upward. She feels as if her heart has been ripped from her chest and beats in the air before her. There is a leg. There: a booted foot. Upward still, something once white. Dull buttons clinging to sodden cloth. And there! An arm wrapped tightly around a branch, and at the end of that: a hand, one finger encircled by a ring. She feels herself begin to fall away but tries with all her strength to hold herself there. Farther still, her eyes meet a black mass of hair, scorched skin, and two eyes, owl-like behind smashed spectacles. Blinking back at her. Alive.