On a hard, bright winter’s morning we landed them on the island.
Released, Larish seized the knife in Tobik’s belt and struck at him, but Jenek tore the knife from her hand as she lunged and tumbled her headfirst over the boat’s side into a wave that threw her up the steep beach. Cawing, cursing, stamping up the shifting grey shingle, she disappeared between wind-cut banks.
We unloaded quickly, in silence. Some of those from Pyke had watched but said nothing when I filled several barrels with dried fish, teetees, fishing lines, and a net, and put a few tools in the boat.
An ugly chop was building. The air filled with the grating roar of pebbles, and seething water swept the beach, slopping against the bows as we shoved off and scrambled aboard, the boat carried out on a retreating wave. Tobik ran out the oars and pulled; Jenek started getting up the sails; I pushed down the rudder, took the tiller, and glanced back.
Petra stood by the barrels at the top of the beach. Smoke shredded and whipped from smouldering bracket fungus I had buried in a pot of soil so he could get a fire going quickly to keep Tara warm. A milking goat, kids, and a couple of pigs were trussed and tied to wind-crouched bushes. I raised one hand, but Petra had Tara in his arms and stared back expressionless.
A bellow, and Larish appeared bounding from boulder to boulder of the spit, a rock swung above her head. The sails curved for one moment; the wind failed and they drooped empty. A wash slid us in towards the boulders. Tobik threw himself back, straining on the oars. Jenek and I got ready to fend off.
Larish’s howl filled the air, sound unshaped by words, mixed with the smash of waves. On the boulder above our stern, I glimpsed a lolling moon face plastered with wet hair, swollen-cheeked. Thick-lipped, bulge-eyed, she lost balance, dropped the rock, raised both hands, fingers crooked in the sign of the Horns.
Our sails snapped and filled, the rudder bit, and I steered out, turned downwind. Instead of fighting against waves and water, we were running with them, coasting smooth, easy, and quiet.
Jenek shivered and pulled up his hood. “Mad.”
“Or acting it,” said Tobik.
In the sea of emotion that washed me — pity, fear, vengeance — I wondered if he was right. Had Larish acted madness until possessed by the very thing she invented? I doubled up, leaned over the stern. A hand took the tiller from mine as I vomited into the wake.
Out of the south a black cloud bellied. Jenek turned into it while Tobik reefed. The hard, bright light turned louring grey, and rain struck like sharp pebbles. I washed my mouth with handfuls of salt water, spitting, eyes wet.
All the way back to the inlet, we sailed in silence until an enormous back parted the waves ahead; water spouted and drifted in mist before the wind; a fluked tail rose and slid under. We sailed through its swirl, looked at each other, and Tobik said, “The gods approve.”
Beside me, Jenek stared ahead, face set, keeping us just off the wind against any chance of a gybe, a tear slipping down his cheek.