Early morning. The still time between darkness and dawn.

Ssshh-k! Ssshh-k! Sssh-k!

Andrew was planing boards at the workbench under the boat shed’s leather awning, intent on his work, unaware of the sounds of the waking world.

Why doesn’t Father come? he thought.

Oooooeeeeeooooo . . .

“Andrew!” said Lyra. His younger sister came running up breathlessly. She dropped to her knees in front of him, spraying the workbench with sand. “What’s that weird noise?”

Over their heads, pale, rosy fingers stretched across the Galilean sky, changing it gradually from empty gray to clear summer blue. But out on the lake there was mist —wispy, white, swirling mist. It hid the bright surface of the water and muffled the sounds of the fishermen coming in from a long night with their nets. And through the mist there came a cry —a single note, long, low, and mournful.

Ooooooooeeee . . .

“There! Didn’t you hear it?” she demanded, sticking out her chin and pushing the dark hair out of her eyes.

“It’s just a bird, Lyra,” said Andrew, keeping his eyes glued to the workbench and the piece of cedar in the vise. “A bittern or a heron. Hunting for fish. You’ve seen them lots of times.”

Lyra stood up, leaned her elbows on the workbench, and rested her chin in her hands. “Whatcha doin’?” she asked, looking up at him out of her big brown eyes.

“Working on my boat,” he answered, trying to sound as annoyed as possible. “Father said he’d come and help me if I got here early enough. Can’t you see I’m trying to concentrate?”

The strokes of the plane had to be kept smooth, straight, and even. Otherwise he’d end up with bumps and dips in the edges of his planks —gaps to fill when it came time to piece them together into a shell.

“Well, anyway, I think that bird noise is weird,” said Lyra carelessly, jumping up and brushing the sand from her linen shift. “It makes me think of scary creatures . . . monsters in the mist . . . like the ghosts in Father’s stories. Don’t you think so?”

“No, I don’t.” Andrew winced at the thought of his father’s stories. He didn’t like them. Neither did his mother. And Father had been telling them more often lately. Ever since that evening in the cave . . .

“Where is Father, anyway?” he added, glancing up. The sun had risen, touching the tops of the palms with gold and sending the mist scattering. “Stephen and Demas will be here soon. Then we’ll have to start the regular work.”

“Father?” chirped Lyra, skipping to the corner of the shed. “Oh, I don’t know! He doesn’t like to work anymore. He likes to tell stories. Andrew, when do we eat?”

“Eat! How can a skinny five-year-old girl eat so much?” he scolded. “We just had breakfast!”

“But I’m bored!” she whined.

“Well, go hunt for rocks or something,” he urged. “I’m busy.”

How am I supposed to build a boat and babysit at the same time? he wondered. Immediately he felt sorry for even thinking it. Andrew understood the situation all too well. He had to keep an eye on Lyra because Mother had to go to Gadara to sell her skeins of yarn and bolts of cloth. And mother had to sell her yarn and cloth because things had been “tight” lately —ever since Father began behaving so strangely.

Where is Father? I wish he’d come! Andrew remembered the way he had pictured this project in his daydreams. Just the two of them working together early in the morning, before Lyra or the sun or anyone else got up. It was going to be so great! And it would have been great, if only . . .

But no! He wasn’t giving up yet! Yes, his father had been acting strangely. But this project was just the thing to cure him of it. Andrew tried hard to pump up a sense of confidence. His father would come. Everything would be the way it used to be. They’d work and talk and talk and work, and then —

“Chaire! Good morning!” came a voice like a silver trumpet. “A true craftsman at his work!”

“Oh, hi, Stephen.” Andrew grinned as the dark-eyed Greek ducked in under the awning.

“Looking very good!” Stephen commented, thoughtfully inspecting the wood in the vise. “You have a fine feeling for this sort of thing —like your father. It’s going to be an excellent boat when it’s finished.”

“I hope you’re right,” Andrew answered doubtfully. “Father promised to help me, but —”

“I know,” Stephen interrupted with a frown.

“I guess everybody knows,” sighed Andrew, turning back to his work. Ssshh-k! A fragrant curl of cedar dropped to the ground as he drew the plane swiftly down the length of the board.

“Don’t worry,” said Stephen, touching his shoulder. “Perhaps I can help you myself . . . in a few days . . . once we get on top of things.”

“Stephen, what’s going to happen? To the business, I mean. Mother says the customers aren’t happy.”

“Nor the creditors!” agreed Stephen, laying his bread bag on the bench and picking up a brush and bucket of pitch. “Would you be happy with a man who doesn’t finish his work or pay his bills on time?”

“But it’s so unlike Father!” Andrew said. “What are we going to do?”

Stephen frowned. “I’m not sure. Demas is learning, but he has a long way to go. His attitude leaves a lot to be desired. You show great promise, but you’re just a beginner. If Jacob doesn’t snap out of it soon —”

“Andrew!” came a small voice from down the beach. “Look at me! Look at me! I’m a heron! Ooooeeeeooooo!”

He looked up. Through the dissolving mist, he saw Lyra dancing up and down on one leg atop a big rock that stuck out of the water about ten cubits from the shore. She was dripping wet from head to toe. Her hands were tucked up under her armpits, and her elbows were out at the sides of her body, flapping like the wings of a bird.

Stephen burst out laughing.

“I’d better go and get her,” said Andrew wearily. “She swims like a catfish, but I don’t think I should leave her out there all by herself.”

He dropped the plane and ran down toward the water.

“Stay put, Lyra!” he shouted. “I don’t want you to —unnhh!”

Before he knew what had hit him, Andrew was lying on his side with a mouthful of sand. Another runner —someone much bigger and heavier —had slammed into him from the side and sent him sprawling. It was his father.

“Aaiiiieeeee!” screamed Jacob, tearing off his outer cloak. His arms flailed this way and that. His hair and beard stuck out wildly around his head. Andrew sat up and gaped. A group of fishermen on the shore dropped their nets and stared.

Now what? thought Andrew. He watched helplessly as his father thrashed his way to the frightened Lyra, yanked her down from her rock, and waded with her back to shore. “Away! Away!” Andrew heard him yelling. “Away from here!”

Andrew got to his feet and rushed to meet them. He reached the water’s edge just as Jacob, with a frenzied look in his eyes, set Lyra down upon the sand. Wordlessly, the little girl looked up at her brother, brown eyes wide with terror.

Not again! thought Andrew, inwardly groaning. It was the cave all over again! Not that there hadn’t been some strange and scary incidents since that night. Andrew and his mother had been disturbed by Jacob’s prolonged silences, vacant stares, and unpredictable wanderings. But in all those weeks, there had been nothing quite like this.

Stephen ran up and joined them. He and Andrew exchanged looks.

“It’s all right, Father,” Andrew began. “I was just —”

Jacob grabbed him by the tunic. “You should have been watching!” he breathed heavily. “Watching!” His eyes burned strangely. Andrew felt as if they were staring right through his body, boring a hole into the cliffs beyond the beach. “I told them —I told you! —” he shouted, gazing up at the sky. “Leave her alone!”

Andrew shot a glance at Lyra. Tears trembled on her dark lashes.

Then, just as suddenly as Jacob had seized him, he released his son. He sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped heavily on the sand. Taking Lyra by the hand, Andrew backed away slowly.

“Well, then,” Stephen ventured after a tense pause. “It’s . . . ah . . . good to see you, Jacob.”

When Jacob responded, it was in his normal voice. He appeared quiet and calm, though completely exhausted. “Stephen,” he said, “have we paid the merchant Hadad-Ezer for that load of cedar and oak?”

Andrew saw Stephen’s eyebrows arch upward. “No,” the Greek answered. “We can’t pay until we’re paid. And we won’t be paid until we finish Alexander’s boat. Are you planning on coming to work today?”

Encouraged by Stephen’s straightforwardness and the sudden change in his father’s behavior, Andrew spoke up. “We need you, Father,” he said eagerly. “I’ll help too. We can do it together! And when we’re finished, there’s the shell of my own boat to get started on. I’ve begun the planing, but without you, I —”

Jacob’s eyes stopped him in midsentence. They had suddenly become dreadful again —distant and burning.

“W-what is it, Father?” stuttered Andrew. Lyra ran and crouched behind her brother, burying her face in his cloak.

Jacob got unsteadily to his feet and began combing his fingers through his hair. “To work,” he mumbled. “Coming to work . . . Hmm . . .” He sounded like a man trying desperately to remember something. “No. Not there . . .” He began stumbling up the beach in the direction of the cliffs.

“But Jacob,” said Stephen, following his partner and laying a hand on his shoulder, “what shall I tell Hadad-Ezer and Alexander?”

“To the tombs,” muttered Jacob, turning and leaning into his friend’s face. “Tell them I’m going to the tombs.”

As Andrew watched, the confusion in his father’s eyes gave way once more to angry fire. Suddenly Jacob wrenched Stephen’s hand from his shoulder. “Yes!” he shouted. “Tell them I’ve gone to the Haunts of the Dead! I’m wanted there!” With that he ran off.

Just then Demas arrived for work. “Family problems?” said Demas with a significant sneer. “I understand. Uncle Artemas has told me all about it.”

“You’re late, Demas,” said Stephen, shrugging his shoulders and walking back toward the boat shed.

Lyra whimpered softly. Andrew sat down on the sand and put his head between his knees.