It bothers me, forgetting the name of this time of year. This month of exquisite light. I know the word but can’t dredge it up. Maybe I shouldn’t be wondering right now. Maybe I’m growing absentminded. Maybe my husband pounding the steering wheel is distracting me.
“Tom, stop, you’ll break it.”
“The stupid wheel’s fine.”
“I meant your hand.”
I grab his wrist before he does it again. Ten minutes since the car broke down, and already his knuckles are bruised. We both know he’s frustrated, but so far only one of us knows he’s terrified. I caught the smell of the ocean miles back. His blue eyes shine with panic he hasn’t recognized yet. Blue as a ghost, my mother used to say.
Which reassures me my memory still works—it’s retained what had to be her most obscure saying.
Tom smacks the wheel again, yanking my arm.
“Stop! Beating on the car won’t help.”
“Fine!” he snaps. “Do you have any idea where we are?”
“It looks like the middle of nowhere, but I could be wrong.”
He glances at the watch on the wrist I’m holding, just to be doing something, annoyed that I’m not annoyed. But it’s not as if we were trapped. We’re on a road; it has to lead somewhere. For a man with freakishly good eyesight, he’s really bad at seeing possibilities.
Ironic, I think—an art dealer who can’t see the big picture.
He pulls his hand away and takes out his cell phone, that shiny little pacemaker he can’t live without. He checks his messages; frowns when he doesn’t find the one he’s been waiting for. He has a meeting in the city on Monday and—unusual these days—decided to drive the five hundred miles. Even stranger, he insisted I come along. It’s been a while since he asked.
When we were first married he drove everywhere, wanting me to himself. But we usually headed inland, a fact that didn’t register at first—I was too busy being fascinated by things I’d never seen before. But now he flies to his meetings when he can, and I stay behind more often than not. His days of romancing me are long over.
“Dammit!” He growls as the signal fades, then tries again. I look away, bored. The air almost shimmers here.
If Tom wants to be alone with me there’s a reason. The most likely is that he wants to have the talk. He wants a divorce. But it’s all right—we’ve been married ten years; I’ve wanted to leave for nine.
Which is why I said ‘yes’ when he asked me to come. At some point I’m going to get out of the car and walk away. I could fly or buy a train ticket, but with no destination in mind I’m in no hurry to get there. At least this is a ride somewhere. I need a place far enough away from him to be comfortable, close enough that he can find me when the paperwork’s ready. But before then I have to hear him out. My mother would say, “As long as you’re his wife, you at least owe him kindness.”
Sometimes I’ve wondered about the state of her marriage, but I agree. This must be awkward for him. Maybe he’s worried I’ll cry and cause a scene. Maybe his ego will be stung when I don’t. Maybe Naomi can kiss it and make it better.
I’m surprised I’m not wounded by their affair: pride was always my biggest fault.
“Thank God,” Tom sighs as he gets a signal. “I’ll let Ian know I might not make it Monday.”
He’s concerned about the meeting, not what’s over this hill. Typical. He gets out of the car slowly, reluctant to leave a familiar environment. The air is working on him; he’s recognized the smell. He won’t say anything about it, but his eyes are almost glittering, the exact blue of this September sky.
He’ll call Naomi first. She’s the reason he keeps checking his watch. The reason he wants a divorce. And, since he’s barely been able to think of anything else for the last year, probably also the reason we’re lost. I head toward the crest of the hill, giving them some privacy, relishing the scent.
As I reach the top I close my eyes for a moment, pretending the ocean is just ahead.
And when I open them, it is.
Equinox, I think suddenly. That’s the word for this time of year. Tomorrow is the fall equinox, when the sun seems to travel south across the celestial equator. How could I forget that?
How could I forget the ocean has this many shades of blue?
Oh, my father, I’ve missed you so much.
I can almost feel Tom trembling as he walks up beside me. I start to reach out to him, then let my hand drop. He’s been terrified of the ocean ever since the accident. He likes to think he’s tough, that nothing can get the better of him, but life wears us smooth, like water on stone. My mere presence in his life reminds him he’s lost his edge.
I missed Salianda horribly when we were first married. I’d never been away from the town for so long. Tom tried to be sympathetic, and listened when I told him about picking tomatoes from my mother’s garden, and helping Uncle Lucius repair the machinery on the fishing boats. But one day he walked into the bathroom and caught me stretched out in the tub, looking up through the water, hair floating like seaweed, listening to my heartbeat in my ears. He turned away quickly, unease plain on his face. I suppose sympathy only goes so far.
He tried to joke about the incident later, calling me his little mermaid.
But, as I recall the story, the mermaid’s prince left her for someone else, too.
“Maya?”
I point toward the village at the foot of the hill. It’s a pretty middle-of-nowhere, at least. “They must have a garage there. And maybe a hotel.”
He gets our bags from the trunk, frowning at how heavy mine is. But he’s too preoccupied to be curious, and since he doesn’t have to carry it, he doesn’t wonder long.
“What did they say?” I ask.
“The meeting’s still on. I’ll call Monday if I can’t make it.”
Nate’s Garage is at the edge of town, just past a neat sign reading Welcome to Bormaine. A middle-aged man wiping his hands on a grease rag looks up as we walk in.
“Car trouble?” he asks politely, pointing back along the road with his chin. Neither of us is exactly dressed for hiking.
Tom says. “It just quit and rolled on to the side of the road. I can’t start it again.”
While Tom and Nate hash it out I take a look around. The place is surprisingly clean, the mark of a man who takes pride in his work. Lucius would’ve been elated with an inventory like this.
I ask, “Is there a hotel in town?”
“A mile up the road. My wife runs it.” He tosses the rag onto a wooden chair and turns back to Tom. “I’ll bring the truck around and we’ll go take a look.”
I take our bags and walk on without looking back. The air is crisp and sweet. Gulls fly screeching in high loops, a sign pickings are good nearby. The scent of turning leaves is strong and rich, the smell of the season burning itself out.
The Bormaine Hotel is plain but clean, intended for comfort rather than a magazine cover. An old-fashioned, gently curved staircase draws my eye. One like this graced my grandmother’s house. I climbed it countless times, and slid down the bannister more than once.
The desk clerk is a small woman, her eyes warm and brown.
“Is there a double room available, please?”
“Sure. There’re only a few other guests still here.” She waits until I sign the register, then takes my cash. “I’m Sadie Kern.”
“Nice to meet you, Sadie.” As I push the book back across the counter I bump her paperweight out of place. I glance at the flat, round stone painted with two wavy blue lines, and, without thinking, murmur, “Eroth is kind.”
“And wise in all matters.”
Our eyes lock. She says, “Do you mind if I ask where you’re from?”
I could name any of the places where Tom keeps an apartment, but that’s not what she asked. “Salianda.”
“Right. I’ve been there. Thought I recognized the accent.”
Ah. So that’s it, I think. Ten years later I still haven’t lost my accent. No wonder there are days when every word I utter, no matter how benign, irritates Tom. Even my voice is a reminder of the accident.
She takes a key off the rack. “I’ll show you your room.” She looks again at the registry in passing, then stops and does an almost comic double-take. “Maya . . . ?”
I signed my maiden name. It felt right.
“Is there a problem?”
“No. Oh, my. Come here, please.” She leads me through a door behind the counter, into a good-sized kitchen. “Is that yours?”
My father, I think. Oh, my father.
The painting is large, the colours wild: great bands of blue and green, purple and silver, spinning like whirlpools. Like winter sunlight shattered through an iceberg. The motion and colours remind me of home. They feel so familiar to me.
But of course they would. The signature in the corner is mine.
Maya Wexton: a strange child, quiet, thoughtful. The youngest of six sisters. Some said I was the prettiest, but I felt dull compared to them. They were clever and useful, and I seemed to be of use to no one but Lucius.
Until Tom Riordan came to Salianda looking for me. He was the first person who’d ever singled me out. The first to actually call me an artist, although the neighbours called me a prodigy. My mother just called me messy; but she grinned as she threw my paint-splattered shirts in the washer, and tolerated the trance-like state I fell into when a big canvas absorbed me. I drew faces in the sand, and spined seashells in oil on the walls of the machine shop. Lucius growled, “Get back to work,” but never wiped the murals off. He gave me my first good set of brushes and paints.
My seascapes were beautiful, people said, but a little frightening.
“Accurate,” my grandmother replied.
My love of the sea showed clearly, but so did a certain wariness.
“Sensible,” she said. One of the few times she ever called me that.
The very occasional tourist came through town. Salianda’s not on anyone’s main road, and the routes leading in can be treacherous. Almost every summer one of our visitors goes through a guard rail. The year I was thirteen one of them took my parents’ car with him, sending them home to the Salamander.
By the time I was eighteen a dozen of them had taken my paintings out into the world. One of them found its way to Tom, and the resale price made me worth looking for.
The lure of profit made him want me.
My pride delivered me up.
Sadie’s painting brings the memories back with a rush. Among the swirls of colour there are darker images, barely visible unless you know to look for them. In dim light you can’t see them at all.
“My husband gave it to me for our twentieth anniversary,” Sadie says.
“Nate.”
“Yes. How long have you been away?”
Away. We used that expression in Salianda, too. It referred to everywhere else. I used to love hearing tales of away, and dreamed of a handsome man who’d come take me there. I didn’t know then that dreams could hurt you. A natural talent, Tom called me. His little primitive. I’m not sure he was always referring to my artwork; he also said it in bed.
“I haven’t been home in ten years.”
Our room is what I expected. The bathroom is small but will do fine. There are two beds, which we could push together but won’t. Wooden wardrobe, wooden bureau, mirror hung on the wooden door. Wicker trash can tucked discreetly behind the bureau.
“It’s very nice.” Tom will hate it.
“I haven’t put visitors in here for years. Most of them find it a bit simple for their tastes. But I had a feeling you’d like this,” she says, and sweeps back the curtains. The view stops my heart, then shocks me back to life. The hotel is near the cliff, the ocean just below the window. I weep quietly, salt responding to salt. Beautiful, beautiful, oh my father.
The rock formations down the shore are beyond graceful. They seem to ripple and surge like the water that carved them.
“The tourists always want to photograph them,” Sadie explains. “There’s a path down to the beach about a half-mile from here.” I nod, barely hearing the door close behind her.
But I do hear Tom open it.
“The fuel pump’s gone,” he says. “Six hundred dollars for a new one. Nate ordered one, but he says it won’t be here until Monday.”
I open the nightstand drawer, just to be doing something. It contains a stone of Eroth and nothing else. “Monday? Are you sure?”
“What do you expect in a place like this? Rustic doesn’t begin to describe it. Nate actually leaves his keys in his truck. I wouldn’t be surprised if the women cool their pies on the windowsill.”
I turn away to unpack, finally annoyed. I was born in a place like this, and he doesn’t want to tell me about surprises.
And I don’t want to tell him about Eroth.
In Salianda we worship him, creator of all water, just as some farmers revere his smaller wife, Eroa. But we don’t talk about our father outside the town—not everyone understands his way. It’s best to be born to it.
There was a painted stone like Sadie’s on my mother’s sideboard. She used it to hold down her recipe cards. There was one in both churches, the hospital, the bank, somewhere in the post office. They meant the eye of Eroth was on the house.
Few visitors ever asked about them. I’m sure they regarded them as some talisman. They thought, What do you expect in a place like this?, and forgot about them.
“They don’t even have a car rental agency here,” Tom gripes. I shift my things into the bureau, leaving the top drawer for him. My suitcase is still heavy when I set it in the wardrobe. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, what? What do you want me to say, Tom?”
“We’re stuck here for the weekend!”
No, you’re stuck here. “There’s no bus station?”
“No.”
He checked? He must love her if he’d even consider taking the bus. He shakes the contents of his bag onto his bed, angry. Let him be, I think. There’s nothing he can do, and even if there was he’d be doing it alone.
“What’s so fascinating?” he asks, looking over my shoulder. I feel him tense, and say nothing as he backs away. There’s nothing to say. The bottom of my suitcase is stuffed with cash in high denominations. Soon those far-seeing eyes will have seen the last of me.
I sleep deep and easy, lulled by (oh) my father’s voice, soothed by the song of the Salamander. I dream of Salianda’s autumn rituals—screen windows going up, swing sets coming down, and the great bonfire on the beach to hold off the coming cold, sparks flying up like snapping angels.
It was at one of those fires that I first heard a neighbour mention The Salamander’s Waltz. When I asked my mother what it was, she told me I’d misheard—that our village was built according to the lines of the land, and the great curve of stone that jutted out into the water was called The Salianda Wall. But her kitchen was always noisy, and I didn’t catch half of what she said. I thought I understood, though, and didn’t ask again. After that I always pictured Eroth as a great Salamander. The waves went out, the waves came in, as precise as any gavotte. We all knew there were things dancing in the ocean.
Tom’s gone when I wake, his bedding rumpled and twisted. He’s had nightmares for as long as I’ve known him. But I don’t ask about them anymore—if I can’t set his mind at ease I can at least take it easy on his ego. To him my father’s voice must sound like the pleas he couldn’t utter as his breath was stolen.
I try to feel pity for him, and fail. I’m sorry he slept badly; I suppose I owe him that much. But let Naomi pity him now. Let her try to cobble him back together.
I watch myself dress in the mirror. My body is still strong and straight, but that face is barely my own. It used to smile more. I always thought I’d outgrow my homesickness, but never did. Some days I’m still as blue as the ghost I feel like. My hair is dry; my roots need a touch-up. When we met it was as dark as deep water, but one day I bleached it, hoping to please Tom, thinking it might make me look more sophisticated. He barely noticed—but then, by that time he’d stopped looking at me unless he had to.
And by that time I’d stopped painting. I had no inspiration. Away from the sea, I lost my voice; and when I stopped creating, I stopped being profitable to him. I became just a reminder of the one fear he couldn’t overcome. Every time he sees me he remembers the Salamander pulling him down.
I raise the window a few inches and listen to the sweetest music I know.
“Is there someplace around here I can get breakfast?” I ask Sadie.
“Right here, if you like. I’m just about to make tea.” My mouth floods with spit. I know the tea will be brewed properly, with boiling water in an enamel pot. Tom insists on his morning latte, the preferred drink in a place where breakfast is mostly an excuse for discussing business. We took time to enjoy our meals in Salianda, fuelling ourselves for the day’s work. In the city, meals are almost an afterthought, and often eaten with a degree of guilt.
This one isn’t. Sadie’s eggs are scrambled with cheese and mushrooms, her wheat toast spread thick with butter and jam. The tea is strong and milky.
“Your husband went out early,” she says. “I offered him breakfast, too, but he said he never eats it.”
She doesn’t have to offer the details. The way she smiles into her teacup says it all. What Sadie cooked for me doesn’t fit his idea of breakfast. Tom doesn’t do rustic.
“He’ll probably spend the morning on the phone,” I say.
“He was talking up a storm when he left.”
“Want some help with the dishes?”
“No, thanks. There aren’t enough to bother with until later.”
“Thanks for the meal, then.”
It’s colder by the water. I buy a grey hoodie in the dry goods store across the street, and head out back of the hotel, admiring the view Sadie doesn’t show most visitors. I’m too late to see the fishing boats go out. They won’t be going for much longer. The men spend their winters in maintenance, communing with the boats. The winters are long, but not long enough to forget the laws of Eroth. We call him father because he provides for us. The ocean takes care of its own.
But it demands respect in return. Fair enough, we always said—you’re a fool if you insult what feeds you.
I follow the cliff’s edge, marked clearly by a dozen new bricks inside a rail fence, looking for what I know must be here—a way down. The tourists’ path is an easy walk, but no matter how lovely those formations are, I don’t feel like chatting with strangers. If this town is so much like home in some ways, maybe it is in others.
It is: there’s a stairway of sorts curving down the face, some of the steps natural, some hammered from the rock. I go down backwards, finding the chiselled handholds. Rock-walling was always my favourite workout at Tom’s gym. Just before my head goes below the edge I look up at the hotel. A face is barely visible at one of the lower windows, half-hidden by light glinting off the glass. Sadie, I think. Maybe.
I cup my hands in the water and wash my face. When I look up again, I notice I’m under our room’s window. I forgot to close it.
Tom died in the waters off Salianda. He and his friends had gone out in a small sailboat, thinking they could make it back before the clouds came up too dark. But you can’t do that; they darken when they will. I went out by myself sometimes, often as not coming round to watch the young men diving off the end of The Wall.
That day one of them had stayed longer than his friends, unable to resist one more jump.
“Hey, Ross,” I called, “are you waiting to grow wings?”
“Yes!”
We both laughed. “You need a ride in?”
“No, I’m all right.”
We were both young enough to not be afraid, and old enough to know we should be. I turned for shore, racing the storm, admiring the sleek sailboat ahead of me. It was manned by people I didn’t recognize. Tourists, they’d have to be. I saw the wave that lifted one of them out. His friends didn’t. I went in after him, into my father’s cold arms.
He was far down and limp when I finally grabbed him. I lost my boat, but got him to the shore, both of us staring too closely at the next world. He still wasn’t breathing when Ross arrived. He’d gone deep into the Salamander’s mouth.
I brought him back.
Waking in my grandmother’s house, he said, “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“There was a woman in the water.”
She gave him a mug of sugared tea to warm him. I thought she seemed pleased that he didn’t much like it. “That was my granddaughter, Maya,” she said, nodding at me.
“Your name is Maya?”
“Yes.”
“Wexton?” I nodded. He introduced himself and said, “I came here to find you.”
I knew The Little Mermaid, the story of a prince who falls in love with the woman who saved him from drowning. So did my grandmother, who pursed her lips with displeasure as we chattered on the couch. When I came to help prepare supper, she took me aside and said, “Just you remember, girl, our people don’t shy away from doing what needs to be done.”
The only thing I remembered at that moment was my mother once saying the same thing. Maybe she’d inherited her knack for strange proverbs.
Tom slept as I peeled the vegetables. I’d never met anyone like him. Even though his clothes were tattered, I could tell they’d been expensive. He was fair-skinned, and more handsome than any man I’d ever seen. I blushed as I recalled the feel of my mouth against his, giving him breath. His hands were smooth, not rough like a fisherman’s, and, startled, I wondered how it would feel to have them on me.
The next day I found out.
When we went to the cottage his friends had rented, it was empty. They hadn’t realized he’d fallen out until they beached; and by the time they called the police, my grandmother already had. Her conversation with the chief included the words drunk and stupid more than once.
Their carelessness didn’t endear them to me, either, but Tom didn’t seem surprised. They’d left him one of their cars, and when he drove out of Salianda I was in it with him.
“Don’t do this,” my grandmother said when I returned to pack my things.
“I love him.”
“You love your pride,” she spat.
“I’m going with him and you can’t stop me!” I cried—and stepped back, shocked, as she took her sewing scissors in one hand and gathered up her hair with the other. Before I could speak it was on the floor.
The women of Eroth cut their hair to mourn the dead.
She locked the door behind me.
I never understood the cause of her anger. For choosing Tom, for disobeying her, I don’t know. The memory still hurts.
And yet, I’ve seen incredible cities and exotic animals, mountains, canyons, unbelievable works of art. Tom showed me away, and it was as wonderful as I’d hoped.
As I turn back toward the cliff, a pile of white stones catches my eye. This, I realize, is where the bonfire is made. The stones are waiting to be set in a circle. I look at them for a long moment, remembering.
Then I head up the rock face to find Tom. Like always, if I want to go to him I have to turn my back on the sea.
“What did you do this morning?” he asks from behind the menu.
“Slept in. Did a little sight-seeing.” I lie without thinking, sparing him from habit, giving him the kindness owed. He’d know what I did, if he cared to think about it.
The diner is sparse and clean. I order the chowder; Tom, a clubhouse sandwich. I steal one of his fries. His brief smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The skin around them looks tight. He hates this place.
“Have you found anything interesting?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—something in one of the craft shops? You’re always on the lookout for a new painter, aren’t you?”
“Sure.” Then his cell rings, and he abandons his food. The man he’s talking to, Ian, was among those who drove off and left him in Salianda.
Tom handles his phone the way he used to handle me. Naomi’s photo is in its memory.
Much of modern technology is a mystery to me, mainly because so little of it interests me. I’m sure my indifference made them feel safe. But the one time I tried to use his phone I accidentally learned everything. She’s lovely, younger than me, and married. She says her husband doesn’t know about the affair. She writes fascinating texts. One of them makes a risqué reference to her new shoes.
And how eager she is to step into mine.
“And what are you doing this afternoon?” Tom asks when he’s done. He orders coffee. They do espresso here. I could never get used to it—too much like eating the grounds out of the bottom of the pot.
“Shopping,” I lie again. He relaxes visibly. He understands shopping. “Would you like to come with me?” He shakes his head like I knew he would. “Then we can meet here for dinner about . . . what, seven o’clock?”
“We close at seven,” the waitress offers, setting down his cup.
“Thank you,” he says shortly, nettled that one of the staff spoke without being spoken to. Her answering smile is sweet and understanding, and directed at me.
“I’ll get some take-out and meet you back at the room,” he says, and starts texting a new message.
“Okay, see you.” He nods, but it might be at the phone.
The afternoon is warm, approaching thunder driving the heat ahead of it. I bypass the shops—there’s nothing I need that I can buy, and I’ve never had much use for trinkets—but the museum draws me. I pause at the door, taking in the No Cameras sign, the soft light, the smell of wood polish. The blurred shadows of things that once watched us, and give the appearance of doing so still.
The few tourists ahead of me laugh furtively at the sepia photos of early Bormaine, at pictures of so-called sea monsters. One of them glances around, whipping out his cell phone to get a shot of the mutant squid, and sputters as the curator’s hand blocks the screen.
“You saw the sign,” he says amiably, and plucks the phone from the man’s fingers. “I’ll keep this at the front desk. You can pick it up on the way out.”
The whispers that follow the incident try to be indignant, but are only embarrassed.
I trail after them, thinking they know nothing about the sea. If they did they wouldn’t call its creatures monsters. Several glass cases contain the small remains of wrecked ships, and I offer a silent prayer for the sailors called home. Where life is given, life is owed, and sometimes Eroth collects.
The hand-written cards in the corner of the cases give only names and dates, but I can fill in the spaces. There were lives and families and dreams behind those names.
On the far side of the room is the last item for consideration: a giant squid in a cut-glass case. It would have been graceful in its element, tentacles drifting delicately. Deadly in the way of its kind, but only when necessary. Not one to shy away from what needs doing.
“Hello,” the curator says behind me.
“Hello.” My voice is rough with unexpected tears. “You have an impressive display here.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s beautiful, beautiful. . . .”
“Oh, my father.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Max Kern.”
“Sadie Kern--?”
“My sister-in-law. She described you to me, said you might drop by. You’ve made quite an impression on her.”
“She’s been very kind.” The others have gone, leaving us alone. “What else do visitors do in Bormaine?”
“Leave, mostly. Almost all the gift shops close this weekend.”
It’s early for that, most places. But, like Salianda, Bormaine is far enough off the beaten track that there’s no point waiting for the half-dozen travellers who still might pass through, but probably won’t.
“However . . .” He lifts the round stone off the stack of brochures on his desk, and hands me one. “I think this might interest you.”
And he’s right.
Tom and I married six weeks after leaving Salianda. Lately I’ve been wondering why he married me when I was willing to be his mistress. Gratitude, perhaps. His idea of payment due. Maybe he thought he really loved me. I didn’t know enough about love to know the difference.
I painted another dozen canvasses before I went dry. They paid for our house in Arizona.
More irony.
But here in Andrea Waylan’s studio I don’t have to work from memory. Like everywhere else in town, the sea is close. Three other women have signed up for her last art class of the year, and are chatting softly, self-consciously. I recognize one of them from the museum. She drops her cell into her pocket and mutters something about no service. The storm-to-come is interfering with the signal.
A few of Andrea’s half-finished canvasses stand against the wall. Her style is nothing like mine, but a love of the water is clear in every stroke. All of them have faint grey bands along the top, a warning, to me at least, that there’s a storm coming.
There most always is.
Andres waits until the appointed time, then, when no one else comes, asks, “How many of you have taken lessons before?” A couple of them raise their hands. “What did you paint?”
“Seascapes, mostly.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” She gets a few polite laughs. I try not to fidget. We’ve already paid for our canvasses and paint, and my fingers twitch in anticipation. “If you don’t want to do a seascape, you can try this.” She gestures to a still-life she’s set up, a pretty arrangement of apples and flowers with a few crisp leaves.
I look out the big windows. The light is still good, but there’s a line of grey along the top of the clouds. The Salamander’s restless, too, I think, and finally pick up my brush.
I’ve always loved mixing the colours, the sharp smell of the oils, even the tiny pat of brush against canvas. But mostly I love the way time becomes irrelevant when I work, becomes fluid and ripples around me. In that timelessness is my niche.
I never did fit into Tom’s world. In a world of haute couture and even more haute cuisine, there’s not much use for a woman who can rebuild a small engine. Like the little mermaid, I was always dancing on pins and needles.
As I recall, she turned to foam and spread herself on the waves. Sometimes I’ve thought I could feel myself disintegrating, too.
But here in Bormaine I feel strong again. Back among people who know there are things in the deep sea that watch us go by, and wait; that we probably know more about outer space than the depths of the ocean; and that there are stars and whole worlds in both.
My grandmother knew all the constellations. She must have told me their names, but I don’t remember: one more time I didn’t listen.
The memory of her anger burns at unexpected moments. I hear the soft shush of her hair hitting the floor at my feet. The morning she counted me among the dead was an ordinary one, like this—the village going about its business, heavy rain just hours away, the sunlight on your skin like static. Like here, tourists were straggling out of town to find excitement, locals were gathering wood for the bonfire to celebrate . . .
. . . the equinox.
Like here.
Oh.
Oh, my father.
The last tourists out of town that day were Tom’s friends.
He wasn’t just an outsider in Salianda. He was the last outsider.
Oh, my father, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—
“Maya? Maya!”
I startle back to Andrea’s studio as she grabs my wrists. My hands are dripping blue paint, black, silver-grey. It take a moment for my voice to reroute to my mouth.
“What happened?”
“You threw your brush down and started slathering paint on with your hands.”
What else, she doesn’t say, but I must’ve been making some noise—the ladies are grabbing their coats and scurrying their paintings out the door. They look like young deer who’ve heard howling nearby.
“I didn’t mean to chase away your students.”
“Their time’s up anyway,” she says calmly, and studies my canvas. Dim eyes peer through great whorls of colour, but this painting isn’t just of the ocean. There are bands of fire, streaks of lightning. There are ash angels flying out of the waves.
I know whose face they have.
“What do you want to do with this?” Andrea asks. Good question—I have no place to keep it, and it’s too big to take if I have to move on. “Would you like me to see if I can sell it?”
“Yes, please. Um, is it okay if I clean up before I leave?” She points toward the bathroom and doesn’t turn quite fast enough to hide her grin. The mirror explains: nothing will clean me up short of a garbage bag. My clothes are unsalvageable. But I scrub my hands anyway, and wipe the smears off my face.
She’s waiting to lock up when I come out. It’s almost six o’clock.
“Thanks, Andrea.”
“You’re welcome.”
She doesn’t hurry me out the door, but I know she has somewhere to be.
It’s time to give the Salamander his due.
“Hello, Sadie.”
“Hello, Maya.” She comes down the stairs lightly, one hand holding a cloth bag, the other slipping something shiny into her dress pocket. “How was Andrea’s class?”
“Good.” I’m not surprised she knows where I’ve been. I know small towns well enough to realize that not only Eroth is watching.
I glance around. “It’s awfully quiet. Have the others checked out?”
“Yes.” Her eyes are very dark.
Oh, my father.
We pass on the stairs without speaking again.
“Maya, where have you been? Where have you been?” Tom pulls me through the door and locks it behind me. The room is cold. “Something seriously weird is going on here.”
“What?” I didn’t think I’d be hungry, but the containers of take-out on the bureau smell wonderful. He bought soup.
I take fresh jeans and a shirt from the closet. From where he’s standing he can’t see that his clothes and travel bag are gone.
“You don’t have time for a bath. We have to get out of here. My cell phone’s been stolen.”
So now he’s lost his voice, too. “Are you sure?”
“It was on the bed when I went in the bathroom just now, and gone when I came out. But that’s not it, come on, I have to show you something.”
I ball my clothes into the garbage can and dress quickly. He eases us down the stairs as if we were spies, and picks up the desk phone: static. I’d blame it on the storm coming, but I’m out of comforting lies.
“You have to see this.”
The sky’s black with waiting thunder. He pulls me toward the cliff—for him, an act of desperation. He leans over the fence and points. “You left the window up. I saw those when I closed it.”
At first I can’t imagine what’s scared him so, then I remember—the skulls among the white stones, waiting to encircle the bonfire, are the reason Sadie doesn’t put tourists in the back room. The Salamander takes the flesh and spits out the bones, and often they end up back where they were offered in the first place.
“We have to get out of here, Maya. You have no idea how strange these people are.”
“Yes, I do.” But he’s not listening. He honestly doesn’t know what he just said; it doesn’t occur to him that I’m one of these people. Being this close to the sea, in a town so much like Salianda, terrifies him. The memories must be overwhelming.
But did he really think I wouldn’t go down to the water?
“Do you see them?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, let’s head for the garage. Nate leaves the keys in the truck, remember? We can just go.”
But, of course, we can’t. Half the townsfolk are standing behind us when we turn.
“What the hell’s happening?” he whispers.
Nothing. It’s already done. I knew this might happen when Nate told him he’d have to order a fuel pump. There were two in his garage, either of them a good-enough fit for our car. He was hedging his bets, ensuring at least one outsider would still be in town come tonight. Once he’d decided that, there was no place to run.
I knew when Sadie didn’t tell Tom about owning my painting. She didn’t tell him anything he didn’t have to know, treating him like outsider.
But I didn’t tell him, either.
The last outsider come the equinox is always the sacrifice. The cold season is a lonely time, and the Salamander needs a companion until spring.
There’s no credit card receipt to show we stayed in the hotel. I’m sure the register is already missing the page with our names. I expect Tom’s phone is in the water by now, and, quite possibly, the car with it.
Sadly, I can’t think of many people who’ll miss him. Naomi might want to report his disappearance; but she’s married, and, with him gone, will have to reconsider her options. She might come looking, or she may simply grieve as well as she can and move on.
His business contacts might have some questions, but these are the same people who abandoned him in Salianda. Moving on is second nature to them.
I expect it’ll bother me for a while; but that won’t stop me from, finally, doing what needs to be done. I’ve already rescued Tom from the sea once, my pride making me steal from the Salamander what it clearly wanted for itself. Even now, for a moment, I think we might be able to escape. But probably not, and I doubt these people would be as forgiving as my grandmother. I can’t keep saving him, and I’m not willing to die for him again.
But I don’t want to leave him for the fire.
I push him, hard.
He barely grabs the fence in time, staring up at me in horror, his gaze full of ghosts. Neither of us ever thought I’d do such a thing.
But today all kinds of lines get crossed.
Thunder cracks, and the ocean answers, spraying up into the rain. The Salamander waltzes with the storm. Tom wanted us to be unmarried. Tonight we will be.
But not yet.
I can at least give him a fast death. I scoop up one of the bricks and swing.
For this one last moment I’m still his wife, and I owe him kindness.