Tides Page 12

  “I’ve seen it.” She picked up a pebble and passed it from one hand to the other. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” Just go for it, he thought. “You could come with us, if you want. Um, with me.”

  She looked down, her lashes casting darkness on her cheeks. “I can’t,” she said, just as before.

  He closed his eyes. How many times am I going to put myself through this?

  She touched his shoulder.

  He shook his head, wishing she’d just let it be.

  “I really can’t,” she said. “Remember? I can only leave the pod during the day. I’m sorry.”

  She looked at Noah in a way that surprised him; she seemed truly upset that she couldn’t go.

  She stood up. “It’s almost nighttime. I have to leave.”

  “I know.”

  She climbed down below the ledge. Noah heard a few pebbles skitter into the water, then splashes and the noise of larger rocks scraping apart, and a soft sound that he thought might be Mara changing.

  Then her head peeked above the ledge. “You know what?” A smile slipped across her face. “Yes. I’ll go with you.” She nodded briskly, claiming some authority she didn’t have before. “Okay?”

  Noah couldn’t help but smile back. “Okay.”

  Her head dropped down again.

  After a few moments he caught the wavering silhouette of a seal in the shallow water, the inbetween space Gemm had described, swimming out toward Whale Rock. Or he thought he did—but he must have imagined it. The water was too dark to tell.

  twenty-two

  UNDERTOW

  MUCH to Ronan’s surprise, Maebh asked to accompany him out to sea. He wanted to be alone, but he couldn’t exactly say no to an Elder, even one who had lost so much of his respect.

  They swam together, slowly at first. Rising sunlight filtered through the water, turning a clear, cool green. They passed over the huge presence of a whale a hundred feet down, moaning its song through the deep.

  Ronan swam faster. Maebh paced him easily. As fast as he pushed his flippers through the water, undulated his back, sent sprays of white foam into the air behind him, he still felt her there. She never slowed, never faltered. She sent him a sure and steady calm, pushing it through herself as if it weren’t her own feeling but something she wanted to offer to him.

  Finally, many leagues out, where they couldn’t see land at all, he stopped. They’d swum farther than he ever had alone. Ronan checked in with his body, and the shaky knowledge that he might not have saved enough energy for the return journey flashed over him.

  He peeled his sealskin down to his waist. “Maebh,” he panted, “hold on.”

  Maebh circled him playfully, still all seal. Her dark coat blended into the waves, so that sometimes he could hardly see her. When she spiraled, her silver belly flashed.

  She swam to him and nudged his shoulder, teasing. She clearly thought they were still racing, still playing, but he’d had enough.

  “Stop!” he yelled. “I need to talk to the pod Elder.”

  She paused and cocked her head at him.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, that’s you.”

  Maebh dipped under briefly, and rose again, half human. The sun was behind Ronan, but he didn’t mind making her stare into it.

  “We should do this more often.” She sighed, squeezing water out of her long, looped braids. “We hardly speak anymore, Ronan.”

  Underwater, his tail flicked in irritation. “I know.”

  Her expression softened. “What would you like to talk about?”

  He turned away, then shook his head and forced himself to face her. “You.” He kept looking in her eyes even as he felt a flash of warning rise through their link. “I—I think the pod needs a new Elder.”

  “Oh?” Her anger spiked into him like an electric shock. “And who, exactly, should replace me? You, I shouldn’t wonder. No doubt you know exactly how a pod should be run.”

  “I know a selkie who goes on land alone should be punished. I know younglings should be allowed to grow up. They’ve never changed, not once. Midsummer’s coming. Don’t you know they need it?”

  Maebh’s tail thrashed. “Of course I know. I also know what happened the last time we let younglings change.”

  “This is about the younglings who are still alive, Maebh. Not about Aine.”

  Their link faded and vanished. Only Elders could build up this kind of wall around their emotions, and now he had to guess what Maebh was feeling.

  “I thought we weren’t saying her name anymore,” she whispered. They hadn’t said it in five years—at least, not to each other. But her name echoed through Ronan’s mind so often that he’d not even missed its spoken sound.

  “Think of Ai— think of her,” he said. “Think of how excited she was that night, how happy.”

  “Until she was taken.”

  “Yes, but—I mean . . .” He tried to think of how to convince her. “Do you think she would want to keep the others from experiencing that?”

  Maebh sighed. “Of course not.” Through the waves, Ronan could see her sealskin coiling slowly up her body, another defense mechanism. “And once she comes back, they can all grow up together.”

  She wasn’t listening. “Maebh.” He didn’t have to work to keep from shouting anymore. His voice was quiet and sad, because that was all he felt. “You can’t think she’s still alive, not after all these years. One of us would have felt her link.”

  “Didn’t you listen to our stories? If someone’s keeping her skin, we can’t feel her.”

  “You don’t know that. No one had been taken in generations, before Aine. Stories grow false with time—you’ve told us that yourself.”

  But though he would never say so to Maebh, never encourage her false hope, Ronan hoped, too. He remembered the night of Aine’s kidnapping with brutal clarity. She’d slipped so quietly out of the link that no one had even noticed, at first—a clean break, painless.

  Then the harmony of their singing had broken off into silence as Mara’s link was gripped with fear. Ronan rushed to her side, somehow already knowing what had happened.

  “She’s gone. She—” And Mara collapsed onto the rocks, sobbing.

  The Elders called for a search of the island. No one found a trace of her—no one but Ronan. He’d seen the retreating figure of a man, smelled Aine close to him, chased him to the pier—but the man got to his boat before Ronan could catch him.

  Even that night, the pod began to collapse. The Elders thought a return to Ireland was the only safe option. They said the Shoals had grown too crowded, that they were almost asking for a kidnapping with so many humans infesting the islands. Only Maebh wanted to wait, hoping against reason that Aine would find her way back. The Elders finally allowed her to stay, to look after the younglings who were too small and weak for the journey. Mara, who was only half grown then and had always been close to Maebh, also asked to stay. Ronan volunteered to stay too, as his penance. He couldn’t save Aine, but at least he could keep the others safe. And when they were old enough, he would reunite the pod in Ireland.

  But it soon became clear that Maebh loved the Shoals too much to consider leaving. She never let the younglings grow, never allowed another Midsummer ceremony. And every year that they stayed seals was another year Ronan was trapped here, prisoner to his own guilt.

  When Maebh spoke, her voice was quiet and worn. “If they grew up,” she murmured, “they would all leave. You’re itching to go already, and before long Mara will want to leave too.” She stared back toward the Shoals. “Eventually, they will all want to leave me.”

  “Mara won’t.” How could he make her see? “All Mara wants is to guide the younglings, watch them grow, make the pod strong again. She doesn’t care about Ireland as—as the others did. She’s your heir, Maebh, and she’s a natural leader besides.”

  Maebh nodded. “Yes, I think Mara could decide to stay. If he—well, if things turn out right, she m
ight grow to love the Shoals, as I do.” She shook her head. “But Mara is not ready to be the Elder. She’s a child.”

  “She’s less a child than you think she is.” Ronan flexed his arms, pulling his anger into his muscles, into his body.

  Maebh sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Ronan wasn’t sure he’d heard her. “I am?”

  “Midsummer is almost here. We can bring them ashore then, on Appledore. The humans have their own ceremony that night, the dance on Star.”

  “So Appledore will be deserted. We’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Maebh laughed sadly. “Never say that, Ronan.” She pulled her sealskin up to her neck. “It will be just the two of us with them, you know. Mara has other plans for Midsummer.”

  Ronan growled. What could be more important to Mara than the ceremony? He knew she wanted the younglings to grow up as badly as he did.

  Maebh shook her head. “Please, Ronan. I’ll give you what you ask. We’ll have the ceremony. But in exchange, I want Mara to have the night for herself.” She touched her tail to his under the water. “We’ll take all of this slowly. No matter what you—or she—may think, I’m not ready to give up the pod yet.” She smiled at him. “And I’m not ready for you to leave it, Firstborn.”

  Ronan knew he’d won and that he should be happy. The younglings were finally getting their chance, and in a few seasons he could leave to seek out the others. But as he pulled himself into his skin once more and followed Maebh home, all he could feel—through Maebh’s link and within himself—was loneliness and fear.

  twenty-three

  LINE

  SOMETHING was wrong.

  Noah had felt it all evening, ever since he’d boarded Professor Foster’s boat. He’d thought that being invited to this dinner meant the professor considered him special and was excited about working with him. But the man he’d hoped to call his mentor had been tense and distracted for the whole ride to the mainland.

  When they reached the harbor, Professor Foster pulled back on the Celia Thaxter’s throttle, still not speaking. The boat slowed, and the engine quieted. He steered into the berth without a word, until he abruptly tossed Noah a line. “You know how to tie her off?”

  “Yeah.” Noah jumped onto the dock. He looped the rope around the nearest cleat in a figure-eight pattern. When he looked up, Professor Foster was waiting for him.

  “Still takes you a while, doesn’t it? Practice makes perfect, Mr. Gallagher.”

  His house was only a few minutes’ walk from the docks, a drab box of brown-painted wood on a block of bright blue and white houses. His lawn was green and immaculate, but the rose bushes along the walls had wilted into gray brambles.

  “Well,” he said. “Welcome.” He held the door open for Noah and trailed him inside. But the words sounded false, and Noah couldn’t quite bring himself to feel welcome.

  After showing him into a small dining area, Professor Foster vanished into the kitchen. He was gone a long time.

  Noah looked around at the dark wood-grain walls that seemed to loom in on the room, making it even smaller and darker. He missed Gemm’s powdery whitewash.

  He told himself he should be excited to be here. “Chill. Nothing’s wrong,” he lectured himself, not realizing he’d spoken out loud until Professor Foster appeared in the doorway.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Professor.”

  “Oh, none of that, now. We’re not at work anymore. I hope you can—” He stopped.

  Noah waited. Then he heard it too: a loud thump from upstairs, like the sound of someone falling.

  “Ah . . .” Professor Foster’s face was white. He set down two plates, full of steaming, yellow risotto and sautéed chicken. Noah’s mouth watered, and he breathed in the smell of butter and wine. He and Lo had had an early lunch, and now he was almost starving.

  “It’s only my dog,” said the professor. “Just a moment, Noah.”

  Noah’s hands itched to pick up his fork, but all his parents’ training in manners wouldn’t let him. He kept still and watched the professor leave.

  A door opened and shut upstairs.

  “Quiet!” He heard a loud smack. Something scuttled across the floor. “I need you to behave,” Professor Foster said more quietly. “I have a guest now. I’ll come back later.” There was a pause. “Good girl.”

  Professor Foster entered the dining room again. He held a bottle of wine, half emptied, and two glasses. “I’m sorry about that. Wine?”

  Noah’s parents and Gemm sometimes let him have wine with dinner if he asked. “Um, okay.”

  The professor poured a small glass, then a larger one for himself, emptying the bottle.

  Noah took a sip and tried to pretend he liked the bitter taste. He cleared his throat, hoping that when his voice came out, it would sound adult. “Um, what’s this project you’ve been working on? The one you wanted to tell me about?”

  Professor Foster frowned, nodded, leaned back in his chair. “Right. Well, as I might have mentioned in class, Noah, I’ve been particularly interested in seals for several years now.”

  Noah gagged on his bite of smooth, buttery risotto. “Seals?” He thanked whatever luck he had left that his voice didn’t break.

  The professor nodded. “You might remember, a few years ago, all the stories that were circulating about sharks: how they never get cancer, how certain of their hormones mimic antioxidants, how even their skin cells can ward off carcinogens?”

  Noah nodded, feeling grateful for all the weekends he’d spent in the UNH library instead of out with his friends—not that his friends had ever been much for going out, either. His thoughts turned to the Oceanic’s Midsummer party, and Mara. Just because he was new at this, he reminded himself, didn’t mean he was entirely destined for failure.

  Focus. “I remember, sir.”

  “Well, unfortunately, shark DNA is too differentiated from our own to be much use to us in treating human cancers. But there are all manner of wonders in the marine world, as you are of course aware. What we really need is an animal with closer evolutionary ties to human beings.” He tapped one long finger on the table. “A marine mammal. A seal, for instance.”

  “More like humans.” Noah felt his face grow cool and damp. He wasn’t sure he wanted to eat any more.

  “Exactly.” Professor Foster looked past Noah, already caught up in the stream of his own thoughts. “Did you know that several cultures even tell stories of seals that can shed their skins and turn human? Irish, Scottish, Icelandic, Faroese . . . Their lore is remarkably similar.”

  He glanced away, then back at Noah. “I can tell you, if you like.”

  Noah took a breath. “I’m sure it’s fascinating.”

  Professor Foster smiled. “It’s well enough.” He looked away again, at the ceiling—at nothing, as far as Noah could tell.

  “There’s always this man, a lord, or sometimes a prosperous tradesman, a fisherman. His town is by the sea, of course. These stories always come from coastal communities.

  “One day the lord finds a sealskin on the beach. It’s large and beautiful, and he takes it with him, thinking he could make a coat of it or some such thing. But as he walks home, he begins to hear soft footsteps behind him.

  “He turns and sees this gorgeous woman standing there, staring at him, with more love in her simple dark eyes than he’d ever seen in a human woman’s—not that he wanted for female company, powerful as he was. But this woman, she looks at him as if he’s her god.

  “So he invites her to come home with him. She does, and they marry, and soon they have children.” Professor Foster stopped for a moment, thinking. “They have beautiful children, and they love them. The lord always keeps the sealskin in his chest, to remember the day he met his wife—his true love, what have you.” He waved a hand absentmindedly and cleared his throat. “But one day, one of the children is going through the lord’s chest, and he finds the skin. He brings it to his mother and asks her what it is
.

  “The woman snatches the skin from her child’s hands and runs, never so much as looking back. She’s lost to the sea—a seal-woman, a selkie. She abandons her husband and children, just like that. She leaves them. They never hear from her again.”

  The professor’s fingernail tapped an erratic ting against his empty wineglass. “So. The moral of the story. If you find a sealskin, you damn well hold on to it. Even those primitive cultures knew sealskins were precious, life-changing.” He took a breath. “The end.”

  Noah realized he’d been staring at his fork. He exhaled, slowly, carefully, and looked up. He wondered if the selkie stories would follow him wherever he went now. He wondered if Professor Foster had ever heard another version.

  He was suddenly desperate to change the subject. “What kind of dog do you have, Professor?”

  “Oh.” He frowned. “She’s just a mutt. I adopted her.”

  “That’s nice.” Noah tried to smile.

  He shrugged. “She needed a home.”

  Noah nodded absently. Professor Foster’s version of the story had disturbed him—had frightened him, even. How could he take the fisherman’s side? But Professor Foster was a man Noah had wanted to work with for years—a good man. He just knew the wrong version of the story.

  He heard another thump upstairs.

  “Damn it!” Professor Foster dropped his fork. “The stupid bitch is always knocking over my furniture.” He stood up. “Next time I’m going purebred.” He chuckled.

  Noah listened to him walk upstairs again, then heard another smack, another warning. The dog was silent.

  When Professor Foster came back downstairs, his face was grim, but he smiled when he saw Noah. “Now let’s start talking about the projects I can give you. I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

  Noah wished he could say the same.

  twenty-four

  CUSP

  RONAN shoved his sealskin down his hips and tugged on the human clothes Maebh had given him. They belonged to that boy—Noah—and they were much too narrow and long for him. They smelled like the big building on Appledore and all its dead fish and strange chemicals. His biceps bulged in Noah’s constricting sleeves, and Ronan had to roll up the jeans’ cuffs.