Gifts from the Sea (7 page)

I ducked my head so Margaret wouldn't see the tears that sprang to my eyes, and nodded. While I made tea, Margaret took the same string we'd played cat's cradle with and looped a button onto it. She twirled the button between her hands, winding up the string, and when she pulled on the string, the button whirled like a top, making a buzzing sound. Celia squealed with delight.

Margaret drank her tea slowly, and sighed.

“Your mum was right, I do feel better. I think I'm ready to have you show me where my sister is buried.”

I'd visited Mama's grave every day since she'd died. I'd tried planting flowers but nothing had taken root, so I kept the area swept clean. Clods of dirt and rocks marked the fresh grave Papa had dug. When I saw the look on Margaret's face, I was ashamed I hadn't yet raked and smoothed out her sister's grave.

“I'll take better care of it,” I promised.

“I don't understand,” Margaret said. “This is a fresh grave.”

The shock must have been too much for her, I thought, so I tried to be as gentle as I could.

“Yes, Papa buried her ten days ago.”

“Oh, no,” Margaret said. “You must be mistaken. The ship my sister was on went down two years ago.”

argaret went to bed early, exhausted.

Papa and I huddled next to the stove, whispering.

“We have to tell her,” Papa said.

I wanted to weep.

“She'll take Celia away,” I said.

Papa looked ready to weep, too, but he was firm.

“I know,” he said. “But we have to tell her. She has no one else. She has to know she has a niece.” He stood up.

“There's a storm brewing and I must go up to light the lamps, but we'll tell her in the morning.”

He climbed the stairs of the tower and I knew he thought the matter was settled. But I wasn't going to sit still and let Margaret cart off Celia without a fight. As bad as I felt for Margaret, I couldn't be as unselfish as Papa. Celia had saved Papa and me. Losing her would be as bad as losing Mama. I couldn't go through that again.

Celia opened her eyes when I picked her up.

“Where we doning?” she murmured.

“On a trip,” I told her. She nodded and closed her eyes again.

I didn't dare light a lantern for fear Papa would see us, so I stumbled down the stone steps with only the moon to guide me, feeling each step with my foot before I put my weight on it.

It took all my strength to drag Papa's boat to the water's edge. I wrapped Celia in an oilskin and settled her into the bow. There was a strong wind blowing as I pushed off. Luckily, it was blowing toward the mainland, for I was sure I never would have been able to row against it. That wind smelled of bad weather ahead. I hoped I could outrun the storm and reach the mainland before it hit.

I'd never rowed Papa's skiff before and hadn't known how hard it would be. Papa made it look effortless, but I couldn't keep it going straight. It pulled to either one side or the other, sometimes one oar out of the water when the other was in. The beacon from our light gleamed brightly, a comfort in the darkness. In all my fourteen years at Devils Rock, I'd never seen the light from the water. I thought of Papa up in the lantern room, keeping his vigil, thinking we were safely asleep in our room. I hoped someday he'd understand why I'd done this and forgive me.

I rowed and rowed and rowed and it seemed I hadn't moved an inch. How would I ever reach the mainland at this rate?

I braced my feet and yanked hard on the oars. They came out of the water fast and I fell backward off the seat into the few inches of water sloshing about in the bottom of the boat. The boat lurched to one side and I just managed to grab Celia before she slid into the sea. I settled her back into the bow and sat down, soaked and sobered. I'd almost tipped us over. I had to be more careful.

The moon made a path on the water, and I rowed
along that silver river. A dark shape bobbed behind us on the moon path, went under, and popped up again. A seal was following us, no doubt curious about what we were doing. Maybe it was one of Celia's seals that always seemed to be watching for her. Seeing its dark head cheered me and I felt less alone.

The night wore on and the storm clouds gathered, hiding the moon. The wind blew fiercer, and colder, and the waves grew higher, tossing our little boat around like a cork. Water sloshed in over the gun-wales. We had oilskins on, but still it was terribly cold and Celia began to whimper.

“Hush now,” I said, “we'll be there soon.” But in truth, the pinpoints of light on the far shore, lanterns gleaming from windows, weren't getting any closer, and I was tired, so tired.

I let go of the oars and picked Celia up, tucking her inside my coat as best I could, thinking that would protect her from the wind and warm her. The wind spun the boat sideways and the next wave caught us broadside, flipping us over.

I gasped as the shock of the icy water hit me, and salt water filled my nose, mouth, and lungs. I flailed
with my arms and legs, trying to escape the water, to get air, and my head broke the surface for a moment. I choked and vomited, and another wave hit me, driving me under. Celia was struggling inside my coat, kicking and gurgling.

So this is what it's like to drown, I thought, and I was ashamed for bringing Celia to this. Her parents' love had saved her once. My selfishness was going to kill her.

Lights exploded in my head and I heard a voice. It was Mama's voice.

“Quila,” she said, “remember the orange?”

Once, for no other reason than that he was lonely, a ship's captain had anchored off our island and spent the evening with us, dazzling us with tales of his travels in the South Seas and around the Horn. As he was leaving, he'd held out his hand to me. In his palm was an orange ball.

“For your girl,” he said to Mama, smiling.

I just stared at the object in his hand, not knowing what it was but knowing I wanted it.

“You may take it, Quila,” Mama said gently, and I'd lifted it from his palm as if it were made of glass.

Mama took a knife and peeled off the outer layer, revealing a smaller ball inside. Mama pulled pieces off the ball, and I began to cry, thinking she'd broken my gift from the captain.

Mama held one of the pieces toward me.

“Taste it,” she said.

I bit into it gingerly, and sweet, tangy juice flooded my mouth.

I was so startled I sat down, and Mama burst out laughing.

“It's an orange,” she said.

It was rare that we ever saw fruits or vegetables on our table. Mama had tried growing a few vegetables in the only patch of soil the island possessed, but with the bruising winds and punishing salt spray, all that survived were a few lettuce leaves and a radish or two.

I ate the orange slowly, savoring each bite, and licked my fingers when it was gone. Nothing before or since has ever tasted as wonderful as that orange, and the thought now came to my mind: Celia would never get to taste an orange.

I heard a voice again and saw a figure ahead, and I tried to call out, Mama, wait, come back, help me, but
the sea was in my mouth and lungs and I couldn't speak, I couldn't breathe, and I was sinking down, down to where the fishes would feast on my bones. The figure turned its head and I saw it wasn't Mama at all, but a woman with dark hair and green eyes.

Something slammed into me, something solid but alive, and then it was several bodies, all of them sleek and slippery, moving first beside me, then beneath, lifting me up. I stopped struggling and let myself be borne along.

r. Richardson often told the story afterward of how he'd gone down to the pier and found Celia and me on the beach. At first he thought we were clumps of seaweed and was pushing off in his boat when Celia whimpered. Both of us were half-frozen and bruised, and Celia had a cut over one eye, but we were alive and none too worse for wear.

He took us to his house, and his wife fussed over us, wrapping us in blankets while she dried our clothes by the fire and feeding us tea and honey, but
neither of us could stop shivering. My teeth chattered against the rim of Mrs. Richardson's china cup.

“As soon as you've warmed up, I'll take you home,” Mr. Richardson said.