Winter Tides (48 page)

E
VEN THOUGH IT WAS LATE IN THE SPRING NOW, THERE
had been a storm last night, and the afternoon sky was still black with clouds, the wind out of the west. Every once in a while rain fell, and the ocean danced with raindrops, and the water grew gray and ominous. The beach was empty in the bad weather, the sand wet, the concession stands closed down. Even the seagulls huddled together near the disused fire pits, as if waiting for the sky to clear. Dave was alone in the water, which was winter-cold with the new swell, and he turned around and paddled into a shifting peak that surged up out of nowhere, but then fell away again and disappeared before he could catch it.

The waves were knocked apart by the storm and were breaking haphazardly in chunky peaks, the entire surface of the ocean rising and falling in pieces, like water in a washing machine. Still, he had managed to paddle into a few of those peaks—a steep drop and a quick sprint for the shoulder, and about half the time a treacherous ledge or a collapsing section that dumped him into the white water and worked him a little before the wave lost its energy and faded.

THERE WAS A LULL NOW, AND HE DRIFTED SOUTH WITH
the current, idly spinning around and watching the shore, recalling the plume of smoke in the sky on that long-ago day, the burning surfboard in the fire pit, the small dark figures of Anne and her mother pacing them down the strand. Right now, at least, the world and everything in it was muted and distant, veiled by the beach and by the Highway beyond, by the rainy weather and cloud shadow and the sound of breaking waves.

He reached into the sleeve of his wetsuit and took out Elinor’s wristlet—the white beads that spelled out her name. He held it in the palm of his hand for a moment, not really looking at it, but looking into the ocean instead. They had never found Elinor’s body. Anne had told him that when he had asked her finally. So she was still out here somewhere, maybe right below him—who could say?—her bones drifting on the tide.

The clouds parted then, and the sun shone through, instantly illuminating the surface of the ocean, throwing the depths into startling, bottle-green clarity. He turned his hand over and dropped the bracelet, which splashed into the water and swirled away downward, the porcelain beads catching the spring sunlight for a few moments until clouds covered the sun again, and the bracelet passed into shadow and disappeared.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

World Fantasy Award winning author James Blaylock, one of the pioneers of the steampunk genre, has written eighteen novels as well as scores of short stories, essays, and articles. His steampunk novel
Homunculus
won the Philip K. Dick Memorial Award, and his short story "The Ape-box Affair," published in
Unearth
magazine, was the first contemporary steampunk story published in the U.S. Recent publications include
Knights of the Cornerstone
,
The Ebb Tide
, and
The Affair of the Chalk Cliffs
. He has recently finished a new steampunk novel titled
The Aylesford Skull
, to be published by Titan Books.