Page 6 of Carousel

Panic seizes me. I’m back on my feet, scrambling to some rocks by the cliff.

I leap onto them just as the wave smothers the beach and slams right into the cliff face. For a moment, I’m in an island of water and pearly froth, drenched from the spray.

Slowly, the wave draws itself in again.

Out at sea, the ship is sinking deeper. Soon, only the upper decks and a flag atop a mast are still visible.

The flag, I realise, is royal blue.

And my heart sinks faster than that ship. Because of course, of course, this is a Rhavnan ship. I’d hoped Vikemy had been exaggerating Hevalla’s successes in battle during Sermon. But this downed ship proves it. Despite its people having no blood magic, Hevalla is winning the war – or maybe has just won it.

My brother is still nowhere to be seen. I think – I pray – that he must have gotten away with everyone else. I can’t bear to think of the alternative.

Chunks of wood and metal are already washing up onto the sand. Other fragments of the ship are floating out in the water.

Then I notice a mound in the water, which looks different to everything else. It’s bobbing strangely. A larger, longer shape, in Rhavnan blue.

Not debris, I realise.

A body.

I see myself, as if from above, getting up off the rock. Running. Kicking off my sandals.

I throw myself into the water. Swim harder, faster than I ever have. I don’t remember reaching him, only that I do. I pull the soldier towards me, lifting his head.

I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead.

But I have to do what I can. He’s a life, and not just that, he’s Rhavnan.

My strokes are slow, clunky, but I manage to swim while dragging him behind me with one arm. In shallow water, I support his heavy weight, hauling him backwards with my arms under his. I lie him down on the sand the moment I reach it and see he’s a man in his maybe early twenties, in distinct soldier’s uniform.

Crouching over him, I listen hard for a breath, a heartbeat, anything, but hear only the turn of waves and calls of gulls.

I survey the beach. Not a single soul.

And I make a choice.

At once, I unbutton his blazer and rip his shirt. His chest now exposed, I lock my fingers and begin pounding his chest, which is ghost cold and wet to the bone.

It’s so solid. All muscle. It’s like trying to force life into a boulder.

But maybe that’s the best way for me to think about this. Pretend this isn’t real flesh and blood under my hands. Because if the reality hits, and I panic, it’s over.

Pain blooms all along my arms. I’m already exhausted, and my head is throbbing. That white light in my periphery – it’s like it’s getting brighter. My fingers tingle as if they’re losing blood, and I slip right off him, panting hard, my hands resting uselessly by his shoulders.

Because I don’t have the energy to do this anymore.

And maybe I’m not doing it right anyway.

Maybe I’m just killing him faster.

The sun is searing now. I feel as if I’m going to combust.

I can’t save him.

Card of the Visitor, I suddenly think.

This is my visitor. And I must keep him alive.