Page 44 of Seasonal Fears

The cave, which had been dim in the beginning, was growing steadily lighter as their group walked, going from pearl-tinted twilight to something much closer to the rosy light of dawn, as if somewhere in the distance, the sun was giving sincere thought to the act of rising. They walked on, and dawn broke into sunrise, buttery light suddenly filling the air, illuminating every dancing mote of dust, which rose up with their footsteps, chalk and sand and the crushed shells of long-dead marine creatures learning, however briefly, how to fly under their own precious power.

Zib laughed, and sped up, arrowing her footsteps toward a wide archway cut out of the cave wall. The others followed her, the Crow Girl bursting once more into birds in her hurry to see what was on the other side, until they all emerged into the bright, warm light of a seaside morning. They were standing on a beach that glittered like the sugar on a Christmas cookie, all pristine white and stretching out to the horizon both to the left and to the right, but yielding straight ahead to the lapping waves of an endless indigo sea. The water looked warm and gentle, and when it struck the sand it seemed to whisper, Yes, children, good, children, yes, good children to come into me, come swim, come swim, come swim with the sirens and the sea fairies and all the good things that water can coddle and claim. Come, children, come.

“Do you hear that?” asked Avery, suddenly nervous as he inched closer to Zib. She might be loud and wild and unaware of the importance of well-shined shoes, but she was from the same ordinary town as he was, and she knew that the ocean wasn’t supposed to talk. Not so clearly, anyway, and not with such a bright and blazing need as this one.

“It wants us to go swimming,” she said, voice dreamy. Then she shook her head and shot him a quick, alarmed look. “How does it want anything? It’s the ocean. Oceans aren’t supposed to want things.”

“This is the Saltwise Sea,” said Niamh. “This is where the King of Coins and the King of Cups collide. It’s the truest border between their two domains.”

“How does that make it so the water can talk?” asked Avery. “Water isn’t supposed to talk.”

“The King of Cups has the Page of Frozen Waters now, but he used to have the Lady of Salt and Sorrow,” said Niamh. “She’s the patron of my city. Everyone there loves her so, and she loves us, even if she can’t pull herself out of the sea to talk to us any longer. We all know the Page is responsible for her losing her crown and her own good skin, but we can’t prove it, because we can’t find her bones.”

“Has anyone told the King?” asked Zib.

The Crow Girl swirled back into being in front of them, pulling birds back into her body until she was only one thing, instead of many. “He doesn’t care,” she said, and there was more mourning in her voice than there usually was. “He has the Page, and she doesn’t question what he wants or tell him not to do the terrible things he thinks will be pleasant. Maybe they are pleasant, for him. I don’t know. I’m just a crow girl, I don’t even have a name, and names change everything.…

—From Along the Saltwise Sea, by A. Deborah Baker

BOOK VBay Area

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand …

—Edgar Allen Poe, “A Dream Within a Dream”

There was once a girl

Or maybe more than once

Twice upon a time

Not her time—out of time, anytime

But every single time.

—Talis Kimberley, “Time and Tide”

Rest Stop

CALENDAR SEASON: FEBRUARY 12TH, 2017: WINTER, UNDER THE WORM MOON.

Harry drives until he starts to shake from stress and fear and delayed trauma, until his vision starts to blur and he knows it isn’t safe for him to keep going. But he does anyway, unsure of what else he can do, until Jack leans between the seats and places a hand gently on his arm.

“There’s a rest stop in two miles,” she says. “Pull off there.”

More grateful than he can express to have the responsibility taken away from him, Harry nods, and when the sign appears to mark the offramp, he turns the car in that direction, exiting the flow of traffic. None of the other drivers take note of his departure. For one thing, that’s not how highways work; no one tracks anyone else to that granular of a degree. For another, perhaps more important thing, half of them had never even noticed his car, not even when it was in front of them and going so far below the speed limit that it posed a legitimate traffic hazard. Somehow, between the aggravation and the acceleration, they forgot he was there.

They never noticed.

The rest stop is empty, a single brick building bathed in February moonlight. The only sound is the distant yapping of coyotes and the faint buzz of the vending machines near the bathrooms. Harry parks as close to the building as he can, glancing at Mel, who has been silent and still for the entire drive so far.

“Please put your shoes on before you get out of the car,” he says, then gets out himself, taking a deep breath of freezing air before he bolts for the bathroom with the little stick figure icon for “male” affixed to the door. Thankfully, the door’s not locked. It’s late enough that he was a bit concerned.