1The bay is misty. She scans the horizon and peers through the fog. Nothing.
One step forward and her bare feet bend the sharp grass and sink into the sludgy mud. She scans the horizon again, as if her small movement can make the fog clear and a dinghy's maroon sail materialize against the gray sky.
Hope. It's all that's keeping her from screaming and sobbing and yelling and collapsing. Or maybe it's not hope. Maybe it's delusion and desperation instead. Because they've been gone for weeks.
She remembers the day they left, when the mist was only a gentle calm cover instead of a merciless, unwavering dark mask over the flat water. How she'd helped load the dinghy. How she'd held their hands and prayed over the boat. How she'd watched until the sail was past the horizon.
Always, she's had to wait. Every year, Jeffery leaves, to trade and purchase essential supplies in the village.
Only, this is the first year she's been alone. Before, Caleb was too young, too small.
"He is old enough now," Jeffery announced one day. They were seated on their bench, watching the skiff tack across the cove, Caleb alone at the helm.
She nodded. "You are right. He is almost twelve."
Jeffery wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "We will be safe, I promise."
Again, she bobbed her head. But she knew he couldn't promise such a thing. The spring storms were erratic and severe and the summer winds were strong and powerful.
When they told Caleb he could go to the village with his father, she thought she might cry. Her only baby, gone.
Instead, she pretended to smile as Caleb whooped and yelled. Jeffery reached over to her and brushed his hand across her knuckles. The gesture didn't ease her despondency. She pulled away. A crease emerged on his forehead.
The days passed. The daffodils and tulips in her tiny garden shriveled up. She cut the dead blooms back.
Together, Caleb and Jeffery prepared for the journey. Father and son fastidiously examined the sail for tiny rips. The mast was refinished with the last of some precious teak oil, giving it a tan sheen. Each plank of the wooden skiff was sealed again and again with pine tar.
Both were bubbling over with excitement.
She was drowning with gloom.
At supper each night, Caleb chattered about the preparations. Silently and sullenly, she bent her head and chewed the stew. Jeffery noticed; she could see the pain in his eyes. He, too, ate quietly.
Sometimes, they would both glance up at the same moment, and his gaze would catch hers.
One afternoon, Caleb came to her, begging to take her out on the boat. Unsure and despondent, she agreed.
He took her for a sail around the cove. The brisk wind pushed the dinghy sharply through the water, and she recklessly unbraided her hair. It billowed out behind her, carefree and shining auburn in the sun.
Caleb chuckled when a wave splashed her face, drenching the front of her dress. And then, all of a sudden, she was laughing with him. "Oh, Caleb. Did you hit that wave on purpose?"
He twisted his head impishly. "Of course I did, Ma!"
"Here, let me steer, Caleb, I'm going to get you back for that!" She moved to the stern of the boat and grasped the tiller away from him. He moved to the bow, still laughing. He crouched underneath the seat, assuming he was safe from the spray.
Jeffery had taught her how to hit a wave. She remembered that time, back when they were carefree and young and playful and always happy. How he had guided her hand on the tiller, pointing out the best waves.
Now, she could see a good wave ahead. She turned the dinghy straight on, sheeted in the sail, and let out a grin. Seconds later, a magnificent splash erupted across the deck. Both she and Caleb were soaked.
"How did you do that, Ma?" he asked in admiration.
"Your papa showed me," she replied. For the rest of the afternoon, she taught him how to catch the waves, just as Jeffery had taught her, and just as Jeffery's father had taught him.
That evening, when Jeffery came inside for supper, he smiled. She knew he saw her messy braid, her sunburned cheeks, her sparkling eyes.
"We will leave in two days," he announced. "This is the weather we have been waiting for."
She nodded. Fragments of light still showed, dull, in her eyes. "Yes, you must go then. I will be ready."
For two days, she prepared. She cooked, she washed, she ironed, she mended. Jeffery and Caleb spent their time waiting, watching. For the storms, for the clouds, for a single sinister breeze. None came.
The night before they left, she made Caleb a shortcake with a few tablespoons of her precious sugar. She would remember forever the way he gobbled it up happily, eagerly. How he hugged her goodbye, told her, "I am almost a man now."
"We will see you again in a week," Jeffery promised.
"Yes, Ma. It is only a week until you will see us again!" Caleb stepped excitedly onto the stern. The boat tipped gently at the sudden weight.
She didn't cry, even when Jeffery squeezed her hand one last time as he rowed the skiff into the deeper waters of the cove. She only watched.
When they were only small dots in the distance, she saw Caleb stand in the boat. He waved his arm back and forth, back and forth, as a final goodbye.
It was only then that she sobbed. Standing on the hard ground, all alone.
The trees, the wind, the water, the house. Everything was still and silent. She dried her tears on her once-white apron. Through blurry eyes she watched the tip of the sail disappear under the horizon.
For the rest of the day, she performed her jobs with jerky, uncaring movements, counting down to the day they'd return.
Six days left. The garden needed weeding, and she dug through the rich dirt and yanked out wild flower after wild flower.
Four days to wait. She cleaned the cottage. The wooden floors were a light brown from scrubbing, and the potbelly stove was a rich ebony from polish. She washed the bed sheets and the few clothes left behind in a basin of soapy water, and then rinsed them in a stream nearby. Violently, she shook them, and droplets of water spattered the ground. And, that night as she carried them inside, she tried not to cry. How am I homesick when I am at home?
The week has passed, and they could arrive today, she thought when she woke up. For the first time in days, she smiled as she carried water back from the well. That night, as the sun set, she spotted clouds on the horizon. She pulled her apron closer, scanned the sea one last time for a sign of the boat.
She awoke the next morning to a brisk wind. Apprehension pooled in her heart. The clouds had grown, and tiny raindrops dotted the dry ground. They will be home before this storm sets in. Jeffery is a good sailor.
The wind turned malicious and unforgiving, the rain turned into a chilly downpour. Gusts racked the cottage, and cold drafts emerged everywhere. Even from inside, she could hear the waves dancing harshly against the beach. A leak on the roof grew, and she placed pans on the floor to catch the water.
Day. Night. Day. Night. Day. Night. They still weren't home. There was nothing to do but worry.
They must have stayed in the village. They are safe. Oh, God, You must keep them safe!, she prayed.
The storm died swiftly. One morning, she awoke to silence. There was a thick mist surrounding the cottage, so thick that she couldn't even spy the sea from the window.
Worry knocked at her heart as she boiled water for a mug of weak, bland tea. The fog seeped into her spirits, dulling the pain. But slowly, the mist melted away, her pain returned, and she walked to the shore, staring ahead, arms at her sides.
The water is like glass, flat, calm, deceiving. She shields her face with her hand, but the fog remains. It has been three weeks. Somehow, a part of her knows that they aren't going to come home.
She doesn't cry. Instead, she squashes her apron in the palms of her hands. Deep creases emerge on the linen, bidden from her sweaty palms, from anger and sadness.
Later, she can't stand the silence anymore. Lifting her skirt up past her ankles, she steps along the beach. Her feet squash through the mud, and she notices the birch wood that has washed up on shore. All pieces are crooked and smooth, but each stick is unique, one of a kind. She can feel the tears prickling in her eyes.
I mustn't cry. I mustn't cry, she repeats over and over. Stepping around a rotted crab skeleton, she bends down to pick up a small fragment of glass. It is blue, and when she holds it up to the clouds, they turn a deep turquoise. Caleb would love this.
Ahead, the beach curves around into another cove. She follows the shore intuitively. Remembering the times she and Jeffery walked this same shore together. The tears dot her eyelashes and she blinks furiously.
And then, as she rounds the bend, she sees it, white against the muddy beach. She picks up her skirts frantically and runs. Runs as fast as she can, breathless, hopeless, scared. As she nears it, she knows she is right. Her heart crumbles, but she keeps running. Running, running, one step after the other.
There is half of their dinghy, wrecked against the shore. Despair threatens to overwhelm her, but she dares to hope.
One glance is all she needs.
It is empty.
Now, she knows for sure. There is no hope.
They are gone.
This is an entry for Maranwe Telrunya's weekly writing challenge- the idea is to write 1,667 words +, starting with a picture prompt she's selected. This week's prompt was of a woman, her back to the artist, staring out over the water. For details, go to my profile and check out the link to her blog, where you can find out how to participate (or just see this week's picture).
A big thank you to Mara for looking this over and catching a bunch of mistakes! Thanks again!