The Turning by Emily Whitman

Author:Emily Whitman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-05-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Book

A gust of wind woke me from my sleep. Dawn was cracking the sky. I settled the stone selkie in her cave and swam near the base of the cliff, catching breakfast. The sun crept up as slow as a snail. Finally I couldn’t wait any longer. I took off swimming toward the bluff. A powerful current kept trying to push me back to shore.

I rose for air in the slap and splash of whitecaps. Maybe I should turn around and go back. After yesterday, the girl’s grandfather would probably keep her inside for days. For a half-moon. Longer, until Mam came back and I’d left Spindle Island.

Above me, an osprey rode a wild swoop of wind. I kept swimming.

I rose at the tip of the point. There she was, sitting cross-legged, staring down at something in her lap.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My voice was hiding somewhere down around my ankles. Finally I gulped and managed to call, “Hi!”

She leaped to her feet. “I knew you’d come!” She hoisted something flat and dark blue. “I brought it! The book with the song! I can sing you the whole thing now.”

I swam a little closer.

“Come on up,” she said, pointing to a split in the steep rock face.

It was a good place for climbing, with plenty of handholds and ledges. But I stayed where I was. The shoreline is the safest place to be: whichever direction danger comes, be it shark or human, you can slip out of reach in a flash.

“Sing it from there,” I said.

“You aren’t coming up?” She sounded disappointed.

I shook my head.

“Okay.” She sat, settling the book in her lap. White pages flapped in the wind. She held them down and started to sing.

I strained to hear her over the blustery wind. I caught a strand of tune, but her head was bent to the book, and it swallowed the words back up again like a secret it wanted to keep.

“Sing louder,” I called.

“It messes up the tune.” She stood and studied the split in the rocks. “I guess I can sit on that ledge.”

Clutching the book to her side, she started working her way down. She moved quickly, sure-footed and nimble. I backed away so the waves surrounded me. I was only here for the song, I told myself. That was all.

Now she’d reached the steepest part. She took a step—a stone teetered under her weight and slid, scraping and grating, and she reached out a hand to catch her balance—

The book flew from her grip and out over the waves, flapping wildly. Then its wings slapped shut and it dove into the roiling foam. Whitecaps crashed, pushing it deeper with every blow.

No! I dove under the chop, groping blindly, clutching at bubbles. Then my hand hit a hard, straight edge. I grabbed it and raced to the surface.

Nellie was standing on the ledge near the water. I swam back holding the book high above my head, victorious. I’d saved its life, and now I’d have the song as my reward.

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