Song of the Deep (2 page)

2

THE CANDLE AT THE CLIFF

W
hen I
wake up, my father is already gone. I look out the window to see the sky is
dark with rain clouds. It’s going to be even worse weather than yesterday.

There’s a slice of bread with honey waiting for me on the table.
The honey is drizzled in the shape of a dandelion. As I eat, I remember the
clam shovel. Even if there are no fish today, I can still surprise my father
with a whole plate of clams.

I put on my coat, grab a bucket, and head down the cliff steps.
The winds are stronger today. I have to wait for a pause in the gusts before I
attempt to jump the gap. When I get to the bottom, I look out at the dock. Even
Fergus isn’t out today. Maybe he was angry that there were no fish yesterday
and went off to hunt for himself.

The storm clouds are looking darker already. I grab the clam
shovel and set out along the shore. The tide is still out, so I’ve got a wide
stretch of sand to search. I walk close to the waterline, looking for the tiny
telltale holes. I find a pair of them right away. Putting all my weight on the
shovel, I drive the blade into the sand. I lean on the handle to pull it up, and
out pops my first razor clam. It’s a big one, too, even longer than my hand. I
put it in the bucket and keep going.

I’ve got five more clams in the bucket when I feel the first drops
of rain in my hair. Seconds later, it’s coming down in huge gusting sheets. I
can’t stop now. If I wait for the storm to end the tide will come in and I’ll
miss my chance. I run from hole to hole, scooping up clams. My hair is soaked
all the way through by the time the bucket is half full, but it’s more than
enough for a good meal.

I dash back up the slippery cliff steps, leaning against the wind
as I go. I hesitate as I get to the gap. I’ll have the wind with me, but now
I’m carrying a bucket half full of razor clams. I won’t be able to use my arms
in the jump, and I can’t get a solid running start because the path is slick
with rain. Taking a few steps back, I wait for the wind to pick up. I clutch
the bucket with both hands and run toward the gap, pushing off the edge as hard
as I can. My foot slips on the edge, and I topple forward in mid-air.

I hit the ground hard on the other side, my legs sticking out over
the gap and the clams spilling onto the rocky path. I scramble forward, away
from the gap, and scoop up the clams. It looks like I lost a few over the edge,
but I’ve still got plenty.

The rain pelts me as I climb the rest of the way up to the house.
At the top of the stairs I look back out toward the sea. The waves are taller
than I have ever seen before. I hope my father decides to come back early. I
can’t wait to see his face when he smells freshly steamed clams.

Back in my room, I watch the
waves down below, looking for the bobbing lantern of my father’s boat. I pick
up my sketchbook and draw. I draw jagged towering cliffs that hang like an open
jaw over the waves of the sea. I draw Fergus sitting on the dock, his mouth
wide open like a trash can. My walls are covered in drawings. Looking from one
side of the room to the other, you can see how my style evolved from happy
yellow suns poking out of corners to brooding, charcoal-shaded portraiture.
Lately I’ve been drawing seascapes. I try to make each one tell a story of the
secrets that lie beneath the surface.

I keep restlessly looking back
out the window. The wind is beating against the side of the house, making the
door rattle in its frame. I look back down at my drawing and see that I’ve
sketched a tiny boat, cradled by giant waves. I stop and stare up at the
ceiling. There’s a drawing there that I must have done when I was five years
old. It shows my mother and father and me all playing and laughing in the waves
as a smiling sea serpent swims in the background. That was the last picture I
drew of my mother.

The rain is pouring harder than ever now. I’m starting to grow
anxious. I light the candle and put on my jacket. Out at the cliff edge, I can
barely see the white crests of the waves in the darkness. I cover the top of
the glass shield with my hand to keep the rain off the candle. I watch the
lights of the ships bobbing in the waves, knowing one of them must be my
father.

One by one the lights turn to the left or to the right and then
disappear. I hold the candle up high, hoping my father can see it through the
rain. The sea is dark now. There are no more lantern lights on the waves. Maybe
my father’s light burnt out? Or maybe it was broken in the storm. I stare out
at the blackness of the sea. And I wait.

The rain pours down, and I wait.

My legs shake from the cold and my soaking hair covers my eyes,
but I keep the candle held up. I know he’s out there somewhere, looking at my
candle and trying to get home.

I wait.

I try to imagine his proud smile when he sees the clam shovel I
made for him.

My arms ache from holding the candle up. I stare out into the
darkness, listening to the distant crash of the waves. The candlelight is
fainter now. The wax is almost gone.

The wind has died down. The rain is a constant, steady stream.

I wait.

The candle’s tiny flame flickers and disappears. I’m in total
darkness.

I kneel down at the cliff edge and stare out toward the sea,
waiting for a light to appear.

I lie down for just a moment, resting my head on my arm.

I can hear my father’s voice.

“Hold on to me, Merryn.” I look around for him in the darkness.
The ground is tipping under my feet. There are waves all around us. We’re on
the deck of his boat. My father pulls me toward the hatch, helping me get below
deck. A huge wave crashes down over us. Water spills through the hatch, soaking
my clothes.

I reach for my father’s hand. Through the hatch I see something
heavy and red crash onto the deck. My father is knocked backward and the hatch
slams shut. I rush back up the ladder to reopen it. I can’t believe what I’m
seeing. There’s a giant red tentacle arm wrapped around the hull of the boat.

The boat shakes violently back and forth. I lose my footing and
fall down, banging my head on the floor. I hear my father’s voice.

“Merryn! Merryn!” He’s coming down the hatch. Suddenly we’re
pulled downward very fast. The sound of the wind is gone. Everything seems
quiet. Water is rushing into the hatch, rising quickly inside the tiny cabin.
My father picks me up and holds my head up as the water pours in. We’re
sinking. Not just sinking, but being violently pulled downward through the
water.

My father’s face disappears below the water in the boat. He’s
still holding my head above water. I reach for him. I grab his hands and try to
pull him up with me.

And then I wake up.

I’m still lying on the ground at the edge of the cliff. The rain
has stopped.

It wasn’t just a dream. I can’t explain how I know, but it was too
real to be just a dream. I was there. My father was there. He’s down below the
waves right now and he needs my help.

I know what I have to do.

3

SCRAPS OF HOPE

I
hurry
down the cliff steps, leaping the gap without breaking my stride. In the shed I
take inventory of everything I’ve got to work with. There are gleaming scraps
of gold-colored metal, a few sturdy planks of wood, a half dome of glass, and
piles of the strange mechanical contraptions that I can’t even name. My father
makes up some exotic explanation for each of the treasures he brings home. A
half dome of glass was once a monocle for a giant cyclops octopus. A little
propeller was a merry-go-round for playful hermit crabs.

I look back and forth at the jumble, trying to decide where to
start. I grab the biggest pieces of metal and start hammering them into curves.
Each one has to align perfectly, so I carefully measure them as I go. They’re
surprisingly malleable, as if they were made to be sculpted. When the biggest
scraps are all laid out and curved into shape, I use a hammer and awl to poke
careful rows of holes along the edges. I bolt each piece together, one by one,
securing the bolts as tightly as I can.

I take a step back. Am I crazy to think this is going to work?

There isn’t much metal left, so I start collecting the sturdiest
pieces of wood I can find. I sketch out a design in the sand and make some
quick calculations. I saw the wood into carefully measured lengths and nail
them together. The wood fits snugly into the metal frame, forming a tight seal.
The outer frame is starting to take shape.

As I check the seals on the bottom of the frame, I spot a tiny hole
at the front of the hull. It’s barely bigger than an inch in diameter, but I’m
not sure I have enough metal left to patch it.

Sifting through the dwindling pile of treasures, I find a striped
orange zephyr whelk. I hold the colorful seashell in my hand—it’s about the
size and shape of an ice cream cone. What was the song my father sang about
this one? There was something special about zephyr whelks. I try to recall the
melody, and then stop myself. What am I doing? My father needs me. Every second
matters.

I wedge the zephyr whelk into the hole in the front of the hull as
tightly as I can. It’s not a perfect solution, but I’m in a hurry. Maybe the
little seashell will bring me luck.

I glance back toward the sea. The sun is already high overhead,
and I feel a wave of panic. How do I really know my father is down there? If he
is, how long can he survive under the water? My whole plan suddenly feels
foolish. I look out at the dock to see Fergus staring back at me.

“What should I do, Fergus?” The pelican turns away and looks
toward the sea. He doesn’t believe in me either. I feel a huge weight pressing
down on me. What am I thinking? I’m twelve years old. I can’t do this. I’m just
going to get myself killed.

The wood-and-metal frame I’ve built looks like a big bathtub. How
did I ever think I would be able to ride inside it, let alone use it to find my
father? I suddenly feel more alone than I have ever felt. I wish my mother was
here. I wish I had someone to tell me what I should do.

I close my eyes. A light wind blows gently through my hair. I
listen to the soft sound of the surf reaching toward me up the shore. Then I
feel a hand on my shoulder. My father! I want to whirl around and embrace him,
but my body is frozen. I feel the hand gently stroke my hair. The smell of wild
orchids surrounds me. I remember my mother used to make necklaces out of their
purple petals, one for her and one for me. I feel long soft hair graze my back,
and a gentle kiss in my hair. I turn around.

The beach is empty. The smell of wild orchids is gone. Even Fergus
has disappeared.

But so have my doubts. I know what I need to do and I know I can
do it.

Suddenly I’m working faster than I thought possible. My hands are
moving in a blur, as if they already know what to do. I finish the roof,
bolting everything tight and double-checking each seam. I pull a little
propeller and an axle out of the scraps. The next step will require some parts
I don’t have, but I think I have a solution.

I race back up the cliff steps. My purple bicycle is leaning
against the side of the house.

For just a moment I hesitate. I remember the pride on my father’s
face when he gave it to me on my seventh birthday. I think of how many months
he must have saved to be able to afford it. It’s a beautiful bike. Bree and I
used to ride together, down the dirt road, past the rolling green hills to the
ruins of the old stone church. This bicycle has seen its share of adventures.
And now it’s time for it to become something new.

I wheel it down the cliff steps. At the gap I have to lean down on
my stomach, lowering the bike by the handlebars. I let go, wincing as it
clatters on the rocks below.

It’s okay. I just need its parts now.

Down at the shed I disassemble the bike piece by piece. I take the
chain, pedals, and handlebars and start putting them together inside the frame.
I find some old gears from the pile of treasures and bolt them in on little
axles. The bicycle’s seat goes in last. I adjust the height as best I can, but
it’s definitely a little cramped in there.

Next I take the curved half dome of glass and carefully maneuver
it into the front of the frame. It shudders as it slides against the metal, but
it locks solidly into place.

At last I bolt a hatch onto the roof. The hinges are old and
rusty, but it’ll do as a way to get in and out. A little voice in my head
questions why I’d need to get out and how I’d do so, but I ignore it.

I step back and admire my work. It’s tiny and it’s rickety and
some parts are a little rusty . . . but it’s my very own submarine.

The golden metal of the hull gleams in the sun. I peer through the
curved front window at the handlebar steering yoke inside. I tighten the bolts
on the propeller and rudder, securing them onto the wooden rear frame.

I grab onto the front of the hull and start dragging the sub
toward the water. It takes all my strength to pull it across the sand. Is it
going to be too heavy to float? What if it sinks to the bottom of the ocean
with me inside? I keep pulling. My legs are aching with each step, but
eventually I feel the cold water of the surf lapping at my heels. I’m almost
there.

With one last heave I pull the submarine out into the rolling
surf.

It floats!

I open the hatch and climb inside. The sub sinks a little farther
under the water with my added weight. Half the front window is sky and half is
sea. This is it. I know there is no turning back from here.

What would my father say if he could see me? I think he’d be proud
of what I’ve built . . . but he would never, ever allow me to risk my life to
rescue him.

I’m sorry, Dad. I have to do this.

I close the hatch above me and dive down below the waves.