“What’s happening? What’s she doing?” Kesh gasps.
“She has no experience with canoes,” you spit. “Only kayaks. She’s only ever been in a kayak before. The canoes are only used for traveling great distances—long scouting trips or when we came to visit your clan. That trip was the only time I have ever been in a canoe, and I was amazed by how different it was from a kayak—how much more volatile on the water . . . how much more easily it could tip. She has no idea what she’s doing.”
Of course she doesn’t. And neither does Roon.
The boat pitches hard and Roon reaches up, maybe to grab the hem of her parka. A short burst of sound flies from her—something between a squeal and a scream.
She wobbles, shudders, and for one long, hope-filled moment, she stretches her back, arching over the side, her arm extending toward Roon, her hand almost touching his.
Then she twists in the air, tumbles, and falls, splashing into the sea.
Living on the water, taking out kayaks to fish and gather kelp, I know the dangers. When the water is its coldest—in winter when ice thickens in the bay and eventually blocks the harbor—the cold of the water could end your life before you could swim into shore.
But this is early summer. Most of the big sheets of sea ice have melted. She should have a bit longer than that to save herself. Twice as long before her limbs begin to go numb, maybe? The bigger threat—that the sudden shock of the cold could knock her out and cause her to drown—is just as real a danger in the summer as in the winter.
I have to do something. I can’t stand on the beach watching while the life is chilled out of your twelve-year-old sister. Two kayaks are stacked against the rocks about thirty paces away. Before I can think, I am pushing one out into the shallow waves and climbing in.
I hear splashing behind me. I don’t need to look back to know that you have followed me with the other boat.
Everything seems to slow down as I paddle out—the strength of the current seems to push me back to shore and the water feels as thick as mud. The sky grows ever darker, but what I lack in sight, I make up for in hearing—Lees splashing, Roon yelling, you shouting.
Then I am almost next to them, just a few boat lengths away. The final, fading gold of the sky reflects off the surface, and everything glows.
Where’s their paddle? Either they’ve lost it, or they left shore without it. The canoe is simply drifting, and the two of them are at the mercy of the waves.
Without a paddle to extend to her, Roon takes off his parka and holds it by the hood, leaning over the edge of the boat and casting it out to your sister like a net. I paddle closer, closer, closer as Lees grasps it by the hem and pulls herself alongside the canoe.
With Lees pulling down, Roon’s weight suddenly shifts, and the side of the canoe tilts sharply toward the surface.
“Hold on!” Roon calls. “I’ve got you!”
But he doesn’t have her.
A dark wave crashes over her head, pushing her down and hiding her from sight. Roon’s arm reaches over the side. For a moment, his open hand dangles above the empty sea.
Then, all at once, Lees’s hand reaches up, her head and shoulders reemerge from the wave, and their arms clasp. He pulls hard, braced against the side of the canoe. The boat tips, rocking wildly. I am certain that Roon will fall forward into the water.
But the canoe rocks back, and Roon rights himself. The breathless moments of struggle come to an end as a dripping, shivering child swings her legs up and climbs back into the canoe.
By the time I pull my kayak alongside their boat, Roon and Lees are huddling together in the hull, shivering and laughing like it’s all a wonderful joke.
I take off my parka and toss it into the boat. It falls across a waterskin I assume contains the stolen mead. “Wrap yourselves in this,” I say. “That ought to keep you warm.”
I throw a quick look toward shore. You’ve already turned your kayak and have made it nearly halfway back to the beach.
Tying the tow rope around my waist, I dig hard with the blades of my paddle, dragging the two most impulsive twelve-year-olds back to land.
You do not speak to me when they climb out of the canoe. You don’t speak to Roon or to Kesh. Instead, you yank your little sister by the arm and whisper something into her ear. Then, without another word, you drag Lees up the path and out of sight.
My new parka lies discarded in the bottom of the canoe. It’s wet and dirty, but still, I shrug it on and lead my brothers back to camp.
“I understand now,” Kesh says, as we trudge up the path, out of the dunes and back into the eerie darkness under the trees.
I look at him, wondering what great mystery this dreadful evening has clarified for him.
“I couldn’t make sense of why you were against Mya. I noticed that you didn’t like her, but I couldn’t understand why.”