You wave your arms. . . . I can see that you are calling to me. I bend toward your words, but before your voice reaches me it breaks into little pieces that scatter on the wind.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you’re saying. I only care that I’ve found you.
Deep within my core, in a part of me that’s been numb with cold since I first set out on this trip, my heart begins to race. Panic wills my eyes to stay open. I need to do this last thing . . . this last thing. But what is this thing I need to do? My paddle rests across my lap. I know I need to use it, but I’m not certain that I can.
Holding the paddle feels strange, as if I’m holding it in a dream. It is both heavy and weightless at the same time. My fingers tense and release, tense and release.
Maybe, I think, I’ve found you too late.
My eyelids fall shut. Letting go feels so good. I loosen my grip, let my fingers go limp. It feels so good, so good.
Forgive me. . . . The words echo through my head, hover on my lips, yet I’m not sure who they are meant for.
Just as I let the shaft of the paddle slide from my fingers, a cold drizzle begins to fall. Drops beat against my forehead and trickle down my nose. Unbidden, focus returns to my mind.
No. I don’t want to try. I don’t want to have to try anymore.
I open my eyes and watch the tiny dents the rain makes in the surface of the sea, each one a stabbing pinprick. They dot the surface on every side of the paddle. I watch it float away, carried by the waves to the edge of my vision. I hate that paddle. My hands ache and my palms burn with the contempt I feel for it. I tip my head, watching it float to the edge of my reach. I hate that paddle. Soon it will be gone, unable to hurt me anymore.
My hands fall loose at my sides and the water stings my palms like I’ve dropped them into flames. All at once I remember . . . the flames, the pain they caused. I remember Pek, straining through the pain, demanding that I come here and warn your clan.
I remember now. I came to warn you.
I hate that paddle, but it’s the only hope I have of reaching you. I watch it move upon the waves. It rises and falls, rises and falls, one moment beyond my reach, the next tauntingly close. At the last moment possible, I lunge for it.
My fingers fight to grasp the wood; my shoulders throb with the effort. Seawater splashes up in protest, as if the water has already claimed the paddle and is willing to struggle to keep it. One last fight I need to win. As I pull the paddle in, the vengeful sea throws saltwater in my eyes, leaving the whole world a blur of gray on gray. Dropping the paddle across my lap, I swipe furiously at my eyes, desperate to bring the world back into focus.
I look up. I see enough to know that a straight line separates me from you—a short, straight line.
It’s almost over, I tell myself. One way or another, it will all end soon.
The paddle strikes the sea once, twice, three times. Again, again, again . . . Each strike sends a shock through my body as if I am striking rock. Again, again, again . . .
Perhaps I can push forward four more times, perhaps only three. I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost track anyway. How many times has this paddle struck this unyielding surface? Again, again, again . . .
Again, again, again . . .
Ten more times . . . eight more times . . . six more times . . . I lose count and start over. Eight? Six? Again, again . . . when all at once a wave of pain ripples through my arms and back as this wretched paddle digs into sand.
I look up. The front of the kayak rests on the beach.
And right in front of me, a girl is wading into the sea, reaching for my hand. A girl with hard eyes and a soft mouth.
I don’t remember getting out of the boat. I don’t remember climbing up the rock. I must have fallen at least once, though, because when I come to myself in this dimly lit cave, my head pounding and my eyes nearly blind, I discover my palms and elbows are sticky with blood.
“Where . . .” It’s all I can manage to push through my lips.
“Lie still,” you say. Your voice comes from my right and I turn toward it. Between me and the curtain of rain that falls across the mouth of the cave, a shadow moves before a sputtering glow. “I told you to stop trying to talk.”
Have I tried to talk before now?
I close my eyes and concentrate. A large pelt is wrapped around me—a pelt of long, thick fur. Mammoth. A warm and soft mammoth pelt is draped around me, covering the entire length of my skin.
The length of my skin . . . My clothes are gone. You’ve taken my clothes.
Could that have been when I tried to talk?
Where are we? That’s all I want to say. I manage to push the word where through my lips once more, but the rest of the question is bitten off by uncontrollable chattering. A shudder ripples through my chest and up through my throat, escaping my body as a deep moan.
A warm hand touches my face, triggering another full-body shudder.