Thelandscape was searing green, and the sea beyond was a roiling,foam-capped gray. He kept having to draw his gaze back to the roadahead.
Heapproached Glandore, and the directions he’d gotten from theman at the bar and the actual available roads he encountered didn’tquite match up. But he could see the ocean the whole way down.
Thatgave him his compass.
Thetown itself was ridiculously picturesque, a perfect sleepy fishingvillage. Sailboats dotted the harbor. Richard kept driving to the farside of the harbor. Anticipation welled up. He thought he was going tokeep his eyes open for a B&B, one of the cute littlehouses-turned-inns that seemed to cover the island. But he kept going.Hewanted to see if the roads ever stopped.
Hewanted to get away from people, away from buildings and boats andcivilization. Go someplace where he could be sure to be the only personfor miles around. Then maybe he’d be able to think clearly. But thefarmland, cultivated squares of fields and pastures, went all the wayto the coast. People had lived on this island for a very long time.
Eventually,he parked the car on the verge and walked out to where the roads andfarmland couldn’t get to—broken cliffs where the waves had eaten awayat the rock. There wasn’t any room for him to move, between the waterand the land. That was all right. He made his way over stone ridges andcrevices where he could, letting the spray of breaking waves soak him.A big one would wipe him right off the cliff side. He wouldn’t evenmind. He could get washed away here and no one would ever know whathappened to him. No one knew where he was, no one would look for him—
Insteadof letting himself fall toward the comforting waves, he inched furtheralong the rocks until he found a spot where he could lean back, rest amoment, think.
Therewere seals in the water. They were smaller, sleeker than the hulkingsea lions living off the California coast. These creatures wereelusive, blending into the color of the water. Domed heads would peekup from the surface, revealing liquid dark eyes and twitching,whiskered noses, then vanish. This—this was what the world might havelooked like a million years ago, before people.
Alittle further on, the cliff curved sharply into an inlet. He’dcontinue on, explore what was there, then maybe climb up to the top toseewhere he’d ended up. Maybe find a village and start asking around tosee if anyone knew of a guy who’d knocked up an American tourist somethirty-five years ago.
Ahopeless quest for the fortune-seeking soldier.
Inthe inlet, cut not more than twenty feet back, he found a boat. It musthave been set on a narrow ledge of rock during high tide and left drywhen the tide went out. A standard aluminum rowboat, the kind you’dtake fishing on a lake. A niggling in the back of his mind was sad thatit wasn’t one of the hide-bound currachs Irelandwas famous for. Just as well. That would have been too perfect.
Helooked around for the boat’s owner, thinking maybe someone had comeout here to fish, had gotten in trouble and needed help. Nothing—justhim, the waves, and a couple of seals glaring at him from afar. He gotto the boat and looked it over—it had been here a while. A pool ofbrownish water filled the bottom; a film of green scum clung to thesides. Algae, along with salt and water stains, discolored theoutside of the hull.
Buta pair of oars still lay inside. The pool of water suggested the thingdidn’t have leaks and was still seaworthy. However it had gottenhere, the boat now looked to him like a challenge.
Witha lot of awkward bumping and banging, he managed to get the thingunwedged from the rocks and let it slide down to the water. He kepthold of the edge, scrambling over the crumbling outcrop to hang on toit while nearly falling over, and in, getting smashed up by the wavesin the process. It was a fight, but a satisfying fight, and in theend the boat was in the water, drifting away from the cliff, and he wasinside.
Nooarlocks for the oars, but that didn’t matter. First thing was to getaway from the cliff. The waves helped. Once he was out and drifting, hemade a perfunctory effort to bail out some of the water. He was alreadysoaking wet; sitting in the stale pool didn’t seem to make muchdifference.
Feltgood to be out on the water, though. Out on the water with no job todo, just the sun and sky and the gentle rocking. He stretched out onwhat passed for a bench, lay back with his arms under his head. Maybehe’d take a little nap, see where the waves took him.
Thatwould be an adventure.
Theboat thudded, and he started awake. That was a collision, somethinghitting the hull from underneath. Doug or one of the other guys playinga prank during training, he thought. Except he wasn’t off Coronado; hewas in the Celtic Sea off the coast of Ireland.
Ithappened again, something slamming into the hull hard enough to makethe boat jump. Dolphins playing? Maybe some of those seals. Some whalespecies lived in these waters as well. He leaned over the edge to look.
Justgray water, chilled and opaque. He touched the surface, splashing hisfingers in the sea.
Handsreached up and grabbed hold of him.
Thehands came with powerful arms that pulled him over the side before hecould take a breath. He splashed into the water.
Therewere more of them, many hands grabbing his shirt, clamping around hisarms and legs, and brushing fingers through his hair. He could justmake them out underwater, like looking through a fogged window. Women,muscular and graceful, with flowing hair fanning around them in thewater like seaweed. They surrounded him, curling their long, scaledtails around him in weird embraces.
Oneof them, black hair rippling in streamers, wrapped her fists in thefront of his T-shirt and pulled him close. He squinted to see her, buthuman eyes weren’t meant to see underwater. All he could see were theirshapes, and feel them diving and circling, rubbing against him as theypassed.
Hewas dreaming. He’d
