Bree twisted inland. The rocky and crushed-shell beach eventually gave way to a steep, smooth rock bed, which led up to level land. It was there that Ness appeared, looking breathless.
“It’s Heath!” she shouted, waving frantically.
Lock’s face hardened like the sky before a storm. “What happened?”
“It’s bad. He’s . . . well . . .” Ness glanced at Bree, then motioned for Lock again. “Just hurry up. You need to come home.”
“Go on,” Bree said, taking Lock’s bucket from him. “I’ll meet you back at the hut.”
A gracious, sideways glance was his only response.
Bree watched him scramble up the rock. When Ness took Lock’s hand, Bree wondered if it was some sort of cover—Ness comes crying that something’s wrong so they can slip off into the trees. It took the duration of an exhale for Bree to regret the thought. If Ness’s words were truthful, if something had happened to Heath . . . well, that would kill Lock. Actually kill him. He’d die of a broken heart and everything, just curl up on his mattress and never move again. If there was anything on the entire island that Lock loved more than his girls, it was his kid brother. And Heath wasn’t well lately.
To be fair, Heath had never been well. His vision had been bad since birth. Bree wasn’t sure if it was getting worse or if he was slowly going blind, but these days, Heath could barely see more than a few wingspans in front of him. He also fell sick almost monthly, like his health was tied to the cycles of the moon. It had been that way all ten years of his life, and even still, you couldn’t find a more upbeat, radiant kid.
Bree stooped to retrieve her fish, kicking loose stones at the braver gulls that were getting too close. The rope handles tore at her palms as she hiked. She was sweating in no time, the cool lap of the water around her ankles an ancient memory. It was a shame this steep, grueling passage was the only access point to Saltwater’s fishable shoreline. Everywhere else, the land dropped away in the form of treacherous cliffs when it met water.
Finally the rock leveled off and Bree was back on grass, crunching and brittle beneath her sandals. The cry of gulls behind her meshed with the rustling leaves ahead. When Bree stepped between the first tree trunks, it was blissful. Her skin may have been bronzed that late in the summer, but the kiss of shadows was always a relief. Muscles aching, she lugged the buckets through the trees and into the town clearing.
Outside her hut, Mad Mia was chanting to the skies for rain, a bunch of bird bones clinking around her neck. A fish, skewered over her fire and long forgotten, was charred black. Still, she was not too distracted to ignore Bree. The woman’s eyes seemed to bore into Bree long after she’d passed by, burning through her skin, as though she were the one putting on a ridiculous display.
It occurred to Bree that Mad Mia might be concerned about Heath. It seemed most of the village was aware something had happened, for a small crowd was gathered outside Lock’s hut.
Bree had called the place home ever since her mother passed and Lock’s mother, Chelsea, insisted that no eight-year-old should grow up alone. Bree’s old home stood empty on the edge of the village, its roof buckling, its dirt floor cold. She visited it often, just in case the ghost of her mother was lonely. (She wasn’t. An empty house is an empty house.)
Inside, Bree could hear Lock arguing with Sparrow, the village healer. She pushed her way through the curious crowd, buckets still in hand, and ducked into the one-room home. The air was heavy. Bunches of seaweed hung drying from the rafters. Chelsea had left a half-woven basket on the dining table. A first for her. She never set aside her weaving uncompleted. Ness, Lock, Chelsea, and Sparrow were huddled around one of the four beds on the opposite end of the room.
“What’s going on?” Bree asked, setting down the fish.
Ness twisted to glare. Lock’s eyes were heavy. Sparrow moved, and Bree saw.
Heath.
His breathing was panicked, his skin caked in sweat. A wooden spike skewered his left leg, just above the knee.
The noise that escaped Bree was more animal than human. She knew how this had happened.
It was her fault.
Her trap.
TWO
BREE’S MOTHER HAD BEEN THE best storyteller in all of Saltwater. People would gather around the fire when she told tales, the tone of her voice and the crackle of burning wood equally addicting. She could make the imaginary real, the impossible plausible. Bree didn’t know how she did it, but her mother weaved magic with words.
There was a certain tale she recounted most often. On an island very much like their own, villagers faced a hard summer. The sun was strong and the sea unyielding. No matter the number of lines cast or nets hauled, no fish could be summoned for the tables. Desperate, the young men of the village set out to hunt the herons that frequented the shorelines, but were stopped by a girl named Hope. She was on the brink of womanhood, her frame just starting to soften, with eyes so wide everyone assumed she could see the future.
“Don’t kill them,” Hope warned. “The herons feed on the fish as we do. If we spare them, they will lead us to new food.”
And so the village watched the herons for nearly a week, their stomachs growling as they ate only grass from the ocean and greens from the earth. When the birds fled across the ocean, flying to wherever better food could be found, the people turned on Hope. They claimed she’d misled them, and called for her death. She was tied to a pole in town, but before a flame could be brought to the dry leaves surrounding her, a single heron flew over the village. Following the bird into the heart of their island, the people found a small lake. There, a massive creature emerged from the woods and wandered into the shallows. It jumped logs as nimbly as a rabbit, but sprouted branches from its head like a tree. The villagers brought it down with their spears and though everyone ate until full, there was still meat to spare for days to come.
Bree knew this tale was her mother’s invention. But a beautiful story can make fantasy preferable to reality, and a piece of Bree wished it were true. The herons became her favorite—graceful birds that promised hope and bounty—and if Saltwater was home to herons, why not also this mythical animal that could feed everyone in the village?
Lock used to help Bree hunt for the creature. After Bree’s ma died and the two began sharing a roof, it became their game, a distraction from the pain of Bree’s loss. They’d look for the creature’s prints in the forest. They’d throw spears at fallen trees for target practice. Lock theorized about the creature’s weight, and Bree proposed an inground trap—one fashioned so the animal could wander right into their grasp. After digging, they’d lined the belly of the pit with sharpened tree limbs, then covered the opening with weak boughs and foliage.
They caught nothing. Childhood had fled them, along with the boldness to believe such colorful tales. By the time Lock was fourteen (Bree, twelve), they’d given up on the creature entirely. Lock had suggested they dismantle the trap, and Bree hadn’t had it in her. It was one thing to not believe, another to declare it so openly. She’d argued to let the trap fall to the wear of the seasons, and that had been the last she’d thought of it.
Until today.
With Heath.
She could picture it clearly, the boy wandering into the trees to escape the heat of the day. Chelsea was likely busy weaving and didn’t see him leave. Or maybe she was too preoccupied to really care. Heath’s fever had been light when Bree kissed his forehead earlier that morning. For him, it was a good day, a chance for Chelsea to breathe a little easier and set down her stress.