Shallows (Preview)

Song

He couldn't breathe.
Water alternately pushed and pulled at him.
Suspended.
Straining.
His lungs burned and he wanted his mother.
A song. Music. Words.

Mother?

No, but a sea chanty she often sang over him.
Music in the water. Words.
Something pushing harder than the waves.

Sand.
Air.
Breath.

Mother.

Emerson woke up in a cold sweat, his clenched fists shaking and causing the muscles in his arms to cramp. He drew a gasping breath that sent his head spinning. He was in his own bed, the one he was nearly too long for. No water enveloped him, he wasn't drowning.

He sat up and scrubbed his eyes, trying to regulate his too-quick breathing. It had just been a dream.

The dream. It had been the dream. The one that had plagued him for years and had given him an unnaturally strong fear of the sea. The one that had returned more frequently and vividly every year around the Hunting Time ever since he could remember.

17 years is too long to have the same nightmare.

He grimaced in the barely grey light. It was just before dawn, he reckoned. With a sudden, restless movement, he threw off his quilt and stood. Quietly, he slipped into his trousers and loose white shirt. He carried his boots with him, walking softly on stocking feet as to not waken his mother. At the door of their cottage, he slipped the scuffed black boots on and laced them quickly. Snatching his heavy woolen coat from its peg, he donned it and then pulled a newsboy cap down over unruly black hair.

With stealth that came of far too much practice, he opened the door at just the right speed to avoid the creaking it was prone to. Slipping out into the predawn chill, he let his feet carry him to a worn path just beyond the small cottage.

The path began smooth and sandy, but quickly became rocky and steep. After several minutes, Emerson reached the top and turned toward the sea. A stiff breeze blew in, as was always the case this close to the shore. It pushed at his unbuttoned wool coat, rippling the thinner fabric of his shirt.

He didn't feel the cold, for his ears were straining to hear through the noise of the breeze moaning around the cliff and the waves breaking down below.

He reached the edge of the cliff and stood a moment, letting the wind drive him back a foot or two. His mother would worry if she could see him.

Dropping to one knee, he closed his eyes and listened with all he was worth.

Nothing.

Without realizing it, he held his breath as if the very sound of his own breathing might be drowning out the song he listened for. After a moment, a familiar feeling of panic crawled up his throat, and he took a gasping breath, falling back to a sitting position.

Emerson cursed quietly under his breath, amazed at his own weakness. He snatched the cap off his head and ran frustrated fingers through the tangle of his hair.

He turned the cap around in his hands, staring at it unseeingly. The cold finally penetrated his thoughts, and he closed up his coat and replaced his cap. I'm such a fool. Why do I keep doing this? Why does the sea terrify me and yet call to me with the faint memory of a song?

He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. Who expects the sea to yield a song? Am I mad?

But the fact remained: something told him the sea had sung to him once. It was like his dream, but more vivid. More like a memory.