Face the Wind Read online

  BOOKS BY CAREN J. WERLINGER

  Novels:

  Looking Through Windows

  Miserere

  In This Small Spot

  Neither Present Time

  Year of the Monsoon

  She Sings of Old, Unhappy, Far-off Things

  Turning for Home

  Cast Me Gently

  The Beast That Never Was

  When the Stars Sang

  A Bittersweet Garden

  Invisible, as Music

  Face the Wind

  Short Stories:

  Twist of the Magi

  Just a Normal Christmas (part of Do You Feel What I Feel? Holiday Anthology)

  The Dragonmage Saga:

  Rising From the Ashes: The Chronicles of Caymin

  The Portal: The Chronicles of Caymin

  The Standing Stones: The Chronicles of Caymin

  Face the Wind

  Published by Corgyn Publishing, LLC.

  Copyright © 2020 by Caren J. Werlinger

  All rights reserved.

  e-Book ISBN: 978-1-953070-00-5

  Print ISBN: 978-1-953070-01-2

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Web site: www.cjwerlinger.wordpress.com

  Cover design by Patty G. Henderson

  http://blvdphotografica.wixsite.com/boulevard

  Cover Photo: Yaroslav Gerzhedovich/Shutterstock

  Interior decoration: Can Stock Photo/Red Koala

  E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  This work is copyrighted and is licensed only for use by the original purchaser and can be copied to the original purchaser’s electronic device and its memory card for your personal use. Modifying or making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, without limit, including by email, CD, DVD, memory cards, file transfer, paper printout or any other method, constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Piracy is stealing!

  To all of my mothers

  Acknowledgements

  Trying to remember the people and influences that helped to shape a new novel can be tough, because sometimes those prompts happened years before the book actually got written.

  In this case, though, it’s much simpler. I’d never written a true sequel. I don’t count The Dragonmage Saga, as it was always intended to be a trilogy (or more… someday). But readers responded so warmly to When the Stars Sang, seeming to fall in love with Little Sister Island as much as I did, that they got me thinking. There were more stories to tell, more characters whose lives were left in limbo at the end of that book. When fellow author Debra Holland took the time to write me and suggest a sequel, the idea seriously took hold, so a huge thank-you to Debra.

  My thanks, also, to Kassie and Denni, who graciously read the first several chapters of the (very rough) first draft, and provided me with feedback and guidance for the discussion of the Coquille tribe. I’m so appreciative of their willingness to take this on as the pandemic began raging.

  Speaking of the pandemic, the world will probably always now be divided into “BC” (before coronavirus) and “AC” (after coronavirus). I started writing this novel late in 2019, well before the virus was even on our horizon, and I saw no need to alter it. I don’t know if or when I’ll write a book set in this new world we live in. The next few in the queue are set further back in time, so I probably won’t be delving into the pandemic any time soon. I think I’ll prefer to go the escape route with my reading, as well.

  Thank you to my editor, Lisa, who always helps me make my stories better (and helps me realize how many times I overuse the same words. You’d think I’d have learned by now!). Thanks as well to Danielle for her eagle proofreading eyes.

  And to my spouse, Beth. Your encouragement, especially when the doubts begin to take root, has meant the world to me.

  To my readers, I wish you all good health and safe times with family and friends. Take good care.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Prologue

  10th October 1760

  Wind shrieked through the seams around the porthole, and waves pounded the ship with a roar that drowned out voices. Ida clung for dear life to the wooden side of her bunk as the ship rolled impossibly high and then dropped with a sickening plunge. Her other arm was wrapped around her little brother, Thomas. Across from her, others’ mouths were open in screams she couldn’t hear, barely visible in the gloomy semi-darkness of the passenger hold. The whale oil lamps had guttered out long ago, and what little could be seen through the porthole was almost as dark as night.

  Water poured through the cracks of the trapdoor at the top of the ladder, splashing to the floor of the hold to mix with the vomit that swilled about with the pitching of the boat.

  One man, panicked, crawled out of his bunk. Unable to keep his footing on the wet boards, his feet flew out from under him as the ship tilted again. He slid on his back, grasping at anything he could reach. The boat tipped the other way, and he tumbled toward the ladder. Seizing it, he hauled himself up the rungs and pounded on the trapdoor.

  “Let us out!” he bellowed. Another wash of water sluiced through the cracks, splashing into his face and causing him to choke. He gagged and spat, hammering on the hatch. “We’ll die down here!”

  Ida watched, as did the others, waiting to see if anyone would open the hatch door. Above them, she heard muffled shouts.

  The boat heaved again, rising almost vertically before falling to crash with an ominous crack of timbers. The man on the ladder lost his grip and fell heavily, landing on his shoulder. With a howl of pain, he grabbed his arm, now twisted grotesquely.

  The ship pitched sideways, and there were renewed cries from above decks. A groan from overhead grew louder until the wall opposite Ida’s bunk suddenly caved in with a deafening explosion. She threw herself over Thomas to protect him. When she opened her eyes, an enormous mast lay atop the bunks, crushing the boy lying in the upper one. She got only a momentary glance at his lifeless eyes staring skyward before water began gushing through the opening, filling the hold. Other people clambered and wriggled out of the bunks now submerged under the deluge.

  With the extra weight of the water coming in, the boat could no longer right itself and began to list heavily. All of the people tumbled out of their bunks, linking arms as they scrambled for the ladder. One young man wrenched a splintered board loose from where the mast had come through and used it to hammer the trapdoor until it burst upward. The climb up the ladder was precarious as more water cascaded through, beating on their heads, trying to bear them down. But do
wn was certain death.

  Ida shoved Thomas ahead of her, up the ladder, but before she could climb through the hatch opening, he was swept across the deck by another wave.

  “Thomas!”

  Her scream was lost in the storm. All about her, sailors clung to ropes and rigging as they fought to bring the sails down. The broken mast had sailors trapped in its lines. They flailed helplessly, waves washing over them as they tried desperately to free themselves. One man, already dead, flopped flaccidly with the churning of the ocean.

  Ida squinted through the stinging rain, searching for her brother. She caught sight of his white face, his arm wrapped about the splintered side rail.

  “I’m coming!” she yelled at him, letting go of the side of the hatch to allow herself to slide sideways across the wet decking until she skidded into a large coil of rope.

  Squatting inside the coil, she took the free end and threw it in Thomas’s direction. “Grab hold!”

  But another wave washed over the deck, full into her brother’s face. When the water cleared, Thomas was gone.

  All around her, men shouted, women and children cried and clutched to one another. The ship rode lower as it took on more water. She thought she saw Thomas’s starkly pale face bobbing in the waves beyond the boat. She hesitated a moment more and then stepped out onto the slippery deck, letting herself slither closer and closer to the edge. When the next wave hit and took her with it, she wasn’t prepared for the battering force of the water, driving her under.

  She fought her way toward the surface, but another wave crashed upon her, tumbling her through the water so that she didn’t know which way was up. Her lungs were ready to burst when her head broke free into air. She drew in a quick breath just before another wave pummeled her, crushing her with pulverizing force. Clawing at the water, she swam toward the surface. A chunk of wood slammed into her head, nearly knocking her unconscious. She grabbed at it, hauling herself partially onto it, and tried to clear her foggy vision.

  “Thomas!” she cried. “Thom—”

  Another wave washed over her, filling her mouth. Her stomach convulsed and she threw up all the salt water she’d swallowed. Exhausted, she dragged herself further onto the wooden beam she desperately grasped. In the distance, faint screams came to her through the raging storm, but she could no longer see the ship.

  The endless night seemed to stretch on, and she wondered vaguely if this was eternity, if she was in one of the places in hell the priest back home had threatened them with.

  Through the gloom, she thought she saw movement. She squinted into dark faces, bobbing on the water atop strange floating logs. They spoke words she didn’t understand.

  Her eyes closed, but she dreamed that hands reached out of the darkness, dragging her to safety and warmth.

  Chapter 1

  Molly Cooper shivered in the pre-dawn darkness. Maybe Kathleen had been the smart one, still home, snuggled in a warm bed. Even Blossom had given her only a waggle of his tail before curling more tightly into his dog bed.

  Every year, Molly recalled, she did this. Just because the calendar said April didn’t mean the weather—or the water—at Little Sister Island was ready to welcome spring. But, after a long winter of rowing indoors, the itch to get out on the ocean was so strong, Molly couldn’t resist.

  She tugged the oars out of the Toyota’s cargo hold, locking them into the scull resting on the sand. She briefly debated not shedding her extra layers, but she knew if she dressed too warmly to begin, she’d be overheated halfway through her row, and then the cold air would chill her sweaty body that much faster. Gritting her teeth, she stripped down to tights and a couple of wicking layers for her upper body. She zipped up a fleece vest and buckled on her inflatable life jacket over top. The sand crunched icily as she shoved the scull sideways into the water and stepped in, managing to do it with only one wet shoe.

  A few minutes later, she was pulling with long, even strokes, propelling the scull over the calm water. Behind her, the sky lightened, gradually throwing her shadow onto the water in her wake.

  She soon warmed and was glad she’d bitten the bullet for those cold initial minutes. God, I love this. Her indoor rower, though it was a lifesaver during the long, cold months of a Maine winter, couldn’t compare to the freedom of getting out on the water. She heard a few gulls mew in search of breakfast. Her own stomach rumbled. She paused her rowing, reaching for an insulated bottle filled with a warm power drink. The scull bobbed on the gentle swells, and Molly watched the black hulk of Little Sister slowly come into full view as the line between sunlight and shadow lowered. The trees that clung to the bluff were still leafless this time of year. She was far enough out that, in the distance, the granite Head was visible with its wind turbines catching what breezes were beginning to blow. Last, the narrow beach from which she’d launched gleamed gold when the sunlight touched it.

  A shadow moved there. Molly narrowed her eyes and smiled to see Kathleen and Blossom on the sand. Kathleen waved in her direction. Molly waved back and picked the oars up. She watched them walk on while she resumed her course, just a little while longer away from the island before she turned around. It was hard to remember when she used to daydream about rowing away and never coming back. Now, her reasons for coming back disappeared into the trees.

  She had a few oil deliveries to make today, and that nearly always involved having to clean and repair and restart a few furnaces. She was proud of the fact that the islanders’ oil consumption had dropped by more than half from last winter, thanks to the efforts they’d all made to add solar to most of the houses. They still relied on oil for heat in the deepest cold, but the memory of the shortage they’d faced last year thanks to the hostile actions of Kathleen’s father—Molly stopped that train of thought. It always got her riled up, and she didn’t want to spoil this first time on the water. It would be the only time she got to herself all day.

  Maybe Kathleen would have pancake batter mixed and ready to go by the time she got home. Her stomach rumbled again, her back and arms aching in a familiar, pleasant way. Just as she decided to turn the scull and head back, Little Sister shimmered, like a desert mirage. A moment later, a ripple ran through the ocean, a small tidal wave racing in her direction. When it reached her, the scull rose and then fell back to a calm sea.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Molly squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, but when she opened them, everything looked normal. The island solid and real, the water around her undisturbed. She shook her head and dug one oar in to turn around.

  By the time she rowed back and got the scull and oars loaded, the sun was fully up. She cranked the ignition and bumped the 4-Runner over the rocky terrain. At the road, she hesitated before turning toward town.

  Her hunch was justified when she saw her mother’s SUV parked at the diner. Reaching for her jacket, she hurriedly parked beside her mom. Inside, Wilma was behind the counter, pouring coffee into a line of white mugs while Kathleen carried them to where a couple of tables had been hastily pushed together. She flashed a smile when she saw Molly.

  “We wondered if you’d find us,” she said.

  Blossom trotted over for a pat and then hurried back to the tables.

  Molly quickly took in the odd crowd assembled. Her mother, Jenny, slid a mug of coffee over to Louisa Woodhouse, whose silver hair was hanging loose over her shoulders, the first time Molly could remember not seeing it primly tucked into its usual bun. Wilma whisked away the breakfast plates of the last couple of men sitting at the counter, shooing them out the door. With a curious glance at the women bustling about, they scooted.

  In the kitchen, Nels bent down to the pass-through and called to his wife. Wilma took the heaping platters of eggs and bacon and toast that he’d prepared. She set everything on the counter alongside a stack of plates.

  “Let’s all just help ourselves.”

  While Jenny filled a plate for Louisa, the door opened and Miranda Shannahan came in, c
losely followed by Siobhan Greyeagle.

  “What the bloody hell was that?” Siobhan asked, looking annoyed as she tried to finger-brush her mane of wild, red curls into some semblance of tameness. Giving up, she accepted a cup of tea from Wilma.

  “You sit down,” Wilma said with a calming pat on the shoulder. “We all felt it.”

  Molly loaded a plate and made a quick bacon sandwich with some of the toast. Shoveling eggs into her mouth with the fork in her other hand, she alternated eggs and sandwich while the others got situated.

  “Hungry?”

  Molly glanced up at Kathleen, standing beside her. “Starving,” she managed to mumble around a mouthful.

  Kathleen set a steaming cup of coffee in front of her and bent to kiss her cheek. “Salty.”

  Molly gave an apologetic shrug.

  “We’re just waiting for—”

  The door’s bell tinkled again.

  “Well, that didn’t take long.” Rebecca Ahearn nodded approvingly at the group gathered. She took her gloves and jacket off, depositing them on an empty table before quickly filling a plate herself.

  Molly shifted over to make room for her aunt.

  “Eat while everything is hot,” Wilma said.

  For a few minutes, the only sounds were the metallic clinks of forks against plates and the intermittent thunks of coffee mugs being set down on the tabletops.

  Rebecca was the first to finish. She cradled her cup in her hands, surveying the women assembled. “I assume we’re all here at this hour because we all felt the same thing.”

  Molly quickly scanned the table as everyone nodded. “What did you feel?”

  “Didn’t you?” Rebecca’s sharp eyes probed.

  “I was rowing.”

  “What did you feel, then?”

  Molly paused her eating to try and figure out how to describe it. “It was more what I saw. The island kind of… shivered.”

  Everyone froze mid-drink or mid-bite.

  Jenny frowned. “Shivered.”

  “Yeah. You know how things,” Molly waggled her fingers, “kind of shiver in heat waves, like in those movies set in the desert? That’s what it looked like. And then came the wave.”