A Still and Silent Sea Page 3

  Another flash of lightening bathed the clearing in light for a split second. One one thousand. Two one thousand. And thunder rolled over them. “You’re not scared of the thunder?” she said.

  “Not with you,” Russel said. “Giddyup horsie.”

  Life didn’t offer many choices to twelve-year-olds. You’re coming to Scotland. You’ll go to school. Your mother is gone. So, when you got the chance to mess with a jerk like Waylan, you took it. Especially if it means you’d save Mom’s dragon and a boatload of treasure.

  Brother and sister moved through the dark, heading for the shore.

  Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ

  Russel snored on Gracie’s back. She leaned forward to keep him from falling off. There wasn’t much light on the slippery trail, so she had to measure each step to keep them upright.

  This was new territory. Gracie hadn’t been up on this hillside, but she had been to the beach once with Russel. It was nestled in between the village of Sandhead and Sandhead Bay. A few lights in the village below guided her way. At least she hoped it was Sandhead that guided her. In the darkness, she couldn’t see any tracks in the mud. Downhill was a clue. And the lights were a clue. She’d keep descending until she got to the lights.

  Gracie cast her eyes down, straining to discern shadow from root and rock. More thunder rolled overhead, but the rain hadn’t yet caught up with them.

  The light on the trail improved. The blue laces on her brown boots stood out more clearly. Rocks were easier to see. Without her noticing, a rushing white noise had overtaken the rustling of leaves around her. Running water. She’d seen several streams wandering in the pastures by the dig site. Crossing a stream with a kid on your back wasn’t going to be fun, but wherever a wheelbarrow could go, so could she. The ground leveled a bit, and Gracie looked up. There was a glow coming from up around a corner. A lighted bridge would be welcome.

  Russel got heavier with every step. Maybe she’d rest at the bridge.

  The sound of turbulent water grew louder.

  Gracie rounded the bend, and her feet came to a stop. She nudged Russel on her back. “Wake up.” She nudged him a little harder.

  “Gracie?” He was awake.

  She had been right about the existence of a bridge. But she’d been wrong about the source of the light. Before her was a narrow wood footbridge spanning over a rocky stretch of stream. It looked like a solid bit of craftsmanship, with handrails and everything.

  Unfortunately, it was on fire.

  “Smoke,” Russel said.

  “I don’t see any smoke. Just fire.” Gracie took a deep breath and walked closer. The bridge stretched about eight feet across the small canyon below. Blue flames danced and spread over the center planks. Broken shards of glass littered the area. “Aberlour A'bunadh,” Gracie said. “Waylan didn’t get to drink it, he set it on fire.”

  “It’s hot,” Russel said. Gracie knelt down, and he dropped to his feet behind her.

  “I don’t think it’s that hot.” She stood up and ruffled his hair. “I think I remember this from chemistry. Blue flames mean it’s a clean burning fire. No smoke. Not much heat. I’ll carry you over.”

  Russel pointed down to the stream. “Carry me there.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” She smiled down at him. It was the first smile that had crossed her lips in a long while. “I don’t think we’re going through the stream. Remember the Bolton Strid?”

  “No,” Russel shook his head.

  “Dad told us about it the other day. It’s a stream in England that swallows anyone who falls in.”

  “Anyone?”

  “Everyone,” Gracie said. “I can’t tell how deep the water is here, but it’s really moving. I don’t want to get swallowed like that. We’ll cross the bridge.”

  “It’s hot.” The fire continued to spread. Parts were moving from blue to yellow. She’d have to run over the blue parts.

  Another peel of thunder shook the air around them. Gracie reached down and scooped Russel into her arms. He wrapped his arms and legs around her. She squeezed him tight. “It’ll be fine. One. Two.”

  “It’s hot,” Russel said.

  “Three.” Gracie put one foot in front of the other. She gained speed, rocking Russel with her hips as her legs stretched for each stride.

  It was a little hot.

  Her boots hit the first planks with a hollow thud. Another step and flames licked at her legs. It stung where it touched the bare ankle between pants and socks. She veered left to stay with blue and away from yellow. Glass crunched under her feet.

  Halfway across the bridge, the heat really pushed back up at her. Her ankles, shins, and knees felt like they were on fire. Gracie kept going. Russel clutched her tighter than before, burying his head in her neck.

  Another few steps and the bridge groaned up at them. Almost there.

  And then, they were through. She ran ten feet beyond the fire and stopped. She put Russel down. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

  Russel’s brave face gave way to wide, fearful eyes. He pointed at her feet.

  Gracie looked down. Yellow and orange flames danced around her ankles, crawling their way up her legs.

  Her pants were on fire.

  She turned and ran back toward the stream, dropped her butt to the ground and slid down the slope to the right of the bridge. The fire writhed on her legs, clinging to the green cotton.

  With a hiss, the flames disappeared, and she submerged her legs under water up to her hips. The cold water surged by and tugged with force on her boots. A few feet to her left, the fire spread further across the bridge.

  “Gracie?” Her brother’s voice was full of uncertainty.

  “I’m okay.” Gracie’s whole body shook. Her teeth chattered. But she didn’t feel any cold.

  She pulled her legs out of the stream and crawled back up the bank. Her ankles and shins tingled. Maybe from the fire. Maybe from the icy water. She stood and reached down to feel her legs. “I’m okay.” She took several shuddering deep breaths and bent further to inspect her legs by the light of the bridge fire. Parts of her pants were charred black, and her shoelaces had melted together. The bare skin on her ankles peeked out at her in a new rosy shade but seemed okay.

  She walked back to him. “You were right. Fire’s hot. I should pay more attention in class.”

  Russel stood, hands by his side. A fit of tears hung just around the corner, but he wasn’t quite sure if he should be terrified.

  “That was new.” Gracie let out a long exhale and forced a smile at him. “I’ve never been on fire before. You?”

  He shook his head.

  “How about another piggyback?”

  He nodded his head.

  She turned around and bent down for him. “Hop up. We’ve got a boat to catch.”

  Russel climbed on, Gracie stood, and they marched down the trail. The fire’s light faded behind them.

  The first raindrops splattered on Gracie’s head. Perfect timing.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  SANDHEAD

  Sandhead was a small village tucked right on the coast. Gracie plodded out onto Main Street, with Russel on her back. Rain pelted down on her head, ran through her limp brown hair, soaked her clothes, and collected in her melted boots.

  Waylan had said he needed high tide, well that’s because there wasn’t a dock in Sandhead. He needed to land the boat on the beach. She knew where to find Waylan and the wheelbarrow.

  “I’m cold,” Russel said into her ear.

  “Let’s get you out of the rain,” Gracie said. Up ahead, lights beckoned from a long, squat hotel and the tavern next door. Both were old, timber-framed buildings.

  “In there,” Gracie said.

  “Okay.” Russel’s little teeth clicked as they chattered.

  Gracie moved down the middle of Main Street. As she approached the front door, the tavern’s happy babble of conversation and laughter competed with the thrum of the rain.

  The
front door might have been as old as the tavern itself. Streaks of red paint still clung to the wide, weathered planks. The wood was covered in scars. But it was smooth in the lower right corner where countless feet had pushed at the door. Scars were good. They told mysterious stories. Smooth was boring.

  Gracie reached out, grabbed the handle and turned. The door stuck, and she gave it a shove with her right foot. It swung in, and warm air rushed out at her.

  A fire played merrily in a large stone fireplace to her right. The sounds of conversation died down. About a dozen sets of eyes turned on her and her brother. Most of the customers were older men and women standing or sitting around a long table by the fire. Gracie knelt down and dropped Russel to the floor.

  At the back of the room, a wood bar extended for about five feet. A short man with closely cropped brown hair and kind, dark eyes watched her with eyebrows drawn. “Hello, Lass. What can I do for you,” he said.

  Gracie stood still. Bottles lined the wall behind the barkeep. There was even a bottle of Aberlour A'bunadh. Gracie flirted with the thought of charging after Waylan with a Molotov cocktail. She dismissed it. Enough fire for one night. Plus the rain.

  “There’s a dig site up on one of the Breckinridge pastures.” Gracie took a deep breath. “Let them know their children are missing.”

  “And you are the children?” the barkeep said.

  “Yes.” Gracie nodded. “And treasure too.”

  Everyone in the room stayed rooted in place, watching the odd American girl in her drenched A’s t-shirt. “They’ve lost treasure?” the man said.

  “Yeah, it’s probably at the beach. You should send some police if you can. Just let them know.” Gracie knelt down and put her hands on Russel’s shoulders. “It’s warm here,” she said. “They’ll take care of you. I’m going to go out, but I’ll be right back.”

  “Now wait a minute,” the barkeep said. “You can’t leave.”

  Gracie stood, ruffled Russel’s wet hair, and stepped out the door. “Sorry,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She closed the door and turned back into the rain. Cold drops pelted her face. It didn’t matter, she was already as wet as she was going to get.

  Gracie ran down Main Street. She knew how to get to Sandhead Beach from here.

  Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ

  Wet sand pushed back at Gracie’s soggy boots. Her legs ached, her back hurt, and her left palm throbbed where the barbed wire had left its mark. Damn Mama Cow. A jacket would have been a good thing on that cold, rainy beach.

  Up ahead, a flashlight bobbed in the dark. Probably not too many people out for a rainy stroll along the water at night. Probably Waylan and company.

  Gracie’s chest rose and fell as she pushed herself to get to the treasure before it got to the boat. The beam from the flashlight grew. She closed in. Waylan’s tall, lanky shadow appeared ahead of her, pushing the wheelbarrow. Coira walked out in front with the flashlight.

  Without slowing her feet, Gracie veered toward Waylan. She lowered her shoulder and tackled him at the knees. They hit the sand together with a thud. “Oof,” Waylan said. Gracie’s shoulder smarted. The wet sand cushioned their fall about as well as concrete would have.

  Coira spun, shining the flashlight on them. Gracie held her hand up to shield her eyes from the light.

  Silver glinted in front of her in the sand. The force of her tackle had knocked some artifacts out of the wheelbarrow only a few feet away. The dragon cross and a few other pieces lay in the sand.

  Gracie reached her right arm out for the cross, but Waylan’s hand latched onto her elbow, pulling her back. Gracie twisted, lashed out with her right knee, and pulled herself away. She stood just as Coira reached her. Coira knocked her back with a backhanded slap.

  The beach spun, and Gracie found herself back in the sand sitting on her butt. She wiped water from her eyes. Coira and Waylan stood between her and the wheelbarrow.

  Waylan reached down, picked up the cross and a bracelet, and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. He looked back at her. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to let this go,” he said. The flashlight lay in the sand a few feet away and the shadows it cast distorted his square face. “The rain must have put out that fire.”

  “No, I got there before the rain.” Gracie pushed herself to her feet. “I walked through it.”

  “Wow.” Waylan raised his eyebrows. “Okay, then.”

  “Your brother?” Coira said.

  “He’s safe.” A shiver racked Gracie’s body. She steadied herself. “Leave the treasure, and you can get out of here before the cops show.”

  Waylan shook his head. Behind him, voices floated in from the bay. “That’s our ride.” He nodded his head over his shoulder. Long shadows crept up and down his face. “It’s over, Gracie. Things are bad enough. You want worse?”

  “Worse,” Gracie said. She pushed her reluctant body into motion and leaped at Waylan, directing her elbow at his midsection. Their bodies came together with a crunch, but he stayed on his feet. Gracie punched and slapped at him, arms flying. “Those belong in a museum,” she said. She landed a few solid blows. “We’re not losing anything else.”

  Waylan’s fist landed right in her solar plexus. Gracie doubled over. Coira’s hands clamped down on her shoulders from behind and pulled Gracie off him.

  Gracie staggered back. She tried to suck in air, but couldn’t.

  Waylan let out a deep breath. “I’ll tell you,” he said. His leg swiped from the side at her shins and took her feet right out from under her. Gracie flipped in the air and landed with smack on her side. “I think you might be mental. Just give up.” He panted. “Give the fuck up.”

  The wet sand sent chills down Gracie’s left side. She raised her hand and Waylan smacked it down. “You lost. It’s over.” A murky foot sailed through the darkness and landed a heavy kick to her ribs.

  Gracie groaned. “The dragon,” she said. She couldn’t suck in enough oxygen to get the words out. “Museum.”

  Waylan turned and limped back to the wheelbarrow. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “If they pay, a museum can have the whole lot.” He picked up the wheelbarrow handles and pushed it toward the water. Coira’s shadow watched her for another moment, then turned, picked up the flashlight, and followed the creaking wheelbarrow.

  Gracie’s breath returned. She sat up in the sand and listened to them board their boat. Hushed voices floated by her. A loud thud sounded as they dropped the goods onto the wooden hull. Viking treasure returning to sea. Then, the sound of a motor starting up.

  In a few minutes, those sounds faded and Gracie was left with the thrum of rain and the crash of waves. She stood up.

  Everything hurt.

  The tavern was a long walk away. Better get started. Gracie limped her way off the beach and paused when she got to Main Street. She reached behind her and pulled the cross out from where she’d tucked it under her shirt in the hem of her pants. She held it up in the faint light that streamed out a second story window up ahead. She could just make out the slithering dragon design, moving its way between runes.

  “The thing stood up on its hill by the sea,” she whispered.

  A girl could take just about anything from a pocket, with the right distraction. Gracie smiled, winced, and watched the silver glitter.

  Ѯ Ѯ Ѯ

  Outside the window, green fields spread out far below. The plane engines hummed. And so did Russel, sitting happily on Gracie’s lap. They both watched Britain pass below. Almost behind them.

  Gracie wrapped her arms tight around her brother. How much did he understand about what had happened?

  How much did she?

  The world was saturated in loss, but Gracie had managed to hold on to her brother. And a dragon.

  One thing was easy to understand, the universe conspired to rob people of what they loved. She would fight that. Gracie glanced over at her father sitting by the aisle. Roger Stratis leaned back in his chair, Stetson lowered over his eyes. The distance
between them spanned much farther than Russel’s empty seat. He had been in a dark mood since Waylan vanished with most of his prize.

  Saving her brother and the cross hadn’t bought Gracie much appreciation.

  Gracie reached down and scratched her itching ankles. The burns were healing. She gave Russel another squeeze. “I’m going to hold you tight, Shorty. I’m not going to let go.”

  Russel giggled and squirmed. “Never let go.” He wiggled some more. “Okay, now let go,” he said.

  Across an ocean and a continent, their home in Oakland waited. Gracie loosened her grip a little. Russel settled down and watched the Earth beneath them. Viking treasures come and go, but you only get one shot at family. She wasn’t ever letting go.

  Gracie’s Story Continues

  If you enjoyed this book, there is more Gracie Stratis. The series moves forward almost twenty years and follows Gracie and Russel through all sorts of peril. There are currently two more books in the series. Check out the Stratis Detective series page on Amazon here.

  I plan to publish more books in the series in 2017. The best is yet to come!

  Enjoy!

  A.S.A.

  About the Author

  Born in 1977, A.S.A. Durphy wrote Poems and Stories from a young age. "Prove it," you say. Well, okay then. Here is The Wizard from first grade, circa 1983:

  I am a wizard.

  I do not walk on the land, I walk in the air.

  I do not jump over streams, I fly over waterfalls.

  I can tame raccoons.

  I can ask the hawk to fly.

  I can ask the fish to swim.

  I can turn the sky green and the ground blue.

  I can turn stone to gold and gold into a stone.

  Did he just share one of his earliest poems with you? He did. A little bit of humanizing never hurt a bio.

  A.S.A. Durphy is currently writing the Stratis Detective Series. When he's not jogging around the Oakland Hills, you'll find him puzzling through home projects, building furniture, or hard at work in the garden with his lovely wife and daughters.