1The Swing of the Sea
THE HARVEST MOON is a spotlight leading June Danforth deeper into the woods. The girl is lost on the stark neck of land that occupies the coastline halfway between Boston and Cape Cod, with no clear memory of how she got there.
June remembers the audition—the casting director applauding her improvisation—and then leaving the high school with a friend. But the rest of the night is a blur, and the harder June tries to pin down specifics, like where Tali is now, the tighter her muscles get, the clammier her skin feels. Her train of thought is a twisted wreck. The only thing she’s certain of is that something terrible is happening to them. She needs to keep moving. To find Tali.
June’s ballet flats are at odds with the terrain. The rocks are bent on tripping her, and thorny branches grab at her hem, her collar, her sleeves. Tired of defending her clothes, June considers taking them off. She could leave the slippers on a rock. Hang her coat from a tree. But the offshore wind is a killjoy; it sings a warning: “He will see them. He will find you.”
Seconds after picking up her pace, the air current chants louder: “Someone is chasing you.”
June takes the dirt path and stumbles upon a boardwalk. Each time she loses her footing, getting up is harder. Her hands and knees are scraped and bloody; everything stings. But she perseveres, and in no time she’s rewarded. There’s light visible in a distant set of windows. Please be a house. Please be at home. June disregards the “No Trespassing” sign. Whoever lives there will understand when she explains. How will she explain? She’ll say she’s sick. It’s not a lie. After only a burst of sprinting, her stomach stabs and taunts. Her chest is tight. Her hair is drenched, though it’s not raining. June doesn’t sweat this much after taking the most grueling dance class. If only she could lie down. Curl into a ball. Just for the time it takes to figure out what’s going on.
Then the growl of a wolf orders her to stop. His voice, high-pitched though human, says, “It’s okay. You’re tripping. But Jesus, you’ve gotta stop running.”
The animal is covered in yellow-gray fur; his throat and belly shine white courtesy of moonlight. He’s perched on a boulder near the water, his paws hanging limp over the edge. He’s relaxed, as if to say she never had a chance of getting away from him.
“I don’t get what’s happening,” June says. Is she even awake?
“I had no idea you never used before. You should’ve said something.”
The creature points at June, or beyond her. His fingers are long and lean, with knuckles sprouting dark hair. A man’s hand emerges from what she now realizes is merely a winter jacket. Part of her wants to turn and see what this wolf-man is pointing at, but the last time she dared look behind her, the gnarly trees wore mocking faces. With every word—his and hers and the ones echoing around her—the rush of the sea gets louder, pounding out a beat in her head. Or is that the start of a migraine? The rocky shoreline draws and pulls water over stone at the same time it distracts June, luring her to it. “Come in,” it says. “The water is fine.”
Despite the vagaries of weather, wind, and tide, she remembers how a single dunk can cool an overheated body. And June is on fire.
The last time she hit the beach, she was with her parents. The scene that materializes before her now is as real as anything else she’s seen tonight. In it, a younger version of herself rushes the surf, holding hands with her mother. A beautiful woman, still alive and healthy.
But the image fades out as quickly as it appeared, and June is left desperate to feel the icy sea on her arms and legs. Except the way into the water is a puzzle.
Start with your clothes, she tells herself. June undoes button after button, pausing only to loosen her coat’s belt. She struggles with the mechanics of sleeves. When the thing is half off, she notices the rigidity of her leg muscles, the worsening tension in her thighs, her crampy calves. She wonders, Will I be able to swim?
June looks toward the man for help, but he’s no longer atop the rock. Where did he go? And how long has she been standing there staring at her feet. Shit. Shoes. She goes to take off her flats, when someone says, “Leave them on. Lie down. Here.”
The voice is familiar and also foreboding, muffled and muddled by night sounds and the swing of the sea. Nothing makes sense now. The fringes of rocks and outer ledges light up until the entire landscape flashes red, white, and blue, in fireworks spectacular. Neon clouds obscure her vision and June is falling. Falling back, falling over, falling down, falling
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