The Girl Who Pulls the Tides - ONC 2021

chapter 1

I wake up to the smells of sea salt and wild roses, and I know immediately that it's my brother. I open my eyes and find his light hazel gaze staring down at me.

And then I notice something slightly disorienting: I'm not in my bed. I'm at my desk, slumped over my typewriter, using it as a rather uncomfortable pillow. My back twinges in pain as I sit up, aching from the awkward position. I must've fallen asleep while writing. Again.

"Fionn," Jack chastises. His voice is deep and low and quiet, like faraway thunder, and his expression is all serious. "You have a bed for a reason. Might as well sleep in it once in a while."

I yawn in response.

"You've got half the alphabet imprinted on your face."

I run a hand over my face where it had been resting on the typewriter all night long. Sure enough, there are circular indents of the keys all over my right cheek.

"Does it look cool?" I ask.

He squints at me, considering. "Only a little. Hurry up and get dressed—I'm making breakfast."

Jack leaves my room, and I start getting ready quickly, spurred on by the promise of food. I rub the last dredges of sleep from my eyes, clean my teeth, wash my face, and get dressed in a light tunic and brown trousers. I attempt to tie my tangled curls into a messy braid—I can never braid it properly on my own, no matter how many times my friend Mabel tries to teach me—and throw a cotton cap on when I eventually give up.

The smells coming from the kitchen make my mouth water. Jack's frying pancakes and sausage on the stove and toasting sourdough bread in the oven. My stomach gives an excited grumble as I jump up onto the counter next to the stove and watch Jack work. He's a good cook. He learned from our mother; he always used to help her cook dinner at night and bake biscuits on the weekends. I guess I take more after our dad—I love to eat, but I'm helpless in the kitchen.

"So, why were you up so late writing?" Jack asks while flipping the pancakes. "You got an essay due?"

I swing my legs over the edge of the counter. "Nah, just writing for fun."

"What about?"

"The life cycle of barnacles."

Jack snorts. "You're curious about the strangest things."

I send him a wicked grin. "Wanna know how they reproduce?"

"Ew." He scrunches up his face in disgust. "No."

I laugh and accept the plate of food he hands me, smearing butter on my slice of sourdough and stuffing my face with honey-flavored pancakes. "Thanks fo bweakfast," I say around my mouthful of food.

It's almost seven, so we eat quickly. I wash breakfast down with a gulp of almond milk—straight from the carton, which Jack glares at me for—and throw my plate in the sink. The dirty dishes are piling up, and Jack's been nagging me about it for days. I make a mental note to do some chores this weekend.

I barely have time to pull on my boots and grab my knapsack before we're rushing out of our apartment, down the stairs, and through the door. Jack is four years older than me, long out of high school, and old enough to have a job as a fisherman. We walk together every morning, as my school and the harbor are in the same direction.

As we step outside, I take in a lungful of the morning air. The crisp spring breeze carries scents from all around; dewy flowers and fresh fruit from Mrs. Greene's garden, cinnamon and clove spice from Beck's Bakery, cow dung from Mr. Barnaby's farm, and the ever-present salty smell from the sea, which surrounds the island of Norholm for thousands of miles on each side.

I match my brother's strides as we start down the road towards town. I'm not usually one to appreciate things for their beauty, but even I can admit that it's a nice morning. The sun is a golden blemish resting just above the treetops, and the clouds are meandering through the sky as if floating down a lazy river, all fluffy and featherlike, dappled pink and lavender. Sunrises in Norholm are always lovely, almost as a rule.

Jack's shoulders are drawn tight, and it only takes me a second to guess why he's all tense. "There's a blue moon on Saturday, right?" I ask, watching his reaction. Of course, I already know when the blue moon is. Just like everyone else on Norholm, I've got the moon patterns memorized, and I can always feel the growing disquiet of the ocean when a blue moon draws closer.

My brother gives me a quick nod. "Yup."

"How's the water been?"

"How it always is before a blue moon; choppy. Rough. Blustery." Jack rubs the silver pendant clipped to his jacket as he speaks. It's one of the many trinkets he carries with him when he's fishing, meant to ward off Nereids, the sea spirits who haunt the shores of Norholm. They can only be seen twice each year when the moon glows blue in the night sky.

The official stance that the citizens of Norholm have taken towards the Nereids is:

If we leave them alone, they'll leave us alone.

I sigh and look towards the ocean.

Leaving things alone has never been my strong suit.

The walk into town from our apartment building is short, only about ten minutes long. On the mainland, I'd be old enough to have my license, so maybe I'd be able to drive, but cars are unnecessary luxuries on Norholm—only the wealthiest of families can afford to have them imported.

Downtown Norholm is splayed out in a semi-circle surrounding the harbor. It's the busiest part of the whole island, and also the most colorful, as the shops lining the streets are painted all sorts of bright colors in order to attract customers. We pass by Lila's Dress Boutique, which is brimful of beaded dresses, silken gowns, and flouncy skirts. We pass the bakery, which smells of sugar glaze and cinnamon cakes. We pass the apartment buildings, the co-op, the drugstore, the barbershop. As we near the harbor, the salty smell of seaspray and ocean guts grows stronger; the sounds of waves crashing and seabirds screeching gets louder. In the warmer months of spring and summer, the harbor doubles as the town's market, coming alive with vendors selling baked goods and knick-knacks and cheaply woven bracelets. Buskers play instruments by the water's edge, and children run across the docks, hopping from moored ship to moored ship, offering to wash fisher boats for a spare coin.

My friend Mabel sells her paintings here to earn a little extra cash. Mrs. Greene markets delightful bouquets picked fresh from her garden while Mr. Willard peddles good-luck charms to the fishermen, promising that they'll keep the Nereids away. He makes good money from it. Jack bought his silver pendant from Mr. Willard years ago when he first started fishing.

I spot Jack's boat tied up to the dock. It's an ugly thing, but it's all we could afford—a worn-down hodgepodge of dented aluminum, steel, and fiberglass, named The Sea Beauty for some reason I cannot fathom. It might be ironic. But my brother is not, historically, an ironic guy.

"Have a good day," I tell him. "Catch us a swordfish."

Jack grins. He makes his living catching silver-striped lobsters and bullfish, selling them at the market or to the local butcher. But if he were to catch a swordfish, we'd earn a month's wage in a day. I could buy thirty cinnamon cakes from the bakery.

"I'll try," he says.

"And be careful."

He nods. "I always am." By careful, he means that he's got his silver pendant, a pocketful of wild roses, and a jar of dirt hanging from his necklace. "No chance I'll run into any Nereids."

But I'm not worried about Nereids. It's the ocean that he needs to be wary of, all dark and deep and devastatingly unpredictable. He's brave to go out onto the water each day, after what happened with our parents.

I haven't even dunked my toes into the ocean since they died.

I give Jack a nod. I want to hug him. He pats my shoulder and heads off towards the sea.