\nThe mud flats twinkled with the light of a million stars above us in the darkest sky I\u2019d ever seen. Emma knelt beside a salty tributary. It ran in a sandy rut from shore to sea, or at least to the deeper and murkier water waiting to rush back over the sand when the tide came in. A trapped fish\u2014a tiny pollock, from its silver scales\u2014wriggled furiously, its world suddenly narrowed to a salty but barely wet gully.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI can\u2019t believe you\u2019re leaving tomorrow,\u201d Emma said. Already the nights had turned colder\u2014it was just September, but her purple skullcap was pulled down tight over her ears. Despite the chill, she insisted on going barefoot, as if encased in slick seal skin instead of human fragility. Her feet were pale, nearly blue. Asking her if she wanted to put her shoes back on would be met with amusement, so I let her be. If she wanted to warm up, she would. She didn\u2019t need my anxiety heaped over her\u2014not when we had other things to worry about.\n<\/p>\n
\nI wasn\u2019t used to the abrupt turn of weather or the frozen low tides. My blood ran warm, and hers\u2014apparently\u2014ran icy. I was wrapped in wool and denim and fleece, head to toe, and none of it helped.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019d like you to stay, Jeannie,\u201d she said. \u201cCan\u2019t you stay?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI was a shivering, chattering mess, and her request made it worse.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cTourist season is over.\u201d I tried to keep my voice from shaking. \u201cMy aunt\u2019s lease is up at the shop, and the landlord won\u2019t let us stay any longer.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s the ice.\u201d Emma popped up and twirled along the seabed, hands upraised to the dark sky and toes ripping through the small stands of sea water. It was new moon, but the stars were bright enough to spotlight her dancing and dipping. The flame of her red hair bushing out of her hat made it look like a fireball tumbled along the sand.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat about the ice?\u201d I watched her, stuffing down a well of longing. It would do me no good to want what I couldn\u2019t have.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHomer Spit is so narrow,\u201d she said, as though that explained everything. When I didn\u2019t answer, she added, \u201cThe winds blow pretty fierce over the road and up the shoreline\u2014and with the waves coming so high, and the weather so cold from here on out, it doesn\u2019t take much to freeze the pipes and ice everything up. No one in town is willing to risk coming out this way. Well, no one except the fishermen\u2014that\u2019s why the bar at the end of the spit stays open year-round. They\u2019ll endure anything for a beer.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe sound of my laugh echoed off the stands of long, flat rocks. They were usually hidden underwater. The surfaces were still slick, algae clinging to the corners, refusing to let go, even for a second. I could understand the compulsion.\n<\/p>\n
\nEmma plucked something out of the sand and slid it into her pocket. \u201cI\u2019ll admit, there\u2019s not much to do in the off-season\u2014you\u2019d be bored. Still, we\u2019d make our own fun. Shake things up a little.\u201d She paused. \u201cIt <\/em>the night to set your intentions, you know.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThe way she said it\u2014intentions<\/em>\u2014it was like I\u2019d never heard the word before. \u201cIt is?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIt\u2019s the new moon.\u201d Her voice was firm. She sounded so far away. \u201cA night for manifesting our desires.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou sound like those people who go to bore tide parties and the full moon festivals. My aunt says things are tourist schlock.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThe smile in Emma\u2019s voice was clear when she said, \u201cSome of it is. But intention-setting and manifesting are just the same as wishing or saying a prayer. And I wish for so much right now.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSo\u2026like going to church? Church on the beach?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSure, we can think of it like that.\u201d Her bare feet struck wet sand and puddles, and suddenly she stood tall in front of me. \u201cI\u2019ve learned some things\u2014it\u2019s not quite like church, but it\u2019s not\u2026I don\u2019t know. It\u2019s not like other things.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI would miss this when my aunt and I left\u2014the way Emma talked in circles and didn\u2019t quite answer questions, yet still made me curious enough to want to know more. The way her hair looked in starlight. The way her words were so pretty in the night air. I\u2019d be back on the east coast in a week or so, far from Alaska, and there would be no one like her.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSo what is it like then?\u201d I asked, just to hear her speak again.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWe live with nature. We live with the sea and the salmon and the moose and the kittiwakes. The bald eagles and the otters. The whales. Or, I should say, we are allowed <\/em>to live with nature. It\u2019s different here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHere as in Homer? Or here as in Alaska as a whole?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHomer, I think. But intention-setting came long before there were gods to worship. It\u2019s just putting what you want out into the world and hoping it comes true. Manifesting our deepest desires.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI smiled. \u201cIt\u2019s a nice idea. If only prayers and wishes worked.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nEmma flipped her hair over her shoulder. \u201cMaybe yours haven\u2019t, but others\u2019 wishes have come to pass. Last summer I wished for you, right here on this beach, and here you are. Maybe this is just a lucky spot. I don\u2019t know.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI wrinkled my nose and touched her hand. She was sweet, so sweet. \u201cDo I have to remind you that there are tsunami warnings all up and down the spit. I know Homer has earthquakes. People die from silly accidents. That doesn\u2019t exactly strike me as lucky.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cLuck is what you make it. Perhaps you simply have to make the right offerings to the universe.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cOfferings. What, like animal sacrifice?\u201d I laughed.\n<\/p>\n \nEmma smiled, but she was dead serious when she said, \u201cI\u2019ve seen intentions specified with bird feathers\u2014some with animals caught or hunted. It depends on what you wish for, I guess. The strength of the wish you\u2019re manifesting.\u201d She dipped her toe into the pool where the pollock still frantically squirmed. \u201cThis fish, for instance. We\u2019ve been talking about wanting you to stay in Homer, and this fish has been witness. It would make a strong inclusion in our spellwork.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSpellwork? Isn\u2019t that witchcraft?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSemantics. Spellwork is the same as prayer. It\u2019s the same as yearning. It\u2019s intention work.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou can keep saying intention <\/em>this and intention <\/em>that, but I doubt that fish intends on dying. Look how hard he\u2019s working to get back to the ocean.\u201d The pollock surged forward, eager to find its way to a larger pool of water.\n<\/p>\n \nEmma\u2019s eyes sparkled. \u201cI just don\u2019t want you to go, Jeannie. I know I keep saying that, and so do you\u2026that\u2019s what I want. I want you to stay.\u201d\n<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \nHer lips were soft on mine then. Without thinking much about it, I nudged the pollock out of its stream. It flopped beside us, its tail slapping sharply at the sand. I kissed her again. I closed my eyes and wished as hard as I could. A flat tire on the RV. A sudden storm that froze us in for weeks. A fire over the Sterling Highway mountain pass that would making the way impossible. Even to crawl inside her skin and hide there until the spring thaw, where no one could find me.\n<\/p>\n \nEmma knelt abruptly and slipped the now-still fish into her hand. She held out her other hand to me. \u201cLet\u2019s go build the offering then. We\u2019ll see what desires we can put out into the world.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThe tide seemed to rise behind us as we walked ashore, water creeping inward bit by bit. I shivered and pulled my scarf tighter against my throat as the wind picked up against my back. \u201cHow does this work?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou\u2019ll see,\u201d she said. \u201cWalk along the beach and collect whatever treasures you find\u2014driftwood, shells, seaweed, bones. Whatever you run across. Meet me back here in five minutes.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nSo I did. I took off my mittens and stooped to pick up a pearly white shell, then a piece of flotsam. The water had brought back small pieces of the places it had traveled to\u2014the coves near Seldovia, maybe as far away as the Gulf of Alaska or the Bering Sea. Water moved fast here. There was no telling how much of Kachemak Bay\u2019s volume emptied and all the places it had seeped into. Whatever Emma and I were wishing for\u2014asking the sea and the land and the birds to grant us\u2014would fragments of our intentions one day end up on the shores of Russia? Or even as far as away as Japan? I imagined my scarf floating in the ocean all that way.\n<\/p>\n \nI laughed to myself. The sound carried over the contracting mud flats. I should leave those fancies to Emma. She was so much better at it.\n<\/p>\n \nBefore I turned around to meet her, I looked out along the returning water. No matter what we wished for, tomorrow morning my aunt would start up the RV, and we would go. Emma would be here to say goodbye. I would cling to her like my soul would leave my body if I let go. And it would feel that way down to my bones. But my aunt would holler, \u201cLet\u2019s get this show on the road,\u201d and that would be that. I would stare hard out the window, watching Emma as we drove away. Intention-setting or no, it would be nothing more than wishful thinking. I wanted to believe like Emma believed, but I didn\u2019t live in a world where things like that were possible.\n<\/p>\n \nStill, I could pretend\u2014just for one night.\n<\/p>\n \nI zig-zagged over the beach, my fingers burning with cold and sorrow. They were so stiff I could barely pick up the dried starfish half buried under the sand.\n<\/p>\n \nBy the time I arrived at our meeting spot, Emma was already arranging short lengths of weathered wood in a circle the size of a manhole cover. She sat cross-legged, skirt spread over her still-bare feet. She inspected each item I handed her, her smile growing larger with each one.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThis is perfect.\u201d She laid the tiny pollock in the center of circle, then added the starfish and the shell next to it.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat can I do?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cStay right where you are.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe completed the circle with a ring of seaweed and dried moss, a handful of bright white seashells, and a sprinkling of crumbling pinecones. She tucked a handful of feathers here and there. Sprigs of red berries. She lined the entire circle with the stones she\u2019d collected and laid one last piece of driftwood over top.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThat\u2019s really pretty,\u201d I said.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJust like you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThe tide had entirely returned to the bay. It licked up the sand, retreated and advanced over and over again. The wind whipped my dark hair into my face. It tasted of salt.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWould you stand in front of me so I can light this,\u201d Emma said. I moved around the circle and shielded her from the wind. She struck her lighter to flame. It flickered but held long enough to set the top pieces of driftwood on fire. She glanced up at me. Her face was bathed in weak orange light. She gestured to the ground beside her.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDid anyone tell you the ghost story about this stretch of beach?\u201d she said as I folded myself down to sit. The fire spread, contained within the ring of pebbles.\n<\/p>\n \nI shook my head. Sparks cascaded off the wood and seaweed like tiny sprays of starlight. She lowered herself to the sand and huddled against me.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou\u2019ve seen the Seafarer\u2019s Memorial at the end of the spit?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI nodded. If I closed my eyes I could picture it\u2014right off Otter Beach stood a small concrete structure, six pillars holding up a copper roof, and morose statue of a fisherman grasping a dock line and glaring at the road. And to the side was a separate concrete pedestal, three arches supporting an old bell.\n<\/p>\n \nEmma tilted her head toward the end of the spit. The memorial light glowed dimly in the distance. \u201cInside are the names of fisherman lost at sea are engraved on plaques that are mounted to the pillars. The date they died and the name of the boat or ship are also listed. There\u2019s one plaque that\u2019s missing though.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat happened to it?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo one quite knows. It looks as though it was pried up, wrenched right off the pillar, bolts and all. The story I\u2019ve always heard is that the man to whom the plaque belonged died on board his ship and left behind a woman here on the spit.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSo the woman took the plaque then?\u201d I shivered.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cMaybe. The reason I\u2019m telling you this story is because more than one person has said that on cold, dark nights like this one, they\u2019ve seen a ghostly fisherman walking this shore and staring out to the bay.\u201d She gestured to the water.\n<\/p>\n \nI followed the direction of her hand with my eyes. The stars outlined the hulking black profile of the peaks. I knew from seeing them in the daylight that they were snowcapped, and often obscured by fog even on the brightest of days. It was a wildlife refuge, for the most part, with a small airport and a few tiny towns clinging to the very edge of the land.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cFor years, the woman refused to believe she would never see him again. And so on nights\u2014again, on nights like this one\u2014she would come out to the Seafarer\u2019s Memorial and wait for him. A bunch of fisherman found her dead there one morning. Died of hypothermia.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cMaybe you should <\/em>put some shoes on.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWatch for them tonight. The lost fisherman and his lady. The both of them. Legend has it that they reunite here\u2014on this beach. If they appear to you, your soul will belong here in Homer. Maybe more than your soul. That is what I am manifesting for us both. To be intertwined here together forever, like them.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThat\u2019s a little spooky,\u201d I said. \u201cSo what happens then? Let\u2019s say we both see these ghosts. Is it just that I\u2019ll find a way to come back to Homer to be with you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThere were two kids from the high school. They came out here looking for the ghosts. They were never seen again.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThey probably just ran off together. People do that. We <\/em>could do that maybe.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nEmma smiled. The fire was more smoke than flame now. It twirled up into the wind. \u201cThere\u2019s nowhere we could go and not be found. Not really. All I\u2019m asking is that you watch tonight. Keep an eye out. I\u2019ve called them with our circle.\u201d She pointed to the embers. \u201cAnd I\u2019ve set my intentions to see them, to be with you forever. We\u2019ll both be tied here forever.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAnd maybe dead.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI like to think of it more as immortal.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIt\u2019s a nice idea\u2026sort of.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nWe watched the circle smolder. Emma watched the beach. I stared at the bay, at the waves dancing closer and closer to shore. It grew late. When there was nothing left, she sighed and climbed to her feet. We kicked sand over the burned circle.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI\u2019m going to head out the Seafarer\u2019s Memorial to see what I can see.\u201d Emma kissed me softly. \u201cWill you come with me?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI can\u2019t. My aunt will pitch a fit.\u201d My nose prickled with the rush of emotion building behind my forehead.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cOkay. I\u2019ll see you in the morning.\u201d She leaned in and whispered into my ear. \u201cI will keep watch. Will you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n \nMy aunt was securing the last of her store inventory when I finally shut the RV door behind me. She pretended she didn\u2019t see my tear-stained face, just as I pretended not to hate her just a little for not giving me another few days with Emma\u2014or at least another hour or two on the beach with her.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you take the bedroom?\u201d she said without looking at me. \u201cI don\u2019t want to wake you in the morning if I don\u2019t have to\u2014I\u2019ll sleep on the sofa\u2026up here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThat was as close to an acknowledgement of the situation as I was likely to get. She didn\u2019t like the messiness of emotions. When child protective services dropped me at her RV doorstep two years ago, she patted me on the shoulder and showed me where to sleep. She never asked me about what had happened with my parents, but maybe she didn\u2019t need to. Maybe she simply didn\u2019t have time: she was due for a run of festivals in Texas, and so the next day I woke up on the road, the scenery bumping by outside the window.\n<\/p>\n \nI nodded to her and headed back to the bedroom, slid the rickety folding door closed. My life was so small inside this room. I felt like the pollock, trapped in a gully, barely enough water to keep me alive. Outside with Emma, that\u2019s where my world was biggest. I had the bay and the stars and Emma\u2019s ghost story, her belief that one only need to want something badly enough for it to happen. I pulled the curtain back and peered out the back window. Emma was already gone. Not even the tail lights of her car glowed down the spit road. I could imagine her huddled at the memorial, wishing into the winds that now shook the RV.\n<\/p>\n \nI changed into my bedclothes. The wind whipped even more. I imagined it was the fisherman and his woman, coming to keep me in Homer with Emma\u2014but neither were there when I looked out the window again. I stayed up all night with my head propped against the small side window that gave me a view of the beach and, in the distance, the seafarer\u2019s memorial. I kept watch for as long as I could, hoping for any sign of the ghosts, even if that did mean death. Maybe it would be worth it if it meant an eternity with Emma. I kept watch for any sign of her, too, hoping she would give up before it got too cold.\n<\/p>\n \nAll I saw were the dark heads of sleek seals swimming out to the end of the spit.\n<\/p>\n \nWhen I heard my aunt clunking around the kitchen in the morning, preparing to leave, I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. The light was coming up blue across the water, silhouetting the fishing boats heading out for the day. Emma would be coming soon.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cEat a good breakfast,\u201d my aunt said when I appeared. \u201cWe\u2019re not stopping until we get to Anchorage. From there we\u2019ll drive up to Tok to catch the 2, then pick up the 1 again when we cross over into Canada. It\u2019ll be a long drive to Beaver Creek\u2014I think we\u2019ll stop there for the night.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI didn\u2019t care about any of that. I poured a bowl a cereal for myself and bundled up to eat outside at the picnic table next to the RV. The day grew brighter, but still the clouds clung overhead. The sound of the surf ebbing and flowing was a constant reminder of each second passing. Each car that whizzed down the spit had me sitting up, shading my eyes to see if it was hers. My stomach clenched more and more with each one that passed until I couldn\u2019t have eaten another bite of cereal even if I wanted to.\n<\/p>\n \nAn ambulance, lights blazing, raced down the spit. Another name to the add to the seafarer\u2019s memorial, perhaps. Fishermen were always spearing themselves on hooks or having heart attacks, being washed overboard.\n<\/p>\n \nI thumbed in a message for Emma on my phone: Leaving soon. Coming?<\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nWhen there wasn\u2019t a reply, I climbed into the RV, washed out my bowl, and secured it in the cupboard.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI\u2019m heading out to disconnect our water and electricity hook-up,\u201d my aunt said.\n<\/p>\n \nShe\u2019d never announced that kind of thing before. She was giving me notice.\n<\/p>\n \nI texted Emma again and went to put away my things in the bathroom. I remembered what I\u2019d imagined the night before. Emma would be here to say goodbye. I would cling to her like my soul would leave my body if I let go. And it would feel that way down to my bones.\n<\/p>\n \nThe RV door opened, and my aunt called, \u201cJeannie, come outside, please.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nEmma had come after all. I smiled and straightened my hair, my sweater. I took a step into the cold air, expecting to see her twirling over the sand. Instead, a cop car was pulling away, leaving my aunt with her hands shoved into the pockets of her parka. She turned and her face was set.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHoney, something bad happened. They found Emma\u2019s body at the memorial down the road. She must have fallen asleep. It was just too cold last night.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI didn\u2019t hear anything more than that. I turned and followed our footsteps in the sand out to the water, past our burned circle that we\u2019d offered up to the night sky. My chest fought against the wind for air. I couldn\u2019t breathe. I couldn\u2019t blink. Tears chilled on my cheeks until my aunt bundled me up in a blanket and led me away from the bay.\n<\/p>\n \nShe was saying something I couldn\u2019t understand\u2014I couldn\u2019t understand anything. But then I heard Emma\u2019s voice calling me from down the shore. I twisted out of the blanket. There was a flash of red hair, and there she was, dancing over the waves, skirt flying all around her. The closer she came, the further away I was.\n<\/p>\n \nI glanced away only for only a few seconds, but when I looked back she was gone\u2014and I knew. She had found the fisherman. She had found the woman who\u2019d waited for him all those years. Her soul was bound to Homer forever\u2014and mine would be, too. I set my intention and wished as hard as I had ever wished for anything.\n<\/p>\n \nMy aunt bundled me up again and got me into the RV. My face was raw and cold\u2014wet from the waves or wet from my tears, I couldn\u2019t tell. It\u2019s all just salt. The engine started, and she jolted us out of our space, hurtling toward the highway.\n<\/p>\n \nShe was still talking. I refused to hear her.\n<\/p>\n \nI would return, no matter what. I would find them this time\u2014all three of them, on a chilly night, just like the one last night. I would search every night until my soul was stitched to Homer. Until my intentions were manifested, and my skin thawed. Until I grew silver scales, just like the pollock, and found my way from shore to sea.\n<\/p>\n Nicole M. Wolverton is a Pushcart-nominated writer in the Philadelphia, Pennsylvania area. Her debut YA horror novel A MISFORTUNE OF LAKE MONSTERS is forthcoming in 2024 (CamCat Books); she is also the author of the adult thriller THE TRAJECTORY OF DREAMS (Bitingduck Press, 2013) and editor of BODIES FULL OF BURNING, an anthology of short horror fiction (Sliced Up Press, 2021). Her short stories and creative nonfiction have appeared in dozens publications. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The mud flats twinkled with the light of a million stars above us in the darkest sky I\u2019d ever seen. Emma knelt beside a salty tributary. It ran in a sandy rut from shore to sea, or at least to the deeper and murkier water waiting to rush back over the sand when the tide …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107942,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20131],"tags":[20132],"class_list":["post-140291","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-49-autumn-2023","tag-the-colored-lens-49-autumn-2023","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140291","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107942"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140291"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140291\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140292,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140291\/revisions\/140292"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140291"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140291"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140291"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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