Violet Eyes (22 page)

He strained at the oars with all his might. He had never seen a storm come up so quickly. He should have had time to make it home before the weather became this bad. His arms began to ache with the strain of fighting the waves. A huge one bore down on him, and he saw it through the rain, but it was too late to turn the boat. It crested over the bow and filled the tiny vessel with water.

He had always been careful, always respected the sea not only for what it could give but also for what it could take. He had lost his father and his two brothers to its wrath. His was a family of fishermen eking out a living from the sea. But the sea was a fickle mistress. He remembered the storm that had taken the lives of the other men in his family. Still, he, too, had gone to the sea for his livelihood. It was all he knew.

As wave after wave continued to crash down upon him, he knew that his time had come at last. The sea would claim him this day, and he would never see his beloved Mary again. He whispered a desperate prayer to St. Michael, patron saint of the sea, and another one to King Neptune for good measure. Father Gregory would not be happy about that, but the good father wasn’t there to take offense.

A short distance ahead of him he saw a light shimmering in the water that grew brighter as he watched. Was it the angel of death coming to take
him? He briefly thought about trying to go around the spot. He was too tired, though, to waste his strength rowing the extra distance.
And if it is the angel of death,
he reasoned,
he’ll find me whether I turn the boat or not.
He kept his course, and moments later he was right above the light. He stared down into the water but could see nothing.

Cast out your nets,
a voice whispered in his head. Without thinking, Finneas scurried to comply, heaving the nets over the side and dropping them down into the light. Something heavy caught in them, and he feared that between the weight and the raging of the ocean the ropes would snap. He began to pull them in. They held, and the light grew brighter as he kept pulling. At last something broke the surface of the water.

Finneas gasped as the small face of a child looked up at him. She had enormous eyes that shone dark against her pale skin. Her white hair floated on the water, each long strand glimmering with a greenish light—the glow that he had seen. She was caught in his net, and he heaved her into the boat. She sat very still, the blinking of her eyes the only sign of life.

He quickly untangled her until she sat naked and shivering in the bottom of the tiny vessel. He peeled off his coat and wrapped it around her. For a moment he forgot the wind and waves and storm as he stared at her.
What had Father Gregory read from the Good Book that morning? “I will make you fishers of men.”

He smiled reassuringly at the child as he picked up his oars.“We are going to make it, you and I.” She just blinked her enormous eyes.

God, Neptune, St. Michael—someone had sent the child to him. He couldn’t 1et her die in the storm, That conviction gave him the will to keep pulling at the oars. At last after what seemed like an eternity, the wind swept aside a curtain of rain and he caught a glimpse of the shore. His heart lifted at the sight, and he pulled on the oars with renewed strength.

Finally they hit the beach. He scrambled out of the boat and began to try to pull it backward onto the sand. Finneas fell to his knees, a sob escaping him. He was too weak. He felt his fingers beginning to slip from the bow when, suddenly, strong hands closed over his and lent their strength. Together they pulled the ship backward up onto the beach.

Finneas collapsed onto the sand gasping and looked up to see his wife. His heart filled at the sight of her face, beautiful in his eyes. “Mary, I thought I’d never see you again.”

“And I you,” she answered.

He gestured to the boat. “I brought you something.”

She looked in and gasped softly. “Oh my.”

They made it to the house and barred the door against the lashing rain, Finneas peeled off his wet clothes, depositing them in a heap by the fire and changing into dry ones while Mary wrapped the child
in a warm blanket. She sat down with her by the fire and lifted a lock of her wet hair. Finneas noticed that the glow from the child’s hair was slowly fading.

He shivered and muttered a silent prayer. Still, as he looked into the little girl’s enormous eyes, he couldn’t see any evil lurking in them.
If she isn’t of the devil, then she has to he from God.
He nodded slowly. She was God’s gift to his Mary, who had no child of her own. He placed a hand on Mary’s shoulder.

When Mary looked up at him he had no answers for the questions in her eyes. They stared at each other for several minutes before she broke the silence.

“I thought you might be dead,” she croaked, her voice hoarse.

“I nearly was,” he admitted as he took a seat beside her. “Then I found her—out there in the water. I knew then that I was going to live and that the Good Lord wanted me to bring her home—to you.”

Mary gently stroked the girl’s hair. “She can’t be more than four years old. What do you think she was doing out there by herself?”

Finneas shook his head. “I don’t know.”

The girl stirred in Mary’s arms and stretched her small hand out toward the fire. Her skin was pale, deathly pale. Finneas felt his heart begin to pound. For a moment, when her hand was up in front of the fire, he imagined that he’d been able to see right through the skin, through her very hand, to see the fire glowing on the other side.

He shook his head to clear it.
I’m exhausted, and a
trick of the light sent my imagination on a flight of fancy. That is all.
But beside him he heard Mary gasp, and when she turned to him with fearful eyes he knew that it was no trick and that she had seen it too.

“Wh-what is she?”

He met Mary’s eyes. “I don’t know and I don’t think we want to know.”

She nodded slowly, and a silent agreement stretched between them. The child looked up at them questioningly. She stretched out her other hand from beneath the blanket. It was balled into a tight fist. Something dark shone through the cracks between her fingers.

“What have you got, little one?” Finneas asked, reaching gently to take her hand. He pushed at her fingers, and reluctantly her fist began to open.

There in her palm was the largest pearl he had ever seen. It was a shiny, midnight blue color and was almost perfectly round. He had never seen anything like it.

Her small fingers balled around it, and her hand disappeared back beneath the blanket. He laid a hand upon her head. “I think we’ll call her Pearl.”

Two days later the storm had passed, but the destruction it had left in its wake was staggering. Villages up and down the coast had been destroyed, some of them completely. Worse, several hundred people had been killed.

As Finneas sat beside Mary in church that
Sunday, he fervently thanked God for the safety they had enjoyed. Only a couple of people from their village had lost their lives. The priest solemnly prayed for their souls. In front of Finneas the town blacksmith, Thomas, bowed his head in sorrow. His wife had been one of those who was lost.

Finneas felt guilty for his and Mary’s happiness in the face of so much sorrow. Happy they were, though, for little Pearl sat between them. The storm that had brought her to them had made it easy to explain her sudden presence. They had simply told everyone that she was the child of a distant cousin in another village who had been killed in the storm.

That had satisfied the others, although it hadn’t stopped them from casting puzzled looks at Pearl. Finneas closed a hand around Pearl’s protectively. Maybe with time the sun would tan her unnaturally pale skin, and as she continued to grow, surely she would grow into her long legs.

She looked up at him with her wide, dark eyes and asked him a question. At least, he thought it was a question. He had no way to answer her, though. Whatever language it was she spoke was foreign to him. He thought it might be Italian, but he wasn’t sure.

He just shook his head and squeezed her hand. They were working on teaching her English. He just prayed they would be able to communicate quickly before it became too much of a problem.

Mary turned to look at him and he smiled to hide
his concern. He couldn’t help but be afraid. Pearl was different; he wasn’t sure how or why, but he did know the people of his village. They didn’t tolerate anyone or anything that was different. Only five years earlier an angry mob had seized a woman, a traveling gypsy, accused her of Witchcraft, and burned her at the stake. He shuddered at the memory.
And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

He gripped Pearl’s hand even tighter until she began to wriggle her fingers. He had had a nightmare about the villagers trying to do the same to Pearl and him not being able to reach her. He had awoken screaming and soaked in sweat. He had lied to Mary for the first time in his life, telling her he didn’t remember the dream. He had vowed, lying there, shivering and praying, that he would do everything in his power to keep them from hurting Pearl. He just continued to smile at Mary, who had enough to worry about without hearing his fears.

When the services were over, he picked Pearl up in his arms. She hadn’t yet seemed to master walking. She was trying, but she just went skittering on her long limbs, wobbling back and forth and landing in a heap time after time.
She just needs to grow into her legs,
he thought.

She wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and looked up at him. She asked him what sounded like a question. Her tiny voice lilted as though she was singing. He just shook his head and kissed her cheek.

She held her pearl out to him and he kissed it as
well. Mary had secured it with a thin piece of rope and a loop so that Pearl could wear the shiny orb around her neck. She laughed up at him. Her laughter, at least, he could understand.

That night Finneas sat bolt upright in bed, awakened by a keening sound that split the stillness and reverberated in the air. Chills danced up and down his spine, and fear touched his heart. Beside him Mary sprang from the bed, grabbing for her shawl. They glanced to the bed where Pearl should have been, but it was empty. A hard knot settled in the bottom of his stomach.

They exchanged frightened glances and began to search the cabin. They found her moments later sitting in the kitchen. She was surrounded by dead fish that were scattered about on the kitchen floor. She must have pulled them off the counter and unwrapped them from their protective coverings.

The stench of death was strong, and an unnatural sound was coming from Pearl. She stared up at them and pointed to a dead fish and then to Finneas. His heart began to pound as he realized that she was blaming him for its death.

Mary knelt down and folded the girl in her arms. “Those are fish. We eat the fish so that we can be strong,” she tried to explain.

Pearl began to cry and Mary just held her, clearly not knowing what to say. Finally she looked up at Finneas, and he saw the tears shimmering on her
cheeks as well. “Clean up the fish and hide them,” she instructed him. “We’ll keep them out of her sight, at least for now.”

Nodding, Finneas did as he was told. The sound of her cries echoed inside his head continuing long after she had fallen asleep in Mary’s arms. It had been a completely unnatural sound, unlike anything he had ever heard.

D
EBBIE
V
IGUIÉ
holds a degree in creative writing from UC Davis. Her Simon Pulse books include the
New York Times
bestselling Wicked series with Nancy Holder, and the novels
Midnight Pearls
and
Scarlet Moon
. She currently lives in Hawaii with her husband, Scott. Visit her at
debbieviguie.com
.