BEYOND THE BRIGHT SEA

My name is Crow. When I was a baby, someone tucked me into an old boat and pushed me out to sea. I washed up on a tiny island, like a seed riding the tide. It was Osh who found me and took me in. Who taught me how to put down roots, and thrive on both sun and rain, and understand what it is to bloom. The island where we found each other was small but strong, anchored by a great pile of black rock that sheltered our cottage—a ramshackle place built from bits of lost ships—nestled on a bed of earth and sea muck, alongside a small garden and the skiff that took us wherever our feet could not. We didn’t need anything else. Not in the beginning. At low tide, we could cross easily to the next island, Cuttyhunk, through shallows strewn with bootlace w**d and minnows. At high tide, the cottage sat so close to the risen sea that it felt nearly like a boat itself. For a long time, I was happiest when the water rose and set us apart, on our own, so just the two of us decided everything there was to decide. And then, one night when I was twelve, I saw a fire burning on Penikese, the island where no one ever went, and I decided on my own that it was time to find out where I’d come from and why I’d been sent away. But I didn’t understand what I was risking until I nearly lost it.