Fathomless by Jackson Pearce Page A

like the sky and the ocean and the clouds are all connected as we lie on the deck of the
Glasgow
and stare up at the waves that rock far above us. They look dangerous even in a small rainstorm like this. They look beautiful. They remind us that the ocean isn’t something we’ve tamed, just because we’re a part of it.
    Key and I used to play a game; when it stormed, we’d inch toward the surface, each daring the other to go a little higher, a little higher—nowhere near the actual breaking point, of course, but we’d get just close enough that the waves pulled us back and forth and the rolls of thunder ripped through our chests. It was dangerous; in a storm, you have to fight so hard against the water that sometimes you’ll lose yourself in the process, and either instantly grow old or simply be killed by the waves. But Key and I were rebels, wildthings, and we dared to challenge the weather—at least, until I got frightened. Then I’d run back down to the seafloor and she’d follow, having always won, gone a little bit higher than me. I look over and realize Key is looking at me, smiling, like we’re both just sharing the same memory. Why haven’t we done that in ages? Hurricane season will be starting soon—hurricanes often sweep away many of the old ones at once, take them to the surface to transform….
    I should be going to the surface now. I said I’d meet Celia tonight.
    I slip away from the others, down around the back side of the ship. There, I curl my fingers into the seaweed for a moment, like it can give me strength, then shoot to the surface quickly, grimacing the whole way. When I emerge by the shore, I realize. The storm lost most of its power out at sea; there’s only the slightest pattering of rain on the ocean’s surface. The wind is still sharp, though; I wince and dip so low in the water that only my eyes are showing. They’ve fixed the pier, I notice, looking ahead. I remember for a moment the boy falling, Molly’s eyes lighting up….
    Celia is here—by the church, the same place we sat last time. Her skin matches the color of the few bits of sky peeking through the rain clouds, where the sun is setting—peach and red, colors I hardly ever see down deep. I look up—there are people on the pier above me. How far into the slowly darkening distance can they see? I dive down and move along underneath the pier, dodging old fishing lines and lures. When the water is waist-deep, I inhale. I have to stand, I haveto stand…. As hard as it is to remember Naida, it’s so, so easy to remember the pain of walking.
    “Wait!” I look up at the shore. Celia is standing in the darkness at the pier’s edge, balancing on rocks. “I thought these might help?” She holds up a pair of shoes, the strappy kind humans wear when they walk along the shore. It’s almost comical, to think of myself wearing them, but I’ll try anything to stop the pain. I nod, and she tosses them to me, grimacing when they go off course and the ocean takes hold. I slink back through the water and find them, a speck of bright purple against the thrashing waters. When I put them on, they feel strange, uncomfortable. They drag in the water and slow me down. But I finally go back to the shore, near Celia. I wince, putting one shoed foot firmly down on the sand.
    The pain is intense, terrible—just like before, the knives shoot through the softest parts of my feet and scrape along my bones. I tremble… but when I look down, there’s less blood. That’s something, at least. My legs are shaky as I walk the rest of the way out, trying not to shout so loudly that the people on the pier above hear me. When I reach the shore, I drop down to the sand by Celia to let my feet rest.
    “I also… I brought you this?” Celia says, sounding embarrassed. I look up, pushing my hair from my eyes—why can’t it stay out of my face like it does underwater?—and see she’s holding a dress. It’s old, the fabric weathered and washed.