Extraits

Chapter One

The birds heralded the storm, as they always did. They liked to be the bearers of scuttlebutt. Although, as Lizbet had learned long ago, not all birds were created equal, and some species were much reliable than others. Not that they lied, very few creatures had the ability or cunning, but rather in the haste to be the first in the know, some blurted out misconceptions and half-truths.

Not that Lizbet had much familiarity with liars - or people, in general- but she'd read of several, as Rose, her mother, had accumulated an impressive library over the years. Not that Lizbet was in any position to know what was and was not impressive library-wise, or any otherwise, since Lizbet herself had never been off the island she and Rose called home.

The howling wind drowned out the calls of birds, and the chatter of squirrels and chipmunks. Opossum, skunks, and fox sought shelter in the forest's thickets. Rats and mice scurried to find hidden-holes. Lizbeth fetched and armful of wood from the shed to stoke the fire while her mother gathered candles.

Wind rustled the tarp protecting the woodpile. The pine trees, used to standing straight and tall, moaned as the wind whipped through their canopy, and bent them in directions they didn't wish to go.

"A man approaches," Wordsworth thinned, terror tainting his words.

Liber looked over the German Shepherd's furry head to the storm-tossed sea. The Sound, normally a tranquil tray-blue slate, roiled as if shaken by an invisible hand. Lizbeth couldn't see anyone, but her heart quickened. "Are you sure?" She saw nothing but a curtain of rain, an angry sky, and churning tide. The otters, too, had disappeared, and for once the noisy, boisterous sea lions, were silent.

The dog nodded "He's lost, but hopeful."

"Hopefull? Of what?"

Wordsworth shook his head. When another flash of lightening lit the sky, his ears flattened and his tail drooped and he cowered as the thunder boomed.

"Come," Lizbet said, "let's go inside. Only an idiot would be out on the water today."

"He's no longer on the water," Wordsworth whined. "His boat has landed."

Liber peered into the storm, saw nothing more than before, and added another log to her collection.

Their cottage was made of stone, but the adjacent shed which housed the woodpile, gardening tools, and bird seed, was constructed of recycled wood. Wind blew through the slats and rattled the shake roof. The cottage would be warm and dry in a way the shed never could.