A Tide Worn Heart
Two eyes watched Mrs. Hartley through the thick glass of her cabin’s porthole. Puffy and bloodshot, they stared at her unblinkingly. She struggled to meet their gaze. The warm light of the cabin made it very difficult to see much beyond the ghostly reflection of the room behind her in the glass, but Mrs. Hartley swore she could see the churn of the black waves through the window. She shuddered, imagining the great jaws that lurked just beneath the surface, waiting, hoping, following swift on spiny fins after the boat. The knot in her stomach, though it rarely left her alone under normal circumstances, had given her no respite since they had set out on this journey, and it only seemed to tighten further as their cruise progressed.
She had never loved the ocean, preferring to view it only from the stoney security of the shore. On those occasions when she found herself within earshot of the crashing waves, she would spend pleasant enough afternoons admiring the beautiful costal houses rather than losing herself in the limitless, uncharted eternity of the horizon. Peace came much quicker, she remembered, at the summer home in the Adirondacks than at any beach a friend had taken her to. The waters of Raquette Lake lapped sweetly against the dock where she would sit with her book and read when she was young. In the evenings when the sun was just beginning to set over the mountain on opposite shore, and her father would take them out on a sunset cruise in that gleaming wood lined Hacker Craft he cared for like a child, the water glowed with an enchanting light such that Mrs. Hartley––she had a different name then of course––felt as though their swift little boat cut gently through smooth waves of cascading diamonds. She had been just a girl then, and that lake, nestled comfortably in the embrace of the mountains, was the stage upon which her mind would romp. She saw her life play out before her on each wave, and all through those green hills she searched for fairies and watched her future self dance with boys from far off magical realms. How different it all was now.
A savage wave leapt out of the inky blackness and smashed upon the window. Mrs. Hartley jumped back, every muscle tensed, snatched from her recollections. No, the sea did not agree with her. She had said as much to Mr. Hartley, of course, when he suggested the trip.
“It would just be along the coast,” he had reassured her. “Alaska is so gorgeous this time of year. Think of the glaciers; you can’t see most of them properly from the shore. You can’t expect me to let you stay cooped up your whole life.”
That had been the end of it.
Though she might have felt validated when the engine failed only two days into their voyage, the cold halt of her hasty heart flushed any vindictive thoughts from her head. Now they were adrift, directionless, torn by the insurgent surf away from the relative safety of the coast out to greater depths where they’d be greeted only by the gnashing of hidden teeth and the wails of the sodden damned. It didn’t help Mrs. Hartley that their little boat lacked an engineer, their old one having been let go at the last port of call after a drunken rage and some odd comments made to Mrs. Clements down the hall. Mr. Hartley had called it suspicious timing that the engine had stopped only hours after the departure of the engineer but had nevertheless joined the troop of men that crowded the tiny engine room, diagnosing mechanical issues on machines they couldn’t name and offering inept suggestion to the crew assigned to the problem. After a few hours the captain had enough, and he ordered all passengers to return to their cabins and remain there until he gave the order. Some honeymoon this was turning out to be.
Mrs. Hartley glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Quarter past one it read. She had tried to rest an hour or two ago, but the coil of her stomach had strangled sleep from her mind. How long until they ran out of fuel? The thought had echoed down the hall until they had been confined, and now it burned with violent force in her mind, branding her with the grave marks of hopelessness. No amount of money in the world could get them out of this, Mr. Hartley had tried. Cash incentives and some “good old-fashioned competition” usually helped his subordinates work faster, but when no one came to claim their cash prize, the couple had started to lose hope. She let her neck droop, and let out a soft whimper, squeezing her eyes shut. Desperately, she wished for the unconscious paradise of sleep, but knew now it could never come. When she opened her eyes again, her gaze fell on her hand settled in her lap and the foreign ring that adorned it. She smiled, a flat little thing, pleased with how the band looked upon her finger. It felt all together proper for it to be there. Mr. Hartley often said that beautiful things suited her. But the smile quickly faded. It didn’t sparkle in quite the way she had hoped it would, but it wasn’t the real ring anyway. That was who knows where now. Mr. Hartley had promised to have it ready by the wedding, but the diamond was still being cut, he said, so she’d have to wear the glass one for the time being. She shifted again, flattening the fabric of her long skirts and bringing her listless eyes back to the window, hoping against hope that the beasts it hid would be veiled from her.
“Cynthia? What’s that commotion?”
She jumped, tensing her whole body as her husband’s sharp face appeared in the murky glass. “Commotion?” she asked, her trance broken. As she listened, she began to hear voices in the hallway. Her eyes widened. “What’s going on, Ed?”
There was a knock on a door near theirs, and Mr. Hartley strode across the room, peeking his head out into the hallway. The voices grew louder, some panicked, some temperate and authoritative. Mrs. Hartley got up and joined her husband at the door, pausing briefly at the mirror to check her face. It was neat, as always, if a little smeared where she had wiped her eyes. Her lipstick pouted placidly over the curve of her lip, immaculate still. In the hallway, she squinted, the glare of the lamps shining off the stained red oak lining of the hallway, blinding her for a moment. Mr. Donaghue, his years advertised on his greying beard, stood at the door to their left, rapping the brass doorknocker. Behind him were Mrs. Donaghue, Mr. And Mrs. Clements, and Mr. Chapman who was looking back through the door of his room, calling for his wife to quiet their crying son.
“Ah, Ed, good. You’re awake,” said Mr. Donaghue. The door upon which he was knocking opened abruptly and presented a bleary-eyed Mr. Thompson who looked inquisitively at the group collected in the hallway.
“What’s going on here?” he scolded. “Why are you waking us up at this hour?”
“I’m sorry about this, John, I am,” said Mr. Donaghue gruffly, “but this is important. It’s time we did something about this situation.”
“By God, man, it’s nearly two. Can’t it wait until the morning?”
“There isn’t time, and you know it. According to my calculations we’re due to run out of fuel within the next hour or two.” Mrs. Hartley sucked in a nervous breath, but Mr. Donaghue continued, raising his voice, “Come on then, everyone. To the dining room. We need to have a frank discussion about the state of this vessel.” He turned to Mr. Hartley, and nodding to the last door on the right, said, “Do us a favor, Ed, and wake the couple down there. I’ve completely forgotten their names”
When they had all gathered in the dining room, Mr. Donaghue took his place on the raised platform at the back of the hall where the captain had given his welcome speech on a night that felt, to Mrs. Hartley at least, so very long ago.
“Thank you all for joining me,” he said. “I know it’s late, but we can’t sit idly by any longer. As I said earlier, we’re due to run out of fuel within the next couple of hours. I’ve learned the radio is also out of commission, so once we’re out of fuel that’s the end of it. No one will be coming to save us.” He paused, watching as hideous tentacles of fear wrapped their way around his fellow passengers. “We’ve given the crew long enough to fix the engine, and they’ve done nothing! So now it’s our turn,” he finished, bringing his fist down into his palm with a slap.
“What do you propose we do?” called Mr. Thompson from the back. “We can’t exactly fix the engine if the crew haven’t been able to.” The crowd nodded its assent and conversation erupted. Mrs. Hartley’s features darkened as her fleeting hopes began to drain, swallowed by the abyss they circled. Would she ever return to those enchanted mountains of her youth? Even if they did, by some grace of God, get out of this mess she wasn’t sure. Why Mr. Hartley had decided to move them out West to L.A. just before the wedding was anyone’s guess. She found the constant movement of city life unsteadying. He seemed to thrive out there in the desert though, and that gave her some solace.
“Let’s get the lifeboats!” cried Mrs. Chapman, holding her rotund son at her hip.
“No!” Mr. Donaghue’s voice rang over the din. “They’re up to something. I used to manage the aircraft engine division at GM, so I’ve seen a thing or two. There’s no way they wouldn’t have been able to fix this by now. The whole situation is too convenient.” His eyes narrowed. “It is my belief that they have stranded us out here for a reason. They’re going to rob us or kill us or take us hostage!”
Mrs. Hartley gasped audibly.
“They don’t have enough men to take us on their own,” said Mrs. Donaghue. “But mark my words, they have friends on the way. I heard the captain talking to someone in his cabin. They’re plotting the lot of them.”
“So, they locked us in our cabins to keep us docile,” Mr. Hartley astutely surmised. He smiled smugly, before remembering to look angry. “I’m with you.”
Although he continued to speak, Mrs. Hartley heard her husband’s voice recede into the violent thunder of the waves. She looked down, fidgeting with her counterfeit ring in an effort to keep her hands from shaking. It gleamed, the dim light of the wall sconces dancing and distorting in it. She looked to the left out to sea and her vision swam. The cloudy windows of the hall laughed gleefully at her, and in them she saw reflected a shining face. Sharp and beautiful it laughed with the audacious security of power, and she knew at once it was the face of money. It was in his current they were caught, and it was his current that would set them free or dash them to atoms on the ocean floor. Without warning, the face surged towards her, and she stumbled, grabbing her husband’s arm. Mr. Hartley jumped, breaking off midsentence to steady her.
“You’d think she’d have found her sea legs by now,” he laughed to the others.
As if on cue, the boat shuddered and its rocking intensified, sending the whole party floundering to keep their balance.
“This is absurd,” called Mrs. Chapman. “If what you say is true, why not escape now in the lifeboats while we still have the chance?”
“If that wave was any indication, the storm is picking up,” Mrs. Donaghue replied sternly. “Our lifeboats weren’t designed for the open ocean because we were never supposed to get this far out, and we never would have if the crew wasn’t up to something. If you leave, you’ll drown out there.”
“Besides,” added Mr. Hartley, freed now from the burden of his wife, “we’ve no way of knowing the crew didn’t sabotage them.”
“I think I’ll take my chances,” Mrs. Chapman said, looking around at everyone, “because this, this is madness.” She took her husband’s hand, hoisted her child up on her hip, and strode out of the room.
“Please, Ed, can we please go with them. I don’t like this,” begged Mrs. Hartley, grabbing hold again the soft fabric of her husband’s sleeve.
He shook her loose and glared at her. “I won’t leave behind our belongings. Besides, we’ll be much safer here so long as we can take back control of the ship in time.”
Mrs. Hartly watched in painful acquiescence as her last hope floated away across the room. Her tired eyes welled up with tears that refused to fall.
“Ed’s right,” grunted Mr. Donaghue as the ship hit another wave and the lights flickered. “It’s now or never. Steel yourselves. We’ll likely be met with violence.”
The group crept their way out of the hall and up the tight metal staircase to the upper deck. Their agitated silence, punctuated only by the echo of their soft footfalls in the stairwell, could not possibly be enough to conceal them, and, as they waited for Mr. Donaghue to give the all clear at the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hartley was sure the wild pounding of her heavy heart would give them all away.
Mr. Donaghue held up an unnecessary hand for silence as a muffled voice sounded from outside the door. He ducked quickly as a shadow passed over the dark window before them and snuffed out for just a moment the halo of light on the wall behind him, the only light in the room. Mrs. Hartley held her breath, but in an instant the soft light returned to the wall. Mr. Donaghue cracked open the door, and, peering through it momentarily, motioned for the group to follow him. They poured out of the doorway and into the gloom of the frozen night air. The roar of the zealous wind set upon them immediately, whipping Mrs. Hartley’s clothes and hair, while great clouds of fog wept their way over the stygian water towards them. The night was aflood with noise, the screech of the wind, the squelch of dress shoes on the slick deck, the thunder of the waves on their little boat. It was as if they had fallen into the lungs of God, and Mrs. Hartley was spellbound by it.
Then, footsteps. Footsteps on the deck. Footsteps, but from where. They seemed to Mrs. Hartley to resound from within her very soul, from somewhere outside the world, commanding her heart to stop dead, replaced by their own merciless rhythm.
“Wha—What are you doing out here?” stammered a crew member coming around the corner. Before he could react, Mrs. Donaghue slammed him into the wall with her umbrella where he was grabbed by Mr. Swanson who restrained his arms and covered his mouth.
“What should I do with him?” whispered Mr. Swanson huskily.
“Keep hold of him for now,” Mrs. Swanson hissed back. “He’ll make too much noise if we throw him over now.”
Mrs. Hartley’s eyes went wide, and she glanced horridly at her husband. But he just pulled her on, gripping her hand too tight for comfort, and the group continued on until they reached the bridge. As they approached, Mrs. Hartley heard the door handle rattle in its socket before opening. It creaked, shedding a sliver of golden light out into the across the deck, a lighthouse announcing a looming rocky shore. Mrs. Hartley froze for a moment, holding her breath, until a sharp shadow blotted out the light. A tall burly man, the captain, stepped from the doorway, looking straight at them, and, at once every eye fell to the gun in his hand.
Without thinking, Mr. Hartley tackled him, wrestling the gun from him. They writhed on the wet deck for a moment until Mr. Donaghue saw an opening and kicked. The captain screamed, dropping the gun and bringing his hands to his face. Mr. Hartley quickly scrambled for it, snatching the weapon and returning to his feet. He leveled the gun at the captain’s face, the man’s features distorted by pain. Blood flowed from his nose and pooled, black as ink, on the deck.
“What were you going to do with this?” cried Mr. Hartley. “Take us hostage? Rob us? Did you strand us out here just to kill us?”
“N-n-no,” he whimpered. “It’s a flare gun. We–we just got the radio working. I was gonna send up a flare. I swear—it’s just a flare gun, I swear.”
“A likely story,” Mrs. Donaghue bit. “You were going to signal your friends to—”
“Searchlights,” cried Mrs. Clements. “Over there in the distance.”
“They’re here,” said Mr. Donaghue dismayed. “We need to stay hidden.”
“It’s the Coast Guard,” the captain cut in. “We radioed for them to save us. I swear!”
“No more lies out of you!” Mr. Hartley yelled, shaking the gun and kicking him again in the ribs.
Another wave crashed into the ship. Mrs. Hartley screamed and fell to the cruel, unyielding deck. She rolled over but saw only a sea of legs. There were more legs now, ghostly white, uniformed legs, surrounding them like prey. Someone stepped back onto her hand. The glass ring on her finger shattered, slicing open her fingers as yet another wave hit. Water sloshed all around her, and she watched it gush over the bright side of the rocking ship. She slipped across the damp deck to the cold steel railing. Her head hung out over the rolling waves, and, forced to stare straight into those umbral depths, she saw there in the deep, a shadow of a serpent coiling beneath them.
She heard a bang and shut her eyes to the blinding light that followed. The commotion around her swelled and, jostled from all angles, she felt herself tip forward. For a moment she hung there, floating in infinity, and then she dropped, falling like a precious stone, reclaimed by the jagged maw of the sea.
