Far From The Sea We Know (53 page)

It was when she was riding Akaba home that
it finally came back to her. Valentina, the last time she had seen
her. Valentina, opposite the tiller of her too-small sailboat
giving one long look back as she cleared her mooring and headed out
to her doom. Valentina, wearing her necklace as she always did. The
same string of shells and silver Penny had seen suspended above the
ship’s compass, and still there when the ship set sail for other
seas in a shimmer of unnamable light. The same “bones of the sea”
that should have been lost forever, somehow returned. Then she
knew.

Andrew didn’t hang the necklace above the
compass. He
found
it there after their first encounter with
the whale! That is how he knew what its purpose would become. A
key, a tiller…and it made sense in its own way that the dome would
connect together something of Valentina’s to the ship that bore her
name. And also to the man closest to them both.

That night, Penny went to bed early,
pleasantly tired from a late session in the garden. The June sun
had been warm against her skin all day, and it had grown even
warmer as the sun was setting.

It was a few hours past midnight when she
awoke. A breeze was blowing the sea smells up from the Strait into
her open window. Despite having only a few hours sleep, she was
wide-awake, remembering. The dream had come again, the old one. The
man on the pirate ship, she on the shore, standing this time on a
small rock outcropping. Something about where she stood waiting had
seemed so familiar, and now that she was awake, she knew why. And
where to go. And when.

Tonight…

She wasted no time, closing the door to her
room quietly before padding down the hall to the back stairs. The
kitchen was still warm from last night's baking. On her way out she
grabbed a roll and pushed a pad of butter deep into its yielding
crust. A small bottle of water went into the pocket of her thin
jacket and a blanket under her arm.

Akaba snorted as Penny entered the barn’s
gloom and his raven flanks shivered in anticipation. She had
learned that he liked to ride in the early hours before the heat of
the day, so the job of saddling him went easy. They rode out from
the barn into the blush of a full moon, a spectral mist rising from
the meadow below like a faint cold fire. The mossy trail that led
down to the inlet was illuminated only by moonlight slipping
through the trees here and there, but Akaba had his own uncanny
ways and never missed a step. She was grateful as much for his
company as for the conveyance. They didn’t hurry, but soon they
were there.

The water of the inlet was glassy smooth and
so clear that, even at this hour, she could see a Steelhead gliding
below the surface. Suddenly the fish shot up and took the life of a
fly into his own, their interlude as quickly over as it had begun.
The cry of an owl sounded, far away.

Penny dismounted and let Akaba graze on some
of the virgin grass in the clearing, while she went to the rocky
outcropping and looked out. It was the same place he had stood when
he had watched her swim a year ago. A half hour or so went by, and
she finally spread the blanket on the grass and sat down. There was
nothing to be seen but a second moon dancing on silvery water like
a distant lover.

She awoke, still sitting, from a half-sleep
with a buzzing in her ears, some now forgotten reverie hovering
just beyond memory. Her neck was a little sore from hanging down,
so she lifted her head slowly. The moon had dipped down below the
trees, but the faintest glint of daybreak was just hitting the tops
of the tallest of them. Several geese flew over the Strait,
outlined in chevron flight against the dawn. A gentle lapping sound
came from the water, and she stood up.

Then, without a ripple, a dark head appeared
out in the placid waters of the inlet.

He looked at her, and his large eyes, though
nearly black, held the hint of a familiar golden light. The breeze
died down to nothing, and silence held the few sounds like jewels
on black velvet. A voice began to sing inside her, flowing and
ebbing, sounds turning to color and feeling and finally one
word.

You…

He swam closer, turned and circled, swam
closer again until he was in front of the rock. She stepped back.
He paused for an instant then leapt out of the water’s grasp to
stand gleaming naked before her in quiet confidence. All his hair
had grown back, and he wore a full beard on a slightly leaner face
that contrasted with his now more muscular body. But this she
barely noticed, for in his dark eyes, along with tiny shimmers of
gold, she saw herself encompassed by his love, as clear and warm as
the sun that was now rising. She reached out and Matthew’s hand
came to hers. They looked at each other but remained silent,
neither moving as time slowed, then seemed to come to a standstill.
Tears rolled down his face, but he smiled. Her eyes watered up, and
she cried softly, holding nothing back.

His mouth opened, then closed for a moment
as if he was trying to remember how to speak. “Out there,” he
finally said, “a single day was like an eternity. Everything that
ever happened, all the pain and happiness, fell away from me like
sand through a child’s fingers. I was gone forever. And then you
were…
with me
, and I remembered. You brought me here.”

Akaba whinnied and stomped his hooves, as if
in delight at recognizing an old friend.

“Much is before us,” Matthew said.

“And much will be asked of us,” she
answered, somehow knowing this to be true without a single detail
clear.

He looked toward the trail. “Your mother and
father. They need to know I’m all right.”

“They’re away. We’ll go up in a while and
find a safe means to let them know.”

Then, remembering Chiffrey’s stories of
high-resolution reconnaissance satellites, she glanced up through
an opening in the leaves that shimmered in the breeze.

“We’re sheltered,” he said as if guessing
her thoughts. “I can tell things like this now.” He glanced down.
“Even so, I’d better find some clothes.”

“There’s a blanket here,” she said. Then,
with a smile, “But not just yet.”

A returning breeze set the leaves of the
aspens to whispering their ancient secrets. On the moss knoll
below, Matthew and Penelope reclined in each other’s arms and
drifted far from the sea we know to where the tides of time and
space hold no sway. There they drifted through colors that can
never be named and sounds that can never be sung until the deep
thrum of an engine called them back. Wrapped in the blanket, they
stood up and gazed out across the water in time to see the
Valentina
gliding like a phantom out of the morning
mist.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

— Robert Louis Stevenson

###

I hope you enjoyed the book. If you did please
consider leaving a review, even a short one at your favorite
retailer or site.

Appreciated!

Frank M Sheldon

I grew up in New England, lived in
the UK for about a year, then back to New England a while, then
back to the UK for four years, then lived in West Virginia and
Virginia for more years (with some of them as part of an
intentional community) followed by a move to Berlin with my wife,
where we also lived on and off in an old farmhouse in the former
DDR, there to help run courses in Guitar Craft. Four years later,
we moved to Seattle where we reside still. In between and all
around, much happened, and this book comes out of that. As well as
writing, I work with my wife, Ingrid Pape-Sheldon, on her photo
business in Seattle and occasionally still with Guitar Circles,
which evolved from Guitar Craft, a placeless space that became for
many years as much a home as I might ever have. I have a cool
daughter on the East Coast who comes to visit now and then. Boots,
our cat, remains here to keep an eye on us. Her book, THE EMPTY
BOWL & OTHER TRAGEDIES, is all but written in her own
mind.

And, yes, more stories to come….

Friend this novel on
Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/FarFromTheSeaWeKnow

http://www.frankmsheldon.com

I would like to thank the following
people:

My daughter Katherine, who gave me my first
useful criticism and some of my last as well. My wife Ingrid, for
her patience and encouragement in seeing me through my first novel.
My sister Cynthia, and my brother Mark, who both encouraged me in
this project. My sister Janet and her husband Fred for inspiration
and, lately, their son Richard for giving me another kick to get
this in print. My father Alfred, who took me early in my life on
trips to far off places. My mother Caroline, who read to me at
bedtime, and made the stories come alive for me.

Teachers and story tellers: Miss Taylor.
Bill Caulder. Mrs. Crane. Mr. Ives. Phil Perry. Dr. Wright. Bill
Calder. John Hoy. Michael March. Alan Crane. Normy Graves. James
Kaplan. Geoffrey Richon. Ron Sutton-Jones. Mick Sutton. Edwin &
Ginny. Yogesh. J. & H. Bortoft. Hugh Elliot. JGB.

David and Nonny for giving me the
opportunity to find out that I had something to write. Robert
Sanders, Jan Jarvis, Elisabeth Perrin, and Jaxie Binder for early
advice. Tim Stone for well appreciated encouragement during our
Berlin period. Curt Golden for well appreciated encouragement since
living in Seattle. Christina Florkowski for patience. Franis Engel
for a needed kick. Sandra Prow for support and excellence in pie.
SBC for shouldering a load lightly. Carolina Leguizamon. The
Seattle Guitar Circle. Tony Geballe. All the Valentinas. MG.
Fernando Kabusaki and his mother, who gave me a place to stay in
Rosario. You can visit there too in chapter 61.

Early readers and supporters, Pat Myren,
Brock Pytel, Peter Kardas, Steve Ball, Victor McSurely, John
O’Connor, Bill & Donna Van Buren, Bob Williams, Carola
Tocornal, Dean Jensen, Jane Pietkivitch, Peter Kardas, Rachel
Altman, Ron Sutton-Jones, Sally Asthana, Stephen Golovin, Tobin
Buttram, Tom Redmond, Janette Rosebrook, Vivien Engelberg, Martin
Bradburn, Anne Knapton and Richard Pickwick. Robert.

Pilots who gave me invaluable assistance
with the details of the floatplane trip: John Nealon, Jim Landman,
John Deakin, and Frank Hauptmann. Neal Komedal for information on
fishing and research vessels in the Pacific Northwest, which
allowed me to correct several errors. A man whose name has been
lost to me: years ago, he answered important questions regarding
the physiology and vital signs of whales.

Elizabeth LaBellce, Diane Frankel and Patty
Ohlenroth for early editing.

Joel Palmer (joeldavidpalmer.com) for heroic
editing of the entire manuscript. Then I worked on it some more.
Any errors you find are likely new ones that I inadvertently
introduced, not Joel’s. Steve Turnidge (arsdivina.com) for catching
a number of typos in one of the first print-on-demand editions and
giving me hope that this book can find a wider audience. Mary Beth
Abel and Julie Turnidge for then spotting still more typos and
needed corrections.

Pablo Mandel (circularstudio.com) for expert
advice and the final font and title layout for the cover.

Any typos that you now find, alas, are ones
that I’ve inadvertently added back in the process of getting this
ready for print. If you find any, feel free to send to me at
[email protected] so they can be repaired in future
editions.

To any I have left out: remind and forgive
me. I could have easily extended these acknowledgements
forever.

About sixty editions of the about the first
24 chapters were self-printed and bound as
The Jonah, Book I
a few years ago on its own. Since then, it has been extensively
rewritten and the rest of the story completed. The basic story is
the same, but many inconsistencies have been remedied. The
characterization and tone are more consistent, the story flow has
been improved, and the writing has been refined. The old ending was
adjusted to become the new beginning of second part of the story.
Over time, to the annoyance of some, I have changed a number of the
names of the characters.

Any similarity between real people, living or
dead, and the fictitious characters in this novel are entirely
coincidental. The marine science facility known as the Point
Kinatai Marine Science Center is fictitious. The incident with the
gray whales and the TV news helicopter is based loosely on an
account of a helicopter’s encounter with gray whales while doing
research in Baja. I have sometimes been vague or fanciful
concerning geography and technology. I tried to make everything
that is written about whales conform to what was known at the time
the story takes place, the late 1990s. However, in researching this
book, I found that knowledge in that field updates frequently and
much of the life of these great mammals is still a story as yet
untold. All errors of fact are my own.

Frank Sheldon, updated on the 6th of May,
2015