They Wait

They come in the winter months, when the tourists have left for the season, when the nights are long and cold, and there are few here who will witness their arrival. I have never seen more than one of them at a time. They are drawn to the light in my window, or to the gently swinging sign above my door. I keep a pot of tea behind the bar for them. No one else asks for tea.

They never speak, but they sit and accept the offered cup of tea. They wait.

They are beautiful by any standard, and sometimes one of the young fishermen will get up the nerve to approach them. They do not care to be spoken to, nor to be touched. They hiss and they snarl; they bare their teeth. The fisherman returns to his table, to the goodnatured laughter of his friends.

They wait, and I wait with them until Emmett shows up. He always comes when they are here. I suppose I would call him if he didn’t, but I never need to. Somehow he knows.

He beckons and they leave with him. Sometimes he gives me a nod on the way out the door. I wash the teacup, and dry it, and put it away until the next of them comes.

It’s been forty years. When they first started coming here, Emmett was a young man and I was still pretty. Many thought we would make a fine pair. I thought so, myself.

I wasn’t there to see it when the first one went away with him, but I heard and I asked him about her. He had no answers. He would not speak on the matter.

The next time, I followed them. It was late and cold, and the roads were empty. A light mist slicked my upper lip like sweat. I hid in the shadows, afraid Emmett would turn around, afraid the other one would catch my scent, but neither of them looked back. He took her hand and led her past the edge of the village. He took her through the tall brown grass to the seawall, and they stopped there for a moment. They watched the ocean seethe against impassive black stone, pounding and falling back. I tasted salt in the air.

At last, he picked her up and carried her to the water. I could scarcely breathe, waiting for him to slip and fall, but his footing was sure. He climbed up over the rocks and out of sight. When I could stand it no longer, I snuck to the wall and looked down.

Emmett was already rowing them out to sea in a cherry red boat. His passenger looked up at me then, but I couldn’t read her expression. I have never been good at communicating with them, but no one is good at that. No one but Emmet.

I waited there, and just before dawn Emmett returned alone. He dragged the little rowboat onto a narrow sandbar and stretched his back, taking in the day’s first purple light on the waves. I left him standing there, and ran home.

I scrimped and saved, and eventually I purchased this place they come to, and I hung my sign above the door. I didn’t marry Emmett, as I had originally planned, nor did he ask me to, but we have spent these years together in our strange way: one giving them comfort, the other returning them to the sea.

I sometimes follow Emmett to the seawall and watch the rowboat head out to sea. The red paint has long since peeled away, but he has kept it in good condition. The next time one of them comes, I’ve decided to go with them. There’s room for three in the boat, and I don’t think Emmett will object.

I keep a pot of tea behind the bar. And I wait.