Sanctuary by Molly Richmond

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    At first, I was not aware of what was happening around me, as is often the way of children. Adults stood around, consulting each other, their voices undulating in low tones, their legs a forest of wool stalks for me to dodge through, lost in my own games. Had I been tall enough to see their faces, I would have noticed the quick and furtive glances toward the sheet-covered form down by the water. It was small and it was still. I knew enough of my Father’s job that when the figure was still, the adults were too, as there was nothing left to be done.
    It used to be once in a while, but now more often. We would arrive at one place or another in my Father’s large and slow car. Usually, he would tell me to stay put and not come out, but on this day he neglected to do so, so once his back was turned, I burst out of the backseat and began to run around on the slate of the beach, the sounds of the rocks sliding beneath my feet a delight to me. I held out my arms and spread my hands wide, so when I ran, each whole finger would feel the fresh rush of air.
    A group of men with somber expressions stood against the salty air, each not quite looking the other in the eye. One separated from the group as my Father approached and reached out his hand in greeting. They trudged down to the edge of the water and stood over the still person. My Father asked something of the other man, who nodded in response and slipped his fingers under the brim of his hat to rub wearily at his forehead. My Father nodded back, his face mirroring the solemn mood that was just communicated to him. He knelt on the wet shingle of
the beach and looked beneath the sheet only for a moment or two, then he lowered it again and stood, the knees of his trousers wet.
    He wouldn’t ever talk about his job much. I think his work had to do with some great unhappiness in our town, something that upset people and made them feel sad. I could tell because he didn’t talk about it with our neighbors, or even with my aunts when they came to the house to check on us, and bring us casseroles. It was only when he got a call from the town to come and look, that he could be among others who he would talk to, and would talk to him, about the still people.
    I had begun to inspect the ground for striped rocks, for they were my favorite. I crouched for a better look, careful to not get the back of my shorts wet. I liked that rocks didn’t need to be beautiful, and yet they were. I ran my expert eye over the pebbled landscape before me, my own
shadow creating a small arena for me to concentrate on.
    It was the still people who made everyone slow down. When someone was still moving or breathing, it was a different scene entirely. People would rush about asking questions, taking pictures with large-bulbed cameras, and arranging to have the person taken away to receive help.
When it was a still person, my Father was called in, and everyone became statues.
    The sea often bestowed still people onto this stretch of shore, but this one was different. This still person made everyone else share in its heavy quiet, in its waiting. Maybe it was because this one was small, just like I was. My father returned from the water’s edge and strode to where I was playing, smoothing his tie, his face drawn and dull.
    I thought he might be angry that I had left the car, but he was not. “I see you found some rocks,” he said to me in a gentle voice. I nodded emphatically, proud of my finds. The wind seemed to draw us very close together as he came down to my level. “It’s Wendy Penney. From
the storm last week. The sea has returned her to us.” My eye dodged to the still person under the sheet down by the water and back to my Father. He reached out and rested a hand on my upper arm, rubbing it slightly. “How about you come with me to see Mr. and Mrs. Penney. I know they
will take the news better with you there.” I wasn’t sure why this was so, but I agreed, liking to be needed.
    We piled into the car, me in the backseat once again, holding my pockets closed to keep my treasures from tumbling out onto the leather seats. The road took us away from the beach and through the town center. Soon we were passing the adjacent harbor where fishing boats, dories,
and sailboats clustered together along the main wharf, enjoying each other’s gentle company as they bobbed in unison with the movement of the water.
    I had driven with my Father enough to know that beyond the harbor lay the road that led inland, toward the farmlands. Toward where the Penney’s lived. Before the turn lay an interruption to the land in the form of a small peninsula which jutted out into the ocean, split down the middle a millennium ago and now filled between by a spear of water. One side of the peninsula undulated with low hills of rock, smoothed and rounded by the sea, while the other side lay flat and grown over with stunted grass, blown brown and brittle by the constant sea air. This was where the fishermen would hang their nets to dry. They hung there now, their ends tethered to the tops of tall wooden poles sunk into the ground, and stretched across to other poles so their lengths could be spread out against the wind.
    Instead of passing them as I expected us to do, the car shifted and rolled slowly to a halt at the side of the road. My Father got out, leaving his hat behind on the front seat. He came to the back door and opened it, looking down at me with a softness in his eyes.
    “Would you like to watch the nets with me, Son?”
    I smiled in answer and slid out of the back seat, careful of my rocks, and took his outstretched hand. Together, we walked towards the nets out on the peninsula. With no obstacle to reduce its power, the wind rushed about in cold sheets, playing with our clothes and our hair, and the grass all around. As we drew closer, the truly colossal size of the nets became clear. Like giant sea creatures from old tales. The thought of them submerged deep in the water gave me an uneasy feeling, like that of being urged to embrace an elderly relative I did not remember.
    We stood beneath the giant forms, looking up. They floated and swayed above us, billowing delicately until coming back to rest against the poles when the wind was spent, only to renew again and sail up into the granite sky as though they weighed nothing at all. Within their
lattice lay the beauty and breadth of cathedrals. And like cathedrals, they held something steady, eternal, and watching, belonging only to the air and ocean, and not to us.
    Perhaps it was their movement that my Father needed. For they seemed to breathe, like great webbed lungs. Unlike the still people, who breathed no more. My Father watched them inhale the sea air in a kind of trance. Perhaps Wendy Penney was there in the nets for him, giving
him peace.
    I stood beside him, watching him, understanding his wonder. The nets were beautiful, when they didn’t need to be. Just like the rocks I had taken from the beach. Instinctively I touched the bulges of my pockets, suddenly aware of them again skewing the set of my shorts with their weight. My skin pricked. It came gently at first, then became more forceful. It pushed outward from within, from behind my bones. A strange and overwhelming urge to give them back.
    My hands dipped into my pockets and withdrew the rocks within, the sound of them shifting among my small fingers earthy and pleasant. In unbidden ritual, I knelt and began to place the rocks one-by-one on the ground among the bristled grass. I rolled each one in my fingers before setting it down beside its fellows, studying the shape and color, acknowledging each one. My Father’s shadow covered mine as he crouched down beside me to see what I was doing. Observing the rocks, he patted my back affectionately and kissed my hair before standing again.
    “See you back in the car, Son.” he said. He turned and began to walk slowly back across the peninsula, the wind whipping his tie.
    Finished, I left my small monument where it lay, stood, and watched the nets for a moment more before turning and trailing after my Father in the distance. Soon we were both back in the car, my pockets empty. The car started and we pulled away from the curb and out
onto the road. Within moments we made the turn that headed inland, toward the farmlands.