Timin Breen of the Penguin Clan watched the ocean crash against the rocky shore as he had every day for the past three moons. There was no chance his brother would wash up now—he’d be gone into the stomachs of sharks and crabs—but there was still a chance something of his would wash up. A scrap of clothing, or a piece of the rope that pulled him under.

It happened so fast. One moment they were standing in the outrigger canoe, waiting for the whale to breech. The next moment it breeched, their spears buried deep in its flesh, and the beast dove. Despite warning Cass over and over to watch the rope, it was the boy’s first hunt and the thrill of the kill caught him up with the rope and pulled him over. Cass could hold his breath a long time, but not as long as the whale. By the time the whale re-surfaced the rope had snapped and Cass was gone.

Every summer there was at least one death during the hunt, but Timin never thought it would be his younger brother, who was always so sure-footed in the canoe.

Timin turned to leave the cliffside when something disappeared down the path to the cove below. Not sure what it was—but fairly confident the mountain spirits wouldn’t venture this far out—he gripped his coral-tipped spear and crept to the edge of the cliff.

It was a person. A female, he thought, but she was so mud-caked it was hard to tell. She stumbled down the path, limping and not paying attention to anything except her feet and the ground before her. He followed her at a distance, his feet sure on the well-known rocks, and watched as she made a bee-line for the water.

Could it be a silkie? That would explain her footsteps—unsure on the ground. She stepped into the water, slipping on the algae-covered rocks. She fell to her hands and knees but didn't seem to mind, just scooped up water and splashed her face. It certainly seemed like something a silkie would do.

Timin stopped at the shore and watched until she scooped up a handful of water and brought it to her mouth. She began to cough.

"Are you okay?” He asked.

She spun and her eyes went from him to the cliff walls around them, to the path he was blocking. When she spoke, she kept her eyes on his spear instead of him. “Are you an Obsidian?”

“I don’t know anyone by that name. I’m Timin Breen of Gaerlom.” He took a step forward and she scrambled to stand. The waves lapped at the bottom of her tattered dress, and frayed ropes circled her wrists. Had she been a prisoner? Did Obsidian do this to her?

"What did you do to the water?" She said.

His brows knit together. "Do to it? It's the ocean. It's always been like that."

The look on her face said she didn't believe him, nor understand what an ocean was. Before he could explain she spoke.

"What do you drink, if this water is foul? Or are your gods so cruel they surround you with water you cannot drink?"

That made Timin chuckle silently, although it was obvious she wasn’t joking. "No. They gave us fresh water. It's further inland." He smiled, but her brow remained creased with weariness. "I can show you, if you like?"

She looked around again and finally met his gaze. It took a long moment before she nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

Timin backed away as she picked more carefully through the water. She raised her eyes to his and they were the same not-quite-brown as his father’s. She spoke with an accent he couldn’t identify—she wasn’t from the coast. He knew most of the tribes within a moon’s canoe trip, and she didn’t speak, act, or dress like any of them. She was too pale, her clothes too bright—his were dull from salt—and she smelled different. Woodsy.

He smiled, trying to put her at ease. "And you are?"

She gave him a long, uncertain look and coughed again from the salt water.

"This way. My village isn't far, and the North River is even closer." He reached out to grab her elbow, but her eyes rolled up at his touch and she dropped to the sand. Timin froze. He didn’t expect that.

He knelt, careful not to touch her. “Hello? Are you okay?” He looked at the top of the path, but there was no one there.

Timin scooped her up. Her cloak was covered in mud and old blood and her dress was torn and stained. Her hands were raw and cracked, and there was dried blood under the nails. Her hair looked sand-colored, like his. She must be a silkie—but who would do such a thing to a silkie? No wonder the sacred beasts hadn’t come through on their migration this autumn.

He carried her up the cliff and south along the coastline. His village was out of sight around a bend of the cliffs and the villagers stared at his strange cargo as he walked to his parent’s hut. The only one brave enough to ask about it was Misha of the Sea Star Clan, his betrothed.

“Who’s that?” She asked as she fell into stride beside him.

Timin adjusted the weight in his arms and grunted. “I don’t know. I think it’s a silkie.”

Misha’s eyes opened wide—they’d grown up with stories of silkies. There were people in the tribe who were silkie-kin, Misha and Timin included, but few people had ever seen a silkie in its human form.

They stopped before a gray hut with a penguin painted above the door. Misha lifted the flap aside and Timin ducked in. His mother gasped he lay the silkie on his cot.

“Who is that?” Abigail Breen said as she pushed herself from the floor. Strips of sea grass fell from her lap, and she set aside the basket she’d been weaving.

“Timin found a silkie,” Misha said, the excitement in her voice making it higher pitched than normal.

“Pin the door back,” Abigail said and began to inspect it. She picked up a wrist and shook her head at the rope.

Timin began to cut the rope away while his mother cleaned the silkie’s face. The flesh on her wrists was raw, but not scabbed over. The bonds hadn’t been there long, but there was so much blood on her clothes he couldn’t believe she wasn’t tortured for many days.

Abigail inspected her for injuries to find the source of all the blood. She gasped and dropped the cloak back in place, face white. The wound must be severe.

“Get your father,” she said in a tone that warned against argument. “Misha, out—and drop the door. I need space and privacy.”

“What is it?” Timin said, fear rising for the poor silkie. It couldn’t be good if his mother didn’t want the extra light the open door would provide.

“Get your father. Now.”

Timin dropped the flap on his way out and took Misha’s hand as they walked to the shore to find Gabriel Breen.

“What do you think happened to it?” Misha said.

“I don’t know.” He hoped it wasn’t done by one of their tribe. Silkies were sacred—to tie one up and hurt it would be a sin against their Ancestors and the Sea, which provided the people of Gaerlom their livelihood.

They found Gabe Breen hauling in the day’s catch from the canoe. Timin grabbed the bag of fish from his shoulder. “Mom needs you.”

Misha butt in before either of them could say more. “Timin found a silkie and she’s badly injured.”

“She?” Gabe looked between them, bewildered.

Timin nodded. “She was tied up and bleeding. Mom needs you to help tend the wounds.”

“Great Mother,” Gabe said. He was off to the hut before his son could say more.

Timin hoped the silkie recovered. He couldn’t take losing his brother and a sacred creature in the same summer.