Barnaby

The Weight of the Tide

Barnaby woke to the rhythmic thumping of the waves against his rowboat home. He spent his morning in a steady, quiet patrol of the shoreline, his eyes scanning the surf for the same thing he always looked for: someone who hadn't yet been claimed by the depths.

Throughout the day, he was the island's silent pillar. He helped a traveler haul a heavy chest of sodden books from the sand, and shared a quiet, knowing nod with Grig as they passed on the docks. He spoke little, but his presence was a promise of safety.

As the sun dipped, Barnaby retreated to his lean-to. In the flickering light of a tallow candle, he reached for the flute Kaea had made him. He pressed it to his lips and blew a single, discordant note that wailed like the wind in a storm. He closed his eyes, thinking of the faces of those he couldn't pull from the tide, and let the silence of the night wrap around him like a shroud.