The Sea is a Thief by David Parmelee Read Free Book Online Page A

 “We should always be prepared for storms.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” was the best Sam could offer.  No more words came.  “Perhaps I should be getting underway.”  He lingered a moment too long before he left, disappointed with himself.  He had hoped to do better.  
    The shutters had been made with care by some carpenter years ago, but time and the damp air had taken its toll.  The kitchen window was the worst; the frame behind the shutter was soft with rot.  Sam pried the ruined wood away from the siding with an iron bar.  Underneath, things looked better.  After he replaced that section the window would hold for a while.  He set out to look for some suitable lumber in the shed that Mary had pointed out the day before.  
    The building stood behind the cottage, not far from a creek that drained slowly into the marsh. Several small white egrets perched in a nearby willow tree.  Another stood in the creek, feeding.  His approach startled it, and it lifted off, yellow feet dangling from thin black legs.  It settled into the tree near the others, where they watched him with their round eyes.
    Two doors, latched in the center, secured the shed.  He threw them open, their rusty hinges creaking, and the long, narrow space flooded with sunlight. The building wasn’t large, but it was full; it appeared to be was a workshop of some kind.  Along one side ran a workbench, covered with tins, jars, and tools. A high wooden stool was tucked underneath.  Plank shelves above it held more tools, and long, canvas-wrapped bundles.  In the rafters hung wooden duck decoys, dozens upon dozens of them, the rings on their undersides joined by endless coils of slender line.  Their eyes, some glass and some painted, surveyed him.  Most displayed the dark-red heads of canvasbacks or the green and black of mallards and bluebills.  A group of larger ones were made in the shape of geese, and a few with long, graceful necks mimicked white swans.  
    Overturned on two wooden horses in the center of the room lay a boat.
    In so small a place, the boat seemed larger than it actually was.  It was no more than four feet across at its widest, and perhaps twelve feet long, a tight fit in the little workshop.  Sam approached it, fascinated.  This was something altogether different from the boats that worked the canal in Port Clinton.  He ran his hand over the upended shape, taking the measure of it.
    The cedar hull had not been painted, but allowed to weather to a soft grey that would blend into the landscape.  Ten narrow planks ran the length of the flat bottom.  Clearly it had suffered a collision; six or seven of the planks were bent or shattered near the bow, sharp splinters protruding from their surfaces.  Two wider planks, no more than a foot deep, formed the sides: one plank on the starboard side, one on the port.  They were bent to form a graceful curve from the pointed bow to the narrow transom.  The plank on the starboard side had been driven backwards, its clean arc now misshapen.  The stem had been broken, or split. Sam marveled at the boat's shallow draft. You could run it through water that wouldn’t come over the tops of your boots.  And it must be light as well.   What had it struck it to cause such damage?   He crouched underneath the horses to examine the topside.  
    This was no common fishing boat. The little craft was almost completely covered by a deck, save for a rectangular opening in the center, large enough for one man, maybe two.  The oarlocks, rusty with disuse, sat astride this opening.  A low coaming, an inch or two at most, shielded it on all four sides.  Three shallow boards surrounded the deck at the stern, forming a place to stow cargo.  The twisting of the boat had loosened some of deck planks, which now hung free in midair. Underneath, on the dirt floor, sat an oversized wood-framed