Celeste's Arc

Chapter 2 of 23

Gulls screamed her awake. Gray light fell through the roof-hole. Celeste crawled out of the fireplace, still wrapped in the heavy coat. Her stomach growled loud enough to hear. Her father's rule came back. Shelter first, then food. She had shelter. Now she needed food, and the coat still frightened her. Someone had cared for this place. Someone might walk through that door. She searched the tavern fast. Under a table she found bottles, dusty, the labels peeling, all empty. She sniffed one and coughed. Rum. No food. She set the bottle down and kept looking. A wardrobe stood in the corner. She pulled the door and found clothes folded inside. She dragged out canvas trousers, cut short at the calf, a blue checkered shirt, and a neckerchief with a small white skull stitched on it. A boy's clothes. She shed the wet sleeping garments and pulled them on. They fit. Dry cloth against her skin steadied her. She could run in these. She could climb. On a row of barrels she saw a machete. The blade was spotted with rust, but the edge still held. Beside it sat a dented metal bucket with a handle. She took both. A tool and a thing to carry food in. Her father always said a fisher carried her own gear. Outside, the beach stretched wide and cold. Celeste hurried to the waterline, hoping for an easy catch. She found a crab trap half-buried in sand. Its wooden slats had cracked. The ropes hung loose and torn. She lifted it and salt-rotted wood came apart in her hands. Useless. Farther on, driftwood lay stacked and pale. Something hung snagged on it. A dip net, its handle worn smooth, the netting shredded into loose strings. She pushed a finger through a hole the size of her fist. No crab would ever stay in that. Both fishing tools were ruined. The sea would give her nothing today. Celeste stood and looked at the beach. Empty. Then she turned to the tree line behind the tavern. Green and thick and dark. Her father had never fished the woods, but he had taught her that where things grow, things can be eaten. She had watched enough shores to know berries from poison, roots from stones. She hung the bucket on her arm and gripped the machete. The rusted blade felt heavy and right. She took one last look at the crooked door of the tavern. If the owner came back, she would not be here. That thought pushed her forward instead of holding her still. Celeste walked to the edge of the jungle. Vines hung across the gap between two trees. She raised the machete and swung. The blade bit through and the vines fell away. A green tunnel opened before her, humid and buzzing. She stepped inside. Behind her, the beach and the tavern disappeared into leaves.