“Ah, makes sense. You’re not really a ship, are you?” the man says. And yet, there is no astonishment in his voice. No trace of disbelief. He takes in the floating island as if he’s seen things far stranger. Far more unnatural.
“I’m Admiral Kochek,” he says. “This is First Officer Bosch, and my second, Langston.”
Bosch, on the left, nods at us, cracks a smile, which is barely visible through his full beard, nearly to his chest. But Langston hardly looks our way. His eyes swing to the house behind us, then down to the greenhouse, scanning, measuring, calculating. He too is masked by a wiry beard, not nearly as long as Bosch’s, but still, I thought naval crew weren’t allowed to grow facial hair. I thought it was a rule, or something.
“Are you a U.S. ship?” I ask, my voice cutting through the damp air.
The admiral’s eyes swing to me, flattening his eyebrows, mouth puckering slightly. “The USSKingston,” he says. We stare at each other,his blue eyes so piercing they’re almost hard to look at. “We only came ashore to”—he shifts his weight, broadening his stance slightly—“assess what it was we had come across. I have to admit, we’ve never seen an island adrift before. Although a few of the men said there is an old fable about a floating island, much like this one.”
“And a man who lived alone on it,” Bosch interjects, his dark eyes swinging to me.
“Indeed,” the admiral adds. “But it seems there are two of you.”
“My wife,” Clay asserts protectively, straightening himself even more, a barrier between me and the men.
“Ah yes, good for a man to have some company. It can get awful lonely out here by yourself.”
I try to read his tone, but my ears are struggling to pick up anything that might be off. Maybe because this whole encounter is off. These men have just walked up onto the island as casually as anything. And maybe my mind is trying to find something strained or deceitful in their voices, but it isn’t there. My eyes flick back to the ship in the distance.
There is no flag waving from the mast—only what looks like radio antennas of varying sizes and lengths. I’m almost certain it’s a U.S. Navy ship, but it seems odd that there would be nothing identifying it. Unless that’s the point: to remain unmarked. Covert and stealthy.
“Could we trouble you for something warm to drink?” the admiral asks. “It was a cold paddle over.”
Clay is all muscle and tension beside me. But after a moment he nods. “If a pot of tea will suit ye, I think we can spare it.” His voice is tight, stiff, yet perhaps like me, he can’t find anything wrong with these three men. Nothing obvious, anyway. So better to seem agreeable, invite them inside, and soon enough they’ll be on their way.
The admiral sits at the kitchen table, casually leaning back in his chair, with Bosch seated beside him. But Langston mills about the kitchen,walking to the back door, touching the cupboards. There’s a nosy curiosity about him. I expect the admiral to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but his attention is on Clay, who sits across from him at the table, after I insisted on making the tea.
“How long you two been out here?” the admiral asks.
I pause, holding the kettle over the sink. How long? A question not easily answered. But when I look to Clay, he keeps his eyes steady on the two men. “Few years.”
The admiral nods. His wide chest strains against the seams of his coat. “I’ve seen some peculiar things out on these waters, but this is certainly a first. I didn’t notice any sails on the island. How do you navigate?”
I pull four mugs from the cupboard. Langston walks to the stove, looking down at the kettle as the water begins to steam, as if he’s marveling at the kettle itself.
“The winds decide for us,” Clay answers, his posture conveying an ease that I know he doesn’t feel. His shoulders are drawn back, legs ready to stand, react, if needed.
The admiral blows out an exaggerated breath. “Tough way to make a go of it. But I suppose we’re all managing the best we can, considering.”
This comment sticks in my mind. What does he mean? What does the world beyond our island look like after another decade since we last saw land? Since I saw James?
I step closer to the table. “What year is it?”
The admiral lifts his head to me. And I notice Clay’s shoulder flick the tiniest amount.
“You have been out here a while, eh?” the admiral asks. “No radio, no calendar, it seems.”
Neither Clay nor I respond.
The admiral clears his throat. “Ma’am, it’s the year 2062.”
The kettle begins to whistle from the stove, and I move toward it, grateful for a reason to pull my eyes from the admiral’s. 2062. I pour theboiling water into each mug, but my hand trembles. The fragrant scent of spearmint leaves rising from the steam. 2062.
“You two should be careful,” the admiral continues, as I place the mugs on the kitchen table. “These waters aren’t safe this time of year. Traders passing through here would gladly take what you have.”
“Traders?” Clay inquires.
“Afraid so—” The admiral takes a sip of his tea. “Oh, lovely,” he remarks, nodding to me, then continues. “Their ships can be hard to identify. They’ve captured most of the freighters moving through this area. Smaller vessels too. They might try to lure you in, pretending to be in distress. Better just to keep on moving if you see another ship, even if they’re calling out for help.”
