Paul Seifert

Rachel & Annie: a Novel Paul Seifert

The front was rapidly approaching. Without batteries, the engine could not be started. Tom grasped his granddaughter's diminutive shoulder and drew her closer. "You saved my life. You know that, don't you?" Rachel said nothing. She seemed content with renewed contact with him. They both slept for a time, a consequence of sheer emotional and physical exhaustion. Tom awoke to find Rachel sitting propped against the mast pulpit watching him. Her face was no longer that of a young girl. A careworn, haggard pair of eyes peered from that face. Tom berated himself for inflicting such a brutal loss of innocence upon his granddaughter. Although his chest felt like it was filled with jagged glass, he was gratified to find he had much more strength in his right arm. He was now also able to move his legs. The time was late afternoon. A strange eerie quiet had descended upon the sea. The soft soughing of the wind in the rigging was gentle, almost harmonious in quality. The sky was overcast, but the fog had dissipated to wispy patches that seemed to waft over the boat like filaments of gossamer cotton. From his vantage point, Tom could see the swells receding into the distance like the hillocks of a Yorkshire moor. He thought about the ending of "Wuthering Heights," remembering the quiet sleepers there in the quiet earth. He envied them, for he sensed that the tranquil sea would not remain quiet long.