Chapter 7 - Deadman’s Cove
The air at Deadman’s Cove smelled of salt, crushed sea kelp, and damp pine needles. The wind blowing off the open waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca was freezing, whipping through the tops of the Douglas fir trees that clung precariously to the rocky cliffs.
Arthur’s private helicopter had landed on a flat grassy clearing half a mile inland. Because the terrain leading down to the cove was steep, jagged, and impossible for a wheelchair, Arthur had constructed an improvised backpack harness, carrying Clara on his back while Briggs led the way down the narrow, muddy trail with a heavy survival kit.
Jonah walked beside them, his bare feet moving across the sharp shale rocks and slick pine needles with effortless grace, never slipping, never stumbling.
"Is this the place, Clara?" Arthur asked, panting under the weight of his daughter as they reached the edge of the granite cliff overlooking the churning white foam below.
Clara leaned her head over Arthur's shoulder, her eyes wide as she looked down at the black water crashing against the rocks thirty feet below.
"Yes," she whispered, her body shivering against the cold wind. "This is where the boat hit the reef. This is where I sank."
Three years ago, on a night of pitch-black rain, the family yacht had drifted into these exact rocks after its engines failed. Arthur remembered the horrific sound of tearing steel, the blinding darkness of the sea, and the agonizing twenty minutes he spent diving beneath the surface searching for his daughter’s trapped body.
Jonah walked to the very edge of the precipice, standing on a narrow shelf of stone that dropped straight into the freezing abyss. The wind whipped his oversized shirt around his thin frame, but he stood as solid as the rock beneath him.
"Set her down here," Jonah said, pointing to a flat, smooth slab of gray granite facing the sea.
Arthur carefully unbuckled the harness, easing Clara down onto the stone slab. He immediately wrapped her in a heavy fleece blanket, keeping his arms tightly around her shoulders to shield her from the biting wind.
"What now, Jonah?" Arthur asked, his breath misting in the freezing air. "We're here. What do we do?"
Jonah knelt beside Clara on the cold rock. He reached out and gently removed her fleece blanket, uncovering her thin, motionless legs.
"The cold in her body came from this water," Jonah explained, his voice calm despite the roaring surf below. "When she fell in, her spirit tried to leave because it was scared of the dark. But the water trapped part of her voice down on the rocks."
Jonah looked at Clara. "You have to take off your shoes."
Clara didn't hesitate. She reached down with trembling fingers, unbuckling her leather shoes and pulling off her white cotton socks, exposing her bare, pale feet to the freezing sea wind.
The moment her bare skin touched the granite slab, she gasped.
"It's cold, Jonah," she whimpered, her teeth beginning to chatter. "It feels like... like needles."
"Hold my hands," Jonah commanded softly, extending his calloused palms to her.
May you like
Clara gripped his hands with all the strength left in her small body.
"Now," Jonah said, his brown eyes burning with a sudden, incredible intensity that seemed to illuminate his entire face. "Don't look at your legs. Don't look at your father. Look at the water... and tell it you're taking your voice back."
