The rubber eyepiece of the binoculars cold against his brow, Owen Halvard tracks the rust-streaked hull of the Stjørnan. Captain Toftum’s trawler shouldn't be idling this deep into Funningsbay after sunset. The vessel sits low in the black water, its running lights bleeding orange streaks across the chop like open gashes. Owen adjusts the focus, his salt-stiffened fingers numb inside the technical shell of his jacket. He's waiting for them to arrive, Owen thinks, the weight of his mother’s carved bone token pressing into the hollow of his throat.
Down on the narrow shingle beach, the spring tide is a frantic, white-toothed thing. A series of dark, sleek heads break the surface—seals, or what he’s recorded as such for three months of lonely fieldwork. But tonight the water feels heavy with a different intent. The lanolin scent of the wind thickens, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of deep-sea kelp and something ancient.
Owen lowers the glass, his breath hitching as a disturbance in the surf catches the dying blue light. Down in the black swell of the bay, a shape much larger than a seal separates from the foam and begins to walk up the shingle toward his cliff path.
