GRAVEYARD SHIFT CHAPTER TWO: THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

It was his father’s idea to practice the knots and, for a fisherman’s son, his knots didn’t cut it for the nautical life. His hands ached as he twisted the rope and tucked one end into another, trying to make the ever difficult Monkey’s Fist Knot. Satisfied that he may have at least made some progress, Anthony spread his arms to properly look at his work.
It was terrible.
Anthony sneered at his work and threw it into the air, not caring where the “knotted” rope landed. He watched as the wind carried it quickly to the sea below. Except for the spot where the rope landed, the water was still. Like a large piece of sea green glass with the close to setting sun at its edge. Though there wasn’t a cloud in sight and the sky was blue, Anthony knew better. It is the calm before the storm. He’ll be lucky if his father came home tonight.
Anthony sighed and began to walk away from the shoreline towards the main part of the town. From over the rocky dune, he could see the small town of Crawford. It was made in a grid system with the church at the center. Aside from the docks on the other side of the town, the church was the center of the community. Everyone who lived and died in Crawford was baptized in that church. He could hear the church bell ring from the distance; one . . . two . . . three, five times total. It was five in the afternoon and his uncle would be wondering where he was.
Anthony sighed and began to limp his way to his uncle’s Inn, The Capricorn. Anthony winced every time his right foot touched the rocky surface of the dune. He had sprained it a few weeks ago and it still didn’t heal fully. It was because of the sprain that Anthony was stuck at Crawford and not out at sea fishing with his father. Anthony winced a few more times before he was able to push aside the pain. He was a few miles away from the town and another few blocks from The Capricorn. That meant he had an hour of laborious pain and he needed to live with it.
Anthony continued to hobble through the dunes, pausing for a few seconds in order to control his pain. He was only a few feet away from the town’s limits when he saw her; Marion Elmsworth, a merchant’s daughter. To be exact, she was the daughter and only child to the wealthiest merchant in Crawford, Nathaniel Elmsworth. She was standing in the town’s cemetery, dressed in dark funerary garb. Her blonde curls bobbed with the sea wind as she outstretched her hand and lightly touched the memorial in front of her.
It stood a few feet taller than the fourteen year old girl, its face veiled by marble and its wings partially reached outwards, as if the angel was deliberating about flight. Her marble arms were outstretched, guiding onlookers to a cold embrace. It is then that Anthony watched the young girl pull herself upwards onto the angel’s base. Her tiny frame then leaned against the cold stone in the very embrace the angel was welcoming. He could see the pooling of tears run softly down her porcelain cheeks as she attempted to bury her face into the stone angel’s bosom. It was as if she was seeking the comfort of a parent or close adult relative. It was an intimacy that made Anthony both jealous and awkward, like he was watching something that would condemn him in the future.
He did not know Marion well, but he knew the memorial was her mother’s. Mrs. Elmsworth was a pillar in Crawford society, a woman who exhibited grace in all adversarial times. She was the local school teacher and had advocated for many human rights issues. No one disliked her. When Mrs. Elmsworth became ill, the town of Crawford was ill with worry. A few months later and Mrs. Elmsworth died, leaving her young child and husband behind. Anthony Davis could briefly remember what Mrs. Elmsworth looked like and while watching Marion embracing her mother’s memorial, he supposed Mrs. Elmsworth looked like her when she was a young girl.
At only fourteen, the young girl was already getting glances from the youth of the town. Her golden curls were perfect in every way; long with a slight wave, not the tight curls seen in porcelain dolls. Her skin had no imperfections and the way she moved showed the grace her mother taught her. It was as if every step was a perfectly calculated move, her feet only lightly touched the ground and never made a sound. When Marion walked through the town, there were murmurs of her being a Helen of Crawford. Anthony did not know what this meant, but he supposed it had to do with her beauty.
He looked at the girl one last moment before walking back towards the town. He supposed she was beautiful, for a young girl, but he did not have any inclination of falling for her. She was too young, two years younger, and she was made from a different cloth. Besides, Marion did not know he existed. If she did, there may have been some feelings, but as such, he did not feel the need to have his heartbroken over a girl who did not even know him.
Anthony limped his way through the town, weaving through horse carriages and pedestrians. The town was unusually busy at this time of night. Usually, in the evening, the town was close to complete silence. However, Anthony was weaving around too many people; all of them hurrying to get into the comforts of their home.
“Anthony!” a loud voice called for him.
Anthony stopped and turned his head in the direction of the voice. There across Main Street stood a broad shouldered man with the similar high cheekbones that Anthony possessed. The man had a mess of graying black curls that wisped in the wind. He was trying to balance three large bags and wave Anthony down with fervor. Anthony sighed and briskly walked towards his uncle, wincing slightly in the pain in his ankle.
His uncle, Geoffrey Davis, smiled broadly and plopped a large paper bag into Anthony’s arms.
“Here, take this,” he grunted as he balanced the other two bags perfectly.
“Why couldn’t Mariah come with you?” Anthony muttered, his voice slightly squeaking. It was the product of getting into puberty late and he hated that fact.
Geoffrey Davis shook his head, his smile didn’t leave, but Anthony knew he was discouraged.
“She neglected to do her chores so she has to man the inn while I went to get more food from the butcher.” He replied. He began to walk down the street towards The Capricorn. “Besides, you disappeared and you owe us for the night.”
Anthony rolled his eyes at his uncle’s teasing, but followed the man towards the inn anyways. The Capricorn stood as a two floored building with six bedrooms used as the guest rooms. The main floor had the parlor and dining hall for the guests. The kitchen, in the far back of the building, is a bridge between the inn and the living quarters of Geoffrey Davis and his family. A young woman stepped out of the building with a broom in her hands. With a few quick swipes at the doorstep, plumes of dirt, sand, and dust were dispersed. She was a slightly plump woman in her late teens. Her dark hair, put up in a pristine bun, was the only indication that she tried to make herself attractive to men. She wasn’t unattractive, but she wasn’t the most beautiful. Besides, Anthony had no attraction for his cousin Mariah. She was like a sister to him.
Mariah looked up from her sweeping and scowled at the two men walking towards the inn.
“Took you long enough,” she muttered as she swept one last time and then picked up the broom. Her father chuckled and shook his head.
“Is your mother irritated?” Geoffrey’s mouth widened into a teasing grin; Anthony was not the only person Geoffrey took it upon himself to tease. Mariah shook her head slowly, her scowl slowly disappearing.
“No, but she could’ve been if you didn’t find him.” Geoffrey nodded to his daughter and entered into the main part of the inn, leaving Anthony to fend for himself. Mariah crossed her arms over her chest, her foot began to tap, and the scowl started to return. “You were supposed to have stayed here and helped Papa out. That was the deal, Anthony.”
“And you aren’t my mother,” he muttered. He took three brisk steps and shoved his way past Mariah towards the doorway. “Don’t you have other boys to torment?” he called from over his shoulder as he moved towards the kitchen.
The kitchen wasn’t busy. Geoffrey Davis was busy putting away the items from his bags and talking to his cheery wife, Elizabeth. Their second and very young daughter, Abigail, was playing with her dolls in the corner. Their son Thomas still hadn’t come back from the schoolhouse, which is a part of the church. Anthony walked in, limping, and placed the bag he was holding on top of the large wooden table that was used as the kitchen’s island and dining table for the family. Elizabeth paused from her jibes and looked at him. Her face had concern written all over it.
“I heard the dockworkers in the dining hall that there’s a large storm brewing.” Her voice was soft. Anthony knew she was worried about his father.
“It should be big,” Geoffrey piped up, “it was a red sky this morning and complete stillness in the sea; bad omens.”
“Aren’t you being a bit superstitious?” Elizabeth tried to laugh Geoffrey off with an awkward giggle. Geoffrey shook his head slightly somberly.
“I wish I was.” He spoke softly.
The kitchen went silent then. Anthony and Geoffrey kept setting away things as Elizabeth was finishing preparing that evening’s meal. None of them mentioned the likelihood of a storm. It wasn’t until the pounding of hard rain and rough winds that they all paid attention to what was happening outside. Anthony took a glance at a window. In the distance, the sea was rocking and crashing into the docks. Large, dark plumes of clouds had taken over the sky; making the night sky darker than it would have been clear.
The family ate in silence, glad that they were all seated at the table.