Thanks as always to Liz and Annette (this chapter is un-Annetted so I apologise for everything that may be wrong with it).
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns them.
There is no drug use in this story, jsyk.
~~~ Bella ~~~
First Beach seemed wild and untamed by day, but by moonlight it's a different world again. Serene in the half light, it's as though someone has taken this stretch of coastline and cast a spell on it. A silver crescent of sand gleams in the moonlight, the water beyond it a contrast of rolling black ink, bubbling into white foam as it rushes to the shore. The whisper of a cool breeze over the beach stirs the trees at my back to soft chatter, as the blue and lavender flames of the fire twirl like dancers, reaching for the stars.
Even the four figures sitting around the fire seem mysterious and enigmatic now that night has fallen. Maybe I do too.
I move closer to the fire, warming my hands.
"Warm enough, Bella?" Mike asks.
"Yeah, thanks," I reply. "I've never seen a driftwood fire before. It's so beautiful."
"Just don't tell anyone," he says. "We shouldn't really be doing this but we wanted to show you."
"Oh? Why shouldn't we be doing it?"
"The driftwood," Ben says. "The Quileute get touchy about it. Don't burn it, don't remove it."
"We thought we'd risk it tonight," Mike says. "I'm glad you like it."
"Is that tribal law?" I ask, thinking of the smooth, white driftwood Emily and Jake insisted I take with me from this beach.
"It's both. If your father or my uncle came here now we'd be in just as much trouble as if the Quileute caught us," Mike says with a wink.
"He works with my Dad, doesn't he? Your uncle?"
"Yeah, Dave Newton. He's a deputy now; he's worked his way up. Who knows, he might even be Chief when your father leaves."
"When my Dad leaves?"
"Well, that's the rumor." His tone is offhand but I'm wary. It's not the first time this week he's brought up the subject of my parents.
"It's probably just talk, but the word is that once you go to college, your Mom and Dad will leave Forks. You know, because of your Mom hating it here so much." He pauses. "I mean, that's why she left in the first place, isn't it?"
"I don't really know, Mike, but I don't think they plan on leaving."
"Oh really? Because I heard -."
Angela interrupts him.
"My legs are numb from sitting," she says, brushing the sand from her hands before holding them out to Ben. "Who's up for a walk?"
They rise one by one, stretching their limbs, but I stay where I am, longing for solitude by the firelight. They walk slowly, two pairs hand in hand, drifting north to the cliffs where the Quileute were diving at sunset. It frightened me when I saw the first figure jump from that great height, but Mike assured me they do it all the time. I thought I saw Jake amongst them, but in the gathering twilight I couldn't tell for sure.
Clouds drift in from the horizon now, the golden trail of moonlight on the ocean leading them slowly onto the beach. The shadows deepen briefly as the moon disappears and a shiver runs down my back. I pick up a stick and poke at the fire, sending a cascade of sparks hissing and fizzing into the sky, burning bright for an instant, and then gone.
I thought too, for a long time, that Renee left because of Forks, that maybe the weather and the town were both too much and not enough for her, but I see now that was never the reason.
She has immortalized this place a hundred times over the years in her fabrics and paintings. There were echoes of the soft shapes and muted colors of this landscape everywhere, and those seemingly random choices of hue and form now seem loaded and wistful. I think now that Arizona was a kind of exile for her, not an escape.
I kick my boots off and stretch my legs out, curling my toes near the fire, the warmth delicious and decadent against my skin. I lay back, not caring that my hair will be full of sand, looking up at the cloud scattered sky. The stars are brighter here than in Phoenix with no city lights to dull them, and my old home feels a long way away. It's surprising to me how little I've thought about that place since I came here, but my mind drifts back there tonight.
On my last day at school in Phoenix, a small, terracotta pot with a cactus planted in it was left on my locker. There was a scrap of paper, grubby and frayed, taped on the front of the pot, with scrawled words in red ink.
I wish you'd looked at me when I looked at you.
I knew who it was from.
There was a shy boy in my English class who stole furtive looks at me when he thought I wasn't looking. I wanted to return those looks, to see what eyes filled with longing and promise looked like, but I didn't.
My mother and father taught me, without ever saying a word, that love is a frightening thing, a thing not ever recovered from when it ends.
I brought that cactus with me to Forks in the little terracotta pot. I brought it with me as a reminder that love is fierce and fearsome but, maybe, in the end, worth the fight and worth the risk. I brought it with me to remind myself to be brave.
I stretch out beneath the stars, my fingers twisting in my tangled, sandy hair.
I'm ready, I whisper to the sky above. I'm ready now. I'm not afraid anymore.
Next time, I won't look away.
~~~ O ~~~
I hear a soft footfall behind me in the sand.
A flash of eyes and teeth in the darkness as I sit up and turn.
A deep voice.
"Hi Bella," Jake says. "It's only me."
"Jake, you scared me." My hands tremble a little as I shake the sand out of my hair. "What are you doing out here all alone?"
"Just walking," he says, sitting next to me on the sand. "That's a pretty fire you have there."
"It's beautiful - but illegal, I'm told. Are we in trouble?"
"Nah, it's OK. Just don't let Billy catch you," he teases.
"Does he know you're out here on your own in the middle of the night?"
"Sure," he says. "I come out here all the time. Not always alone though."
His soft laughter is mellow and warm, and I laugh too. Jake is easy company, relaxed and self assured, and I'm glad he's wandered along.
"How is Emily?" I ask.
"She's great", he says, stabbing at the fire until it collapses on itself a little, the red embers glowing brightly in the sand. "Walk with me?"
We don't speak for a while. The only the sounds are the gentle waves and the soft squeaking of the sand beneath our bare feet, as we follow the curve of the shoreline south towards the point. I want to ask him again about those ladies at Emily's house, my curiosity about them not satisfied, but he speaks first.
"How's school been?" he asks.
"Fine," I reply. "It's a lot smaller than my school back home, but I like it. The kids are nice. It's fine."
"Forks is a pretty good place to live, if you can handle the weather."
"Talk to me again in a year," I say, laughing. "Right now I love it but the novelty may have worn off by then."
"Well, if the weather doesn't scare you off maybe the strange old ladies will," he says.
"Yeah, that was a little strange."
"I hope you haven't been worrying about it, Bella. She's just an eccentric old woman who thinks she sees things. I would have warned you, but I didn't know they were going to be there."
"It's OK. I haven't really thought about it," I lie. "It was weird how they all knew my name though, my full name."
"Not really," he says. "Charlie was pretty excited about you coming back, you know. Just about everyone in the Pacific Northwest knew you were coming home long before you arrived."
"Really?"
"Sure," Jake says. "You know, I snuck off and phoned my Dad while we were still at Emily's that day. I think we all did a lousy job of distracting you. We were worried those old ladies had upset you."
"Oh?" I say. "Well, that explains a lot."
"So you have been thinking about it," he says.
"Well, maybe a little," I reply. "Jake, are you OK?" There's something odd in his tone. It's as though these are lines he's rehearsed for a play and he delivers them in a strange, flat tone, not at all like his usual smiling enthusiasm.
"Sure, I'm fine. Why?"
"I don't know, you just sound a little -." I trail off, not knowing what to say without sounding rude.
"I'm fine, Bella." He sounds a little frustrated, so I let it go. "You'll probably hear a lot of stuff about us, Bella, about my tribe. Maybe you've heard things already?"
"No, not really," I say, shaking my head.
"Well, you will. There are some crazy stories about us. Old Quileute legends that have somehow been mixed in with our modern day way of life," he says. "Sometimes people don't understand us, so they make things up. Come and see me if you're confused. I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"OK," I say. "Thanks Jake, I will."
We talk about other things and Jake seems more like himself. By the time we get back to the fire the others have returned from their wandering. They seem uncomfortable with Jake, maybe because of the fire, and the talk is awkward and stilted. He doesn't stay for long, just a few minutes before he gets up to walk home. No one offers him a ride and I wish I'd come in my truck, instead of with Angela and Ben, so I could take him home. I don't like the thought of him alone in the forest at night, but he laughs when I mention it.
"Don't worry about me, Bella," he says. "I'm Quileute. I know this land like the back of my hand."
He heads off toward the forest, turning once before he reaches the black line of trees.
"Maybe put that fire out, Newton," he says. "There's plenty of wood in the forest that's not illegal to burn."
~~~ O ~~~
"Jesus," Mike says, once Jake is out of earshot. "They act like they own the place."
There's a moment of silence, followed by snickers and quiet laughter. I can almost see Mike's face glowing red, even in the darkness.
"Come on, you know what I mean," Mike says. "They're like that in town too, strutting around all puffed up, like we owe them something."
"They are creepy," Jessica says.
"Creepy?" I ask.
"Really creepy," she replies. "All kinds of weird stuff happen to the Quileute."
"Like what?"
"Well, for a start they grow really, really big. They hit fourteen and turn into these hulking giants from nowhere and they get married and have babies really young, barely out of high school. Then when they're middle aged, they get really old suddenly." She shakes her head and shudders lightly. "Creepy."
I look from face to face around the fire, wait for more snickering or a hidden smile, but all I see are serious faces.
"Well, not all of them, Jess," Angela says.
"Well, some of them."
"You're kidding, right?" I say.
Ben shakes his head. "Nope. It's some kind of accelerated ageing syndrome. The men - some of the men - age more quickly than normal. It begins when they reach adolescence. Physically they develop in a very short span of time and then they're fine until they reach their fifties, and then it happens again. They become old men almost overnight."
"It's really weird," Jessica says. "People come out here sometimes, doctors, trying to figure it out, studying them, and the Quileute refuse to cooperate." She turns to Angela. "Remember when that film crew from National Geographic came out here?" She looks at me. "Not one of the Quileute would even speak to them."
"But don't the Quileute want to find out why? Who would want to live for years as an old man?" I feel foolish even participating in this conversation. Of course it's some kind of prank, a rite of passage for the cop's daughter before I'm really accepted into their crowd. Any minute now one of them will break, a snicker will escape and they'll all dissolve into laughter, but Ben just shakes his head, the firelight flickering on his face.
"They don't live for years, Bella."
"I don't understand. I thought you said they were only in their fifties when this happens."
"I did. They are. That's how old they are in years, Bella, but their bodies have aged. Physically, they're old men."
I shake my head, laughing a little. "Come on, guys. There's no way this happens." This must be what Jake warned me about. Stories invented by people about a culture they don't understand and have no interest in understanding.
"The Quileute call it the Rising." Angels says, quietly.
"The Rising?"
"Rising to the Top of the Rock," she says. "Out there." She looks toward the ocean. "James Island. The Quileute call it 'A-Ka-Lat'. 'The Top of the Rock'. According to their legends, it's where the Quileute Chiefs were buried, and other people too, important tribes people. Some say that it's still done, that these men are buried out there." She turns back to me, her eyes wide and earnest in the dim light. "They don't survive for more than a few months once the ageing, the Rising, begins." She pauses for a long moment. "Bella, they die."
The cool breeze drops for a long moment, as though the Quileute lands have stilled to listen, breathless, to these improbable tales. I look out over the black ocean to the huge rock that rises from the water, majestic and noble like a king, the sheer cliffs topped with a crown of trees.
It's easy to imagine the ancient Quileute warriors pushing their canoes into the water, following the trail of moonlight to the Island to bury their fallen. I imagine Jake, his long hair flying against the ocean wind, paddling his canoe through waves that have long since washed ashore, to the calm water beyond.
"Jake," I gasp, as it hits me. "Jake?"
I remind myself, as Angela replies, that none of this is real, but the dread washes over me like a tidal wave anyway.
"Yes," Angela whispers. "Jake."
~~~ O ~~~
Renee is in the backyard handing steaming mugs of coffee to three men I don't recognise, their breath billowing in gusts in the cold, afternoon light. Piles of lumber and bags of cement are stacked neatly by the porch, and the string lines Renee and Charlie measured out yesterday march in straight lines and right angles on the grass.
Renee laughs at something the men say, her long, delicate fingers dancing in the crisp air as she replies. I look a lot like my father, brown eyed and fair skinned, but I have my mother's hands.
I put my school bag down on the porch, frustrated that Renee isn't alone. I want to talk to her about those crazy stories shared around the fire last night, but there was no time before school. She waves me over, stomping her feet on the grass to keep warm, smiling broadly.
"Hi, Bella," she says. "How was school?"
"Good," I reply.
"This is Sam Uley," she says, gesturing to the man beside her.
He holds his hand out, engulfing mine in a surprisingly gentle grip, and I look up, way up, to meet his dark eyes. He has a lovely face, handsome and very young, and the frame it rests upon is enormous. A shiver of unease crawls up my spine.
I reach out to shake another hand and something catches my eye, a quick flash in the sunlight.
There is a wedding ring on Sam Uley's left hand.
"Thanks for the crib," he says, smiling.
"Crib?" I say. My voice sounds too high and I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment, trying to calm down.
"Charlie gave your old crib to Sam when he was getting your room ready," Renee says. "You don't mind, do you?"
"No, of course not. I didn't know I still had a crib. You have a baby coming?"
"I do," Sam says. "Leah's due in a few months. We can't wait."
Renee asks him about due dates while the other men begin unpacking tools from their truck. They look older than Sam, mid twenties maybe, and they are unremarkable in every way. Average height, average size, no wedding rings.
"How old is he?" I ask Renee quietly, as Sam joins the other men.
He must have sharp hearing though, because he smiles at me over his shoulder.
"I'm nineteen," he says, "but I'm a hot-blooded Quileute, Isabella Swan. Why wait?"
~~~ O ~~~
A gentle wind blows the branch outside my window against the glass, scratching like a hand in the dark trying to claw its way in. It's just one more thing keeping me awake.
When I asked Renee and Charlie about the Quileute over dinner, they laughed. "Is that old story still around?" Renee launched into a long lecture on the need for respect and understanding of cultural differences and how the health system has failed indigenous people more thoroughly than it's failed anyone else. She sounded convincing enough, but I noticed that Charlie stopped eating after I brought the subject up, pushing food around his plate and not really listening to Renee.
After dinner I picked the phone up in my room to call Jake, and Charlie's voice was already on the line. "Just be ready," he was saying, and a voice, maybe Billy's, replied, "We know, we're ready."
I hung up quietly and thought again about phoning Jake. How exactly would this conversation go? "Hey Jake, the kids at Forks High tell me you're going to die young. Are you?"
I didn't phone him.
I give up on sleep, taking my book to the window seat where I sit, staring at blurred words, before giving up on that too. I glance over at my bed. My laptop is under there. I could do a search in no time but I know, without looking, exactly what I'd find. A Wiki page written by who knows who that will provide a reasonable summary and then question the existence of such an improbable thing. After that will be listed page after page of compelling evidence, equally compelling counter-arguments, conspiracy theories and wild conjecture. What I won't find is concrete, irrefutable facts.
It's hopeless.
My distress on the beach was genuine and telling myself that these stories were nothing more than that – stories – didn't really help in that moment. Angela looked guilty and rubbed my shoulder, laughing a little. "God, Bella, it's probably all rubbish. I mean, they have all these other stories too, things like the Quileute being descended from wolves and the forest being full of vampires and all kinds of crazy stuff."
"Ridiculous," I whisper. "Enough. Enough of this." I march over to my bed, climb in, turn off the lamp, close my eyes tightly, and it begins again. Immediately images flash before my eyes, images of Jake and the old ladies and James Island and those earnest faces around the fire.
The old ladies.
The book Renee had left her drawing in, the drawing of the two old women - Swan and Clearwater - was a book on the Quileute, I'm sure of it. The covers are thrown off and I'm tiptoeing down the stairs in a heartbeat, hoping I'll be able to find the book amongst the piles in the living room without waking Renee and Charlie.
I hesitate on the bottom stair, listening. There's soft music coming from the kitchen.
I recognise the song. A soft brush of drumbeat under a wistful slide guitar, a thin, reedy voice and a gorgeous harmony. This is the song Renee listened to on the bad days. I creep closer to the kitchen, worried I'll find Renee hunched in a chair, lost in whatever sad, faraway place that song always took her to, but she's not alone and she's not hunched in a chair.
She's in Charlie's arms and they're dancing in a rhythm slower than the beat of the music, their feet barely moving. It feels wrong to be watching them, but they're mesmerising and I don't look away.
Charlie opens his eyes, a lazy smile under his moustache and takes a step back and now they're far apart, their outstretched arms luminous in the moonlight, their fingers barely touching. Renee twirls slowly until she's back in his arms.
I gasp and duck back behind the wall, holding my breath until I'm safely back in my bedroom. The room is spinning and tilting at odd angles and I slide down the door, hugging my knees, breathing hard.
Images of Charlie in Phoenix flip through my head. Year after year, summer after summer, Charlie in the hot Arizona sun, crimson-faced, sweltering in the wrong clothes, long sleeves pulled to his wrists.
And other things flood my mind. How Charlie could never stay with us for more than a few days, always rushing back to Forks, how once or twice he cut short his stay unexpectedly.
The puzzle pieces click into place and the mystery is solved. All the "why's" I've ever had answered in one moment. I have never seen my father's bare arms before, I'm certain of it, but when the moon shone full on his skin, there they were, plain and unmistakable.
I see now what my mother ran from. I see why my father kept his life in Forks hidden, separate from me. It is all as clear as the faded scars, the needle marks, running up and down my father's arms.
~O~
Thank you so much for reading!