The Origin (The Sighting #2) Read online

  The Origin (The Sighting Book Two)

  Christopher Coleman

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  OTHER BOOKS BY CHRISTOPHER COLEMAN

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  OTHER BOOKS BY CHRISTOPHER COLEMAN

  Gretel (Gretel Book One)

  Marlene’s Revenge (Gretel Book Two)

  Hansel (Gretel Book Three)

  Anika Rising (Gretel Book Four)

  They Came with the Snow (They Came with the Snow Book One)

  The Melting (They Came with the Snow Book Two)

  Chapter 1

  “It’s this way, Samuel, follow me.”

  Nootau held his hand above his shoulder and waved two fingers forward, all the while gliding effortlessly along the dirt path toward the sound. Despite the fading light, he dodged the tall loblolly pines and avoided the prickly pear shrubs with the grace of a mustang.

  Samuel stopped and took a deep breath, his eyes watching Nootau disappear around the brush, and then he placed his hands on his knees and bent over, searching for air. But he rested only a moment before following Nootau through the thick grass.

  “Let’s go, Samuel,” Nootau called, “we won’t make dinner, but we must try to be home before dark.”

  “Where are we going?” Samuel asked, but the words were to himself, only a whisper; he needed to preserve his strength to keep up with the young Algonquin boy striding ahead of him.

  Samuel reached the bank of the sound where Nootau had already unmoored the canoe from an old border fence and was now dragging it across the sand to the water. Samuel stood in awe for just a moment as he watched the brown-skinned boy, about his own age but seemingly twice as strong. He moved so differently than any boy he’d ever known, Samuel thought, moved in a way Samuel knew he could never, no matter the training.

  Nootau and Samuel had become friends only days after Samuel and his family arrived from England, landing on the shores of this new world that the Italian explorer Columbus had discovered less than a century earlier. This friendship had developed despite the ebb and flow of tensions between the settlers—including the Cook family to which Samuel belonged—and the natives, and it had strengthened in the last year, a year in which Samuel’s father had left with John White to return to England.

  It wasn’t that the boys didn’t feel the obvious strains of the two cultures—men had died fighting over the land, after all—but they had made a silent pact to stay above the cultural rifts, seeming to understand that it was the only way either would survive.

  “What are you staring at Samuel? Help me. Please.”

  Samuel smiled, the added pleasantry at the end of Nootau’s sentence so unnecessary yet so appreciated by Samuel. It was his way—polite—even in the throes of a reasonable command. “Sorry, Nootau, what do you need me to do?”

  “Place the shrubs back against the fence where the canoe was. It won’t fool anyone who is looking for the boat, but at least it won’t be obvious if someone comes down to the beach for some other reason, as a sentry or to fish, perhaps. And father will kill me if he knows I took it without permission.”

  “Where does he think you’ve gone for the day?”

  Nootau shrugged. “It is my day of rest. He doesn’t ask anymore. For boys my age, exploration and learning are encouraged without the doting of a parent. It is how we become men.”

  “Then why would he be mad about the boat?”

  “Because it isn’t mine, Samuel. He does not encourage stealing.”

  Samuel knew they were only borrowing the boat, and that the plan was to have it back in its dock, undamaged, before the owner knew it was gone; but he considered there may not exist the distinction between stealing and borrowing without permission in the language or culture of Nootau, so Samuel only nodded solemnly in understanding.

  “We won’t have long after dusk to make it back. So as soon as we see it, we have to go.”

  “See what? What is this thing you keep talking about?”

  Nootau launched the boat into the sound, and within seconds, the Algonquin boy had hopped inside and was rowing furiously, his thin, sinewy arms tightening and releasing with every stroke. Samuel rushed clumsily into the surf and climbed aboard, positioning himself on the stern seat across from his native friend.

  “Nootau?”

  Nootau snapped from his reverie and looked up at Samuel who was lamenting his wet trousers and shoes. Samuel stared at the boy expectantly, no longer willing to let Nootau dodge the question. “What is it?”

  “I can’t explain it, Samuel. I haven’t seen it myself.”

  “What? You haven’t seen it? I thought you had something to show me. How do you even know—?”

  “I do. I know...Just trust me.”

  Samuel did trust Nootau, fully, but he also knew that he would have been less likely to agree to this illicit adventure had he known that Nootau had no firsthand knowledge of this mysterious “thing” that supposedly existed somewhere on the beaches of the wide sea.

  This exploit scared Samuel, that much was without question, and he would have latched onto any excuse to keep himself from having to face his fear. It was only recently that he had started to become comfortable with the island and his colony there, but beyond the sound, east to the ocean where they were headed now, was another thing entirely. It was unruly there, wild and unpredictable. He had made only a handful of trips to the ocean since they’d arrived in this New World, and on those few occasions, with his father always, he had looked out at the endless water with terror, all the while fostering images of ships emerging on the horizon, an armada of invaders intent on descending upon the thin strip of ocean beach before crossing the sound to the island.

  It was, in fact, that same trek that his family and fellow countrymen had made when they came to Nootau’s land, and there was no reason Samuel could think of to prevent such a thing from happening again. He could only imagine the fear that the sight of his people’s boats must have brought to Nootau and his tribe.

  “I’ll row us back,” Samuel uttered absently, the words immediately embarrassing him. The offer was genuine but filled with guilt, guilt at both his lack of contribution to the current quest, and for his mere presence in Nootau’s land.

  But despite his earnestness, the proposal was hollow; Samuel knew when the time came, it was Nootau who would be thrusting the oars to bring them home. Nootau knew the way in the dark, and he was stronger in every way than Samuel.

  “Okay,” Nootau said grinning. “The Viking Samuel, eh?”

  Samuel smiled back and clicked his head up in affir
mation, and then squinted his eyes to bring into focus the approaching western bank of the barrier island. It was only a little over a half mile from the settlement island to the barrier island, and with the power of Nootau’s strokes, it seemed they’d left only a minute ago before the bank was in sight.

  “When we arrive, Samuel, don’t hesitate. Help me bring the canoe to shore and then keep up your pace until we get to the dunes. I know of a perfect place for viewing it when it arrives. We should have plenty of time, but I don’t want to miss our chance.”

  Samuel felt the adrenaline rush through his body at the sound of the words ‘it’ and ‘arrives.’ To this point, Nootau had been excruciatingly vague about the thing they were going to see, but now that they were close to the beach, perhaps only moments away from seeing the object of their quest, the tension was high in Samuel’s stomach and throat. “What if it doesn’t come?”

  Nootau frowned at the thought, and, for the first time since they’d left the village, Samuel saw a real moment of insecurity in the boy’s eyes. “Then we’ll go again next week.”

  “That’s going to get difficult to explain, you and me leaving every time you get a free day. Even if your father does give you freedom. Someone could follow us.”

  Nootau locked Samuel’s eyes and said, “You don’t have to come, Samuel. But I am. I’m returning every week until I see it.”

  Nootau never broke stride with the strokes of the oars, and Samuel dropped his gaze almost instantly at the boy’s declaration.

  Within minutes, the two boys were standing on the soft bank of the barrier island, and, as instructed, Samuel quickly assisted Nootau in pulling the canoe ashore, wedging it into the muddy ground. It wasn’t a proper mooring by any standards, but the options were few in this part of the country, and they’d brought nothing along to help weigh the boat down.

  “Shouldn’t we tie it down?” Samuel asked, knowing they had no rope. But it didn’t matter, Nootau had already started east toward the dunes, and Samuel ran after him, giving one quick glance back to the canoe. It would be fine there, he thought, they’d pulled it in enough.

  But what if they hadn’t? What if the tide came in further than they’d estimated and stole the canoe into the sound? They would be stranded. Samuel was no swimmer, so it was that boat, and that boat alone, that would bring him back to the colony.

  Samuel chased Nootau up to the dunes, feeling the soft, luxurious burn of sunlight on his neck behind him. There was still plenty of daylight ahead of them, but the sun had begun to dip and take on the orange glow of the looming dusk. They were fine though; night was still hours away, and Samuel made a silent prayer that the intelligence Nootau had received was reliable, and that this thing they had quested to view would show itself sometime around dusk.

  But once they saw it, once this magical ‘thing’ revealed itself, they wouldn’t have long to admire it before they would have to rush back to the boat and traverse the encroaching darkness of the sound. Hopefully, they would arrive back at the colony not more than an hour or so after night fell. They would miss supper, of course, and neither boy would eat again until breakfast, but they’d already agreed it was a price they were willing to pay. Besides, the village and colony could use the extra food. Hunger was a new enemy to them both. It was the reason his father had joined Captain White on his mission back to England. Supplies were low, and the colony wouldn’t survive for another year without reinforcements.

  Samuel appeared beside Nootau on one of the several tall dunes that looked down on the Great Western Ocean, a moniker which seemed rather ridiculous from this side of the world. He tried to keep his breathing steady, to keep the burning weakness of his lungs a secret from his friend. But Nootau paid him little mind, as his eyes were fixed on the sprawling water in the distance, his eyes sparkling, his own breathing heavy and anxious. Expecting.

  “Were going to see it tonight,” Nootau said, the grin from earlier returning to his face. “I can feel it.”

  “It’s too early, right? You said dusk. That’s probably another...” Samuel looked back to the sun in the blue sky behind him. “Forty-five minutes.”

  “Fifty-six,” Nootau replied. “We’ll wait down there.” He pointed to a short, wide dune about twenty yards in front of them and covered in sea grass. “It will conceal us.”

  Samuel nodded, hoping this concealment was needed so as not to scare away the mysterious thing they were hoping to espy, and not for their own protection. For his own will’s sake, he decided it best not to clarify.

  “And from there it should be able to hear me.”

  Samuel stared at the side of Nootau’s face, unblinking, finally forcing the Algonquin boy to turn and look at him. “That’s enough, Nootau. No more secrets. I want to know what we’re looking for.”

  Nootau dipped his head and stared at the sand beneath him, pondering whether this was the proper time for the revelation. “You’ll see soon, Samuel,” he said.

  “No. I want to know now. I’m here. I followed you. And I want to be prepared.”

  Nootau stood motionless for a moment and then nodded slowly. “It is a fair request, Samuel. Come with me to the dune, and I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.”

  Chapter 2

  Danny Lynch sipped his coffee and stared out at the rising sun of the Atlantic. The path of light that flowed from the horizon seemed to lead straight toward him, beckoning him to the ocean shore. The first-story porch upon which he stood was agonizingly low, and the chipped paint of the rotting wood instilled a low level of depression in him.

  But Danny could get past the poor upkeep of the porch; it was the height of the deck that really tortured him. The dunes in front of him rose like sandcastles toward the sky, obscuring his view of the shore line.

  But an ocean view—even if obstructed—was a must have for any property he rented, and this house, despite its many flaws, checked that box. The other box, of course, was price, and as far as rental properties went, it was the only thing on the water he could afford right now.

  Danny flicked his wrist over and checked his watch once again; it was a movement he made now as habitually as blinking, and each time he made it, a dull reminder of the events from two years earlier blazed through his arm, the night a bullet had passed through his shoulder during an escape from a madwoman.

  It was only 6:30 am—he had another full hour before the sun would rise—which meant he had a half an hour to get to the beach by 7:00 am to prepare. Thirty minutes before dawn, just like every morning.

  Of course, as with each of the past six mornings since he’d arrived here, his expectations were anything but high. It had been two years since he’d seen it last, and each day tightened around him a little more, like a python around the chest of a pygmy boar.

  But there was hope.

  A news report of a death on Wickard beach had piqued his interest. He’d seen it on the last page of the Metro section in the Washington Post—one of the dozen or so newspapers he now bought on at least a weekly basis. The mysterious death was the third one on this beach in the last three months. And this was no drunk sorority girl showing off for the boys, or some elderly thrill-seeker, unable, perhaps, to accept the collapsing weight of time on his frail body, risking the ocean surf in some Quixotical quest for youth. This latest victim was a healthy male, thirty-eight, a resident of the town for a little over five years, married and gainfully employed. This was the last type of person who drowns in the sea in the early morning. It was still unclear why he had been on the beach to begin with, but that was an answer Danny intended to obtain.

  The other two deaths were semi-explainable, less exotic, more fitting members of a demographic group that one would expect to drown in the ocean. The first of these two was a frequent swimmer with a history of heart problems, so a heart attack while swimming was the assumed cause of death.

  The second death was a child. Eight years old. A strong swimmer, according to his father, and not a boy prone to adventure, unlikely to sneak
from his home and hazard the ocean the way the report described.

  Danny had researched each of the deaths on his own, to the extent he could using the internet and by placing a few phone calls, and he had found a few holes in each of the stories. There were no witnesses to any of the disappearances, and the law enforcement—which, in this town, basically consisted of three guys who were at least ten years older than Danny, as well as a woman who was young enough to be his daughter—had made a lot of assumptions about what must have happened. Neither of the first two bodies ever showed up—only their garments were found tattered and strewn on the sand—and the other body—the young man who’d made the latest edition of the paper—had evidently washed ashore in pieces on the beach. Sharks must have got ‘em, the police had said, but Danny silently offered another theory.

  He could have been wrong, of course—in fact, he assumed he was—but three deaths in as many months was as solid a reason as any to bring him to this beach, to this house which stared like a sentry upon the Atlantic Ocean, searching.

  Here was as good a place as any to find the god that had consumed him for the past two years.

  And to kill it.

  “You looking for something?”

  Danny cringed at the sound of the woman’s voice behind him. He remained silent, still, hoping that his obvious lack of interest in her question would cause her just to leave.

  “You want me to make breakfast?”

  Danny closed his eyes and turned around, opening his eyes at the end of his pivot. “No, thank you. I have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes or so, so...” Danny pursed his lips, signaling that she should be able to fill in the rest of the scenario.

  “You want me to leave?”

  “I mean...”

  The woman shook her head slowly, frowning. “Geez, Danny, you’re kind of an asshole. I mean, I wasn’t expecting us to get married, but Christ.”

  “You don’t have to leave,” Danny answered, the emphasis on ‘have,’ implying that he really would prefer it.

  “Screw you,” the woman said, swinging her body back toward the bedroom, shaking her head ruefully, as if hating herself for allowing this scene to play out once again.