Captain's Log from the Tidefang

Old moon, day 3. Wind good. Crew strong. We follow the coast west, as the elders charted. Mira-skin counts seventeen days of clear sky. Good omen.

Old moon, day 6. Saw a thing in the water, deep below. Long as the ship, maybe longer. It did not surface. Crew uneasy. I tell them: fear is for prey. We are not prey.

Tonight I write to my warm-scale. The crew jokes that the wind cannot read, but I sealed the words in glass and threw them to the waves. Mayhap the sea will carry them home before I do. If not — well, I will tell her myself, soon enough.

Young moon, day 2. A storm came hard and fast. Sky black before sun-down. We rode the high tide into a cave on the southern coast. Ship took some scrapes but she floats. We will leave on the next high tide and put this place behind us.

Young moon, day 3. Mira-skin had the watch. She is gone. Her spear leans against the rock where she stood. Her bedroll never slept in. We searched the cave. We searched the beach. No tracks, no struggle, no blood.

Tova thinks she walked into the water. I do not think Mira-skin would do this. I do not know.

The whispers in my head are quieter, deeper in the cave. Whatever calls at us, the stone dulls it, somehow.

We rig an alarm at the mouth — net, hooks, a pot lid. If something comes in tonight, we will hear it.

Young moon, day 4. The alarm did not sound. K'tha had the watch. He is gone.

The alarm is whole. Untouched. Whatever takes them does not come in.

We have made a cairn for them. No bodies, but names. Mira-skin. K'tha. We did what we could.

The next high tide comes by dusk. We retreat to the deep chamber to wait. The whispers cannot reach us there. We sail with the water and we do not look back.