As waves retreated, wetting the hem of the child’s shirt, she wiggled her toes into the sand and listened to the sound of the sea. A fire died slowly behind her, a few feet from the island’s treeline, while the sky soaked more ink. She fiddled with a fishbone.
A whisper came to her ear, undamped by the ocean murmur. “Run,” her father had said. Shouts drifted from her left. She jumped to her feet. Further along the coast, torches flickered alight, like buds of flames consuming a dry leaf from its jagged edge. “Run.”
Small feet fought for traction on sand.
They splashed cold water; she had veered towards the approaching wave.
Shouts grew louder. Her shadow sharpened.
A pebble whizzed over her shoulder. Turning on her heels, she dashed towards the trees.
She ran until all she heard were twigs cracking beneath her.
She leaned against a tree, then sank to the ground.
“The Sentinel will arrive soon. We only need to hide for two weeks.”
She started another fire, praying that her pursuers had given up for the night, that the trail of smoke above the treetops would alert only distant, passing ships.
She examined the fishbone in the orange glow. Its tip was sharpened and stained. One fire for every life lost. One bone for every life taken. Thirty refugees arrived on the island, inhabited by a tribe of fifty. She had one fire left to light, and five bones to take, before the Sentinel arrived.