The Village by the Sea by Paula Fox Page A

series. I adore it. Crispin? If you don’t get a haircut soon, you’ll look exactly like Mrs. Bridges.”
    â€œOh, dear,” Uncle Crispin said from his table. “If I could only cook as well as she does!”
    Aunt Bea laughed loudly. “It’s all a joke,” she said. “They give her a bowl and a whisk and she turns out a seven-course dinner for the king of England. If you were like me, you’d see that everything is a joke.”
    Emma got up then and said good night without looking at her aunt or her uncle. As she went up to her room, she thought of how glad she was that she was leaving.
    The moon’s rays made her room so light, Emma didn’t turn on the lamp. She knelt by the window, her elbows on the sill. A breeze was stirring the trees. The balsa sign that read Lodgings would be waving like a small banner. A night traveler would see it by the light of the moon and be comforted. She imagined herself walking down the main street toward the starfish. Which house would be hers? She chose the one made of sand dollars. Way out on the bay, she saw a tiny light. Someone must be night fishing. She would miss the water, its smell, the whisper of waves.
    When she finally got into bed, she fell asleep at once.
    Emma sat straight up in her bed. What had she heard? A soft shushing sound as though heavy cloth were being dragged along the hall. Then she realized it must be Aunt Bea in her moccasins. She held her breath, and in that instant, the sound faded away. She turned on the lamp. She felt she’d slept ten hours but the alarm clock showed it was only three a.m. She tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. She began to feel sleepy; the book slipped from the bed and hit the floor with a thud. Her eyes flew open. She sat straight up. There was a gasping, rasping noise just outside her door. It passed in a few seconds. The silence returned.
    Now she was fully awake. On a sudden impulse, she got up, pulled on her jeans over her pajamas and shoved her feet into sandals. She would take a look at the village by night. She would know it in all its hours. As she went through the small foyer, she took the flashlight from the shelf.
    From the porch, the dark waters of the bay glinted as though pricked by starlight. The islands were invisible, and the bay seemed to flow into the sky itself. Emma took the stairs slowly, feeling the tickle of the long sea grass against her ankles.
    The sand was cold. She turned on the flashlight and looked down.
    The village was wrecked. Stones and shells, seaweed and glass, all that had made the abodes, the temple, the library, the school, were scattered about, and hillocks of sand covered paths and gardens. She bent to pick up the starfish compass, ripped in half. Near where the doctor’s house had been was the plastic deer. Two large stones lay close by, one of the deer’s legs crushed between them. She knelt, holding herself up with one hand. With the other, she shone the flashlight close to the sand. She saw several tiny beads, blue and white and red. The throbbing of her heart sounded like a great alarm gong that should wake up all people who lived along the cliff. She grabbed the beads and waved her hand to shake away the sand that clung to them. She turned off the flashlight and stood in the dark, looking up at the sky. The blackness was like a substance she was swallowing.
    It seemed only a moment later that she found herself on the long porch among the rocking chairs that huddled there like old, old people. Through the window, she saw a ray of light on the dining table. She went inside. Uncle Crispin stood in the kitchen doorway holding a cup of tea.
    â€œEmma?” he questioned.
    She began to cry. She put the flashlight on the table and held one hand against her mouth. In the other, she felt the hard little beads.
    â€œWhy, Emma!” he said in alarm.
    She looked at him and opened her fist. He peered down at the beads, his face