“There’s a bunch of dead fish down there.”

“Where?”

“By the public dock.”

“Oh? why is…wait, do they smell?”

“Not really. Kind of. I didn’t really smell them.”

“I see you got some mud on your legs.”

“Yeah…Is it okay if I go back down there?”

“You were just there?”

“I know but…”

“Okay, that’s fine. But come home in about an hour if you want to go to the farm stand.”

“I will.”

“You have your watch?”

“I do…it’s…nine-thirty.”

“It’s ten-thirty.”

“Ten-thirty.”

“Be back by noon if you want to come. We’ll get some pumpkins.”

“Okay Mom. I definitely want a pumpkin, so don’t leave without me.”

“Have fun romping.”

Murph smiled at her mother, then hustled down the porch steps and across the lawn, stomping orange and yellow leaves. She slapped the wood plank of the rope swing as she passed the tall oak, stopped to look both ways, then sprinted across and down the narrow one-lane street toward the water.

As she ran past Ella’s house, she frowned. Ella’s old house. Ella had moved last year, out to a home not in the village.

Back before Ella was allowed to cross the street by herself, she would come up to the corner and stand by the fire hydrant. She would holler Murph’s name, and Murph would holler, “Mom, I’m going to go play with Ella.” Murph would then burst out of the house. “Sunscreen,” her mother would yell. “One sec,” Murph would call to Ella. She’d spin around and bound back up the porch steps. Quickly, she’d douse herself in SPF 50. “Bug spray,” her mother would add. Murph would scan the porch for the bug repellent. Spray one leg, then the other. Close her eyes and hold her breath; she’d make a cloud all around her, eyes closed, breath held. She’d toss the can of spray into the basket and bound again down the steps, pause at the street, then cross to Ella.

“Hi.”

“Want to do something?”

“Okay. Let’s go to Fairy Beach.”

“Let’s go.”

But now, as Murph ran past Ella’s old house, she felt the absence of her friend. Spontaneous romping was far better than a scheduled playdate. As she had tried to explain to her mother, romping cannot be planned. Playdates are what she did back home in the city. During the school year. Not on the island. Not in the village. In the village, she romped, under the public dock, around the rocks that formed the point next to Fairy Beach, she even romped as far as Gleem Knob and Melt Brook, now that she was a little older.

Murph reached the corner and turned onto Main Street. She ran past the post office, past the library, and farther up the hill; past the apple tree and the white picket fence. Mushy rotting apples littered the ground beneath the tree. She crossed the street and headed down the narrow, crumbling drive that led to Fairy Beach. Its real name was Ferry Landing Beach, but Murph preferred Fairy Beach, for obvious reasons.

She ran past an older boy, an island kid, avoiding his eyes. Ignoring him, mostly. She didn’t much care for the older boys, whether they be year-round residents or summer kids. They didn’t interest her. They were stupid. Not like, dumb. Just…pointless.

Seth walked past the girl and noticed she was taller, then he thought: perv. And then he thought, summer people, fuck’em. But no, she’s cool, she’s here at other times, like, she’s here now. Her family comes all times of year and her parents sit on the porch, reading, waving like robots, walking around with their stupid little dog. No, Seth thought, she’s okay. But also taller, and will probably be a babe in a few years, so you can just wait until then and not be such a perv. Then he grinned. But I am a perv, fuck yeah Satan rules eat a dick, then he stuck out his tongue and laughed at his own thoughts. Silly. He looked back, but the summer girl was gone. He fetched his Discman from his bag and put in a new CD.

Seth had recently gotten into death metal.

And doom metal and speed metal and grindcore and black metal and sludge and noise and deathcore and thrash and a bit of heavy prog. He was to the point where he thought, if asked, he could adequately answer the question as to what the difference is between…say…death metal and doom metal. Speed and drone. Slayer and Megadeth. Glam and trad? The OGs and the next wave? Pure noise? Was that a thing? Perhaps he didn’t know that much, in the big picture. The big picture of metal, a tree on-fire. It was all just words, why bother with that when the music was there to turn up and punch and get funny looks from the older guys in their trucks that only listen to sloppy country music which is basically just pop music about beer and date rape, that is, as far as Seth was concerned. Misogyny. That was a word he’d recently started using. Had learned it. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the word. It confused him a little, made him feel defensive, but only sometimes. At other times it made him look at his friends in a different way. Even his dad. It stressed him out, really, when that happened. He thought again about metal. He owned only one Anthrax CD They were speed, and OGs, and cool as hell. He knew the CD he found on the for-sale shelf at the Camden Public Library was a score.

Then there was the CD he got in the mail recently, it was roaring and heavy, and like, much more obscure than Anthrax. There had to be kids out there…not on the island, probably not on any of the islands, but still kids out there someplace, definitely in Norway, or someplace, who knew more about this stuff, more about heavy stuff that made the world feel explorable.

More about metal.

Kids who got it.

His friends here, with their Imagined Dragons and Posty and Chainsmokers playlists, they had been bumming him out, and he knew he needed something other; then he found that book in the library, in the LOL the arts section, that book on the kids in Norway that made crazy metal and burned all the churches down and then one guy put a knife into another kid’s skull like on Walking Dead, and a singer of another band just went and did like that blonde guy, the with-the-lights-out-it’s-less-dangerous guy: BOOM. Shotgun. Kurt Co…something. His wife found him, Madonna, or Madonna’s sister maybe. Blonde, old. In Norway the dude’s bass player, or maybe he was just his friend, he found him after he’d shot himself in the head and like seriously, I shit you not, this is real, he took bits of the skull and brain and made ear rings out of it and…something caught Seth’s attention: a kid on an expensive-looking mountain bike was coming around the corner.

It was Josh. But whose bike was that? Seth quickly put on his headphones.

Josh stopped, “What you listening to?”

“Oh, hey Josh.”

“Hi. What are you listening to?” “Oh, nothing. Pupil Slicer.”

“No way. For real? That’s a band?”

“Yeah, from France, I think. Or Russia.”

“Okay, sure.”

“What’s the deal with the bike?”

“It’s that kid Casey’s. Sweet, right?”

“Way sweet. Why are you getting to ride it?”

“He’s back for his granddad’s funeral.”

“Mr. Bath died?”

“Last week. Guess you didn’t hear?”

“No man, no. No one tells me shit.”

“Anyway, Mr. Bath, he had it in his will, or something, that he be buried up…you know, up on the hill there in that old graveyard by the landing strip. You’re parents aren’t there?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Lot of folks went.”

“Is he getting one of those tall tombstones?”

“I don’t know.”

Seth frowned. “They are so stupid.”

“What?”

“Those tall monuments in graveyards. The bigger ones. It’s like, yeah okay maybe for a few years you were the shit, but spending big bucks on a rock when fifty years later no one knows who the fuck you are anymore…that shit is stupid. Just get a normal sized stone. Don’t be such a dick. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Oh, is that all you’re saying? You’re high.”

“No I’m not,” Seth said, snapping at his friend.

“Where are you going, anyway?” Josh said.

“Nowhere. I was just listening to this band and walking. I saw that girl, the one that lives next to you.”

“That summer girl?”

“Yeah.”

“Murph.”

“Sure, whatever. I still don’t get why you’re riding that bike.”

“Casey said I could ride it. He can’t get dirty. Funeral.”

“Can I ride it?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll see you later.” “See ya, Seth.”

Murph reached the end of the path that led down to the water and stepped with a crunch out onto the shells of Fairy Beach. A moment later, a picnic boat appeared from around the bend, where the rocks grew steep and plunged into the water. Most of the boats like this were already out of the water for the season, up in the boathouse yard.

The picnic boat was very close to the rocks, running parallel to the shore. In it were three men and a woman. They banked toward the center of the thoroughfare and looped around, making an arc, before vanishing back behind the rock point from which they’d originally emerged. Murph walked down to the water, her ear staying tuned to the picnic boat’s motor. Soon it was making the same close pass along the shore as it came into view a second time.

Murph scrunched her forehead. They must be trying to grab a mooring, she thought. Only, there are no moorings this close to the shore. Unless the tide is just super low right now. Murph scanned the shoreline. But the tide is not super low, she thought, in fact, it’s getting close to high. The boat shot past, pulled out away from shore again, and looped back to its starting point, like it was doing laps.

They didn’t see Murph and she started to climb the rocks.

There had to be something around the bend that she wasn’t seeing, something that was causing the boat to pass so close to the jagged shore. Maybe something had fallen overboard, and they’re trying to retrieve it. Like a life vest, or a cooler. Or a dog. Murph was scampering up the rock when the boat came around the bend for a third time, passing just below her. She was now a good twenty feet up on the side of the rock face. She held still. This time, the boat didn’t swing around but rather, followed the shore back toward the village. Murph watched as it slowed down at the public dock and dropped off two of its passengers.

Murph turned to the patch of water up ahead, the area that had been out of her view when the boat was making its loops. She stood up on the top of the small cliff and scanned the surface, eyeing a half-dozen moorings, each a good twenty feet from the shore. Much farther out than where the boat had been. Murph could see nothing to explain why the picnic boat had been repeatedly passing through this little stretch of water. It made no sense.

She heard the motor race and looked back over her shoulder. The picnic boat, now with a single passenger and a captain, was coming her way. But then it turned and slowed. The captain cut the motor and the small craft drifted up alongside a rowboat. The passenger grabbed the buoy and tied up. A minute later, the two men were rowing toward the dock. They didn’t see Murph up on the rocks. Whatever had been commanding their attention at the base of the cliff, it was now of so little concern that they didn’t even glance in her direction.

A mystery, thought Murph. She wanted to write it down. She sat on the rock and fetched her pen and notepad from her romping bag. She jotted down her thoughts, including: why would they risk hitting the rocks, coming in so close to shore, with the tide pushing them even closer toward danger? What was it? They weren’t trying to drop someone off. They weren’t trying to retrieve something overboard. Or maybe they were. Maybe the thing had sunk.

Murph put away her items and stood once again. She took a final look. Nothing sunk. Nothing broken on the rock.

A mystery, unsolved.

Hmph, Murph said aloud. She went back down to the beach. She picked up a fistful of shells and tossed them into the water. They fell like scattershot, making a delightful sound like stepping on bubble wrap or eating pop rocks. Then she spied a piece of green sea glass. She picked it up and rubbed spit on its sides. She put it in her pocket and moved on down the beach.

Ahead was the boy. His name popped into her head this time: Seth. She waved, but he either didn’t see her or was ignoring her. It looked like he was playing drums. He made tf-tf-tf sounds and bobbed his head. Whatever he was up to, she thought he looked pretty silly, playing his invisible drums, but she also liked that he was doing this despite looking silly. She wanted to ask him what he was doing, but before she got close enough, he turned away from the water and scurried up the side of the tree-filled slope.

She saw then he was wearing headphones.

Seth pulled his way up the steep incline, away from the shoreline. His feet slid on loose leaves and broken twigs, and he banged his knee on a rock. Stupid shit, he thought. Why are you going this way, anyway? Scared of that summer girl? Probably going to get ticks now. Ticks, Lyme, long Covid, the clap, AIDS, dick’s probably going to fall right the fuck off now, good job. He grabbed a branch and pulled himself up the slope until he came out on the cracked asphalt path that led down to the water. He turned the other way and walked to Main Street. The song he was listening to ended. He heard a honk, like an old-timey car, like a cartoon. But there was nothing there. Brain playing tricks. The next song began, crushing, drubbing, bald, scorched, unsafe. He thought about Mr. Bath. He drove an old-timey car. Down Main Street in the summers. He looked like a president, or a man who owned a factory. He’d honk and smile, wave, and putter. Cars lined up behind him because he was so slow, but Seth figured this was good because Mr. Bath was super old, he probably shouldn’t be driving at all. Crazy old…he might run over a kid and not even know it.

Or a dog…now Mr. Bath was gone and being buried.

Seth passed the post office and thought about going down to the boatyard. There were a ton of dead fish that had washed up in the night and were floating around by the public dock next to the gas pump. It was gross, but cool. His mom had said that morning that the fish probably died because someone had dumped a bunch of toxic something-or-other into the water, something they shouldn’t have dumped in there. Seth’s dad had told her to shut up, said the ocean was big enough for anyone to dump anything. He said the government cared more about whales than people. Seth had grabbed his Discman and left. He loved his Discman. Best find ever. Two bucks at the thrift store last summer. So much better than dumb Spotify which always cut out even with good wifi. Plus, he liked owning CDs. They were cheap, had no ads, and everywhere.

He turned onto the dirt driveway that led down to the dock. No one was around. Most folks not at the funeral were probably out hauling in their last traps. Lobster prices had been down. His dad had been in a shit mood because of this, but Seth’s dad was always pissed.

Seth reached the end of the dock and stood at the water. Hundreds of dead fish, floating and bobbing, staring single-eyed up at an autumn sky that was more white than blue. Seth’s eyes blurred at the carpet of rotting flesh. The CD ended. Darkthrone. Proper Satan-worshipping crazy-as-fuck music. He started to take off his daypack to find something new to listen to when he noticed the summer girl walking toward him. She came right up next to him and looked at the dead fish.

“What do you think caused it?” she said.

“I don’t know. Something spilled. Fuck if I know.” “You’re Seth.”

“No shit.” The girl frowned.

“Sorry,” Seth said. “You’re…?” “Murph.”

“That’s right. Funny name.” “It’s a nickname.”

“Right. That makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“You’re here for the funeral?” Seth asked.

“What funeral?”

“Mr. Bath.”

“Oh…no. I didn’t know…” “Yeah. I guess he wanted to be buried here. If you have enough money, I guess even summer folk can be buried here.”

“I’d like to be buried here,” Murph said.

“Me too,” Seth said.

A bald eagle flew overhead. They both watched.

“It’s weird, it’s like town is deserted,” Murph said.

“It’s the funeral. But it always like this after y’all leave.”

“Does it?” Murph asked.

“Yup.”

“I feel like we’re the only two in town.”

“Only two in the whole fucking world,” Seth said.

“The whole. Fucking world,” Murph said.

They both watched the coating of dead fish. Neither spoke, but they both were grinning. In the thoroughfare, a lobster boat was coming in from the west, too fast, but no one was around to complain about the size of its wake.

“I better go,” Murph said.

“See ya.”

“See ya Seth.”

Murph turned and walked back up the dock. She started skipping before she reached the end. Seth watched her until she was gone. The fishing boat was now past, heading toward the eastern bay. Seth scanned the water for its approaching wake. Then he looked at the dead fish. He sat down on the dock and waited for the two to meet.