A Fisherman's Last Wish
Dark Lane Anthology - Volume 4, London, England:, 1715 - Scotland
He woke from a fitful sleep, his eyes pinched closed, shivering. Something was odd. He felt not the breathing of the sea, nor hear water lapping against the hull.
His face, waiting for its first sprout of whiskers, pushed open the lap of his quelt to feel damp air falling like the last mist of an autumn rain, cold . . . very cold. His eyes opened, searching for his cousin. He would bring him up to speed by saying something smart. Davey should be sitting at the skiff’s stern in the moonlight, but there was only a rolled sail stowed away on floorboards with the mast, rudder and oars, and a brown slicker drooped against the hull. His best friend was gone.
The vessel dipped slightly, and warmth brushed across his face.
“Love me . . .”
The skiff tilted as the fisherman sat up, startled by the young woman’s voice.
“Johnny, you felt the warmth of my hand. I’m here, in the light of the moon.”