The water off Gloucester had been wrong for three nights. Fishermen reported long wakes that ran against the tide and a smell of something older than salt. Thomas took the skiff out alone because the others would not go past the breakwater after dark. He rode until the lights of the harbor were only a thin line behind him. The oars dragged as if the water had thickened.
Thomas shipped them and sat still. A line of pale foam moved across the bow, slow and deliberate, then sank. Something brushed the hull from underneath. The skiff lifted an inch and settled again. He leaned over the side. The moon showed the water clear for several feet down, a long shape passed beneath the boat, thicker than the skiff was wide, the scales catching the light in dull grey plates, it turned.
The head rose on the far side, higher than the gunwale. The eye was the size of a man’s fist and did not blink. The mouth opened, rows of teeth showed, some broken, some still sharp. Water ran from the jaws and carried a darker thread that spread across the surface. Thomas reached for the gaff, the head struck the side of the skiff and the wood cracked. He went overboard, the water closed over him cold and black, he kicked toward the surface and broke through just as the body of the thing rose beneath him.
The scales scraped his legs. One coil wrapped the skiff and crushed it, splinters floated past his face, he swam for the nearest piece of wreckage, the head came up again twenty feet away, watching. The mouth worked once, a low sound travelled through the water, more pressure than noise. Thomas grabbed a floating oar and held it between himself and the shape. The serpent moved closer, the water around it darkened, something warm touched his arm and he looked down, blood ran from a cut he had not felt.
The scales had opened the skin above the knee, the head dipped, the eye stayed on him. He felt the current of its movement pull at his legs. He kicked once more and the oar struck something solid, the head rose higher, teeth closed on the oar and sheared it, the piece in his hand was shorter, the rest floated away. Thomas turned and swam toward the distant lights, the sound followed, steady and low, the water behind him stayed dark, he did not look back.
When his feet touched sand he kept moving until the waves no longer reached his knees. On the beach the blood on his leg had already begun to dry. Farther out, the surface stayed flat. The wake that had been there was gone.
