Stay's Landing

The pier on the edge of Stay’s Landing was the only place in town I had ever known true peace. 

If I had known what the winter would bring I would have spent more time out on this pier, drinking in the sun and soaking up as much of the seaside breeze as I could have. I’d have filled my lungs with the salty sweet air and held on as tight as I could, praying it would never escape and the peaceful moments that accompanied it would wash away the chaos to come. 

But of course, I didn’t know that then. So I look back on those days and remember the serenity that once was, I use those memories to quiet the war raging in my mind, to subside the guilt that filled my lungs.

Stay’s Landing was a small seaside town, tucked between mountain ridges. It housed a modest population - only around 100-something people called this port home, and a few fisherman would come and go. With the expansive mountains and the treacherous seaside it didn’t make for the ideal port of call for many, and the only residents that were left were lifetime Lander’s, as we affectionately called ourself. A lot of us were multi-generational, a family tree sprawled out from pillar to post. I was born here, but my parents were not, making me even more of a rarity. The way my mother tells it, she and my father had separated from their own small town lives in search of something bigger, only toi fall in love with the sturdy trees and crisp air of Stay’s. They bought a tiny cottage deep in the wood, my mother getting herself a job at the library and my father his own at the docks. They were far enough from the bustle of town- if you could call it that- to feel remote, but close enough that they didn’t need a car save for winters. We had a few crickety bikes that we used until the snow was too thick to traverse, and a beat up old Impala for the rest of the time. 

Most would get bored of this life, I suppose, but in my 17 years I never had once. 

I loved my life, my structure, my routine. Every morning I would wake up to the hum of my mother, singing a forgotten sea shanty as she warmed a pot of coffee on our old wood stove. The house always smelled like cut grass, firewood and cinnamon. You can’t say that smell isn’t cozy. I drank it in, and for that smell alone I loved mornings. This particular morning, the one I remember the most, the summer was beginning to set and mornings were cool. I pulled my curly mess of hair into a bun on top of my head, noting how badly it needed a wash. I pulled a bulky knit sweater over my thin pajama top, letting the yawn escape my lips as I stretched sleepily. The sun was beaming above, my room warmed in the golden yellow of it’s light. I was perfectly content as I traversed the creaky wooden steps down to the kitchen. 

Mom stood smiling, a pot of coffee in her hand, “You always manage to find your way out of bed just as I finish the pot!” she smiled, her green eyes crinkling. She had already been up for a while, and was ready for the day. She’d fastened her straight blonde hair into a low ponytail at the  nape of her neck, and absentmindedly kept pushing her now too-long bangs out of her eyes. Her coral linen dress clung loosely to her frame, wooden buttons down the front. I envied how naturally beautiful she was, with her tanned skin and her golden hair. She was tall and lean, toned from years of lifting heavy books and gardening. Seemingly the only thing I inherited from her were her eyes, a mossy green that held a knowing sparkle. 

I took the coffee cup she handed to me, cradling the warmth in my hands and inhaling the scent, “Mmm, it’s a gift!” I replied, taking a sip of the rich liquid. 

“I’ll never know how you drink that stuff black. That’s definitely your father’s genes.” She said, a flash of pain crossing her eyes as she remembered my father. I’d never gotten to know him, he’d been killed shortly after Mom found out she was expecting. It hurt her to relive that day, so I never asked. Truthfully, I don’t think I even know the extent of what happened. 

“It makes you tough, mom!” I smiled, bringing her back from her memories. A small smile danced across her lips as she poured her coffee in a travel mug. 

“Don’t forget you have a shift in the archives this afternoon, Theo. Mains has something up his sleeve, I wouldn’t be late if I were you!” 

I crinkled my nose and smiled as my mother gathered her things in a straw tote, tossing it in the basket on her bike and heading off for another day of books. I had taken up a part time job with the library, too, though my time was mainly spent helping old man Mains in the town’s historical archives. Cataloguing, tagging and dusting took up my afternoons as I listened to Mains’ stories of Stay’s Landing in times of Yore. He was the closest to a father figure I’d ever had, and even though I put on a show about the hard work he made me do I wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

I soaked in the quiet of our tiny kitchen a little longer and finished my coffee, determined to enjoy my Saturday morning in the sunshine before cramming myself in the dusty basement of the archives. My porcelain skin would never catch a tan, only freckle, but that wouldn’t stop me from trying.

I headed upstairs, pulling on a pair of tattered jean shorts and strappy sandals, pairing it with a loose, sunflower yellow button up top - wooden buttons to match my mom. I shoved the cardigan I had been wearing into a tote bag, along with a book of poetry I had been reading. Looping the bag handles on the doorframe, ready to go, I pulled myself into the bathroom and pulled out my hair from the trap of the bun. My fiery red curls escaped in wild tendrils, bouncing around my face and down to my waist. My hair was a mystery, genetically. My mother, with her pin straight blonde hair, and my father, with his raven hair and Italian lineage seemed an unlikely pairing to produce someone with wild curly locks like mine, but yet here I was. Everyone in town had their own theories of where I’d gotten it from; some said fae, others said the Moon Goddess herself. My favourite was the story of Old Man Mains- and how I got my name. 

The story goes- or legend, if you feel like upping the ante- that I, Theo Martin, was forged in fire. My mother was newly single, having lost my father- her mate- tragically months before. She had buckled down, asking for more responsibility at her quiet library job. Mainstay Books- a bookshop turned library turned treasure trove in town was run by old rickety Theodore Mains, but everyone called him Mains. He was getting older, and had longed for more time to quietly spend compiling the historical documents in the archives. My mother, wild eyed, came pleading for more time and responsibility- and he handed over the keys. She was fully in charge of the upstairs bookshop, selling the antiques and knick knacks and loaning books out to Lander’s as they pleased. 

It was about 7 months into my mother’s pregnancy when a rogue attack struck town, and a glass bottle on fire was thrown through the window of the little bookshop. As my mother tells it, she tried to get out through the creaky wooden doors but they wouldn’t budge, and the flames caught quick on the old books. She grasped her stomach and said a silent prayer to the Moon Goddess to protect her unborn pup, and reunite her with her mate in the next realm...but as she did a pair of strong arms carried her out into the cool winter breeze, saving her life. Her saviour was none other than Theodore Mains, who had carried her like a feather despite his age. She vowed then to name me Theo, in honour of him.

Just a few months later, there I was- the flames ablaze atop my head.