When all the great gods assembled,
with Mammitum, Mother of Fate.
They assigned each a life.
They assigned each a death.
They marked out days for life,
but for death they set no end.— Ut-napishtum to Gilgamesh1
A clang and I’m upright, spitting hair from my mouth, and blinking at first light leaking through the loft window. When I go to rub my eyes, something tugs at my elbow—a paper, stuck to the drool. Nearly blank, but for my name at the top.
Matilda Mae Albright.
And one line, Ganser and the Great War.
“Unnn.” The History essay—due Monday. Today.
That’s all I wrote before my pencil stalled, and my thoughts waded circles till the words blurred. Now it’s morning and the lamp is out. I let the oil burn dry, and the wick’s a black smudge, soot sharp in the air. Mama’ll be mad.
Clang. Clank. Down in the kitchen. The skillet’s out.
“Mattie!” Mama’s voice barrels up the stairs. “Time to get up!”
And the day’s already begun.
Setting the paper flat, I squeeze my eyes shut. Mrs. Spaulding gave us all the week on it and I can just feel her stare, and that little tongue-click when I say I forgot the essay. I always forget. Click.
Time. Time. I’ve still got some. I grab my pencil, but it trembles beside War—like the word won’t let go—so I drop it with a humph and blink hard at the sting.
I need more light.
Standing, my toes curl—numb on the cold wood—and my legs won’t hold. I catch the desk, and the calendar wobbles over it: September, 1921, Murray’s General printed at the top next to an advertisement for Palmolive.
Up to the Twenty-sixth is crossed out—today—with Marcus written in the square. A hitch in my breath, and I look away to the flowers painted above, bee balms blooming black and red.
Oh! Tingles, like punkies2 biting all up my legs. Stomp-stomp. Wake up.
I paddle to the clothes press and the door creaks. The yellow button-up hangs big on me, but it’s soft—Marcus’s. His knickerbockers too, only Mama took in the seat to keep them from sagging.
“Waste not, want not,” she said.
And I wanted them.
My shoes bite through my stockings as I yank them tight. It hurts. I pull tighter.
The skillet clanks again, and the smell of hot grease floats up the stairs. The day keeps on coming.
But it can’t have me yet.
Unlatching the window, I shove it open, and the breeze chills my face—ripe with salt, sweet with rotting leaves. I breathe it in. That smell meant Papa was coming home.
No more, I know. But I need it to.
“Mattie? Bacon’s ‘most ready.”
The blank essay curls up in the blow, then down like it’s laughing at me. I clamber out to the roof. The dew-wet shingles are slick, and bite cold through the wool as I sit, arms around my knees, wedging a shoe in the crook where the window sticks out.
Ganser and the Great War. I curl into the knot tying up my belly, chin on knees, eyes over the eaves to the bluff line.
It’s a steep look down, so I look up where beach grass and bayberry whip over dunes that roll till the shore flattens smooth, silver with tide. The waves sigh back, and the Sun gleams orange on the wet sand.
Ahead, sails dot the lip of the Atlantic—black against the dawn. Out since May, our fishermen are coming home. Their schooners navigate round the Phillips Point lighthouse that towers up from the arm of the harbor like a whalebone jammed in the rocks.
Above it sparks the morning star under the thin blue hook of the Moon.
Papa called me that—his morning star—the day he left, because I got up early to see him off.
That’s what I want to see: Papa’s schooner sailing in from the Grand Banks. It’s been gone five years, but I can bring it back—like a story I know by heart.
I breathe. I breathe—settle the shudder, loosen the knot. I hold in the salty-sweet air, and let that sweetness lie to me a moment.
There’s a tug between my eyes—soft as a thread—and I tilt into it.
Not sleep; no, not really. This is my place.
The dream races in, sails beating to windward. I catch the rigging and hold fast, tacking to a course of my own. I can steer my dreams. It’s nothing special. I just… play.
The blur clears and I’m small again, but big enough to climb the lighthouse all by myself. I lean on the rail with the whole harbor spread out below me.
And there it is—Papa’s boat! Bright blue against the black water.
My feet stamp the metal grate—ting, ting—and I can’t wait; I race down to the wharf with my pigtails flapping, feet pattering over the old planks. I weave between barrels, dodging crates and pairs of legs.
Oh! There he is at the wheel, waving high as his old boat trundles in. His beard is full—hair blown wild under a grey sou’wester. His eyes sparkle when he sees me.
Mama’s there, and Marcus too—whole. I spin in place, too full of light to stay still.
“Mattie! Wake up, you’ll be late for school again!” Mama breaks in.
Oh! Don’t lose it. This is the best part. He’ll leap down the gangplank; I’ll jump into his arms. No words, just that light—a little joy to get me through today.
But a jagged noise breaks across the harbor—like a cackle.
What? What is it?
The sky dims as clouds spill like ink over the Moon and swallow the Sun.
I clutch the dream, hold fast the rigging, but it’s slipping. Something yanks it away, jibing downwind, then dead calm.
By the harbor mouth, the water churns and a thin black boat rises from the sea. At the deck gun stands a shape of shadow, eyes glowing green—aimed our way.
Papa’s grin tightens till his teeth bare and his eyes go white and wide.
Flash—the black boat barks. Bullets whip through the air; the wharf splinters around me. His mast shatters. His bright blue hull crumples and caves.
I scream, but there’s no sound as I watch him fold over the wheel, and fall over the side.
The water blooms around him in black and red.
I lurch, gulping air as the dream snaps—gone. Dew soaks cold through my pants.
And my foot slips; shingles skid under wool. Now rolling—sky, roof, sky—till my palm hits the edge and my fingers wrap the eave.
Stop.
Bramble below. That rotten fence right where I’d land. One more roll and I’d’ve—
I grind my teeth and push back. “Clumsy!”
Rolling back to sitting, I pull my knees up, feet locked on the edge, blinking back the sting. My hands shake as I pull them tight to my chest, and the breeze dries my cheeks. Don’t move—I don’t want to move.
That was my favorite dream—I needed it today—but something sank it, some shadow that surfaced out of the night.
“Mattie, hurry up! I need you to make your aunt her toast!”
And the day won’t let me go.
I reef in around the ache. The Coast Guard Captain at the door with his hat in his hand—”’Tis the war,” he said. A U-boat3. The crew were in the dories, but Papa went to the bottom with his schooner. He lies there still.
A gust whips my hair over my face; I bat it away, shivering. Motors grumble in the harbor below, smoke biting the breeze. Lumpers slap salt cod onto the wharf, scuttling about the hatches like little crabs. Their shouts carry up the shore, where Ganser staggers inland—brick buildings in rows flashing Sun-streaked glass. Families line the seawall and a little blue dress ducks under the rail, running, scooped up by a man on the ramp.
Ganser and the Great War.
I know the stories. The fishermen told them over and over, and loud till they seeped into the cracks of our town. But I kept them out. Papa was lost. Not… taken.
Now the word’s a hot coal behind my eyes, a clamp on my jaw. This is how Marcus must’ve felt before he left.
I crawl back inside.
Diving into the trunk at the foot of my bed, I pull out Papa’s silver watch—Waltham on a white dial; wind it; pocket it. Lift the yellow paper beneath it. Marcus’s. I unfold it slow, Western Union at the top, and I stop at the first two words—Deeply regret. Today.
Shuddering out a breath, I fold it gently along the old creases and lay it back down, then pull a green kerchief, to dab my eyes, and blow my nose. I stuff it in my pocket.
“Mattie! It’s gettin’ late! You better not still be sleepin’!”
The skillet clatters, the smell of bacon creeping up. My stomach growls, even though it hurts.
“I’m comin’!” I holler back.
But sit at my desk and grab the pencil. The lead digs in beside War—cracks—snaps. I fling it. It clatters somewhere behind the boxes.
Papa’s watch sits heavy in my pocket. Marcus’s telegram is heavier in the trunk.
I jam a stub of pencil into my Algebra book, fold the blank essay into my study guide—for all the good it’ll do—and strap it all tight.
Each step creaks louder than the last as I drag myself down the steep stairs.
Blue dawn falls through the window at the end of the hall, but the kitchen is dim. Orange light lashes the warped wood floor, crackling out of the potbelly’s grate. The smoke lingers—oak I split over the weekend.
I come to anchor in the doorway, watching Great Aunt Millicent lift her teacup; it trembles in her spotted hands. She’s in her Sunday dress, shawl tight, earrings flashing purple and gold in the flicker.
She looks up and flinches at me, tugging her shawl tighter.
I step in. “What’s the matter, Auntie? Why are you all dressed up?”
She touches her earrings and shakes her head. “Oh—no good reason.”
She nests the cup in its saucer. “Just a mite addlepated this morning, Mattie. It’s that season of the year—when I heard you on the stairs, I expected to see you a head shorter, danglin’ pigtails.”
Her eyes go bright. “You remember how we’d be all gussied up, waitin’ for your Pa to wash the fish off so we could go into town?”
I pull up a smile, but it doesn’t stay put—she’s forgotten faces and days before, but she’s never misplaced me.
Mama bustles in with a basket of eggs, muttering, “All I remember is the fish never really washed off.”
She stops at the oil stove, and starts cracking them over the skillet. Her eyes grab me, her tone already pushing me out the door. “Did you not get your aunt her toast? I asked you to do that. I got to keep these eggs from burnin’, and you got to get to school—no bein’ late today.”
My arms fold tight. “I just walked in.”
I cut thick slices off the loaf on the board, and lay them on the pyramid toaster beside Mama’s eggs.
She smells like the factory—muslin, machine oil, sweat gone stale on yesterday’s dress. She didn’t wash after her late shift. I hope she slept instead; she never seems to sleep.
Behind me, Auntie’s voice wanders on.
“Your brother was so handsome in that green vest. He’d carry you into town on his shoulders—both of you singin’ Yankee Doodle all the way. You remember that? Oh, Mattie—you and Marcus were so close.”
I swallow; it sticks. We were.
“Always up to no good, too,” Mama mutters to the eggs.
My jaw locks. I butter and cut the toast neat into triangles—just how Auntie likes it.
When I turn, her smile’s gone, fingers worrying a loose thread on her shawl.
I slide the plate in front of her. “Here you are, Auntie.”
The smile comes back, crinkled at the corners, and I breathe. She nibbles a triangle as I kiss the top of her head—hair thin as corn silk on my lips, camphor tingling up my nose.
If only she were younger, but I know better: wishes don’t stop Death. He lives with us in the empty chairs at the table. He’ll move into the room down the hall soon enough.
“Thank you, Mattie,” she says, butter shining on her smile. “Such a good girl.”
The words land warm, so I tuck them like mints in my pocket.
“Eat up.” Mama hands me a plate of eggs. “Then grab your books and go.”
I take the plate but don’t sit. I stare at her back and swallow around the shoal growing in my throat.
School. The blank essay. Mrs. Spaulding’s tongue-click—click. I can feel it in my teeth.
“Can I stay home today, Mama?” My voice scrapes. I clear my throat. “Let me help you out, here. Just today.”
Mama jerks her head once. “Every day counts.”
My free thumb sinks into my belly, pinching. “But I’m—” not good enough! Clear my throat. “I’m not well, and I—” just can’t do it! “I mean, you came home so late. You ought to rest afore your shift.”
Mama goes stiff, spoon scraping faster as if to drown me out. Her head shakes side to side. My teeth clamp down.
“I’m not arguin’ this no more,” she says to the eggs. “I work. You go to school. That’s what we do till you get as much learnin’ as this town’ll give you.”
Her shoulders lock in tight. Mine are already there. Then my jaw, my chest—one by one—like a door being latched.
Aunt Millie’s lips smack over a bite of toast. A log pops in the potbelly. Mama scrapes the eggs.
“I want to work at the factory,” I snap.
She stops stirring.
“I’m old enough, and can work the machines good as anyone. I’ll take the day shift so you don’t have to work doubles. You can rest—”
The spoon cracks against the stove—did she break it?
Auntie shakes her head, shoulders bouncing. “Ohh! Now, you done it.”
Mama whips around—eyes bright blue like the stove’s flame.
I back into the table; Auntie’s teacup titters on the dish.
“The factory?” Mama’s voice sizzles. Smoke curls up from the eggs burning behind her.
“You think I’d trade a few shifts so you can waste what you got? Girls who finish school make office wages. Girls like me sew knickers for thirty-two cents an hour.” She steps closer, spoon still in her hand—unbroken. “I will not let you waste your life makin’ lacy underthings for those hoity-toity hussies up in the hills.”
Heat floods my neck, right to the roots of my hair. Hands clenched, teeth grinding, I should back down—I always back down.
But today—“I’m smart with the typewriter.” I swing the plate; the eggs almost fly. I set them hard on the table. “I’ll put in at the records office.”
She points the spoon straight at my chest. “And how far’ll that get you? Stuck in that old building. Stuck in this old town. You have a chance to step into the world an educated woman—with the vote, no less.”
Her words hit—slap, slap, slap—right under my ribs, and I want to believe her. But school isn’t made for me. It’s made for girls who can sit still, and keep their eyes forward and their backs straight. Girls who can finish their essays. It’s a fight I can’t win, and I want to scream it at her.
“I—” But it sticks in my throat.
Her eyes glimmer—something flashes behind them, fuel for her flame. Mama’s strong. I saw her cry once when Papa died. The rest I hear locked behind her bedroom door.
So, her next words hurt.
“And don’t think you can rely on a man to take care of you. You need a fallback in case he puts up his aunt’s cottage to buy his own boat… then never comes home. Leaves you to pay back what the government wouldn’t, while his son goes off and—”
“Molly!” Auntie’s standing now, tall as her back allows, scowling.
A tear breaks hot down my cheek.
Mama’s eyes widen. The flame in them gutters. The spoon sinks.
She pulls the eggs off the fire, and shuffles over, both hands warm on my shoulders.
I look away.
But her eyes find mine. “Mattie… you’re smart. Smarter than you’ll give yourself credit.” Her voice goes softer, and somehow that’s worse. “But you need an education. Get out of this town. Go see the world. Do somethin’ amazin’. That’s the plan.”
The plan. Papa’s plan: a big house, a good education for me and Marcus. Now Mama’s holding it by a thread. I watch it beat her down day after day.
And me? I’m the splinter in the switch.
Mama breathes in through her nose and lets it out slow. She tugs my collar, and smooths the wrinkles with her palm. Then she starts in on my hair, which I forgot to brush.
I let her. I don’t trust my mouth.
Aunt Millie’s hand finds my elbow. She looks between me and Mama, and shakes us both. “Come on you two, no more of this. It’s just us girls now. So, we got to take care of each other.”
Mama looks away but squeezes my shoulders. “Right, Mattie love. You let me handle the workin’, because you are goin’ to finish school and make somethin’ of that sharp head of yours.” Her fingertip taps my forehead. “I won’t have it any other way.”
My breath hitches—holds. I can’t. I can’t. I— I let it out. “Okay, Mama. I’ll go.”
She lifts my chin and holds my eyes. “Promise?”
I nod. “Promise.”
My throat is still tight, and when she kisses my forehead I almost fall apart—so I turn quick and shrug into the too-big DryBack jacket on the hook by the door.
“Wait, Mattie, eat your eggs fust!” Mama reaches for the table.
“No time, Mama.” I snag a strip of bacon and kiss her cheek. “Like you said, no bein’ late today.”
I cram my books to my ribs, and kiss Auntie on the way out the door.
The Sun pushes my shadow long onto the road ahead, and that cackle skitters through my skull.
When I close my eyes, all I see is water blooming black and red.
Epic of Gilgamesh, Standard Babylonian Version, Tablet X, lines 319–322 — adapted by the author from George (2003), pp. 696–699, and Dalley (1989), p. 109.
A small biting midge, also called no-see-ums: https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/punkie
During the First World War, German U-boats routinely patrolled international waters along the eastern seaboard of the United States and Canada. Although the sinking of the Lusitania on May 7, 1915—resulting in nearly 1,200 deaths—is the most widely remembered maritime tragedy of the period, it occurred two years before the United States formally entered the war on April 6, 1917. U-boat operations along the Atlantic coast continued largely unimpeded. Notably, in October 1916, the German submarine U-53 docked in Newport, Rhode Island, and shortly thereafter sank several Allied vessels near the Nantucket Lightship. Source: “SM U-53,” uboat.net, https://uboat.net/wwi/boats/?boat=53 (accessed May 2025). The Massachusetts-based fishing schooner Molly was lost in the summer of 1916 while operating in international waters off Newfoundland. Survivors reported an attack by a surfaced submarine, likely a U-boat, but no designation was confirmed and no official acknowledgment came from either the American or German governments.
This is great. The dream sequence is really well done. And obviously I am only on chapter one but i sense foreshadowing which if so means you did an amazing job making it significant but not obvious. I admit i stumbled over some of the older type jargon but it wasnt immersion breaking, it built the world up more if anything. Also, I love that it seems to be a story so far about empowering a young girl, coming of age potentially, and no hint of 'damsel in distress' more be the hero of your own story. Which, especially now that I have my little girl, I am constantly on the look out for her.
Very entertaining, I like the voyage into detail of the story. Lots of angles and history. Interested to see where it leads!