In the Gaunt Shadow of the Devil’s Knuckles.


The frost-ruby sun creeping over Skull Crag catches Serena serenading the unsullied morning.

‘Massive anchovy shoals spotted in Biscay Bay,’ father had said.

Shin deep in glacial brine, she harvests the razor shells herded into the gaunt shadow of the Devil's Knuckles by the looming daylight.

‘Calm seas, don't fret.’

Back aching from scooping tightly sealed clams one by one into her calf-skin sack, Serena straightens for a stolen moment to check again for father's missing trawler.

Every muscle below Serena's knees is deadened by the out-flowing current, her fingers the same blue as her reddened eyes.

 


 

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