The Drowning of August

The air over Port Blossom had that specific late August smell—a mix of salt rot, diesel from the fishing boats, and the cloying sweetness of the last of the wild roses clinging to the dunes. Leo sat on the breakwater, the rough concrete cold against his thighs, and turned the thing over and over in his hands. It was heavy, like a fossilised heart, its surface pocked with tiny holes that whistled faintly when the wind hit them just right. He'd found it wedged between two granite boulders after the last big storm, slick with a dark green algae that had rubbed away to reveal a surface that wasn't quite stone. It had the weird, matte finish of sea-worn ceramic, and it was unnervingly warm to the touch, holding a residual heat that had nothing to do with the weak, end-of-season sun.

"Are you going to sit there all day communing with your pet rock?" Saff’s voice cut through the rhythmic crash of the waves. She stood at the top of the path leading down from the promenade, hands on her hips, her silhouette sharp against the hazy sky. "Dad needs the rest of that driftwood stacked before five. The whole town's coming, you know."

Leo didn't look up. He ran his thumb over a spiral pattern etched into the object's surface, a pattern that seemed to draw the eye inwards. "It's not a rock."

"Right. It's a lump of ancient alien technology that's going to grant you three wishes," she said, her voice dripping with the practiced sarcasm of a seventeen-year-old who was officially over this town. "Wish for a car that works and let's get out of here. C'mon, Leo. It's the last bonfire. Try to be normal for one night."

He finally looked at her, then out at the sea. Something was wrong. The tide was in, which was normal for this time of day, but it was too far in. The water was lapping at the base of the big sign that warned tourists about rip currents, a sign that was usually a good twenty feet from the waterline at high tide. The waves weren't crashing; they were just… arriving. A slow, relentless creep of grey water up the shingle.

"The tide's high," he said, the words feeling stupid as soon as they left his mouth.

"Congratulations, you've figured out how the moon works," Saff sighed, already turning back towards the town. "Five o'clock, Leo. Or I'm telling Dad you broke the tiller handle last week."

He watched her go, then slipped the heavy object into his jacket pocket. It settled against his ribs, a solid, warm weight. He stayed and watched the water for another twenty minutes. It didn't recede. It just kept coming.

The Weight of Local Histories

Mr. Henderson’s shop smelled of paper dust, beeswax, and something vaguely like boiled cabbage. It was less a bookshop and more a mausoleum for forgotten paperbacks, their spines cracked and faded. Henderson himself was perched on a stool behind a counter piled high with stacks of yellowed local histories, peering at Leo over a pair of spectacles held together with electrical tape.

"Well, that's a curiosity," Henderson murmured, taking the object from Leo's outstretched hand. He weighed it in his palm, his bushy white eyebrows climbing his forehead. "Found it on the beach, you say? After the blow last week?"

Leo nodded. "Down by the old jetty."

Henderson hummed, turning it towards the light of his anglepoise lamp. The beam caught the strange, non-reflective surface. "There’s a story. Of course, in a town this old, there's always a story. They used to call it the Tide Stone."

"The Tide Stone?" Leo repeated.

"Not *the* Tide Stone. Just *a* Tide Stone. The legend goes that the old ones, the first people here, could speak to the water. They had stones like these that acted as… well, as an anchor. A way to tell the sea where the land began. A treaty, of sorts." Henderson gave a dry chuckle. "Of course, it's just folklore. A way to explain why the sea never took the old harbour, even in the worst storms."

"But the harbour's gone now," Leo pointed out. A storm had ripped it apart fifty years ago.

"Indeed." Mr. Henderson placed the object carefully on the counter. "The story goes that the last stone was lost. The treaty was broken. And the sea forgot its manners." He tapped the spiral pattern with a long, crooked finger. "This is the mark of the old makers. You've found a piece of local nonsense, my boy. A lovely, heavy, well-shaped piece of nonsense. Worth a few quid to a tourist, I imagine."

Leo felt a prickle of disappointment. Of course it was just a story. He reached for it, but as his fingers brushed its surface, a low hum vibrated through the countertop, a deep thrumming that he felt in his teeth. A stack of Ordnance Survey maps near the edge of the counter shivered and slid to the floor with a papery crash.

Henderson stared, his mouth slightly agape. "Did you feel that?"

Leo nodded, pulling his hand back. The stone was silent again. He looked from Henderson's wide eyes to the object on the counter. It didn't look like nonsense anymore.

"The treaty," Leo said, his voice quiet. "How do you… how does it work?"

Henderson slowly shook his head, his gaze fixed on the stone. "It's folklore, son. Just stories told around the fire."

The sun was a smear of orange behind the headland when Leo got back to the beach. The bonfire was a monstrous pyramid of driftwood, old pallets, and a busted-up rowboat someone had dragged onto the pile. Half the town was already there, huddled in blankets, their faces lit by the first flickering flames as Saff's boyfriend, Mark, doused a corner in petrol and tossed a match.

The fire caught with a roar, sending a shower of sparks into the darkening sky. A cheer went up from the crowd. But Leo wasn't watching the fire. He was watching the water.

It had consumed the entire beach. The waves were now licking at the edge of the promenade wall, sloshing over the top and pooling on the pavement. No one seemed to have noticed, or if they had, they put it down to a freak tide. They were laughing, drinking, celebrating the end of another summer in Port Blossom.

Leo walked to the edge of the sea wall. The water was unnaturally calm, just a great, swelling sheet of dark glass reflecting the fire. He pulled the stone from his pocket. It was vibrating constantly now, a steady, rhythmic pulse against his palm, and it was hot enough to be uncomfortable. It felt alive.

He looked back at the bonfire. Saff caught his eye and gave him a look that was half-annoyance, half-concern. He held up the stone for her to see, a silent question. She just shook her head, a small, sad gesture, before turning back to her friends.

He was on his own with this. He turned back to the sea. The bonfire roared, its heat a solid wall against his back. The stone in his hand pulsed, a steady beat matching a rhythm he couldn't hear. And the dark, silent water continued its slow, inexorable climb.