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Paul, radioman on the steamship Owyhee, has a Strange Experience.

2023's Christmas Story is also a ghost story, maybe, perhaps. Who knows? Apparently that used to be a Christmas tradition, so I figured I'd try something a little different. At least, I wanted to write a story that wasn't set in one of my existing universes or featuring existing characters, which should make it easier to get into. Christ, I hope so, anyway. Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff. Thanks to Sami, who had very important feedback for the later drafts, and :iconSpudz:, who is also a good shepherd, however you would like to take that.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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"Courses, Departed From," by Rob Baird

The sky was afire that night—so brightly that one might have perceived a shadow cast by the SS Owyhee, hundreds of miles below. Between the two, thin clouds threaded their way through the heavens. Combined with the aurora, any stars beyond were hidden. The steamship kept her course alone: a single dot, and a melting wake, in a field of empty light.

Paul, the ship's radioman, felt uniquely isolated. He'd grown accustomed to the spectral telegraphic presence of other vessels, and shore stations, and even radio broadcasts that the aurora had all shouted into submission.

“Gorgeous, ain't it?" He turned to look at the speaker, William McGowan—second mate on the Owyhee, and an Alaskan by birth, who didn't seem to mind the ice crystals that had turned his beard prematurely grey. “Never seen it like this before."

“I haven't either. It's playing havoc with the wireless, though, that's for sure. I'm waiting for it to die down."

“Aye, fair enough." McGowan uncapped a flask of coffee, sending steam billowing into the crisp air. “I suppose that means you've not heard anything more about the weather?"

“No, not since this all started." The clouds had been growing steadily thicker, but they were high in the atmosphere. At sea level, the air remained perfectly crystalline. Clear—and ten below freezing. The ship's few passengers kept indoors. “We're staying on course, I assume?"

Washington lay fifty miles off to port. “For now. Still waiting on a trustworthy meteorological report. But… I've told the captain not to expect anything until we're further south. Out of the… well. You know."

“The what? The northern lights?"

“Don't feel like saying it aloud. These aren't kind waters," McGowan said. “There's more than a few good, sound ships have found that out, believe you me."

“As in, these waters are cursed? Oh, don't tell me you believe that rot," Paul scoffed. “Graveyard of the Pacific, and all?"

“Not something you 'believe in' or not," the older man told him. “I've seen things out here, aye, and no denying it. Six years back, had a man overboard… found him with the launch, despite the fog, and him shouting that he didn't want to be pulled back in. And the next day, his cabin was locked and empty. The bunks of the two men who crewed the launch, too."

“And where'd they go?" Paul asked. He did not have a sailor's soul; they were terribly, uselessly superstitious. “You have must an idea."

“I don't, son. Not a blessed clue. And you'll laugh again, I know it, but I was there in '09 when our quartermaster said he saw the Valencia afloat. And faces, in the smoke from her stack. He wouldn't ask me to testify, young as I was. Sink my career with his? No, no, he wouldn't stand for that. But I was there. And it was true, every word of it."

Something in the intensity of McGowan's words sent an odd chill down Paul's spine. “Far from us, though."

“Not so far. I've seen things, that's what I'm saying," he said again. “Our own quartermaster, too. Now, I like you, Paul. But you try to doubt Charlie's word, and he'll have the chief engineer toss you into the boilers."

“Well. Anyway," Paul said—rather than answer, even obliquely. “Anyway, I can't use the the radio with the sky like it is. We should have another few hours to make a decision, right?"

“Should," the second mate agreed. “By morning, we have to know whether or not we want to run the bar. If it's safe to keep going further south, we'd all rather do that. If it's safe. Christmas in San Francisco sounds nice enough, but… not at any price, that's for sure."

Paul had grown cold, and retired back to the shelter of his radio room. His objection to trying to use the wireless was not anything as foolish as ghost stories about the Pacific Coast. There was no conspicuous region in which the unexplained predominated to any degree he cared about. No matter what anyone said—certainly not quartermaster Hart, among the worst of the self-identified old salts.

Children, the lot of them!

No, he was concerned simply with the interference of the auroral activity, which was a purely scientific concern. A matter of engineering. Rolling his eyes at McGowan's hesitation, he flipped the switch that turned on the Owyhee's set. The harsh buzz of static immediately greeted him, as he'd feared.

And… what is that?

It sounded almost like voices, coming through the discordant hiss, although he was hard-pressed to know what they could've been saying. He shut his eyes and trained his ears as best he could on the hints of words. English? I think they're speaking English?

Was it a distress call? Not as though the Owyhee would be well-served to come to anyone's aid, laden as they were with passengers and cargo. Paul reached, with cold-numbed fingers, towards the tuning dial.

And missed.

Whatever happened, he did not perceive it as sound. It was a bright flash, like nearby lightning. Then he could see nothing, although in the emptiness he heard music. Odd music: it was the new Gershwin number, “Rhapsody in Blue"—that much he knew.

But it sounded off—as though he was not hearing it through a radio, or—

No. It sounded as if he was hearing it through a radio, but with startling clarity in the higher notes, and a bit of extra muddiness in the trombones. He blinked a few times, hoping his vision would return. When that didn't work, he tried his other senses.

His fingers were oddly numb, and gauzy. With the same grating clarity as Gershwin's flutes, he realized what had happened. There had been an accident with the radio. He had been blinded, and burnt; he was recuperating in the ship's sickbay. Or a hospital, perhaps.

He was swaddled in bandages, yes, but at least he could move his mouth. Which meant he could talk. “Am I awake?" The words sounded a bit odd—as if he was drunk. Or, rather, listening to a drunk trying to enunciate. But it didn't feel like he was dreaming. “I guess I'm awake…"

Nobody answered. His thoughts drifted. Piano music coursed through them; wrapped them in flowing silk. He saw himself back at the radio, with the headset slowly melding into his skull, then stretching out like the ears of a donkey. He saw himself standing before a tall mirror, wearing a tuxedo; when he brushed the sleeves, bits of it flaked off like shed fur. He saw himself in a room full of books, illuminated by a single harsh light, into which a clawed hand suddenly reached…

He opened his eyes. He was in bed—not his cabin on the Owyhee, some kind of proper bed—with pink morning light filtering in from opened curtains. The room was decorated in floral wallpaper. A figure stood next to him.

His mouth opened, but surprise robbed him of his ability to scream.

They looked like they could've been a nurse—a simple dress and an apron, anyway. It was not the clothes that drew his attention. The figure was not human. They looked like a cat: pointed, triangular ears. Whiskers. A cat's slit pupils. Sharp fangs, when they opened their own mouth. “Are you awake?"

When the scream finally came out, it was a faint squawk. “No," he said. “Dreaming."

He shut his eyes again. The cat-woman was still there when he opened them. “Doing a lot of that. You're Paul?"

“Dreaming," he repeated.

“We found you with a card that says you're Paul Glass. And your passport."

She unfolded the paper, and held it out for him. Paul recognized his passport, of course. He recognized the signature. The photo, though—the creature in the photo was definitely not anything he recognized. Some family's pet German shepherd, or a wolf crudely dressed in the business suit he'd worn when he had his picture taken.

When he reached out to take the paper, he saw that his arm was not bandaged. It was covered in fur, and his fingers ended in sharp black claws. He drew back sharply, and the nurse—or whatever she was—smiled grotesquely and set the paper on a table next to his bed. “Maybe you're still a bit out of it."

“Where… where am I? Dead?"

“No. Astoria. Somebody found you on the road two days ago. We figure you were probably hit by a truck, perhaps. Whoever it was just left you. You're a sailor? The card implied you were a sailor."

“I'm a sailor, yes," he muttered. He raised his arm to look at it again, staring blankly at the dark pads on the ends of his fingers. “The senior radioman on the SS Owyhee. Anchorage to San Francisco. December 5th, 1924." He recited the facts dumbly, like they would help to establish where he was and what had become of him.

The nurse, if that's what she was, smiled again. “Probably not. I know you haven't been asleep for that long."

“I'm dreaming," he whispered again. It was the only possible explanation.

“I don't think you're dreaming, either. But are you hungry? Perhaps?"

He hated to admit it, but as soon as she made the suggestion he felt his stomach rumble. Paul nodded, and the cat—she had a tail, curling and waving as though nothing at all was the matter with that—left him alone in the room.

With his claws, picking up his passport and identification papers took him a few tries. He read and reread them. His birthdate was the same. His signature looked as he remembered it. His name, Paul C. Glass, was the same as the one the hospital in Chicago had given him. But he didn't need any further details to know that the creature in the photo was not him.

The cat woman returned with a tray of food: some toast, a bit of cheese, a glass of orange juice. “We just got fresh oranges in," she said. “So we can have a real proper Christmas and everything."

“Am I a werewolf?" he asked.

“What? A what?"

“I'm so confused," he said, rather than answer her. “What are you?"

“A nurse. My name's Mary Doucet, if that's what you meant."

“No, I mean… you're a cat."

“A nurse," she repeated, and gave him another gentle smile. He was, at least, beginning to understand that she didn't mean the gesture to be unsettling. “I'm not sure what you're asking, though, Mr. Glass."

“I've never seen…" No matter how hard he tried, the apparition wouldn't go away. “You have to believe me, alright? I've never seen any… anyone that looked like you before. I'm not supposed to… to look like this." He gestured with his arm, for emphasis. “Like an animal. A talking animal."

“What are you supposed to look like, then?"

“A…" What had the scientists been saying, now? Ever since the discovery at Piltdown? “An ape. A bipedal ape. With a… a flat face, not a snout. And—and normal ears. Normal ears on the side of my head," he protested, although of course when he touched his temples to indicate this location, they weren't there.

“Like… Bigfoot?" she asked him, her head tilting. “You think you're Bigfoot?"

“No! No, I… I can't be here, that's what I'm trying to say. This isn't where I'm meant to be. I should be on my ship. I should—"

“Perhaps," she interrupted him, her voice gently patronizing. “Perhaps you should eat a bit, sir."

He poked at the toast, trying to think of a better way to explain himself. “My ship was off the coast of Washington. There was some kind of… there was an electrical shock. I woke up here. I wasn't hit by a truck."

“I see."

“I must still be asleep. I have to be."

“You were in the Army, according to your paperwork," she said. “The AEF."

“Yes?" He couldn't see why she'd mentioned it. “And?"

“They brought you to the veteran's hospital because of that. Decorated for actions in Belgium, I saw. Some period of convalescence."

“Very well, but—oh. No. No, I'm not—I'm fine," he insisted, when he understood why she'd mentioned the war. “I'm feeling fine. But…" Hoping it would pacify the creature, he finally took a bite of toast. Before he could stop himself, he finished the whole slice, and then the second one. And then the cheese, which was mild and pleasant and seemed to spread over his nose as well as his tongue.

His mouth was full when Mary took a seat next to him. “Perhaps we should keep you here for… observation. I don't believe there've been any reports of missing persons. We could see if one turns up, with more clues about your… odd experiences."

He looked at her, and saw in that suggestion an indefinite detention, locked in a cell while other twisted caricatures of orderlies taunted him for his delusions. Paul stared into the glass of orange juice, then took a healthy drink. “You might, although…"

“Although?"

“I suspect you were right about the hunger. Now… now that I've had some food in me, the world seems much less odd."

“You're not Bigfoot anymore?"

“No. I must've been merely… merely repeating something I heard. I wouldn't think anything of it. I don't look like a monster to you, do I?"

“You look like a perfectly handsome German shepherd, sir," she promised him. “Does that mean you're feeling well enough to leave?"

“I think so, yes."

Mary didn't seem entirely convinced. He filled out the paperwork she asked for—standard government paperwork, if he ignored the year printed on all the forms—but, when he was at the door to the hospital, she tapped his shoulder. “Sir?"

“Yes?"

“Why don't you stop by the university? Ask for Emma Calvin—she's a friend of mine. She works in the archives… she's probably heard of your ship, at least, and she'll know what to do if you tell her… what you told me."

“Alright…"

“And, perhaps, you shouldn't tell anyone else. If you follow?"

He did. It had turned into a grey, damp morning outside, of a sort he more than recognized. But, in truth, despite the relative lightness of his jacket the cold was not as bracing as he'd expected. Your fur coat. You have a fur coat to keep you warm.

No humans strolled Astoria's streets, but a diversity of animals: bears, raccoons; cats like Mary Doucet. Dogs like him.

He could've been a German shepherd, as she said. Something out of a Beatrix Potter story, or one like it—a children's book, where talking animals taught simple morality tales. The fur of his arms, which he'd seen when he slipped his coat on, was chestnut fading to a softer brown at his wrists.

His claws were black and shiny. Those of the thumb and forefinger on his right paw had been trimmed shorter than the others. Shuddering, he had the distinct sense that it was to assist his grip on a telegraph key, and the even more distinct sense that this was, somehow, more than simple intuition.

He purchased a newspaper, and asked the stand's owner—something that looked like an otter—for directions to a reasonable hotel and the university Doucet had mentioned.

The hotel was closer, and came first; another otter sat behind the front desk. As with the appearance of his claws, he knew instinctively that they were not related; that they looked as different to one another as anyone on the Owyhee's crew looked to him.

“I'd like a room," he said.

“A room?"

“Er, that's right. A room; I was told this was a hotel. Do you not have any rooms free?"

“Yes? Yes, of course we do."

“Then I'd like one."

“You'd like one," the otter echoed. “Just the one night, sir?"

“For now." Is he suspicious? Desperately, Paul tried to assemble convincing details that might allay his concerns. “I'm passing through. I… I'm headed back to Portland soon enough. I'm a sailor, I have to get back on a ship. I was on the Skagway, but she was bound for Anchorage again—don't like the cold. The Bernice Dollar, I have a friend who might be able to get me on, and they're headed to Puerto Rico through the Canal, so perhaps I'll try for that."

The clerk blinked slowly at him. “Al… alright, sir. Fortunately, we do have one ready, yes."

“Oh. It's… it's a bit early, isn't it?" he realized, belatedly.

“A little. No matter. It's on the second floor. If you… do decide to stay another night, just… you just let me know, will you?"

In his room, Paul opened the newspaper, skimming the headlines as if at any moment they might become as unrecognizable as his fingers. They did not. There was nothing odd at all about them, if he ignored that not a single photo depicted anything like a human being.

He contemplated splashing cold water on his face, to see if that might rouse him. No sooner had he turned on the faucet in the common washroom, though, than he was overcome by the image of how ridiculous he would look. Drenched fur, matted, dripping water from his whiskers.

Smelling, no doubt, of wet dog.

He saw his ears wilt; saw his dark brown eyes narrow, and then his muzzle curl in frustrated, reflexive anger. Then, unable to bear the sight further, he turned away, jammed his paws in the pockets of his coat, and went searching for the university archives.

This was easy: the building was small, and clearly labeled, and the front door was unlocked. Just within, a figure's back was to him: a woman, he could tell, with her hair done up in a bun and a simple checked dress. She was stringing tinsel across the bookshelves behind her desk, and did not stop her work at the sound of the door.

“Hello? I'm looking for an Emma Calvin. Do you know where I might…"

“Is that so?" The woman turned, finally. He should not have been surprised at her appearance, which was not unlike his own. She looked like some kind of farm dog—floppy ears and bright, piercing eyes. “Well, you've found her. What's the occasion, sir?"

“Your friend Mary said that I might… that you might know how to help me."

“You came from the hospital, then. In need of some kind of old records, I take it?"

“No. Will you promise that if I explain, you won't… laugh at me, or say that I must've lost my mind in the war?"

Emma looked him over curiously. “Not when you start out like that, I won't. Why don't you try, though?" He was partway through narrating the strange appearance of the northern lights when she shook her head, and held up one of her hands. Paws, he corrected himself; the fuzzy white wasn't just a mitten. “Wait."

“For?"

She went to the front door, locked it, and then retrieved a notebook from her desk. “I liked the way you described the ocean. Anyway, keep going…"

By the time he finished, waking up at the veteran's hospital, he had the distinct impression that Mary had not sent him to the university because she thought they might have some information on hand. “Are you a writer?"

“Sometimes," she admitted brightly. “Not under my own name. I don't recognize yours from the literary digests, either, so… I imagine you're the same way?"

“No, I'm not. I'm not a writer. I'm a radio operator on a steamship."

“And not a shepherd," she added. “Something else entirely. A missing link."

“Homo sapiens. A great ape, if you believe Darwin, I suppose. Like chimpanzees."

“But bipedal, like a normal person. You weren't a shepherd 'homo sapiens,' then?"

“That doesn't even mean anything. German shepherds are a type of dog. Like you, you're a—"

“A Border Collie," she told him, and grinned at the look of recognition. “So they do have those, where you're from."

“Yes. And shepherds, too. But they're kinds of dogs. I wasn't a 'kind' of anything. Just a human being. We're all the same, except… well, we have races, I suppose. I'm white, does that help? I'm supposed to be white."

“White, but without any fur. Did you live in caves, then? Were you nocturnal?"

“Not… not literally white," he tried to explain. “But my point is that… none of this is correct. Not the date, not you, not my reflection—none of it."

She continued to listen, and he was more certain than ever it was simply because she thought he was telling her something she could use in her next story. Eventually, more dejected than frustrated, he gave up.

Back at the hotel, he lay on the bed and tried to will himself back to his own ship, and some sense of normalcy. His thick brown tail, complete with a coal-black tip, was an unavoidable presence between his legs. It moved on its own. He could not ignore it, any more than he could ignore the equally black nose that presented itself when he crossed his eyes.

It was his fervent hope that, if he slept, he would wake up to find the whole affair a simple dream—one of those odd things that happened at sea, as McGowan would recount it in some harbor bar. Leviathans, and ghost ships, and the occasional brief metamorphosis into a monster.

His tail was still unmistakably there in the morning, though. What he needed, he thought, was some kind of constant. That gave him a new plan. The identification card in his wallet said that he'd last shipped on the SS Troy; no Owyhee was listed at all.

He'd already confirmed neither ship was moored at Astoria. He would go to Portland, then. If the Troy was docked there, he could speak to the ship's master, or one of the shipping agents. He could find somebody who could tell him what was happening.

Bus service began early. He bought a ticket, and joined a crowd of people waiting for the first departure. He was towards the end of the line; when the vehicle appeared, at last, it took a good five minutes for the passengers to have their tickets inspected and file through the door at the front.

“Wait!" He was holding his ticket out to the driver when he recognized the sound of Emma's voice. She hurried towards him, bundled up against the December rain, her breath coming in white puffs. “Don't go quite yet."

“I already have my ticket."

“Already has his ticket," the bus driver echoed. “I'm sure you'll see him again soon enough, miss. We're behind schedule as it is."

“Trust me. Please?"

Paul sighed, shaking his head and pulling the ticket away before the driver could take it. “It's good until it's punched, right?"

“Yeah. Suit yourself," the animal grunted, mounting the stairs into the bus. “Runnin' half-schedules the rest of the weekend."

“I'll keep that in mind." He turned to look at Emma. “What am I supposed to trust you about?"

“It's cold out. Walk with me."

She kept a steady, purposeful pace, although that purpose must truly in part have been the morning chill itself. The university, and her office, were only a few blocks from the bus stop—he was starting to recognize the geography. She let him in, taking off her heavy jacket and hanging it up before glancing over her shoulder. “Do you take your cocoa with sugar, Paul?"

“No. What is it you wanted me to trust you over?"

The dog woman was already gone, striding with the same focused briskness into an adjoining room. “Take your coat off, please," she called back, rather than answering him directly. “You'll drip on the floor."

He did as she asked, looked around, and took the seat he'd occupied the day before, in front of her desk. The surface was cluttered—newspapers, and books, and open folders of old typewritten documents. “What's going on?"

“What's going on is that I looked all over for you, and now I need to heat up more milk," she said. He could see into the next room; it had a little kitchen, and she was busily stirring a pan on the stovetop. “Because I'm cold, and I'm sure you must be, too."

“A little. Why were you looking for me?"

“I found your ship."

“My ship? The Owyhee?" He felt his ears lifting, and wasn't able to stop it. “What do you mean, you 'found it'? It's in port? The shipping bulletins didn't mention anything—not the ones I saw at the newsstand, anyhow."

Emma emerged from the kitchen, setting a pair of steaming mugs down on her desk in the little room available for them. She opened one of the drawers, produced three cubes of sugar, and dumped them into her mug before finally sitting. “Your ship, yes. One by that name, anyway. Does 'Evans' sound right? Captain Evans?"

“Yes. Billy Evans." His heart was quickening, his fingers unsteady on the mug, forestalling an attempt to drink from it. “He's been captain for years. Since before I came on, certainly."

“Well, that's a start. The Owyhee is listed as being under the command of a 'WC Evans.' It last sailed from Anchorage, bound for San Francisco, it seems."

“Last sailed?" he echoed, and set the mug back down. “That's what you said?"

“It was a very short article. Here, I copied it for you." She leaned forward, nudging the mug away from the loose grip of his fingers, and gave him the piece of paper she'd been holding. Her neat, precise handwriting made it easy to skim in a matter of seconds.

“OWYHEE," LAST SEEN IN GALE, THOUGHT LOST

“OWYHEE," overdue in San Francisco since December 12th, is presumed lost with more than 170 souls aboard. This mystery was answered by the “SMYRNA," reaching Seattle last night and sending via cable the fateful news that she had seen “OWYHEE" battling severe weather off Mendocino. WC Evans, of San Francisco, had sailed the route from Anchorage to that city many times, but is presumed to have been overcome by the storm.

“I don't believe this," he said. That was his immediate reaction. He tried to think about how much he'd told her—had he told her the captain's name? Or his concerns about the weather? “Was there anything else?"

“Just this article. At least, from the papers we have up here."

“A hundred and seventy-four people," he muttered. “It must be… it must be a well-known story around here, I suppose. That's why Mary thought I was mad—as if I'd told you that I was on the Titanic."

“I don't believe so. As I said, it was only this one story, and Mary's not one for history." She locked eyes with him, over her mug of hot cocoa, and took a measured sip. “And that story was from 1874."

“Well… it… it can't be my ship, then." He was more puzzled than ever, though; he took a drink, focusing on the taste, the heat of it—things he could trust. “There must be others."

“Not in any of our records, there aren't. I went through all of them, and the shipping insurance claims that we happen to have from that era. My office is a bit of a mess, as you can see, but… well, they expect that, I suppose." She waved at the cluttered desk. “Took me most of the night."

“It did?" The dedication was a bit unexpected. “Why? Why did you… why would you bother?"

“I didn't want you to think I wasn't taking you seriously."

“Oh." He took a slow drink, pondering what he'd heard, and sighed. “Thank you. I don't know if I should be taken seriously, but…"

“Well... I have worse reasons. As unbelievable as what you told me, I'm sure."

“Really?"

“Really."

“Try me," he said at last, with another sigh.

“You know I'm a writer. I had some scraps of an idea. I couldn't decide if it would be a ghost story or not—always wanted to write one; never had the nerve. I outlined a man who rides into town one day, unable to remember anything of his past, except that he's certain he doesn't belong. He's never visited before."

“Like me?"

“Exactly. He's carrying a medal, though, so he asks the town historian if she knows what it is. She gradually figures out that he was a soldier whose unit was ambushed while he was a sentry. He was a foundling, you see—his fellow soldiers were his only true family—and all these years after the war, he's still bound to them. Ghosts have unfinished business, often, right?"

“I don't know. I've never been a ghost."

She smiled. “True. Well. I thought he should be a shepherd dog—that much I was clear on. Ruggedly handsome, as a young soldier would be. I fancied the idea that she might have indulged him simply because of… well, I have a touch of the romance about me, if you don't mind," the collie admitted. “But she comes to believe him."

Paul did not have a 'touch of the romance' about him, and never had. Certainly not where it might intersect with the affairs of animals. “I see. About his past?"

“Exactly—and I'd sketched out the basics of his biography. Including the name, which I won't force you to guess. Mary can confirm that I talked her ear off about it a few weeks back. Well…" She caught herself with a breezy laugh. “I do that often. But ask her about 'the soldier one' and she'd know, I'm sure."

“I'm not a soldier, though. I was, but not… that is, I didn't die that way. I don't have any 'unfinished business' about it, for sure. And I didn't ride into town. I woke up here after an accident."

“The parallels are not exact, I admit."

“But you think that I am a character in a story of yours?"

“No. I'm not that conceited. If I was, I'd have made you a bit less prickly." When he scowled, she answered with a smile that danced in her bright eyes. “I just think perhaps I was inspired by something without knowing it, and I'm now learning more. I'm not saying you are a… time-traveling ape-ghost, of course."

“This is all you found?" He reread the scanty article again. The coincidence was a little eerie, to be sure, but 'Evans' was hardly an uncommon name. And, yes, the ship had been on an identical route, precisely fifty years earlier—but then, it was not an uncommon route, either. “Might there be anything else?"

“There might. We'd have to look for it. Finish your cocoa first."

As he sipped at it, he went through one possibility after the next. Was he dreaming now? The appearance of the animal-folk had been jarring, at first, and his own reflection continued to startle him. Yet it was also true that the streets of Astoria had the sort of strange familiarity that came from being in a dream, where what was real could be a matter of fiat.

Had the Owyhee been a dream, instead? That, too, seemed impossible—his memories were extremely clear. He could picture what Billy Evans looked like, and McGowan and the rest, and none of them were dogs, or cats, or horses, or elephants. Are you a ghost, after all? Confronted by twisted apparitions to lead you to some unanswered question from your past?

That was the silliest notion of all. Facts, Paul decided. He needed to learn more, and Emma seemed friendly enough despite her species. “I'm finished," he said at last. “I'm willing to look for whatever you might have."

She rose, and indicated that he should do so as well. “Alright. We do have copies of some insurance records. You're welcome to go through them. Come along…" She led him down the hallways and to a room with a set of filing cabinets, sorted by dates written out in the same neat, formal handwriting as the newspaper article had been. “I checked the ones for late 1874 and early 1875, but…"

“You organized these?"

“Yes. All of them. Mr. Templeton, the benefactor of the university archives, comes from a family that made their money in banking and insurance. It was a gift."

The paperwork had been sorted by department. A number of ships had been lost, or subject to other claims, that year—mostly fishing vessels, and none of them called Owyhee. He searched as far back as 1873, and as far forward as 1876, to no avail.

He leafed through the documents, almost at random, and was about to give in when he saw a life insurance claim, made on a STOKES, GILBERT C., presumed dead—

—IN WRECK OF FREIGHTER “ __OWIHI_ ," NEAR HUMBOLDT_.

Gilbert was the name of the Owyhee's bosun, a surly man with thick grey hair and the fire of a pugilist twenty years younger. Paul furrowed his brow, trying to wrap his mind around what he was reading: $2,500 had been paid out to Esther Stokes, his widow. He was thought to have died on December 10th or 11th.

It was a simple, concise, improbable narrative. At least it gave him an exact date, and a location to keep in mind. He went through the other life insurance claims. And then the ones for property. The sound of footsteps came from behind him, and then he heard Emma's concerned voice: “did you hurt yourself?"

“What?"

“You just shouted. It was not very polite, but I assumed—what are you holding?"

“Sorry," he muttered. The shout—more of an odd yelp he didn't realize he'd made until she said something—had been involuntary; his muzzle was still open with it. “I… here, read this. It's an insurance record for a quantity of machinery, taken as payment from a Russian factory after the Alaska Territory was purchased."

“In the amount of $15,000," she read aloud. “Said to be lost aboard the steam barque Owyhee, 2,000 tons, with her master Wm.—William, I suppose?—William C Evans. Reported sailing into a gale off Mendocino by crew of Smyrna. Scattered wood was recovered with the ship's name and a body said to have been identified as P. Robbins washed ashore at Crescent City. The ship was adjudicated lost with all 177 souls by her owners in San Francisco."

“Patrick Robbins was the first mate," he explained.

“Oh? Where does it say that?"

“It doesn't. I know him. Like I know Billy Evans."

The collie girl's head tilted. “Are you telling me the truth, or trying to get back at me?"

“The truth. I don't have a reason to lie to you. You're the storyteller here, Miss Calvin."

“Don't give me that much credit. Let's see what you're looking at, though." She took the folder he was holding, and quickly sifted through its contents. “Here's another for you. This one says documents were found with the name… well, what do you know? It says 'Patrick Robbins.' You were right."

“Of course I was. I just told you: I know him."

“You knew someone with that name," she said. “I'm sure they're not the only one by that name on the Pacific Coast, either. I know this feeling, too, Paul. You get so into thinking you've found an explanation that everything starts to look like evidence for it."

“You're saying it's not?"

“I'm saying I don't know. Let's… let's stop here for a bit, why don't we? Did you eat breakfast? No, I didn't think so. Well, it's lunchtime now. I've brought some soup from home, if you'd like."

The dog woman set about making some coffee for them both, while Paul stirred the pot of soup she produced. For a time, as it slowly came to a simmer on the stovetop, he did so silently. Then: “this is a lot of soup for one person."

“Maybe I was expecting company."

“Were you?"

“Well… I hoped I'd be able to be at least somewhat persuasive. Bread, too?" she asked.

As with waking up in the hospital, Paul found that—despite the strangeness of the situation—he was famished. He ladled the soup out, aware of how his sensitive nose seemed to pick out each individual ingredient in the minestrone. “That would be lovely."

Emma put down two plates, with a thick slice of brown bread on each; when he sat down, she put a cup of black coffee before him, and then took her own seat. “There. A bit of food always helps me think, anyhow."

“And find answers?"

“I'm not a newspaper reporter. Most times, Paul, when somebody comes to the university archives with a question for me, it's very straightforward. They want to know when a plot of land was settled, or the name of the first lumber concern in the county. Or they have a photograph, and they want to know who's in it. Those are quite simple questions."

“Not mine," he said. After the second spoonful of soup, he was struck by how second-nature it felt: lapping the spoon to keep from making a mess, then guiding the vegetables into his long snout. His body was beginning to feel, if not more natural, then at least more familiar. “What do you think happened?"

“To your ship?"

“To me. What do you really think happened to me?"

Emma was quiet for a spell, tapping a claw against her slice of bread without bringing it to her mouth. “I don't know. It was a little… fun, at first, having an intriguing mystery to solve. And I don't get all that many visitors here. Fewer still who stick around," she added, and winked at him. “But now…"

“It's still a mystery, isn't it?"

“Yes. But one I don't have any answers for." She finally took a bite of bread, then swallowed delicately. “I think the most likely answer is that you were in some sort of accident, and that you're recalling details of a story you heard once as though they were your own memories."

“Do you think I might remember more? Maybe I need to refresh those memories, right?"

“Perhaps!"

“I know you're not a reporter, but do you have any newspapers in the archives here?"

“Some, yes. If they were published in the state, but… not so much going back to the 1870s."

“What about the 1890s? Would you have anything about the construction of lighthouses in the 1890s?"

“We might," she mused. “I'll check after lunch."

He ate quickly, like a sailor—or a wolf. Emma was far daintier, and observed him with a wry smile, although she kept from asking further questions until they were both done, and she'd tidied away the dishes, indicating the archive room with a nod of her head.

“Now, about those lighthouses. Is there a specific one you have in mind?"

“Yes, at Crescent City. The St. George Reef light, built in the early 1890s." He remembered enough of those stories from the older sailors. “If my ship… a ship," he corrected himself, belatedly. “If it was lost with that many souls aboard, they're liable to mention it. That's the lighthouse that would've mattered."

Emma gave him a grin he was able to parse, with increasing ease, as affable. “You have a good instinct for this, Paul," she said. “Did you know that?"

“You sound surprised. I would've thought that was something you'd write into my character."

“I was kidding," she said, but gathered up the other folders they'd left strewn about, checked their order, and slipped them back in the filing cabinet. “Not that I can't help but admit it. Now you truly do have my curiosity piqued…"

Instead of the newspapers, she took him to the second floor, which had a collection of donated books. One in particular, dating from 1898, pledged to discuss The Pacific, a Peril: from Alaska to the Reefs. “There was a ship," he told her, as she leafed through to the index. “The Jonathan, in… the 1870s, I think. About the same time as it says the Owyhee sank, maybe a little after."

“Brother Jonathan, maybe?"

“That's it."

Her fingers turned the pages with care belied by her claws. “1865, not 1874."

“I… could've been wrong. I never cared about this kind of thing before," he admitted. “If it's northern California, though, it's definitely the same ship."

“Struck rocks, Crescent City, 1865. There we are: 'the loss of so many innocents drove the construction of the St. George Reef Lighthouse. It would not be finished before further tragedy struck. Shortly before Christmas, 1874'—are you ready?" She had reached the end of the page, and raised her head to look at him expectantly.

What was the point in delaying the inevitable? “I already know what it's going to say, I suppose. Don't I?"

Shortly before Christmas, 1874, the Californian steamship Owyhee_, returning from Alaska with holiday passengers and cargo, disappeared into dense fog near the Oregon border._

According to Jas. Colbert, master of the packet Smyrna_, his ship attempted to signal_ Owyhee of the treacherous conditions but found herself ignored. The papers would be lit with rumors that William Evers had been pressured by the ship's owners to make the voyage in a timely fashion.

Only scattered timbers were ever found, alongside the body of the ship's first mate, Patrick Robbins. Given that all washed ashore at Crescent City, it is assumed she grounded on the same rocks which felled the Brother Jonathan not 10 years earlier.

Yet there is one more odd coincidence to this story—

“One?" Paul interrupted.

Emma smiled at him. “They wouldn't have your perspective, would they? 'Yet there is one more odd coincidence to this story. The ship's quartermaster, Charles Hart, was the cousin of Colonel Lynn Hart, the Army engineer who conducted surveys for the St. George Reef Light. It is said the Colonel inscribed an epitaph for his cousin in the lighthouse caissons, which were swiftly eroded by the might of the sea.' Is that a coincidence?"

Paul could only shrug. “I don't know."

“Do you know Charles Hart?"

“The quartermaster, like that story said. The irony is that he was an extremely superstitious man. He should be the one trapped here. Not me." He sighed, found a chair that had not been stacked with books, and sat down heavily. “I don't know what to make of this. Any of this."

“There does seem to be quite a lot going on, but—"

Paul was talking more to himself than to the dog woman, though. “I can't deny it anymore. Something is clearly going on. I just don't know what." The whole affair was unspeakably absurd. He could only laugh, bitterly. “So what am I supposed to do? It would almost be easier if you had written me."

Emma dragged another chair over, and sat facing him. “Would it? Maybe the question would be the same, don't you think?"

“How do you mean?"

“You asked me what you're meant to do… I can't answer that, you're right. You can, though. What do you want to be?"

“What do you mean?"

The Border Collie was quiet for a bit, choosing her words. “Suppose I believed you," she began at last. “You don't know who you are, and you don't remember how you got here. You are quite… protean, in that sense—"

“What does that mean?"

“Ah. Malleable? Like new clay. You could be whatever you wanted. If that had been your choice, it would be a tremendous opportunity—who among us hasn't wished for the chance to start over? But, for you, it wasn't a choice. It was thrust upon you."

“Right."

“You were going to take the bus to Portland. I find that I'm curious about what would've happened next. You would've found a ship?"

He nodded. “I was going to try to find someone who knew anything about the Owyhee. A shipping agent, someone with records. But… I do have an identification card that says I was aboard a ship, the Troy… I figured I could try to find that, too. I…"

Now it was his turn to be quiet, and thoughtful. Finally, canting her head, Emma spoke again: “You? What's on your mind?"

“I remember everything about how my radio works," he said, slowly, forming his thoughts even as he spoke. “I remember Morse code, and how to read a map. I think that, even if I don't remember how I got there, I would still be just as competent in a radio room. Yes. That was the next part of my plan: going back to sea."

“Can I ask something else?"

It was the first time she'd asked about being so inquisitive. Her voice had become gentler. “Yes. Alright."

“Would you accept that job? Or would you be driven by the desire to return to where you're from? Would you make a new life for yourself, or would you always be wondering how to go back to… well, the 'real world,' I suppose."

“Are you asking? Or are you looking for more inspiration for your books, again?"

He hadn't meant to be quite so… so prickly, in her words. But it was not a question he'd wanted to consider—indeed, the question he'd been least eager to investigate. Emma smiled, the gesture as soft as her voice. “I was asking. Being sincere, Paul. You must have family, right? Children?"

“I…" He felt his ears flatten, and tried to decipher which muscles in his new form would raise them back up.

“Paul?" Emma prompted.

For the moment, he abandoned the attempt, and chose a different approach. “I was brought up in a Chicago orphanage. I enlisted as soon as I could. When the war ended, and I was discharged, I went to sea. How did you put it this morning? My fellow sailors are my only true family."

Emma, at least, had no problem perking her ears, although her demeanor remained gently soothing. She leaned forward slightly. “You're serious, aren't you?"

“Partly. I don't actually get on terribly well with my crewmates. But it is true that, if I have living family, I don't know them."

“Oh. Well… but if you… if you don't enjoy the company of your crew, why would you want to go back? If I were writing you, you know… the story you've told me? I'd have you realize that you could be anything you wanted, now. It would be an incredible opportunity."

“Well, I can't be an oil baron, can I? Or a polar explorer, or the president. My identification card says I'm still a radio operator. I'd be on a ship, one way or the other. The possibilities are not quite limitless."

“True. Still, it seems like it could be new start for you. If you become more comfortable with…" She trailed off, reached across the space between them, and brushed his ear. It tickled, although—when he shook his head reflexively—his ears did lift back up. “Whatever it is that's made you uncomfortable."

“You said you were taking me seriously. You should have an idea or two."

“Also true. Well. Here's my suggestion, Paul, if you'll have it. It's getting late, and you've done the best you can here. The Astoria Literary Society is having its annual Christmas dinner tonight—a bit early, this year, but I suppose that's fortuitous. It's good food, at least. Maybe, in passing, you'll find they spark some ideas."

“I'm not much for literature," he admitted.

“And what about food?"

He laughed. It was the first time he'd done so genuinely in his new form, and the whuff of his chuckle caught him sufficiently by surprise that he did it again without being able to stop himself. “Well. I suppose I'm hungry, yes."

“Good. Wait here, if you don't mind. I'd like to get changed."

“What about me?"

Paul, the Border Collie assured him, would be fine—they were “bohemian," in her words, and he would not be the only one in a simple button-down. No three-piece suits, she promised, and left him alone in the archives. The one advantage he had over Emma was his background: she, unlike him, might not have paused at the book titled Lost Treasures of the Pacific Coast.

And, sure enough, he found both the story he'd already known and the hint of one he'd come to expect. The Brother Jonathan sank with $1,500,000 in gold coins—by their value at the time of the book's writing—which would be an obvious lure to treasure-seekers.

—in any case, the treacherous conditions have proven impossible to overcome, and the wreck remains undiscovered despite numerous attempts. The barque Owyhee_, which took 177 people to her grave in 1874, scant leagues from the_ Brother Jonathan_, is an even greater fool's errand._

She is said by long-time residents of Crescent City to have carried crates of Alaskan gold. In any harbor bar you may hear how the packet ship Smyrna_, captained by an old friend of the_ Owyhee_'s master, warned her by flag of thick fog shrouding the California reefs. Lured by the promise of delivering his valuable payload to waiting San Francisco merchants in time for Christmas, the hapless master ventured on, only to see his ship dashed fast against the rocks._

Doubtless, fear of a similar fate holds would-be salvagers at bay. An even greater challenge confronts them, however, for gold was not found in Alaska until the following decade. The treasure of the Owyhee is nothing more than rusty machinery from antique Russian mills being brought back from Alaska to be scrapped.

The cargo manifest of the Owyhee—that was to say, the one he recalled—was, indeed, old machinery. There was the passengers' safe, of course, but they hadn't been insured for much. He was gnawed upon by a sense of unease. In the 19th century, the Northern California coast had been treacherous indeed. And what of his ship, fifty years later to the day?

Now there was a lighthouse at St. George Reef. Now, too, there was the radio set he was responsible for. But, in the intervening years, Titanic had gone down before help summoned by her Marconi operators could arrive for more than half her passengers. And Princess Sophia…

He shuddered, but the unease was not in thinking about that ship, or about the 1874 one that bore the name of his own. It came from an odd certainty that, even had he not awoken in the veteran's hospital, staring at a strange woman with a cat's features, Paul and the Owyhee would not have reached San Francisco, either.

Emma returned before he had come to any firm conclusions. She was wearing an elegant calico dress, a long coat, and a scarf to fortify herself against the outside air. As ensembles went, it suited her well, flattering curves he might've appreciated—were she not a dog. At least the awkwardness created by his own unassuming attire was familiar.

As she'd implied, however, there was no need to worry. He was not the only man who seemed to have arrived in his work clothes. Some of the women had short hair—some, even, wore pants. He did not know what to expect from “bohemians," as she'd put it, though, and he'd never much enjoyed parties. And so, even if he did not look out of place, he asked Emma to handle any necessary introductions.

“Of course," she promised brightly; one of the other attendees was already making her way over to the pair. “This would be Miss Margaret Keeler. Margaret, Mr. Paul Glass."

The fox woman—she had to be, given her luxuriant tail—offered a hand, which he shook politely. “A pleasure to meet you. I never hear the interesting gossip about Emma until it's already going on…"

“Paul is a friend," Emma clarified. “A visiting sailor. You know that Mary never wants to come to these things, and I certainly didn't want him to be alone for dinner."

“Oh," Margaret said. Paul could all but feel her eyes on him, and the subtle change in her appraising smile. “No, I wouldn't want that, either. Are you in town for long, sir?"

“I… I haven't decided yet. I was planning on heading back to Portland today, but… Miss Calvin convinced me otherwise."

The society was made up of pleasant if, Paul decided, somewhat eccentric individuals. Most of them were working on poems, or novels that he gathered had been in progress for many years. They talked about their work, over roast and honeyed yams.

Afterwards, as food gave way to drink and they began to mingle and drift, Paul caught them discussing other things, too: politics, and local gossip of the sort that fascinated Margaret Keeler. And fashion, and the cinema, and intriguing developments in medicine.

Emma, thankfully, stayed close to him, and managed the introductions. He found himself seated across from an older raccoon, with a whitened muzzle, who beamed cheerily at his companion. Joseph Templeton insisted that he be referred to as 'Joe,' or 'Old Joe'; his family was long the owner of a local insurance company.

Having heard that, Paul recognized the name as one that Emma had mentioned, and Joe went on to explain that he was not an author of any sort. He saw himself as a philanthropist, instead, who wished to return some of his fortune to the town. Besides which—this he added a bit slyly—he was paternally fond of Emma Calvin, whose department at the university he had endowed. “She has such lovely aims," he pronounced. “And you? What's your calling?"

“Nothing quite so high-minded, I'm afraid. I'm a sailor."

“Ah," Templeton said, as though this explained more than he intended. “A voyager, though. It was kind of you to make the effort to spend Christmas here with Miss Calvin. She does enjoy it—a romantic at heart, I expect."

“I've been accused of worse," the collie offered, ever-demure.

“Well, you do put quite some effort into organizing these dinners. Your companion is… a sea captain, was it, Paul?" Templeton was feeling his brandy, Paul thought. “Emma's eye is always on the exciting types."

“Not a captain, no, unfortunately." Unfortunately? He'd said it because it seemed like a suitably affable thing to say, although he'd never thought of himself as a mariner and didn't particularly enjoy the ocean. “I'm a radio operator, actually."

“Oh! An engineer, then. Did you know they're putting them on airplanes now?" The raccoon's brow furrowed slightly, as if he feared he might have overplayed the statement, and was speaking to an expert on the subject. “Or they mean to, anyhow."

“No, that's true. The new valves allow for a radio to be boosted quite significantly. Even an aircraft could have quite a range—and the advantage of altitude, of course."

Joe nodded excitedly. “Five or ten miles, I imagine?"

“No, no. A hundred or more, easily. With voice, as well." The raccoon was listening raptly—as, he thought, was Emma—and so, not to disappoint either, he found himself continuing. “And images, no doubt, before long. I recall hearing that fellow Farnsworth, down in California, has been making great strides."

“Television, yes. Yes. That should be in one of your stories, Emma," Templeton pronounced. “Picture it, why don't you? Ha! So to speak. But, in seriousness, I mean that an Army plane could fly beyond the reach of any bullet. And the pilot could transmit, via radiotelevision, a perfect image of the battlefield, and his own commentary. Surprise attacks? Ambushes? Completely impossible."

“Who would choose war, in that case?" she asked.

“Exactly." He finished his brandy, and quested around for the bottle before attracting the attention of a server to satisfy this aim. “It will become categorically obsolete. We will see the end of all wars."

Paul cleared his throat softly. “They did say that in 1918."

“And, so far, we've largely managed. Peace on Earth, eh?" His glass having been recharged, Templeton took another generous sip. “How did you two meet, anyway?"

Emma faltered, glancing sideways at Paul. “Her friend, Mary Doucet. I stopped by the veteran's hospital, and she happened to mention Miss Calvin."

“A woman in need of stories." Once more, Templeton seemed to think a great deal had been explained in one fell swoop. “Sailors must have plenty. 'They that go down to the sea in ships,' and all."

Margaret, sitting on Emma's other side, leaned forward. “Do you? What's the strangest thing you've encountered at sea?"

“Ah… weather, I'm sure," he attempted, modestly. “A fantastic display of the northern lights. The second mate of my last ship, though, he did… well. He was one of the ones who swore he…"

Doing the best he could, Paul related the wreck of the Valencia, with the cruel loss of so many innocent souls. And how, in the years that followed, passing steamers saw her wreck afloat once more: spectral, steaming towards the very rocks that had slain her.

It was not a story he believed—not that he intended to tell any of them the strangest thing he had encountered, not while they still considered him somewhat sane and reputable. And, so, he felt certain he had related the story badly, with none of McGowan's haunted inflection.

But Joe Templeton sighed heavily, and shook his head, and when Paul looked around he seemed to have the attention of the table. “It was terrible, indeed. I can't imagine it. They say that of the Norton, too, I believe. And her cargo—is it true, about that?"

“I'm afraid I don't know that one."

In the raccoon's explanation, the Norton was another shipwreck, this time filled with Californian silver. He went on to describe other such ships, and the bounty that could be had from salvaging them, and the curses no doubt placed upon those treasures…

Dinner wound itself down near midnight. Outside, a faint drizzle had started again: cold enough that, in the glow of the town's streetlamps, it seemed to contemplate turning to snow instead.

“Thank you for accompanying me," Emma told him. “I hope you enjoyed yourself? You looked as if you might've."

“I did. I hope I was less… prickly?"

“Indeed! Mr. Templeton seemed very taken with you. Perhaps I'll have to invite you back as a special guest," she said, although this time, at least, it was clear that she was teasing him. She went on: “I must've been right about you as a character. As a person, though, I'm sure you're worn out. Still convalescing, too."

“True." Paul looked up the street, towards the hotel he'd chosen, and put off taking the first step in that direction. “What… what should happen now?"

“I expect, it being a story and all, that we'll never see one another again. Right?"

“I… can't tell if you're teasing me," he admitted.

“I can't either. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow?"

“Maybe," Paul said.

The thought kept him curiously warm, both on the way back to the hotel and in bed, where he considered his next steps. His wallet implied that he had recently been paid; the room was cheap, and he could afford to stay there another night. Another week, if it came down to it.

If there was some reason to stay.

Having a tail still felt strange, and if he tried consciously to wag it he was not able to do so. His ears, too, moved of their own volition, and not his own. 1930s Astoria was not where he was from—that he knew. Was it possible that, nonetheless, he was meant to be there? If so, he couldn't think of a good reason, one good explanation that tied all the pieces neatly together.

Every time he woke in his new form, it was a bit less jarring. He took a simple breakfast in the hotel's lobby, and read through the morning paper. It would've been all too easy, Paul supposed, to see his photograph on the front page—a report about a missing person, about a shipwreck, about an alternate reality where nobody at all was a talking dog.

The stories, instead, concerned the holidays, and the same politics that had consumed dinner the night before. Nothing so unbelievable. Nothing so bizarre. Nothing so fantastic. Nothing—

That's it.

There were better people than Emma to sate his curiosity, he figured, but not ones he felt like talking to. The Border Collie seemed pleasantly surprised to see him, and that did have his tail wagging, briefly. “Well, good morning," she said. “You stuck around another day, at least?"

“I did, yes."

“And you came back here, even!"

“Yes. I… thought of something. Maybe you can help."

“I'd love to, if I can. What is it?"

“Your archives are mostly non-fiction. There's a library in town, though, right? Mightn't they have, uh…" He trailed off. His conviction, when he'd started the brisk walk from the hotel to the archives, had ebbed now that it was time to actually say it out loud. “What about stories? You know, sailors are always on about sea monsters and all that."

“I suppose they are…"

“If you had the time, I thought… you might be able to help me find them. A, uh…" He rallied, feeling his ears beginning to wilt. “A book of stories like that. Something I might find familiar."

“You're in luck, actually. We do have a library, yes—I'm not on the best of terms with the librarian, but he'll be… well, hopefully he'd… ah, no matter," she said, and waved the digression off. “What you're looking for isn't a collection of ghost stories. You want our local history. The university archives were sent some preprint WPA materials. If there's anything like that, it would be in here."

“WPA?"

“Yes. The Works Progress Administration sent a folklorist through these parts several months ago—mostly the logging camps, but some of the fishing towns, too. They mailed the material to a few of the archives so that we could proofread and review it. I haven't gotten around to that yet, but let's take a look, hmm?"

The boxes were still unopened. Inside, stacks of 3-ringed binders were labeled with the name of the interviewer, and the dates on which the stories had been recorded. And, finally, a thin volume that served as an index for the rest of the contents. “Would we be lucky enough that they'd have an individual ship listed?"

Emma leafed through the index quickly, her eyes sweeping the pages faster than he could follow. “Perhaps lucky enough to find something called 'Owyhee,' parentheses, '19th century ghost ship?'" She grinned, set the index aside, and pulled out another binder. “Last year. Dr. Brisco, from the University of Oregon, recorded a story from a 'Humboldt Lumber Co. sailor' in Eureka. Ford Elwell—not a name you know, is it?"

“No. Never heard of them."

“Maybe we're not that lucky, then. But here you go, I think this is what you're looking for." She unclipped the binder, and held out a handful of pages for him to take. Neatly typewritten, they attributed the anecdote to the quartermaster of a timber-ferrying vessel, according to whom:

We have our own Flying Dutchman, sure. The Valencia_, that's the one everyone knows. But there's the Alaskan barque_ Owyhee_, too. She went down in a gale off Mendocino in 1874. Nobody knew what became of her, but some of her planks came ashore, and those are the ones that were used to build the office of the Humboldt Lumber Company, they say._

The story I heard from an old hand, winter nights you could hear the rigging creak in a gale, if you were in that building, until it got to be folks wouldn't stay overnight, even if they were supposed to have a lantern up for the teamsters. Some say, it wasn't an accident that the office went and burned down.

But it was 1884, ten years after the wreck, somebody saw her again. Then in 1894, too. And 1904, 1914. Every ten years, it seems. Now, I didn't know that when I was third mate on a coastal steamer. I hadn't heard any of it, yet. We were just keeping ahead of a winter storm blowing up the coast, when we saw a ship's lights off to port, headed where we'd come from.

She was making to clear well of us, but we had the wireless man try to call her. No answer, but not all ships had a set, even then. She seemed sound enough, so I told the wireless operator not to bother. A bit later, we got to jawing about it on the bridge, and came to know the telegraph boy, according to the logs, talked to a ship called 'Owyhee' some hours before.

It would've been the right position to meet us when I was on watch, more or less. Except that no ship with that name ever made it to port. Would you believe it? What about this: no ship with that name had left port, either. And her flag didn't match any company we had on our books. That's when the captain told me about the old barque, and how strange things happened off the Northwest coast.

Strange things! Strange, indeed, for I could swear to you, and him, and my captain nowadays, and God Himself if you wanted. I saw that ship, and it wasn't rigged, and it must've had a wireless telegraph, for it spoke to us. But that's impossible.

“That's it?" Emma asked.

“It keeps going. I'm just… I'm thinking. I remember our second mate, McGowan, said that. Strange things happening in those waters. I never had time for those stories."

“Do you now?"

He scanned the last page, and started reading again. As long as he was doing that, simply recounting a story someone else invented, he didn't have to come up with an answer for the archivist.

You know, and here's what bothered me most, is nobody I mentioned it to looked at me like I was crazy, or told me to put the bottle down, or nothing. I heard about the lumber office when I got ashore, and then about the earlier sightings. Every ten years, like clockwork, she leaves and never makes harbor. That's what they say, anyhow. They say she'll do it forever.

Me, I don't know what to say. But when 1934 came? That winter they were headed up to Vancouver; that was their regular run then. I needed the money, for sure, but I didn't go to sea. I told Humboldt they could fire me, if they wanted. But they didn't laugh at me then, either, and they didn't ask no questions. Just 'Merry Christmas' and we'll see you when we're back in California, sir.

Somehow, I wasn't surprised when I saw the headlines. For a while, we'd read the papers, and look for answers. Except, I found I only had one question. And they wouldn't know, wouldn't write it in the papers. I wondered if they'd seen anything, off the California coast.

1944 will be here soon enough…

Emma was leaning forward, her ears perked, waiting for him to continue. Paul shook his head. “Nothing else. It ends like that. Three dots."

There was another example, later in the volume; the broad details were the same—a ghost ship, spotted every ten years, said to be the lingering specter of a lost barque. The second story didn't end so speculatively, but it was enough to convince Paul that the story had been passed up and down the coast.

“I don't know what I was expecting. I knew I wanted to ask you if you might have something like this…" He was still holding the pages; he handed them back to Emma for her to clip back in the binder. “I guess I only asked because I figured you would."

“Well," she began, thoughtfully. “It's more evidence for my theory that you're remembering a common tale, conflating it with your own."

“Nothing in there about waking up in a new world, with a new body."

“That's true. Maybe that adds a bit of darkness to it, hmm? The fear of the unknown? I've not really understood what a proper Christmas ghost story really would be. A tradition to investigate, I guess. I should've asked the society."

“I wouldn't know, myself. I can't decide if it's frightening or not. It was… startling, I suppose. You're not that scary, though."

Nor did her bright laugh make any attempt at it. “No. My sister got the snarl in our family. She's a schoolteacher—her pupils know very well not to cross her. I'm just the quiet, mild-mannered one. The helpful bookish lady. Speaking of which, there's another two binders of interviews to go through, so…"

“Don't bother," he said. “It's getting late. I've kept you from enough work already."

“There's not too much, honestly. And it's not that late. What would you do instead?"

“Go for a walk, I suppose. Clear my head."

She smiled.

For half an hour, Emma stayed quiet next to him, as he walked down to the waterfront and stared into the tide. When, at last, he opened his mouth, he found that he was asking her about her life, instead. Growing up in Astoria, and her family, and how she'd wound up in the archives.

The more she spoke, the more Paul felt details of his own memory becoming unstuck from wherever they'd been lodged. He recalled the orphanage in Chicago again; ice skating, one pleasant winter, and the sight of fresh snow over the city's filthy streets. He recalled the troopship that took him to France, and his first experience with a radio, and putting to sea again as a civilian.

They took dinner in an unassuming café, and as he looked at the other diners, he could almost picture them as faces from his past. This bear resembled an engineer he knew; that vixen, a shopkeeper who'd sold him cigarettes in San Diego. Almost. It almost seemed as if he might not have been out of place at all.

Now their plates had been cleared, and her cup of coffee was empty. She had started to fidget with the end of her scarf, draped over the chair behind her, and he knew she was about to tell him it was time for her to retire for the evening. “I have a question," he said, before she could make the suggestion.

“Yes?"

“How did your story end?" Emma looked at him blankly. “The one with the soldier and the librarian—you said you told Mary about it."

“Oh! Yes, sorry. Sorry, I… I got distracted by more peculiar ones. Um, it didn't have an ending, actually. I thought that, probably, he'd figure out whatever was keeping him from resting in peace, and then he'd disappear."

“Which makes sense. He was a sentry, right? His unit was ambushed."

“Yes."

“Would it be possible for him to… to right that? To warn his comrades, somehow?"

“I suppose," she said. “That was one option. The woman he meets, she helps him to find something he was missing, and that lets him fix things, somehow. The thing is, it's just so very… pat."

“Unfulfilling?"

“Yeah. It's what you'd expect to happen. So I should think of something more interesting, I think—more satisfying to me, anyway. It's late, though and I don't do my best thinking at night. Are you not tired, Paul?"

“I don't know. I suppose not."

She grinned. “Why don't you walk me back home, at least, and think it over?"

Back outside, with their breath visible and the stars veiled by deepening cloud cover, he was more certain of his answer, and more certain he was happy to spend a few more minutes with the archivist. “Definitely not tired. Cold, though."

“True." She fixed the scarf about her neck; when he took her paw in his, she accepted the squeezing pressure gamely. “We do have snow sometimes, but never properly. Wouldn't that be picturesque?"

“It can be. If you're… if you enjoy that kind of thing."

“Sleigh rides and roast chestnuts? I like to think it would be enjoyable. I've thought about the tower, at least, maybe… the Column, the one on the hill? I imagine you'd be able to see all the lights from up there…"

“Column?"

“The Astor Column, yes. It went up in '26. We are the oldest settlement in Oregon, after all. Quite some history to be proud of. Have you not seen it, when you're sailing past?"

“No. I suppose I wasn't looking." Besides which, as he'd already told her, the last year he remembered was 1924.

“Yes. And," she recalled: “They don't have it, where you're from. Not yet."

“No, not yet." They walked on in silence for a minute. “I didn't know the social was your idea."

“Originally. It's gained a life of its own. I find I enjoy traditions, and the creation of traditions… for me, it's a pleasant time of year. I guess, for you, as…"

“As an orphan?" he suggested.

“Yes," she finished. “That. Maybe it's not as pleasant for you."

“It's not unpleasant. Mostly, it simply doesn't matter much."

“That's reasonable. But, might I offer a suggestion?" They had reached the door of her apartment, and he found that he didn't want to let her go. And, when he relaxed his fingers, the Border Collie's own stayed tight for several seconds longer. “Would you like some eggnog?"

“I don't… actually know what that's like," Paul said.

“'Yes,' though. That's your answer." She was already unlocking the door, and holding it for him to enter. “Your tail is wagging. They don't have those where you're from, either?"

“I'm not used to it." The weight still felt quite alien, when he thought about it, although if he didn't think about it it had begun to recede into the back of Paul's mind. Emma grinned, and not for the first time he didn't know how seriously she was taking him.

“I'm afraid I don't have a roaring fire…" She set some candles on the coffee table, looking at him expectantly, then nodded towards his tail. “You're doing it again. Alright, candles it is."

For a spell, after she sat next to him, the two stared at the flickering candlelight. As with perceiving his tail, if Paul truly focused on it he could smell the burning wick, and hear the gentle hiss of steam in the radiator pipes. He could taste the brandy she'd added to the eggnog, too; the whole of the scene washed over his senses in a way nothing ever truly had before.

It was not his changed senses but a certain novel intuition that told him how easy it would be to put an arm around the woman next to him. By the time he thought he was weighing his options, he'd already done it, and Emma was leaning against his side. The white tip of her tail swayed back and forth, just within his peripheral vision.

“Do you ever leave stories unfinished?" he asked.

“All the time."

He didn't know where the question had come from—a desire to break the silence, at first, nothing more. “Obviously, it's not considered usual to leave a ship's voyage unfinished," he began. “Apparently I did that, though."

“At least with stories, you can pick them up again whenever you want," the woman pointed out; her paw was on his thigh, patting him reassuringly. “You'll figure it out. You'd go back if you could, though."

“Yes," he said at once. Then he stopped; caught himself. “I think so."

“You think so?"

“It's been a very… intense… couple of days. I'm still processing it all."

She turned to look at him. “And some things you're processing might change your mind?"

There was something in the way she asked it, something that hinted at more intent than inquisitiveness. At first, he wasn't certain what it was. Looking into her eyes, lit by more than candlelight, Paul was briefly lost. “They might…"

“Such as?"

And then he knew that “it" was her tail, once again. She'd asked it with her tail wagging hopefully. Her voice, on the second question, had quieted. Beckoning him closer, to hear her better. And to shift his position, just enough that he knew his tail was answering in kind…

When their muzzles met, the touch was soft, at first. Still, there was something shocking about it. He could feel the hint of her fur, and the dog's whiskers. And, when she reached up to brush her paw along his cheek, his own whiskers, and the sense of how pleasant it felt when she stroked him.

He kissed her again. And again—leaning into her as Emma slid closer, and her lips parted for his tongue. Her mouth tasted sweet, and when she sighed pleasantly it came as a rush of heat along his lips. The sound had been quiet: it was only his sensitive ears that told him what its tone had meant.

Strange as she looked—as they both looked—the collie woman's body in his arms felt as natural as anything. As long as he didn't think too long about how much give there was, between the fabric of her dress and what would've been her bare skin, she might as well have been human.

As the kiss deepened, though, and her sigh wavered on the edge of something throatier, other thoughts crept into Paul's mind. “Do you figure," she murmured softly, her lips still all but touching his. “You might stay the night, just in case?"

In case of what? didn't rise to the level of a meaningful question, no more than such as? had done. Their muzzles met again, locked together, and when he heard himself growl his surprise at the sound was quickly replaced by the surprise of her moaned answer. Deft fingers were at his shirt, fidgeting with the buttons.

He untangled his arms from around the collie, running his paws down her sides, feeling the curves of her body under her dress. Emma smiled, her tail beating a rapid tempo now against the sofa cushions; she reached behind herself, untying the strings that held the garment in place.

For a moment, when she stood, her face disappeared behind the calico. For several seconds longer, after the dress fell away, he found himself staring at the white fur of her belly, and the deep black of her sides. She undid her bra, as well, but before he could properly appreciate that she was leaning down to snuff the candles out between her fingers, and then her silhouette reached across the distance, and he felt her soft nose nudging his ear. “Come to bed?"

She took him by the paw, while he slipped his shirt off, and the undershirt beneath it, leaving a trail of discarded clothes by the time they reached her bedroom. Getting his belt off was easy; unbuttoning his trousers was more of a challenge, and he keenly felt how aroused he'd become.

The sound of bedsprings and the shuffling of a duvet guided him to where Emma now lay in bed. He joined her, and ran his fingers down her side. The first thing he felt was the absurdity of having resisted it at all: she was soft, plush and inviting to the touch. And, when she slipped her arms around him, it felt just as good when the collie stroked his own back.

The second thing he felt was that nothing interrupted the fur, not from her breast down to her sleek thigh. When he reached that, her tail thumped against the bed. Another, answering sound told him that his own was responding in kind, and that no longer felt bizarre, either. It was entirely natural.

As she wriggled closer, he felt that same soft pelt against his straining arousal, and let out a helpless groan. Emma hooked a leg over his; she pulled herself to him, until their muzzles met in another kiss, and this time, as their tongues met, he couldn't keep himself from thrusting reflexively, grinding into the collie's soft fur.

Then she rolled, and he was atop her, settling between her spread legs. Her paw slipped between them, searchingly, closing around his shaft and sending a thrilling shock of pleasure through him. She gave him a slow, thoughtful pump, and broke the kiss to gasp a whispered: “maybe don't tie, though. If that's alright?"

“Don't what?"

She stroked him again, although he felt her head tilt curiously. “Is this your first time?"

“Making love? No, but—"

Her giggle cut him off. “Don't have that where you're from, right, I keep forgetting. Maybe it doesn't matter. Uh… December? November, September, August—"

“October," he managed; it was increasingly hard to speak, the way her fingers felt against his bare erection. “You forgot October."

“Distracted. But it's fine. Don't…" She was panting shallowly, too, her words faltering as she shifted from stroking to pushing him lower, and he suddenly nestled into soft, smooth warmth. There was no resistance, no moment where the blunt head popped between her lips. “Don't worry about it, just… take me…"

It felt as though his cock was pointed, somehow, tapered to sink into her. An inch of him was already inside, and when he nudged forward more of him pushed in effortlessly. Paul thrust, sliding in deeper. And deeper. And deeper, sinking into gripping, silky-wet heat as his lover's body arched up beneath him.

When he at last found himself unable to go further she was panting rapidly, his name an encouraging whimper. He held still, hilted, savoring the heat of the collie's body around him. It was not his first time—the army and his years at sea had seen abundantly to that—but he'd never felt anything quite like it.

No sooner had he started to withdraw than he needed to be back inside her. He pumped forward once more, smoothly, and Emma's fierce grip at his shoulders joined a throaty whimper of delight. Paul groaned, kept still a mere second or two, and then began to thrust in earnest.

Feeling her squeezing around him was absolutely exquisite: spurring him on, keeping him from doing anything but continuing to buck between her legs. His own clawed fingers raked her fur, and his sensitive ears were keenly attuned to her ragged moans, and the squeaking springs, and the slick, wet rhythm of their coupling.

He could smell her, too; the collie filled his nose when he nuzzled the side of her neck, parting her thick pelt around his muzzle. But, as he panted for breath, their mixed scents became more apparent: subtler, enticing, a faint perfume… their fur, he realized, would catch it… they would smell of one another for days…

For days, at least, she could not forget him. Paul knew he was absolutely incapable of forgetting her. The novelty of the experience kept stealing his thoughts, keeping him from surrendering completely to instinct, but sex had never been like that, so raw and impulsive, so satisfying. The Border Collie arched, rocking and squirming beneath him as he took her, and he felt the tighter grasp of her legs locking about his steadily pumping hips.

There seemed to be an odder constriction around his cock, each time he sank all the way into her—and she felt too deliriously, exquisitely good not to hilt himself at every opportunity. At first, he thought he might've been imagining things. The fourth or fifth time after he began to notice, though, it took noticeably more effort to finish his thrusts, and when he ground against the collie's hips she shivered and moaned tellingly.

Satiny, supple warmth caressed the base of his shaft, and with a shuddered growl Paul pumped roughly against her. Too roughly, he thought for a moment, before Emma's breath tore from her in a strained shout of passion. It happened again the next time he tried to pull free—a clinging pressure, and an instinct to buck forward, impossible to resist, that drove him deeply into his lover.

Emma kept crying out as he pounded into her; her head fell back, and she yelped her passion to the bedroom walls. He nosed up and into her bared neck, nipping at her, trying to voice the growing need he felt. The alienness of it was no longer enough to distract him; it was an all-consuming urge to rut himself into Emma until he was spilling his seed in her steamy depths, giving her everything he had.

He couldn't properly thrust anymore, just push into her, shoving forcefully, until even the instinct to do that sank into the awareness that he was completely enveloped in her, somehow. The collie's tight warmth had every inch of him in a coaxing, demanding grip. And then, as a whine escaped his muzzle, pleasure washed over him, a sense of immense gratification that started around the root of his cock and radiated outwards—

The whine choked off, then twisted in a snarl. He spurted powerfully into her, a liquid heat abruptly blooming around his well-buried tip. He felt it spreading with the second long gush, and the third, the dog's own load bathing his jerking, pulsing cock, before it started to blend together, and the bliss of release met the sensation of Emma tensing up under him.

The collie bucked, seizing on his twitching shaft, although her squirming seemed unable to dislodge him. She practically howled, gripping his fur; her paws clutched the shepherd to the same rhythm her internal muscles had, clenching firmly on his cock, sending him into a series of erratic, shaky, humping inward thrusts as he spilled himself in her.

He collapsed on her, panting. For another half-minute or so, Emma continued to squirm with short, convulsive gasps before she, too, finally relaxed. She held him with one arm, the other smoothing down the fur of his back. It was wonderfully soothing—a languid, satisfying intimacy.

When he nosed at the side of her neck, Emma gave a sigh of blissful content that was, in its own way, just as satisfying. He could no longer really recall why he might have objected to any of it. She was warm and soft, the steady rise and fall of her chest as hypnotic as any metronome.

Presently, after another minute or two, he attempted to shift onto his side and discovered both that his erection was still appreciably stiff, and that it seemed to be lodged in the collie. She batted his cheek. “Hey. Careful."

“I'm… I'm trying to be," he stammered. “I was going to pull out."

“Not right now, you're not. Calm down."

But that was easier said than done. “What did you do to me?"

“What did I do to you?" With a short, quiet, frustrated grunt, she rolled herself, and took Paul with her. One of her legs was still hooked around his. “Did none of your previous… conquests… ever let you tie them? You seemed plenty eager…"

“I don't know what you're talking about."

The room was dark, but he could imagine the quizzical look on her face from the silhouette of her lifted ear. “Canines—including shepherds like you, Paul—tie with their mates. Your manhood is designed for it. I presumed you noticed."

“It is my first time as a… as a German shepherd," he finished, keenly aware of how absurd the sentence sounded. “This is not… normal."

“Mm-hm," she said; she'd resumed stroking his fur. “Of course it's not. Give it another few minutes. Besides—do you mind?"

He started to remind her of his intent to withdraw from her which, frustrated, he did indeed mind. But—as with being petted—it was pleasing in its own right, if he allowed himself to concentrate on the sensations instead of their strangeness.

They were rather undeniably connected. It was as though he could feel the strength of that bond in how tightly Emma's body was gripping him, and the occasional twinges of pleasure it brought. And it served to keep them close, where he could linger on the feeling of her fur between his own inquisitive fingers.

“I… don't mind, no. It just surprised me."

“Perhaps I could've guessed you were new to that," the collie mused aloud. “You took your time more than I expected. Much to the shock of my neighbors, I'm sure…"

He felt his ears fold back. “Oh. Will that—is that—will that be… a problem?"

“Oh, they can deal with it. They already think I'm a bit unseemly." Emma snickered, and toyed with his ears until, of their own accord, they perked up again. “Of course, you're a bit of an odd one, yourself. Like you've never gotten your knot in anyone before…"

“I haven't," he insisted.

But he faced a certain undeniable truth in wanting to know more. He wanted to make love to Emma again. Now that he knew what it entailed, he wanted to slip his 'knot' into her—if that was what it was called—deliberately, instead of purely on instinct.

He wanted to tie her with full awareness of what was about to happen, and to… to hear her make those sounds, he realized. Those odd, canine whimpers and yelps of delight that lingered in his brain more than the cries of any previous lover.

“So I suppose I taught you something?" she was asking him.

“I suppose you did. Perhaps…"

“Perhaps in the morning we can review what you've learned?"

The notion did bring a bit of a thrill. Cautiously, as though the intent was some form of surrender, he tried to wag his tail. Nothing seemed to happen. That, too, Paul figured. You can try that, too, in the morning…

He knew that he was drifting off. But, when he awoke to the sound of quick knocking, he was still caught off-guard, surprised to find himself staring at a blurry piece of paper: message logs, he managed to read, and printed with the correct date. “What? Who is it?"

The door opened, somewhere behind him. “Morning, Paul. Any luck with the wireless, or—are you well? Were you asleep?"

His headset was lying on the desk, and his hand felt strangely numb. “A… a bit of an electrical shock, I think," he said; when he looked at his fingers, they were red, and as feeling began to return it came with an unmistakeable burning sensation. “I'm fine, though. I think the radio's still down."

McGowan stepped into the radio room, examining him. “Should get that looked at, when you've a moment. Keep trying, on the radio. The northern lights have let up a bit, at least. Here's our latest position, best as we can figure. Steady 8 knots made good since the last hourly fix."

Paul took the slip of paper McGowan gave him. “Of course. I'll let you know."

Left alone, he flexed his fingers, wincing, and glanced at the equipment in the room. The radio's circuit breaker had tripped. He reset it, and carefully powered the set back on.

The diminished auroral activity brought with it a far clearer signal, as McGowan must've hoped. Other ships and stations were transmitting, taking advantage of the opportunity. He listened, orienting himself, for a few minutes.

He had absently placed the position marker into his pocket. Now, preparing to tap a quick message asking for any updates on the weather further south, he fished it back out. The numbers slipped from his eyes to his finger on the transmitter key without any conscious effort.

8 Dec. 2:00 AM pos 46° 45' N, 125° 8' W 8 kmg on course 165°

Nothing special. He started to set the slip aside when he realized there was another piece of paper, of identical size and shape, stuck to it—probably something else he'd been given to send over the wireless set before. Curious, he turned the note over.

It was not a position record.

It was a ticket, printed with the logo and address of a “Columbia River Autobus Line" and promising daily departures from Lake Oswego and Astoria. A caricatured bus driver gave the reader a jaunty thumbs-up.

The bus driver was a bear, Paul believed: blunt-muzzled and shaggy, with rounded ears poking through his cap. He did not remember having purchased the ticket before coming aboard the Owyhee. And there was nothing untoward about having a bear for one's logo, of course—perhaps that was more Californian than Oregonian?

And yet. He swallowed thickly, and patted the rest of his pockets.

There was nothing else out of place. Just the bus ticket, and a sense of unease about the bizarre dream he'd had. Of course, there had to have been a rational explanation. He had a copy of the passenger manifest, in case the shipping agent needed details of their journey.

With every page he scanned, he grew more and more certain that he would find an Emma Calvin listed. A Mary Doucet. A Farnsworth, whose name no longer sounded anywhere near as familiar as it had when it came to his lips at dinner, alongside whatever a 'television' was. Something. There was a Templeton—an Edsel, not a Joe, and her residence was listed in Davis, California.

Worse still, that proved to be the only match. Paul put the manifest away, and took his seat again. A few more messages came in, over the next half-hour. Nothing of importance, and no traffic meant for the Owyhee—general reports, that was all. Steamships sailing north, mostly. The Minorsky. USS California. The—

He stopped, and reread one of the lines he'd scrawled down. Then he read it a third time. It had to have been the erratic flickers of his unconscious mind, following the shock, Paul concluded. Scientists were finding new things out about the human brain all the time.

The ticket, too, that was easy to explain. It must've been McGowan's, and he hadn't realized he was giving the radioman both pieces of paper at once. Paul would simply return it to him the next time they spoke. It couldn't have been the one a baffled German shepherd purchased in Astoria.

Would buy. Will buy?

Neither. He shut the radio down and took his logs up to the bridge, where Pat Robbins had taken the next watch. Robbins nodded, acknowledging his entry. “Ah, Mr. Glass. Are you recovered? McGowan said you electrocuted yourself."

“My hand does smart a bit," he admitted. “I'll be well enough, soon. I have some updates for you. The weather is said to be clear, as far as Reedsport. USS California is to our southwest about fifty miles. Cold, but good visibility, they say. SS Minorsky is the same, twenty miles beyond her."

“Anyone nearer the coast?"

“One, yes. I… do have a report from the Smyrna, off Crescent City. They're headed for Seattle, sailing out of what they report as quite poor conditions. Visibility was a quarter-mile off Mendocino, and deteriorating at Crescent City."

“Did they say their intentions?"

“I wasn't able to raise them, only to receive. Possibly it's lingering effects of the atmospheric interference."

Patrick took the report Paul held, and walked over to the chart. “Bearing almost due north, it says… 5 knots. Old ship. I know her mate, though; Colbert's no fool…"

He was busy taking measurements; Paul watched him work for a spell. “I gather they felt they weren't outrunning the weather, just that it was giving them a bit of a break."

“Could be. If they're not outrunning it, we'll cross paths… here, I suppose. West of the Coquille River light. They didn't say if they'd try to shelter in Bandon?"

“No. Just the weather report."

“I reckon we won't, either. I'll wake the captain and let him know we'll make for Portland or Astoria instead. Better safe than sorry, eh?"

“I imagined you'd want to know, yes."

“Aye. You should get some rest. We'll need you awake in a few hours to see if we can find a pilot. Evans is no fool, either—we're not running the bar without help."

Before he turned in, he stopped by the doctor's office; the ship's doctor was asleep, but he could wrap his hand in bandages, at least. Safely back in his cabin, he tried to ignore the pain, and stared up and into the darkness.

Coincidence; it was all coincidence. He was not superstitious, like the other sailors: coincidence was all it could possibly be. What was the alternative, anyway? That he'd woken up a decade hence, in some strange world alien to his own? That he had been, at least briefly, some talking animal?

That Emma had been real? That he'd entertained the idea of courting a dog? That he'd shared a bed with her—felt his tawny pelt being smoothed by her touch as they lay together, 'tied'? It was absurd! But he could call the sensations back with such intensity…

Briefly, before he stopped himself, he tried to imagine there was a tail between his legs, and that he could feel its heft as it wagged against his cot. But he did stop himself. It was madness, after all.

There's a simple way to solve this. You'll be nearby. Find out if there's a veteran's hospital. See if there's an 'Astor Column' in the first place. See what the lights look like. With his eyes closed, he could almost picture it, anyway: a column on a hill, with the town spread out beneath them, twinkling and aglow, mirroring the stars…

It's not going to look like that. The word of caution, in his own thoughts, ran aground on the very clarity of the image he held in his mind. And then, more strangely still, that the picture was not strange or unsettling. It was charming, instead—it warmed him, like hot cocoa, and the touch of affectionate fingers, twined with his, and—

He startled awake. The room was dimly lit; grey. Had there been a knock? Does Captain Evans need you in the radio room already? If it was past dawn, he'd slept more soundly than usual. Paul shut his eyes tightly. They would run the Columbia River Bar, and after they tied up he'd go to Astoria…

Or… perhaps the ship was already docked? Intuition told him that. His ship was docked down in Portland. He'd slept through dawn because he wasn't needed, not yet. The holidays were all but upon them—they were running a reduced schedule, like the busses, with limited cargo.

Yes, that seemed a distinct possibility. And he'd woken with a start because… because… why? Paul sat up, blinked his eyes open, and searched the room with some degree of confusion, orienting himself. The door was open.

Emma poked her head in, and sighed. “Sorry."

“Emma?"

“Don't sound so surprised. It's my bedroom, you know."

“I… yes. I know. What… what were apologizing for, though?"

When she joined him on the bed, she put a paw on his chest, and pushed gently to settle him on his back. “I tried to catch the iceman before he went banging around, but… he never listens. Quite the racket."

“I… I might've woken anyway, I guess."

She shrugged, slipping back beneath the warm covers and snuggling up against his side. “Well, it's still early, and the office is closed. I don't have plans for the day. Do you have plans for the day?" she asked, tracing an idle pattern in his chest. “Going down to Portland?"

“Maybe. Did you…" So much was still an odd jumble in Paul's head. “Did you say you wanted to climb the hill and take a look at the Column, or was I dreaming that?"

“I said it. It was just an idea, though. You didn't seem too enthused."

“I must've just been tired. I'd like that."

“Oh?"

Would you? he asked himself, before answering. He tried to focus on the Owyhee's radio log, on McGowan's last position fix—but it was distant: a memory years in the past, not some urgent task a few hours old.

Perhaps, back then, he might not have been enthused.

Much had changed. “Yes," he said. “I'd like that quite a bit, if you don't have other plans. And you don't mind the cold."

“I don't. If you want to…" Emma shrugged once more, and then let out a quiet, rueful giggle. “To tell you the truth, sailor, I… almost expected you to be gone this morning. Snuck out in the middle of the night and all. Back to… wherever you came from."

“Maybe I did?" he suggested. She laughed again. “Maybe there was something I had to attend to. Unfinished business."

“Oh. And did you finish it?"

“Close enough. Or… there was something more important I had to start, instead."

She rolled herself until she was half atop him, supporting herself on an elbow, with her other arm across his chest. “Starting something, huh?"

He grinned, and thumped his tail experimentally. “Let's see."