The Arrowhead Game
Legends say the Calusa arrowhead brings power.
No one mentions the price.
Prologue
The captain was gone. So was the only life preserver.
Willow clung to the shrimp boat’s outrigger—knuckles white, teeth chattering like loose pebbles in a cup. Her eyes burned—tears, or maybe sea spray. She couldn’t tell anymore.
The trawler twisted and heaved, every joint creaking as it battled the Gulf’s fury. The mast light flickered, unsteady. Beyond it, only darkness. Waves surged from the black abyss, silent until impact—each one a hammer-blow, driving the boat sideways.
Black smoke poured from the engine room, rising like a spirit fleeing the wreck.
The hull lifted.
Plunged.
A wall of water surged from behind, tearing her grip free. Willow shot across the slick deck, weightless and flailing. The rigging spun past in a blur. She crashed against a wooden crate. Cold punched through her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just lay there, cheek to the crate’s slick wood, as the world pitched and groaned around her.
Her limbs trembled. Her soaked clothes clung like seaweed.
Loose gear skidded across the wet planks. A coil of rope snapped past her leg like a whip. A toolbox slammed the rail and flipped into the void—gone without a splash.
Water climbed the boards—inch by inch—pulling the boat to its grave. Only a sliver of railing remained, clinging like a fingernail.
It can’t end like this.
She crawled. Not gracefully. Not like a girl who knew what she was doing. More like a toddler, dragging herself forward on elbows and knees.
The outrigger rose from the deck ahead—tall and cold, the only upright thing in a world coming apart.
Willow reached it. Pressed her cheek to the metal. Wrapped her arms around it as if it might fold around her in return.
It didn’t.
But she held on anyway—like a child clinging to the leg of a parent who wouldn’t stoop.
“Please,” she whispered.
Another gust tore through the gloom. Salt spray burst through the mast light’s cone, sparkling like falling stars against the black beyond.
The rain returned with fury, sharp as hornets' stings, fast as falling gravel.
Below deck, something hissed. A low, hollow sound, like the ship exhaling its last breath. The fire was out, but its ghosts remained: diesel, scorched wood, salt.
Lightning tore the sky apart. An unblinking eye that saw everything. The night was erased—scorched into brilliance.
Everything froze. Waves mid-crest. Rain hung like shattered glass.
Then darkness closed its fist.
Thunder answered. A wrathful god pounding his fists on the gates of the sea. The shock rolled through the hull—and through her, sharp as a drumbeat in her spine.
Still clinging to the outrigger, Willow slid to the deck and curled inward, as if she could nestle back into the boat’s steel ribs—
But the old ship had no warmth left to give.
Frigid water flooded her sneakers, locking her ankles like shackles.
If only she had the Calusa arrowhead; she could put everything back together.
But she didn’t.
She scanned the wreckage, hunting for a lifeline the storm hadn’t yet stolen.
There’s nothing left—nothing to hold on to.
The wooden crate floated across the deck, half-submerged, its rope handles trailing like the last threads of a dream.
It floats.
Willow let go of the metal pole and lunged, reaching for the crate before the next wave could take the choice away.
Her fingers locked around a thick rope handle. The line seared her palms, salt grinding into every scrape.
Another wave reared up, silent and towering—a hand from something that never loved her, ready to strike.
Wind howled. Ropes snapped like rifle fire.
Willow’s stomach plummeted.
The wave struck without mercy. A backhand from the sea itself, stripping the deck of everything, like a parent who couldn’t be bothered to look back.
Her feet tore free. She cried out, but the sea stole the sound.
She was flung sideways into the swirling chaos. Suspended in black. Legs drifting. Right arm weightless, reaching for what she’d already lost.
No roar. No rain.
Just the hush of the deep.
The mast light shimmered above—blurry, distant.
An underwater moon, pulsing slow—like a heart unsure whether to keep going.
And from that silence, a memory stirred:
Snowlight.
Frost.
Rising like breath in cold air.
Chapter 1
Her first morning of Thanksgiving break dawned crisp and clear.
No school. No chores. Just the glitter of ice—and a silence Willow couldn’t shake.
She and Ash moved like shadows through the sleeping cabin, hearts racing—not from fear, but from the thrill of getting away with it.
In the hearth, the fire had dwindled to a low glow, its embers breathing beneath a soft blanket of ash. The air smelled of old leather, pine sap, and yesterday’s cinnamon coffee.
On the table, Grandfather’s chessboard sat undisturbed, the black knight poised mid-battle.
They crept like silent film actors—arms outstretched, daring the floorboards to squeal. They sidestepped the loose board by the hearth. Slipped past Grandfather’s worn armchair.
Above the mantel, the cuckoo clock marked their passing.
Tick… tick… tick.
The upstate New York cabin slumbered on—Grandfather lost in his morning dreams upstairs.
Willow paused at the front door. Beyond it, winter waited—sharp enough to steal breath.
She and Ash were thirteen now—old enough not to fear the cold. But this wasn’t about weather. Something colder had crept in—into their mornings, their silences, the way Dad never called.
A gust rattled the porch rail. Frost webbed the windowpane, fine as fish scales. Sunlight slipped between the trees, fanning out like spokes on a golden wheel.
She pulled her coat tight and stepped into the hush.
The porch groaned beneath their boots, the cold snapping like brittle glass. Smoke unraveled from the chimney—thin, white, dissolving into dawn. Below them, the frozen world held its breath.
So did they.
Willow slowed at the window, tracing an arrow into the frost with one fingertip. A flicker of red caught her eye.
A cardinal landed on the porch railing—its feathers blazing against the snow like a drop of fire. A message. A visitor.
That’s what Mom used to say—red birds carry whispers on the wind, meant for those who know how to listen.
The cardinal flicked its tail. A heartbeat later—it was gone.
Willow turned away, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets. Just a bird. Just a story. Nothing more.
Her twin reached the bottom step first, ice skates slung over one shoulder. He turned and flicked three quick hand signals: Stop. Look. Move.
Willow nodded. Dad had taught them those signals two summers ago—standing barefoot on the dock, the lake wide behind him. Back when he still belonged to them.
She adjusted her own skates, the laces cold against her neck.
Then they crossed the yard, boots marking two paths through the snow. Morning light caught in the ice-laced branches, scattering gold across the world like stardust. Every tree shimmered. Every breath curled like a spell.
Behind them, the cabin sagged in the quiet—still warm, still breathing. Soon, Grandfather would wake, filling the kitchen with the smell of cinnamon and coffee.
They had to be quick.
At the lake’s edge, Ash crouched to lace his skates. He didn’t need to look up to know she was watching. Instead, he flicked two fingers toward the ice. Follow me.
Winter had sealed the lake in glass—smooth, unbroken, holding nothing but the ghost of the sky. A mirror with nothing left to reflect.
Snow hushed the world, burying the forest in white, swallowing sound, erasing time. The pines leaned inward, their boughs sagging under winter’s weight—as if the season had drained the last of their strength.
Beyond the trees, the Adirondacks rose and fell in frozen waves—peaks swallowed by mist, valleys lost in shadow. The hush was absolute. As if the world had turned away—and left this place behind.
Nothing moved.
No wind. No birds. Just the stillness of things forgotten.
The stillness inside her.
Ash tapped a fist to his chest. You ready?
Willow exhaled. Crouched. Laced her skates. Nodded.
The first dare was always easy. Just to the middle and back. Simple. Safe. That’s what he’d say—just enough to make her nod before she could think too hard.
Willow tugged the frayed brim of her beanie low over her ears. Across the ice, the far shore loomed—a dark seam beneath the pale morning sky.
Ash’s breath curled in the cold. He bounced on his skates, blue eyes lit with mischief. One gloved hand shoved a strand of sandy hair under his cap. Then he stomped, sending up a spray of frost. “Hurry up, before Grandfather catches us and kills my screen time again.”
His laughter came easy—but the way he glanced toward the porch, just for a beat, made Willow wonder if he was remembering something they never talked about.
A gust rattled the trees. Loose snow spiraled from the branches, swirling like white ghosts.
Willow eyed the lake. It looked solid—but looking wasn’t always enough. A low sound stirred beneath her blades. She shifted her weight.
Another sound—a long, aching creak, like something vast turning in its sleep. Four inches thick. Grandfather’s rule. Supposedly safe. But—
“Ash…” she started.
He laughed, already driving into his blades.
His impatience pressed against her like wind—relentless, needling.
A deeper groan rose through the soles of her skates.
If she backed out now, it wouldn’t end here. He’d wait. Let it fester. Then—at the perfect moment—he’d slip in the word coward. Sharp as a splinter beneath the skin.
Would he say it in front of his friends?
Absolutely.
Last winter, he dared her to sled down Dead Man’s Hill—backward. In spring, he jumped off the boathouse roof into the lake. Ash never thought about falling.
He’d been testing her all year—pushing at the edges of things. Seeing what would bend. What would break.
Maybe she was a coward. She had spent the year retreating—into books, into other worlds, into anywhere but here. Anywhere but the hollow places their mother and father had left behind.
Ash never forgot. He turned moments over like stones, waiting for the perfect one to throw. And when he did, he never missed.
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Wait—there’s more to the dare.”
Of course there was. With Ash, there was always more.
He pointed across the lake. “We skate to Mr. Yetman’s, ring the bell, and race back.” He scraped a line into the ice. “First one across wins.”
She barely heard him. The wind shoved at her back—urgent. Insistent.
Mr. Yetman’s hunting cabin slouched near the far shore, half-buried in snow drifts. Winter had sealed it in—doors crusted shut, windows blind with frost.
Willow glanced back toward Grandfather’s cabin. Any minute now, he’d sink into his chair, flip on The Weather Channel. And if he saw them out here?
They were dead.
Ash sighed dramatically, drawing out her name. “Come on, Will.”
She wanted to say no. To stay on solid ground. But Ash would chip at her silence with that grin—like a tide against stone, wearing her down.
“Ash—”
Too late. He was already flying, skates slicing the ice in clean arcs, laughter trailing behind him like a flag caught in the wind.
Willow braced—and pushed off.
Ash surged ahead, his blades whispering across the frozen lake.
Her skates carved thin scars behind her. For once, she wasn’t the girl people tiptoed around. She was just Willow. Fast. Free.
“Watch this!” Ash spun, skating backward with arms flung wide. “I bet I can—”
Crack.
A sharp report—like a branch snapping under snow. A hairline fracture lanced across the ice—racing like trapped lightning, spiderwebbing in all directions.
For a heartbeat, they froze—Willow on one side, Ash on the other.
She didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.
It wasn’t just the ice that threatened to give way—it was everything. The ache of being left behind by the two closest people who were supposed to stay. And the terrible, quiet fear that maybe she and Ash were hard to love.
Ash’s eyes locked with hers. And she wondered—if the ice broke now, would it pull them under separately? Would they fall alone?
“Ash—”
An arctic wind sliced across the lake, stealing her voice. Snow spiraled up—swirling, blinding—shrouding everything in motion.
Willow shielded her face from the sting of ice crystals.
The silence deepened—so absolute it roared in her ears. Her heartbeat fluttered against her ribs, wild and lonely. Panic bloomed in her chest. Not him too.
“Ash?”
His name vanished on the wind.
Frost curled inward, coiling around the emptiness where his shape had just been.
Beneath her, the ice groaned. She leaned forward, breath quick and shallow.
“Ash!”
Still no answer.
Willow blinked hard.
The legend rose up—half-remembered, half-believed.
The Mohawk warned: these waters belonged to the Great Spirit. A single word, even a whisper, could shatter the peace. Disturb the stillness, and the lake would answer. A canoe overturned. A life pulled under. The dark water, swallowing you whole.
The cold pressed deeper, tightening around her chest.
A figure cut through the whiteout, skating fast from beyond the crack.
Relief crashed into her, sharp as pain.
Ash.
He carved a quick arc toward her, laughing. But the moment he crossed the fracture line, his grin flickered. His eyes dropped—locked on the crack beneath his skates.
He twisted toward Mr. Yetman’s cabin and pushed off hard, blades biting into the ice in quick, sharp beats.
Willow’s muscles locked.
Another crack lanced outward behind her—spidering fast, carving a jagged seam toward the lake’s center.
Thin lines chased across the ice, black threads against white—growing, spreading. Water welled into the cracks, glinting like glass blades in the morning light.
Ash’s voice—still bright, still trying to make it a game—carried over the wind.
“Willow, hurry up!”
She pushed off—but her blade snagged on a fracture. She caught herself—heart slamming, lungs burning. Each step sent a new tremor rippling across the lake.
Snick. Snick. Snick.
The wind surged again, slicing sideways across the ice.
Her hands curled into fists inside her gloves. Cold gnawed at her ankles. She ran. Not gracefully. Not like Ash. This was no longer a game. She didn’t dare look down.
Just a few more strides.
Almost there—
A massive sheet behind her fractured, dropped, vanished into a black mouth of water. The force of it bucked beneath her.
She stumbled. Her arms windmilled. The whole world tipped.
She lunged—skates barely catching. Knees slammed into the snow. Her palms dug into the cold crust of the shoreline.
Willow gasped. Air scorched her lungs. Her ears rang.
A hole gaped behind her—ink-dark, rimmed in fractured white.
At the edge of her vision, movement—slow, uncertain. The front door creaked open. Grandfather stepped onto the porch. Too late to stop them. Just in time to see everything.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t move. Just stood there—cane rooted to the boards, eyes fixed not on her, but on where she could have vanished. His face gave nothing away—but one hand gripped the railing. White-knuckled.
And in that moment, Willow saw something in him that unsettled her more than the cracking ice—something colder than winter could ever reach.
Fear.
And that scared her most of all.
A hollowness opened in her chest—as if he’d seen right through her. Seen the hairline fractures inside—the ones she tried so hard to patch over.
Across the lake—Ash whooped, victorious. He reached for the rope on Mr. Yetman’s porch. The rusted iron bell swayed once.
Clang.
A hard, hollow sound split the quiet and shuddered across the ice.
Willow turned—just in time to catch it. A flash of red.
A cardinal burst from the pines, its wings slicing the pale sky. A single streak of crimson against the washed-out world.
Willow rose, her legs unsteady. The bird landed on a distant branch—small, bright, watching her. Its black eyes caught the light. It waited, as if it carried a message only silence could translate.
Then—it was gone.
A flicker of red. Lost in the bare tangle of branches.
Willow stepped forward—drawn without knowing why. More than anything, she wanted the bird to stay.
The weight of the past year pressed in—soft, crushing—like snow settling over old branches.
In the hush of the woods, even the silence held its breath, waiting for her next move.
End of Chapter 1
