By Raima Larter

A boat on the horizon catches the attention of Old Maude, the eldest pelican in the group of birds that have moved their nests to the roof of Holland Island’s last remaining house. When the humans were still here, and the waters of Chesapeake Bay began to rise, most of the houses were moved, piece by piece, to the mainland. This is the only one that remains. One day it will also sink into the bay.

Maude squawks and points her wing toward the boat, trying to draw the attention of the other birds to the strange sight. They preen and flap, some of them feeding bits of torn-apart fish to their just-hatched chicks.

Old Maude shakes her head at the lack of curiosity of the young. The other birds apparently can’t be bothered with a ghostly ship that promises the return of the humans. Maude squints at the silvery boat as it slowly makes its way toward the tiny rectangle of land. She settles deeply into her nest, a chaotic pile of branches and twigs and dry grass she has painstakingly built into the top of the chimney that pokes from the roof of the decrepit house.

Maude is old. She may even be as old as the town itself, the one the humans established on this island in the 1600s, if we allow the use of human years. Back then, Holland Island had seventy homes, a post office, a two-room schoolhouse, and a church. And then the waters began to rise. And the people began to leave, rats deserting a sinking island.

Old Maude is so old her eyesight is failing, and the brown in her feathers has begun to turn white. She is past the age of egg laying and chick raising, but she is not so old that she’s lost her curiosity. She returns her attention to the ghostly boat that has almost reached the thin shoreline around her home.

Old Ned’s gnarled hands ache with arthritis as he guides his silvery rowboat toward the house upon which Maude sits. It is early morning, the sky pink in the east. Fog lifts off the waters of the bay, enveloping Ned and his small craft in a cloud of mist. His boat runs aground on the rocky shore.

Ned’s got his waders on. He steps out of the boat, pulling it by a rope onto the narrow strip of dirt.

“What’s little Ned doing here? And when did he get so big? And so old?” Since all Maude can do is squawk, she simply cocks her head to one side and looks quizzically down at him.

Ned walks around the house, surveying its crumbling walls. He pushes a hand against the boards and the house groans, threatening to collapse. He makes his way to the door. From where she sits atop the chimney, Maude can hear the creak as he opens it. And then Ned disappears inside.

She can hear him clomping up the steps in his heavy boots, opening drawers and slamming doors. Maude worries this will be the day the house finally sinks into the waters, but soon, he is clomping back down again.

Old Ned steps out with a lacquered box in his hand. He turns and waves it toward the roof, flipping the top open. A small wooden ballerina pops up and begins to spin. A tinkly tune plays, and Ned grins up at Maude.

“Found it! This belonged to my Grandma Maude!” The pelicans gawk and squawk at him. “Glad it was still there in the old house.”

He chuckles, snaps the lid shut, and climbs into the boat. Using one foot, Old Ned pushes his craft away from the remains of Holland Island and, whistling a tinkly tune, begins to row across the bay.

Maude watches him leave, memories of breakfasts with little Ned, a roomful of toys, and walks with a grandson to a long-submerged schoolhouse becoming, yet again, mere mist in the morning sky.