Brighid wept at the voice of the sea. Her words were in a language Brighid did not know but somehow still understood, but as if hearing Gaelic spoken by a Scot, or through a translator. Unclear, but recognizable. The sea was inside Brighid, in her soul, in her blood, in her brain. In her bones and muscles and sliding through her most tender flesh. The sea was loving her.
As their bodies merged and collided and slid and moved, Murtagh took them deeper and deeper until pressure weighed upon her ears and eyes and bones, and he twisted and rose up once more, gliding through the water with Brighid clutched in his arms, swimming with her in a graceful ballet, a mating dance at once animal and human.
Breathe me feel me touch me hear me
That was the song of the sea.
Swim play eat drink live love laugh cry dive drown breathe breathe breathe me know me
The sea whispered to her. Sang to her. The crash of surf on a distant shore was the melody, the rolling waves in the far wild depths was the rhythm, the tides a counterpoint, the song of the whales and dolphins and the chatter of seals and otters and the cry of gulls and albatross and the shimmering flash of schools of fish, these were the chorus. And Brighid heard it all. She could sing this song; her voice longed to join in, her body knew the dance, her soul knew the ageless tune.
And then they broke the surface and the sand was under her feet and the surf was crashing around them and their joining was lost, and the song was lost.
Murtagh was gasping for breath and his man/seal inky black eyes were fierce and intense. “Did you hear her?”
She couldn’t speak. Only nod, whimpering. “Yes,” she managed to choke out the word. “I heard, Murtagh. I heard her.”
His smile was predatory and playful and happy. “You heard. The sea, she speaks to you. This is good.”
And so it began.
As he grew in strength, he helped her with chores, and they made their way down to the sea and swam and joined together and Brighid listened eagerly to the song of the sea, which she could only hear when tumbling in the waves with Murtagh inside her.
Days, weeks, months…and then Murtagh was as healed as he was going to be, a limp forever in his step, but his strokes under the sea were as effortless and powerful as ever.
And then, one day, Murtagh was out checking lobster traps, and Brighid was cleaning her little home. And she found, tucked inside an old pot that had been shoved behind the stove, Murtagh’s sealskin.
It was silky, still damp, somehow. Thick, soft, and velvety. She didn’t remove it from the pot, only stroked it gently.
A thought occurred to her. She could hide it again, and Murtagh would stay with her.
She felt him needing the sea. Needing his freedom. He was restless. He would wake in the middle of the night and stand on the dune, staring out at the moon on the sea.
Her hand in the pot, fingers buried in the fur, Brighid heard a step behind her.
Murtagh’s eyes were wild and angry and fearful. He was utterly still, tensed. “Brighid.” His voice was a deep, dark rumble. “That is mine.”
“I know, Murtagh. I found it by accident.” She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to lose the song of the sea, or the way he felt, the beauty of their song together beneath the waves.
“Would you hide it from me?” He took a step toward her. “Trap me here on this shore, with you?”
She shook her head, feeling a tear trickle down her cheek. “No, Murtagh.” She forced herself to stand up, to turn away, showing him her empty hands. “No. I wouldn’t ever do that.”
Brighid left the house, and walked down the path with the dune grass tickling her calves and the sand skritching underfoot and the breeze in her hair and the sea in her nostrils and the gulls overhead.
He was going to leave.
She felt it.
His step was silent on the sand, but she sensed him behind her. “She calls me. Cries out to me.”
“I know.”
“Swim with me.”
She held back a sob. “No, Murtagh. I can’t handle that kind of goodbye.”
“I meant…swim away.” He pointed, away out to sea, south. “Far. Down deep, to the winter shores.”
“I can’t.”
“I can breathe for you, Brighid.”
She shook her head. “No, Murtagh, it’s not that. I know you can. But…you belong out there. I belong here.”
“Our song together is beautiful music.”
“It is.”
“I would sing that song with you for always.”
“I cannot live in the sea, and you cannot live on the shore.”
He breathed into her hair. “Never before have I cursed my nature. Now I do.”
“No, Murtagh. Your nature is…beautiful. You are of the sea, and she is of you.”
“You are of me, and I am of you.”
She shook her head again. “It can’t work.”
He growled, an animal sound of displeasure. “I will return, then. When the summer currents call us back, I will return here. This will be my summer shore. You will come down to the sea, and we will swim together and sing the song of the sea.”
She nodded, her breath catching. “Okay.”
He strode past her, his sealskin clutched in one hand. Waded into the waves, naked, as the first time she saw him. As he always was. Nude and beautiful, masculine perfection. Deeper, until he was waist deep, and then he paused and turned around. Stared at her, and now she saw a world of emotion and intelligence and personality in that animal stare. No goodbye, no one last kiss, no sentiment. Just that silent stare, and then he dove into the waves and there was a gentle flash of greenish light under the waves and the surface roiled, and then the pale form of his naked body darkened and then there was only a seal, twisting in the waves, head poking up over the surface, dark eyes staring at her. And then another a splash and a flip of his tail and he was gone, streaking away out into the sea.
Brighid let herself sob, then.
But only for a little while.
The surf lapped at her feet, as if to comfort her, and perhaps it was her imagination, but the icy water didn’t make her bones ache like it used to. She waded a little deeper, hiking her skirts up around her waist, and she felt the tug of the currents. A split second decision had her stripping the dress off and diving naked into the water and she felt the sea around her, heard, perhaps, a distant note of a song, as of the strains of a violin from a window across the city.
She swam, and the sea welcomed her.
Her tears mingled with salt of the brine.
She could almost hear his voice, the bark and growl of a seal joining his brothers and sisters on a long southward journey.
Eventually the shore called out to her, the bleat of goats and sheep, the waving grasses and the warmth of the sun and the crimson glow of sunset on the horizon and the crackle of a fire on a cold winter night.
He would return. The tides would bring him to her, and she would swim with him. And until then, she could dive down beneath the waves and hear his voice in the song of the sea.
25
[Cape Town, South Africa; February 14, 2016]
I start out drinking alone. It’s Valentine’s Day, but neither Marta nor Jonny consider it a holiday, since neither of them is American, and Valentine’s Day is a distinctly American holiday. Jonny is out on the town and has been for a solid week, coming back to the boat only occasionally to repack his overnight bag with fresh clothes. We decided to stay in Cape Town for a while, mainly, I think, because every once in a while Jonny just needs to…sow his wild oats, you might say. Jonny is Jonny. I’m not sure what he does when he’s gone like this, but it’s how he’s been since I’ve known him. He’s not the type to go on crazy benders, so it’s not just about drinking, I don’t think. Women? Maybe. He’s reticent to talk about himself, and I don’t push it.
Marta is I don’t know where. Doing Marta things, I guess.
So I’m alone on the boat for a change, which is nice. It
means I can wallow. I crack open a bottle of scotch and pour myself a tall drink, and I take it to the trampoline between the hulls and think about Ava. About everything that went wrong. About how much I miss her.
How lonely I am.
I want to call her.
I don’t, because I agreed not to. I’m planning on getting drunk, just like we used to, just like I promised.
One drink becomes two, and it’s harder and harder to think about Ava. About the pain in her voice when we spoke at Christmas. How much that conversation hurt. How awkward it was. We used to be able to talk about anything, endlessly. And now we can’t get through a merry Christmas conversation? What went wrong?
I don’t know what to do.
I can’t go back. I’m not cut out for life on land. This, out on the ocean, this is the life I was meant to live. But I still love Ava…that hasn’t changed. I realized that when we spoke. I love her. I’ll always love her. But…what if she’s right? What if Henry’s death was life or fate or God stamping THE END on our relationship? I just don’t know how to fix things, how to reconcile with her. She won’t come to sea with me, and I can’t go back to that life.
I miss her.
Fuck, I miss her so bad.
I need her. I need her kiss. I need her touch. I need her presence.
I’m drunk.
The stars are spinning, wheeling, and the boat is rocking beneath me—although since it’s a boat, that’s normal, but it seems more unstable than usual. Is this my third drink or my fourth? Can’t remember.
Nothing matters.
I should just move on. Take the wedding ring off, get a lawyer back in the States to draw up divorce papers. What’s the point? Does she even miss me? Didn’t seem like it. Seemed like she was in pain, sure, but did she miss me? Does she want me back? Does she want to fix things? Does she want to find a way for us to be together?
I think of the short story I wrote the other day, which I wrote only for me, for Ava—it’s saved in with the other letters I’ve written her, all of which I’ve also printed out and sealed into a waterproof, crushproof, fireproof file box. That story, “The Selkie and the Sea”…it’s us. Me, Ava, our relationship. It just poured out of me, emerging whole cloth. Ava, if she ever reads it, will understand the symbolism I used in it. I mean, it’s not hard, it’s not like I disguised them. Do I even want her to read any of this stuff I’m writing her? I don’t know if I do. It’s more for me, to help me sort things out in my own head and heart. I’m not sure I’m capable of sharing them with her. If I’ll even see her again.
God, that thought hurts more than I thought it would.
I hear feet on the deck, shuffling slowly and carefully down the companionway to the berths below. Dismiss it as Jonny, coming back for more clothes. Sip at my scotch and enjoy the drunkenness; it’s easier to give in to my feelings, like this. Easier to admit I’m going crazy with horniness, crazy with loneliness, crazy with grief and mourning and confusion. It’s all too much and I can’t handle it all. I’m trying to take it one day at a time and let myself heal and let myself feel things, but then that conversation with Ava at Christmas just fucked everything all up again.
I shouldn’t have called her.
But I had to, didn’t I?
I feel someone beside me. Twist my head, peer dizzily; it’s Marta.
“Hey.” She smiles at me; she’s drunk too. “Fucking Valentine’s Day, no?”
“You too, huh?”
She nods. “I was in love with an American, once. A captain. It was his favorite holiday. He was always very elaborate about the dates he took me on for that day. Roses by the dozen, or more. Chocolat—” she says it the French way, “flowers. Extravagant gifts, since he was very rich. I was a deckhand on his yacht, and it becomes…something more. At first just sex, and then more, and then I was in love with him, and he spoiled me.”
“Sounds nice.”
She sighs. “Oui. It was.” Her accent is much, much thicker than usual, and she doesn’t usually sprinkle her conversation with French words. “Until he found a new, prettier, younger deckhand, and I could accept that he’d moved on and stay aboard his yacht with the excellent berth and excellent pay, or I could jump ship in Jakarta and figure out what to do next on my own.”
“Hello, Jakarta.”
“Yes, exactly. There was no real choice to make. He was not shy about his relationships, with me or with her. So I ended up in Jakarta for a month, until I found a new berth. And ever since, I have hated your stupid American romance holiday.”
“It is pretty stupid.”
“So why are you drunk and alone on this day, hmm?” she asks, taking my glass from me and sipping.
As she takes the glass from me, our fingers brush. I jerk my hand away a little too fast, and even drunk, I know she notices.
I shrug, and take it back from her, making sure our fingers don’t touch. “It was my…Ava’s and my thing. We both hate Valentine’s Day, Ava especially. Had it ruined for her by a nasty ex, like you, and she just refused to have anything to do with it. So we’d…on Valentine’s Day we’d both take the day off and spend it drinking, eating, watching movies. She wouldn’t let me buy her anything, not a damn thing. Not even a fucking candy bar. We’d spend it together, getting wasted. And then, at midnight, when it wasn’t the holiday anymore, we’d have sex. But not until after midnight. It was like a weird reverse celebration, I guess.”
“I like that plan.” She takes my glass again, and this time intentionally brushes my fingers with hers, letting her index finger trail along mine, her eyes on me. “So that’s what you’re doing, then?”
I nod. “Sort of. Getting drunk alone, being pathetic.”
“Well, you’re not drunk alone anymore. I am drunk too. And if getting drunk alone is pathetic, then I am that as well, since I sat alone in a bar, drinking far too much merlot.” She hands the glass back and rolls to face me. “So now we are drunk and pathetic together.”
Goddammit. She’s wearing…not much. A tiny pair of what might be loosely termed workout shorts, which cover even less of her ass than usual, and a bikini top. Which she’s spilling out of, especially lying on her side as she is. My eyes betray me, latching on to the spillage for longer than is probably acceptable.
When I finally turn my eyes back to hers, she is smiling a strange, secret smile.
She tilts her wrist, checking her watch. “It is nearly midnight. Only two minutes until the change of the hour.”
“Marta, I—”
“Christian, I think you think too much. Expect too much of yourself. Of others. Of her. Of life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Things do not have to be so complicated. You sailed away from a mess that was your life. From someone who seemed able to let you simply sail away. Does that not make you free to do what you want?”
“Maybe.”
She takes the now-empty glass from me, shimmies up the trampoline to set it aside, and then slides back down. Closer than before, her knees brushing mine, her breasts all but totally spilled out of the tiny little triangles of her bikini top, her face inches from mine. “I think it does. What reason do you have to remain faithful to a relationship that is over? It is over, is it not?”
“I don’t know.”
“There is no reason for you to be lonely.”
“What do you want, Marta?”
She shifts closer. Tugs at the laces of my swim trunks, the only thing I’m wearing. “This. You. For tonight only, perhaps.”
“I don’t know if I can, Marta.”
She has my trunks open, and reaches in, grasps me. “Why not? Because of the whisky you have drunk? It has not affected you adversely, it seems.”
I groan at the feel of her touch, a warm firm delicious sensation. “No, not that.”
She slides her touch up, and then down. “Then what?”
“I just…” My mind isn’t working. My heart is saying something, loudly, but my body is in control. The whisky has numb
ed me to the cry of my heart.
Give in to this, some part of me whispers.
You know you want it.
What’s the harm? No one needs to know.
It’s over anyway. You might as well seek comfort where you can find it.
There’s something wrong with that logic, but I’m too drunk to figure out what and Marta’s hand on me feels too good.
Her lips fumble clumsily at mine. Her kiss is…god, I don’t know. It’s a hot, erotic kiss. Drunken, sloppy, eager. Her hands are busy, pushing my trunks down, and then she guides my hand to her breast, a warm silken weight that leaves me groaning in delight. Instinct takes over. Need. I’m touching her. She’s naked, somehow, and so am I. I’m touching her, making her moan.
But…something is off. I don’t know what. I need this. I need more. But I can’t shake a vague but potent sense of wrongness. Her mouth, kissing me—her kiss is skilled and eager, even drunk, but it’s not…right. I don’t know. And even though her touching, reaching, stroking, squeezing, caressing hands feel wonderful on my hungry flesh, I just…god, I want this, but it feels…she’s not…
Words fail me, even in my own head. I’m too drunk to make sense of what I’m feeling.
“Christian…” Marta murmurs.
Slides against me, rolls so I’m above her, nudged against her entrance. She pulls at me, urging me. I gaze down at her. Blonde hair spilled on the trampoline in a golden spray, wide brown eyes stare back at me, eager, expectant, ready. Her body is toned and lush and soft and lovely. She feels good beneath me. She’s ready. She wants this. I want this.
The Long Way Home Page 14
