by fallensea
***
The summer in the mountains proved to be tolerable. I found idleness in the rolling hillsides. Idleness was good. It shielded me from the darkness. While the rest of the heaven-born drank their brandies and trained their ponies, while they danced against an Eastern sun, I slept my sorrows away, finding new life in the breeze of the idyll.
I lost my calm briefly, when Sir McKendrick was shot while hunting. As a fellow gentleman cleaned his gun, it discharged, striking Sir McKendrick in the leg. He was not badly injured, but the incident, fused with my indifference to him, was encouragement for him to return to Scotland.
I feared I was responsible for his injury, that my misgivings about marrying him had caused the gun to discharge. Without the sea near, without Reyansh, I spun into a panic that quarantined me to my quarters and left streaks of blood on my walls from my attempts to claw my way out of all that tormented my mind, afraid it would sink into my soul. It had frightened the servant women who attended to me, but they remained loyal. They helped me wash the blood away before my mother saw, and they wrapped bandages around my hands, which they prayed over.
Soon, the fear passed and the summer resumed untroubled.
Months later, when I returned home to the port city, to its filth and its wonder, I felt a comfortable joy. The person I wanted to share my joy with was Reyansh. Forgetting the sari I usually hid beneath, I went to him as I was—a broken beauty, a blighted rose, in a dress that flowed with the breeze of the sea.
I found Reyansh at the docks, but he was not alone. A woman stood beside him, helping him with the fish. She wore a green sari, stained by the docks but still vibrant, like an emerald.
“Miss Clarke,” Reyansh said when he saw me through the crowd of the port.
I wished he hadn’t seen me, and I wished I hadn’t seen him.
“Reyansh,” I greeted, forsaking formality. “I have returned.”
“So you have,” he said, his voice hoarse with an emotion he could not conceal.
“Please, introduce me to the emerald beside you,” I beseeched, an apology to the woman for drawing such emotion out of Reyansh.
“This is Priya,” he said, placing his hand on the woman’s back. To any other than me, such a gesture would be perceived as endearment, and it was, but it was also so Reyansh could steady himself. The woman accepted the gesture shyly, bowing her head. “Priya is my wife.”
It had been my insistence, my mastery, that had led to this, but it pained Reyansh to say it as much as it pained me to hear it. “I see. Well done,” I waivered, trying to remain calm, but even the sea before me did not have the strength to keep my heart from crashing down.
Chapter Four
The Sea
The Following Spring
Shortly, when guests arrived at our manor for the lavish balls my father threw in the spring, I would be wearing a tiara, finally spoken for. I was engaged, complying with my father’s wishes. I was not a happy bride. There was no joy without Reyansh. It was how it had to be, we each had our duties, but knowing so did not make the sorrow any less agonizing.
I stood in my quarters now, looking out at the sea, averting the port beside it. On the waters were a triad of steamers carrying cargo away from the shore to destinations I could not reach. I yearned to go with them, to be free of the hell that existed in my mind. There would be no darkness on the sea, nor would there be bliss. There would be only the gallant calm.
My mother’s love stopped me from running away. It would destroy her if I disappeared into the unknown. Her nerves could not handle it. She would lose her sanity. I knew what it felt like to have no control, to fear. I would not sentence her to share my fate, so I stayed. And I chose a husband.
I would never love a man like I did Reyansh, and I would never allow another man to love me, to touch me and hold me under the moonlight like Reyansh had. I would remain loyal to Reyansh, devoted to his love, to his ghost at my bedside, memories that would not fade.
I had accepted Mr. Barlow’s offer to keep me safe without provision. We would wed, and though he did not ask for it, I would ensure he was well taken care of with the money my father would gift to us afterwards. With the gift, we would buy a home. Mr. Barlow could paint, and I could remain chaste.
We had my father’s blessing. Mr. Barlow was a man of good reputation, and given my age, it was deemed better that I marry a crippled soldier than no man at all.
***
The morning of my wedding, as I prepared in my quarters, I placed petals of night-flowering jasmine in my hair, inviting them into the day. The sun shone, free of rain and mist, leaving the air thin to breathe. The guests fanning themselves in the garden beneath my window were in good form, eager for any occasion to revel, especially at the expense of another.
I was in no form. I was shapeless, keeping my mind even, ignoring my emotions. I focused on the petals in my hair, and when they were well-placed, I focused on my dress. Two servant women helped me into the ivory lace, which was embroidered with purple flowers as dark as nightshade. I had refused a white satin gown as part of my trousseau. I was tired of allowing tradition to dictate me. The ivory lace and the embroidery was my flag of rebellion, my refusal to surrender to ideals I did not fit.
Reyansh no longer worked within my household, he had found new employment at the Sulley Estate, but he would know of my wedding. The city murmured of it, of the roses imported from England and the fortune spent on the banquet, which the cooks prepared now. The smell of spiced lamb and mint salads wafted throughout the manor. Lords and ladies had traveled for the event, as had a maharaja—a prince of India. The city talked. It scorned, and it celebrated.
I did not imagine Reyansh would celebrate. I imagined he was as unhappy as I, betrayed by the mercilessness of the gods.
When I was ready, I went downstairs and out onto the verandah, following it around the manor to the back garden where the guests sat in readiness, waiting with Mr. Barlow.
I did not pay much attention to the ceremony. It had little meaning to me. I recited my vows when prompted to, accepting Mr. Barlow as my husband. They were not empty vows. Mr. Barlow and I would care for each other. Next to Reyansh, he was the only man I could honestly make such vows with. The song was not the same, my melody for Mr. Barlow was much tamer than my melody for Reyansh, but the lyrics remained unaltered.
***
The brightness that had launched the day was a deception. By the time the cooks were ready to serve their decadence, the sky had grown bitter and a grey fog had sieged the land, forcing us indoors, taking shelter from an approaching storm. I tried not to take meaning in the storm, I told myself it was not connected to my decision to wed Mr. Barlow; but stuck inside the marble cage of the banquet hall, with gossip and banter cracking around me, I found it very difficult to keep control of my thoughts. I was overwhelmed. My hand clenched around a knife, its teeth piercing my skin, leaving drops of blood on the tablecloth, but I could not bleed the darkness out.
Out of desperation, I turned to my new husband, hoping he could calm me the way Reyansh had, but he was not there. My husband had disappeared.
I left the table to find him, wandering the lower halls until I arrived at the library. Out of habit, I went to the atlas. Inside was a note from Reyansh, the first left for me since I had let the sacred fire burn out:
I know you have made a beautiful bride, my beloved.
The note calmed me. Reyansh had held this paper; he had inked the words. I was still his beloved. We could not touch, but we could love.
There was an uproar in the hallway—laughter that was unrestrained and gloriously improper. In no hurry to return to my wedding guests, and full of curiosity as to whom the laughter belonged, I hid behind a bookshelf as the door to the library opened.
A pretty servant woman with a keen pace walked in, trailed by my husband, their hands intertwined.
“You are rich now,” she cooed, leading him to the desk. He pressed intimately against her, and she ran her hands
through his dark hair. “Your plan worked. She fell for your pity story. Now, her wealth is yours.”
“Ours,” Mr. Barlow said, kissing her neck with the passion of a hungry lover. “Her wealth is ours. When the time is right, I will persuade her into an heir, a brother for our children. An heir will bring more money.”
“And what if she does not like me?” the woman pouted.
Mr. Barlow laughed. “She will have no choice.”
***
The rain lashed down, soaking the coast with a drenching fury, and my wedding day finally had meaning. It had happiness. With a light trunk by my side, I stood on the docks of the port, awaiting my embarkation on a cargo steamer. My passage was paid. I would become the sea.
I did not feel betrayed by Mr. Barlow’s taking of a lover, it was expected, but his dishonesty had left me bruised, so I had escaped, no longer certain of the man I had married, the man I called a friend. I could petition for the marriage to be annulled, but such a hindrance could wait for another day, a day less meaningful. Beneath the clouds of the swelling storm, I wanted to enjoy the sea. I was finally meeting my destiny. My darkness had shepherded me here, to a place chosen for me, made of me.
“Sophina!” Reyansh called to me in the rain, alone. He pushed through the masses on the docks, past the beggars and the merchants, fighting his way to me. “What are you doing here?” he asked when he reached me.
His presence added to my happiness, to the grace I felt. I allowed myself to forget that we were married to others, divided by vows and regulations. Divided by my insecurities, my darkness. We stood together, reunited, lovers by the sea.
“I’m leaving,” I answered.
He was devastated, torn apart like bread thrown beneath the birds. “Where?”
“I don’t know. The ship I have booked passage on is headed for Amsterdam, and then it will progress onward across the Atlantic to Louisiana. I will sail and I will rest, as long as where I rest is near the sea.”
“Here is near the sea,” Reyansh stated, setting his hand against the small of my back, pulling me in. “Stay.”
“I cannot,” I whispered, losing myself to him. “I must go. There is only darkness without you. If I can’t have you, I must have the sea.”
“It is dangerous.”
“I am resourceful.”
“I will go with you,” Reyansh decided, unwavering. “I won’t lose you. Not like this. Not for good.”
“You can’t,” I insisted, though it slashed wounds into my heart. “Stay true to your wife.”
“You are my wife. I stood at a temple with you before I did any other.”
“Then I am your wife,” I granted, and I kissed Reyansh, paying no heed to the masses around us, allowing our bodies to press against each other as if we were alone in the tall grass of the lagoon.
I kissed him, but it was a kiss goodbye.
***
Days Later
The storm followed the ship out to sea, chasing us down, hunting us. The rain was like canon fire against the masts, the winds the sirens luring us to our doom. The captain did not want to turn back. He pressed forward, braving the torrential waves.
I stood on the deck, without a lover, wearing the red sari the priest had given me outside the temple. Modesty was expected before the gods. The gods were here now. They shook the skies, gave the water its ferocity. Around me, the crew wrestled against the sails, directing the ship as the steam pushed us into the storm. The crew was frightened. I could see their fear.
I had no fear. I was the sea. The sea was me.
***
Reyansh
I had woken to the news. When it’d been whispered in my ear, I ran to the docks—to her, my beloved. But she was not there. She was nowhere.
“Is it true what they say?” Sanjay asked, joining me near the cruelty of the waves. “Did the storm claim her?”
“They believe the ship sank yesterday, but its wreckage has yet to be found.”
“I am so sorry, my brother,” he said with true sympathy. Sanjay had not approved of my relationship with Sophina, but he had considered her more friend than enemy.
“Don’t be,” I told him. “She is not gone. Sophina loved the sea. She would not have let it destroy her. She would have found a way to survive. She is good at that—surviving in the cold, in the unfamiliar.”
“Are you certain of it?” Sanjay asked, doubtful.
I stared at the water. It did not rage as it had in recent days, but it moved with a swiftness that reminded me of Sophina’s slippered feet when she fled from the lagoon after our nights together, quick to get home before the servants realized she was gone, her pale hair flowing behind her. She left, but each fleeting step was a promise she would return.
She would not return this time. The torment I felt losing Sophina ripped at me, the way she had ripped at the walls when she was lost to her fears. I mourned her, but not because she was gone, only because she was gone from me. “Yes. I am certain of it. The sea did not destroy her. She is the sea. She is divinity.”
The Sea Bride
In Memory of Theresa
I Can’t Say Goodbye
We have many friends in life, but we also have one or two best friends—those who are neither friend nor family but transcend to a whole new level of love and understanding. My best friend is Theresa. We spent almost every day of our childhood together. Only ten days apart, we celebrated our birthdays together. Her family was my family. My family was her family. In my early twenties, I moved abroad, so I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have liked to in our adult years, but we were sisters. That’s how we always referred to each other—as sisters. And now she’s gone, and my heart is broken.
I love you, Theresa. It might be awhile before we see each other again, before I join you beyond the sea, but you’ll forever be my sister.
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***
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