The Moth and Moon

by Glenn Quigley

  The ceiling over the bar and the main seating area was open to the second floor, and people gazed down from the railings every time the main door swung open. The giant ship’s wheel serving as the inn’s main candelabrum filled the air between the floors. It hung perfectly motionless, suspended from iron chains fixed to great beams in the ceiling and was caked in wax. Layers and layers of it. One could watch a fresh layer crawl over the old, a miniature tide slowly spreading to the edges of the wheel and dripping onto the floor below. Everyone knew where to steer clear of sitting or walking to avoid these molten dribbles. It was said that if someone were to excavate the wheel’s strata, they’d discover tiers stretching back to the dawn of life of the island.

  Occasionally the second floor inhabitants called and waved to the newcomers, and beckoned them to join them upstairs. There were candles lit on every table in the tavern, most in small brass holders or lanterns, but more than a few were set on a surface and held fast with their own wax, which flowed slowly over the edges in frozen falls.

  As he went to join his friend, Edwin encountered a small group of people by the front door. A small, frail-looking woman was pacing up and down, clearly agitated. Some of the other villagers were trying to calm her down.

  “But what about Jim and Allister? They’ve not come back yet. They took the boat out this morning and they’ve not come back yet!” She was becoming increasingly panicked, her voice rising, her eyes wide.

  Edwin caught Robin’s attention and beckoned him over. Mr. Bounsell was consoling the woman.

  “Don’t fret, Arabella,” he said. “Jim’s been sailing longer than any of us, I’m sure he’s safe. He probably took to Rumbullion Bay, anchored down to wait out the storm. There are caves there, lots of shelter. Don’t you fret now, go and have yourself some tea.”

  Two of the older woman’s friends had joined the group, and one of them carefully placed an old, knitted blanket around her shoulders and led her back to the big table by the fire where many of the mature women of the village had gathered, lorded over by Morwenna Whitewater and her cane. A fresh pot of tea and a slice of fruitcake were waiting for her, and Arabella Stillpond looked calmed.

  Mr. Blackwall gathered the men closer together. Robin stood behind them. Not excluded, as such, but far from welcomed.

  “Do you really think that’s what happened? You think old Jim went to the Bay?” asked Mr. Blackwall.

  “He might’ve done. If he didn’t make it back here, it’s the most likely spot,” Mr. Bounsell said.

  Robin looked concerned and cleared his throat as if to speak.

  “What do you think, Mr. Shipp?” Edwin asked, offering him a way in.

  Robin leaned in to the circle a bit. “The trouble is those caves fill up fast. ’opefully, Jim and Allister retreated far enough into them before the water level rose. They won’t ’ave stayed on the boat. Even anchored it would be a risky prospect in this weather. Soon as the storm passes we’ll ’ave to send a party out there to check.”

  Robin’s voice was naturally gruff in tone but friendly in manner and could be very comforting when he remembered to take the harsh edge off it.

  “Assuming any of the boats survive…” Mr. Bounsell said.

  There were a couple of rowboats in a shed by the water that should be unscathed. These were smaller even than Bucca’s Call, but Mr. Bounsell’s point was a good one. No matter how well prepared they were, weather this severe could easily damage the village’s entire fleet.

  Mr. Reed was walking around with a tray of tankards, still gazing upwards every now and then. Several times he almost tripped over some children, and once his own feet.

  Edwin and Robin made their way upstairs to one of the spaces at the rear of the building. The staircases in the Moth & Moon were winding, twisting affairs and they often doubled back on themselves at sudden, awkward angles. They were peppered with landings, big and small, some of which could barely hold one person, while others held entire tables and chairs. Low-ceilinged and tucked out of sight, these little hidey-holes were the most favoured of patrons wishing a modicum of privacy. The staircases riddled the whole building, cropping up in the most unlikely places and never continuous, meaning a person who reached the end of one and wished to keep going was forced to hunt for the next one on whichever floor they found themselves. To make matters worse, there was always more than one staircase to choose from, making the Moth & Moon something of a vertical labyrinth. People who knew the place well would still find themselves having to stop and get their bearings every once in a while, so it’s no surprise newcomers—guests who would stay for only a night or two—could often be found wandering the halls at night, having gotten completely and thoroughly lost on their way to or from their room. The alcohol probably didn’t help.

  Edwin and Robin wanted to see out to the village, and the four large, round windows on the top floor offered the best views. These had shutters on them, of course, but they were by far the most weathered and had the biggest gaps in them. Being that they were the highest points on the building, one facing in each of the cardinal points of the compass, they were the most infrequently repaired. The glass was ancient and thick, with big dollops where it seemed to be dripping slowly toward the ground, and set with lead framing. By the time they had manoeuvred their way through the esoteric layout, they were a little out of breath. They sat at the north-facing window and squinted, trying to get the best view, while Robin rubbed at his knees, as he so often did. Whenever Edwin asked him about it, Robin just said they were “actin’ up a bit” and not to worry. The bench at least was cushioned, and the window sat out in a roomy, arched, wooden bay.

  Edwin pointed up to the eaves where they could just about make out the plump feathery forms of Captain Tom and the Admiral sheltering on a beam jutting out, forming a little dry rest spot for the birds. In the cramped conditions, they occasionally pecked at each other. Edwin wondered if the same might happen with the villagers packed in the tavern. Tensions could run high in close quarters.

  It was gloomy now, and the rain was the heaviest they’d ever seen, but it was just possible to make out some of the buildings in the village beyond.

  “Robin, look,” Edwin said. He pointed to Mrs. Whitewater’s cottage. The roof was almost completely torn off.

  Robin sighed heavily and shook his head. “’Ow many times ’ave I put off repairin’ Morwenner’s roof?” Edwin found the mispronounciation of her name delightful.

  The schoolhouse was intact, so far, but some of the shutters hadn’t been fixed securely and were clattering in the high winds. The glass in some of the windows was smashed. Slate tiles were flying past the windows, dozens of feet in the air.

  “Well. I think it’s clear now. This isn’t just a storm. This is an ’urricane,” Robin said with furrowed brow.

  Chapter Five

  FROM THE FRONT window of his little blue house on the hill, Duncan gazed down across the harbour as he lifted a fine china teacup to his lips. Rain ran in torrents down the glass. To his left, he could just about see the steep roads that formed the main part of the village, where every house and shop was locked down for the weather. Across the field and down the hillside was the schoolhouse, where earlier children had been excitedly running around in hats and scarves, delighted at their unexpected premature dismissal. At the old cottages on the far side of town, some older children had helped the elderly residents close up their homes, and guided them down to the Moth & Moon, where people were gathering to wait out the storm. The bad weather obscured that side of town from his vision now. Only vague, grey shapes were visible. Ghostly outlines in the distance.

  The boats in the harbour tipped from side to side in the growing winds, and the waves splashed high against the lighthouse sitting on its tiny islet in the bay. He knew the keepers would be entirely isolated for the duration of the storm. The only way to access the islet was by sea, which would be impossible in the choppy waters of the storm. The keepers lived for months at a time at the light
house, but there was a difference between choosing not to leave a place and knowing you couldn’t.

  He considered taking up Robin’s offer of sheltering in the Moth & Moon, but his house had stood for many years, long before Duncan had ever lived there, and this storm wouldn’t get the best of it. It would be nice to have some company for the duration, though. Part of the reason he loved his home so much was its relative isolation, but having grown up on a farm, he was used to being surrounded by activity, and every now and then, he missed having some life around him. He finished his tea and went back to barricading all the windows at the rear of the house and in the small workshop.

  The walls of Duncan’s home were decorated in a rich forest-green wallpaper, swirled with ornate patterns of what appeared to be gold peacock feathers. His furniture was dark walnut wood, most of which he’d bought with the house. What he hadn’t bought, he’d made himself. The trees north of the village were mostly walnut, cherry, and chestnut, so good quality wood was easily available. The previous occupant had died and left everything to his only family member—a distant cousin on Blackrabbit Island—who wanted to sell the house quickly and be done with it. A sideboard, writing desk, and cabinet sat in this room, and a giltwood mirror hung above the fireplace. On the mantelpiece sat a collection of small items he had carved. A bird, a cat, and a boat sat at one end, and a sleeping dog at the other. There was a thick-trunked four-poster bed and a spacious wardrobe in the bedroom. Everything had its place, carefully thought out and tested; everything had a purpose, either practical or emotional. Everything was just so.

  Duncan had come to the village with a trunk full of clothes, a set of tools, and some money which he used to buy a house at the start of Anchor Rise. He began making toys and games from driftwood he’d collected on the beach and then selling them every morning at the market down by the harbour. He’d soon saved enough to buy permanent premises on Hill Road. Robin had been a great help and support through those early days. While this was a friendly village, he had come from Blackrabbit, and having someone vouch for him so early on, even someone with a reputation like Robin Shipp’s, certainly helped Duncan gain a solid foothold.

  Not long after he’d first opened his shop, he spotted a sublime coat at the market. A passing trader was setting up for the day, and there on his stall was a rich midnight-blue overcoat, inlaid with the finest gold thread, which swooped and swirled around the edges in mesmerising, intricate patterns. He’d fallen in love with it at first sight but, sadly, was unable to afford it. Some days later, he awoke to find it hanging on the coat hook in his hallway, with a note saying Because you deserve it. Well, what it actually said was Becose you diserve it. Robin hadn’t spent much time learning to how to write as a child, preferring instead to be on the water as often as he could.

  Robin explained how the coat would add to the atmosphere of Duncan’s toyshop and his role as toymaker. A touch of showmanship and luxury. Duncan looked magical in it, and to the children of the village, he was something of a magician with his ability to create the most amazing toys from lumps of dead wood. Duncan revelled in this image, truth be told, and he still wore the overcoat, despite the memories it had come to embody. Also, unknown to everyone but himself, he kept Robin’s note tucked at the bottom of the inside pocket.

  After he and Robin had parted ways, Duncan sold his house with all its meagre furnishings and moved to the opposite side of the village, which was as far away from Robin as he could get while still being in Blashy Cove. It was a gesture he knew would hurt Robin deeply, though if Duncan had chosen the house on the hill specifically for that reason, he would never admit it.

  Chapter Six

  EVERY NOW AND then, a flash of lightning lit up the village. It afforded Robin and Edwin a momentary glimpse unencumbered by the rain and murkiness. The storm was already wreaking havoc, and it looked to Robin as though huge chunks had already been torn out of the Painted Mermaid. He wondered if the museum—home to island artefacts and artwork stretching back generations—would survive.

  They sat facing each other now, each with a leg up on the bench and their backs resting against the sides of the arched window bay. Robin’s eyes kept darting towards the little blue house on the hill, where he saw a faint light glowing behind the shutters.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine, you know,” said Edwin, following the direction of Robin’s gaze to the house with the workshop at its side. “Though I do wish he’d come here with the rest of us.”

  Robin looked at Edwin for a moment. His instinct was to deny he was worried, but the two had been friends for some years now and Edwin knew him better than that. Robin sighed.

  “So do I. If ’e doesn’t come ’ere because of me, and anythin’ ’appens to ’im…” He absent-mindedly rubbed one of the lobes of his little ears, as he always did when he was worried.

  “You know what he’s like—he wouldn’t have come here anyway. Stubborn old goat.” Edwin smiled over at the big fisherman next to him. His ever-present cap was pushed back, revealing his bare, wrinkled forehead and the single little tuft of white hair that had once been blonde. The look of worry on his face was unmistakable, however much he tried to hide it.

  When they returned downstairs, they discovered many of the villagers who had sought to brave the storm in their homes had given up on that folly and journeyed to the Moth & Moon. It hadn’t been easy going, and some had suffered injuries ranging from cuts and bruises, caused by fragments blown about in high winds, to broken limbs from falling walls, misjudged steps or—in one case—a frightened horse kicking wildly.

  Edwin’s parents were among the recent arrivals. They stood warming themselves by a small fire towards the rear of the tavern. Sylvia Farriner had refused to approach the main fireplace while Morwenna Whitewater held court by it, so she and her husband huddled around the little flames, trying to dry their soggy clothes.

  Archibald Kind had returned with the residents of the north coast. Only three people lived in those remote homes—an elderly man named Oliver Cook, who had a long flowing white beard and lived alone, and a couple named Tobias and Rosanna Trim. They feared what would happen if they remained in their ancient houses, so they gladly took Mr. Kind’s advice. They packed some sacks with provisions, barricaded their homes as best they could and returned to Blashy Cove with him. With their horses tied up in nearby stables, they settled in for the duration.

  A panic was setting in amongst the crowd. May Bell was missing. Against her mother’s wishes, she had sneaked off to encourage her stubborn uncle to come to the inn. She was successful in convincing him, but her uncle had just arrived at the Moth & Moon without her, and said May had left some time before him. May’s younger brother suggested she might be sheltering in one of the old boats down by the beach as they often played there. Everyone knew which one he meant—the largest of the derelict rowboats sat on its side, half-buried in the sand. It leaned away from the sea so would offer some protection from the storm. That particular rowboat had been there before their grandparents were born, and a popular story claimed it was a lifeboat from the original ship that settled the island, though in truth, it came from much later.

  The girl’s parents were beside themselves with worry. Her father, Henry, had injured his ankle earlier in the day. While he was on a stepladder shutting up his shop, a gust of wind had knocked him over, and he landed awkwardly on it and had to be helped to the inn by some neighbours. He said he’d be able to go and search for his daughter just as soon as Dr. Greenaway arrived and fixed his ankle.

  Robin wondered if perhaps the storm would pass quickly and there would be no need for anyone to search for her. Perhaps the rain would simply stop and May would emerge from her shelter, damp but in good spirits. Then he thought of Morwenna’s roof, strewn halfway across the village. As the wind howled and rattled the old inn, he accepted there was no time to lose.

  “We can’t wait,” he said at last.

  He grabbed his heavy overcoat from the crowded hooks by the d
oors and a lantern from a table, pulled his cap down over his head, and made for the door. Sylvia Farriner slid her way through the crowd, presumably for a better view of what was happening. She drew the still-damp grey shawl around her delicate frame and made some attempt to smooth her untamed red hair into shape. Her husband obediently traipsed along behind her like a lapdog.

  “I’ll come with you!” Edwin shouted as he went to collect his coat.

  “You will not!” his mother wailed, positioning herself between her son and the crowded coat hooks. “It’s too dangerous out there; your father almost broke his neck on the way here.”

  “You stay ’ere and be ready to open this door,” Robin replied. He thought this little discussion was wasting precious time, and he’d rather Edwin stayed out of harm’s way.

  “Let the lout go,” said Sylvia Farriner, eyeing Robin contemptuously. “No sense two of you risking injury.”

  The door swung violently open and Robin disappeared into the rain. He made his way carefully in the direction of the beach, finding it hard to catch his breath. Several times he lost his footing and crashed to the slick cobblestones with a mighty thud. It was getting dark by then, and the debris flying through the air made things especially treacherous. Stopping to take shelter behind an old shed, he checked he was heading the right way. The shed shook and rattled and seemed set to fly apart at any moment. It was used by the Moth & Moon, and across the courtyard, toward the small pathway and the hill beyond, were a row of similar sheds used by the fishermen to store equipment and the market stalls. He hoped these would provide some shelter. When he finally reached them, after falling a few more times, he found that they did. The wind roared round them, stealing the breath from his lungs, but the structures offered some momentary protection from the airborne fragments scratching his face.