The Moth and Moon

by Glenn Quigley

  Duncan turned away from Robin and stood facing the island. “Why did you ever even fall for me in the first place?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  “When you first came ’ere, you were so different,” Robin said after a moment’s thought. “So lost. Your eyes were so sad, but when we were together, you came alive. You were so ’andsome when you smiled. And you needed me. For the first time in my life, someone actually needed me.”

  “So, it was pity? You felt sorry for me?”

  “O’ course not, don’t be so… Why do you always ’ave to do that? You asked me, and I’m tryin’ to explain. Bein’ around you made me feel good. Made me feel useful. Wanted. You were so different from everyone else in the village. You didn’t know anythin’ about my past, didn’t judge me by it the way everyone else does—is it really any surprise I fell in love with you? I never wanted to ’urt you, Duncan.”

  “I know, Robin, I know. Despite what some people in this village think, you don’t have a malicious bone in your body. You may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but you’re the kindest, most gentle man I’ve ever met. The thing is, though, no matter how hard you try, no one gets to go through life without hurting someone else.”

  In the silent expanse that followed, Robin realised how much Duncan had needed to say these things. And, in his heart of hearts, he realised how much he had needed to hear them.

  Outside, the wind had begun to die down. The waves that had reached almost to the lantern room now hit only half as high. The lightning strikes on the rod at the top of the lighthouse were less frequent. All of this went unnoticed by the three men in the lantern room. “You’re right. You don’t deserve it,” Robin said at last. “I’m sorry, Duncan. I’m sorry for lettin’ that ’appen. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to accept that things were goin’ wrong between us. When I met you, it felt like I’d been lookin’ for you my whole life, only I didn’t realise it. I waited so long to find you, I couldn’t let you go. Rose left me. Dad left me. I didn’t want to you leave me too. But you did. Everyone does.”

  Robin was trembling now, unsure of what to say until it came tumbling out of his mouth. He thought about the years they had spent together. Five brief, wonderful years. He thought about the winter they met, when he had slipped on an icy patch and slid down the steep road right into Duncan, knocking him off his feet on his very first day in the village. The following yuletide, on their first anniversary, when Duncan had given him a model of Bucca’s Call that he spent weeks crafting in his workshop. He thought of their last winter together when Duncan had finally had enough, had enough of never seeing him, never talking. All of it came flooding back with crystal clarity. No more fooling himself that it was something that just happened, something unavoidable, no more falsehoods. He saw everything as it truly was.

  “I did love you, Robin. With all my heart and soul, I loved you, and I watched you drift away from me.”

  Duncan sat on the bench, close to Robin.

  “I loved you too,” Robin said in a quivering, muted tone. “I ’ope I said that enough, I ’ope you knew what you meant to me, what it meant to come ’ome to you every day. What it meant to ’ave you near.”

  “This is the first time you’ve apologised,” Duncan said, “but you never had to. It’s not about blame. I know I’m not the easiest person to talk to at times, but this is all we really needed, Robin. To talk. All you ever had to do was meet me halfway.”

  “I waited too long. I always do. I wait and I wait, and I expect things to work themselves out. I waited for you to fix us, and when you didn’t, when you couldn’t…I didn’t know what to do. I…”

  “…gave me no choice.”

  Robin took a deep breath. “No, I didn’t, did I? No choice at all.”

  As they sat in the lamp room of the battered lighthouse, the waves that had crashed so violently against it seemed to temper their anger, the winds that howled mercilessly became mere whispers, and the rain that pounded the village eased to drizzle.

  Edwin stood back and watched as Robin carefully unlocked the door leading out to the platform running around the outside of the gallery. While some grey clouds remained, the colour that had been stolen from the world at the onset of the storm was returning. The murky olive of the fields had given way to vibrant green, and the sallow ivory of the houses was yielding to brilliant white. Robin tested the walkway with a few pokes of his boot to be sure it hadn’t come loose in the storm before gingerly stepped out onto the metal framework, followed by Duncan. Edwin nervously approached the doorway. Robin held out his hand and smiled reassuringly.

  “Come on. It’ll be fine. I won’t let you fall.”

  Edwin grasped his warm hand tightly, took a deep breath, and stepped outside. The air was cold and tasted saltier than usual. He kept his gaze straight ahead—facing the village—and held fast to the railings. He was surprised when he felt Duncan’s hand low on his back, steadying him, assuring him it was safe.

  From their vantage point, they had an unobstructed view of the devastation wrought by the hurricane.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WAS APPROACHING noon as Robin, Duncan, and Edwin left the lighthouse, stubbled and bleary-eyed. They’d eaten a paltry breakfast, which Edwin had prepared for them in the cramped kitchen. None of them had felt particularly hungry, not even Robin, but Edwin had insisted they eat something to keep their strengths up. It had been a long night, and he said the day ahead would be longer still.

  Some fishermen came to collect them and drop off a couple of villagers to take over their duties. The people of Blashy Cove would need to work out a schedule to cover the lightkeeping duties while the keepers recuperated, but there would be time for that later. For now, there were plenty of volunteers. The fishermen arrived in a badly damaged lugger—the masts had been cracked and the sails torn off. They managed to row it by hand, but it was slow going. The three men, weary though they were, all pitched in with the rowing on the way back.

  They stopped at the pier, in the same spot where Robin usually moored Bucca’s Call, and climbed up the wet stone steps where they surveyed the damage caused the storm. Many houses had damaged roofs and chimney pots. Trees had been uprooted, windows had been smashed, branches and glass were scattered everywhere. Some carts, which hadn’t been properly secured, were smashed to smithereens. Wood was strewn everywhere, planks and timber frame piled like matchsticks. Clothes and bedding snatched from damaged homes were snagged on posts, then torn and shredded, left flapping in the breeze like ragged flags. A large lugger known as a jumbo had been lifted by the surging tide and deposited yards up the beach. It sat there, listing to one side like a beached whale, mast snapped in half. Dogs howled in the ruins of homes, digging for lost artefacts. The Wishing Tree—valiant sentinel of the Merryapple headland—had stood for centuries, but even it was shaken, its roots partially tugged from the ground, and sat now like a loose tooth. Roads had been cracked open, marbled by the shifting soil beneath. This upheaval was most noticeable around the forge, which sat slumped on one side where the walls had partially subsided. Huge cracks ran across every surface, deep spiderwebs shattering the plasterwork.

  The worst of the damage was caused at the bend in Hill Road, past Edwin’s bakery. Several premises had been completely obliterated, but the most keenly felt for the village was the loss of the sea-green establishment that had stood at the bend in the road. The Painted Mermaid Museum & Tea Room was no more. It was just possible to see amid the rubble and debris the footprints of where these structures had once stood. The buildings themselves—reduced to splintered, component parts—had been deposited up the hills and down the far side, all the way to the orchard and out across the beaches and waters to the west of the island. The shops they had been attached to stood exposed to the elements, from ground to roof, like giant dollhouses. Open wounds in the flesh of the village.

  Though the rain had stopped, every surface was still drenched. Enormous puddles had gathered in places, and sma
ll, muddy rivers ran from the top of the hills, down every road, path, and laneway and into the cove. As they walked toward the village in silence, Robin looked back at the pier. It was largely undamaged. Most of the bigger boats moored in the bay were still afloat, though every mast had been broken in some way. Smaller vessels had been washed up onto the beach, and while each one had sustained some manner of damage, none appeared to be completely unsalvageable.

  They walked to the seafront where Duncan and Edwin stood as Robin searched through the rubble for signs of his little boat. Under a pile of snapped wood and crab pots, he spotted the flaking crimson prow of Bucca’s Call. She was on her side, partly buried in the sand. The port side was visible down to about the halfway point. The rear section of the boat was entirely missing, as were both of her masts. He walked the length of the remaining hull, rubbing his hand along it as he did. When he reached the jagged, splintered end, he kept walking, and after a couple of steps, he bent down to dig something out of the wet sand. A plank of wood onto which was bolted a nameplate with several letters missing. He returned to the wreck and laid the slab on top.

  Duncan was beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Robin. I’m so sorry…”

  Robin looked at him, then to the damaged village beyond. People were leaving the Moth & Moon and discovering what they had lost.

  “Doesn’t matter now. There’s people who’ve lost more than an old boat,” he said with a forced smile. And with that, he strode up the beach towards the inn.

  Inside the Moth & Moon, Robin went to see Morwenna Whitewater. He’d seen the damage to her cottage already and told her she was staying with him until her roof was repaired. Edwin went to check on his parents, and found his mother haranguing his father for not finding them more comfortable places to sleep. Nathanial wasn’t listening. A night spent propped up against an uneven wall had given him a crick in his neck, which he was trying to rub and roll away.

  Duncan found May and her mother sitting near the big fireplace. Looking around for the little kitten, May giggled and pointed to the large mantelpiece where he had made himself at home amongst the knick-knacks decorating it. He purred contentedly as Duncan stood at the inglenook, reached up on tiptoe, and stroked him under the chin.

  “Mr. Hunger,” Louisa said, “May has something she wants to ask you.”

  May shyly stepped forward. “You were in the lighthouse all night? Did you see any ghost cats?”

  “Ghost cats?” Duncan laughed. “Well now, let me think. I don’t remember seeing any. Although…huh.” He thought for a moment.

  May blinked and held her hands clasped tightly in front of herself.

  “Come to think of it, Mr. Farriner did hear something strange. A sort of tapping, bouncing noise on the staircase.”

  May gasped at this and immediately ran off to find Mr. Reed and tell him the good news. Duncan and Louisa laughed.

  “I’m ever so grateful she’s over her ordeal,” her mother said.

  Duncan looked perplexed for a moment, trying to think if there’s something he should know about May, something he should remember. Coming up with nothing, he asked what she meant.

  “Didn’t you hear? She was caught out in the storm, on the beach. Mr. Shipp rescued her. Did he not tell you?”

  Duncan was taken aback by this. “No, not a word.”

  Louisa smiled and related the whole story to him as they both sat by the glowing embers of the fire. Around them, villagers were packing up their belongings, folding blankets, and more than one of them was nursing a sore head. Duncan presumed they’d made full use of the facilities throughout the night. He lifted the kitten and sat with it resting in his arms, listening to Louisa. He knew now why Edwin had been so concerned that Robin rest and not leave the inn to go to the lighthouse, and why he was keeping such a close eye on him. At least, that was part of the reason. Duncan started to feel worse about how he had spoken to Edwin, and he hit upon an idea how to make it up to him.

  “May’s grown very fond of that cat,” Louisa said.

  “I can see why. He’s a little darling. Poor thing is all alone now.” Duncan smiled down at the tiny furry face resting on his hand.

  May was back by her mother’s side. As she reached over to stroke the kitten, Duncan lifted him over to her.

  “I think he belongs to you,” he said.

  May looked confused as she stared first at the kitten, then at her mother, then back at Duncan.

  “But Mummy doesn’t like cats,” she said.

  “Oh, I think I can make an exception for this one!” Louisa laughed

  May chewed the inside of her cheek. Duncan thought it made her little face look funny, like an old man chomping on the end of a pipe.

  “Actually, Mr. Hunger, I think Bramble wants to go home with you,” she said at last. “I don’t think our dog would like him, anyway.” Duncan beamed and held the kitten up, looking at him eye to eye.

  “Bramble?” he asked.

  “It’s his name. He told me so,” May said quite matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, well, very good,” he laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Hello, Bramble.”

  The kitten meowed in reply.

  “Thank you very much, May. Actually, I have something for you. A swap, you might say.”

  He reached into one of the pockets of his luxurious overcoat and drew out the wooden cat he’d spent the night carving. He handed it to the girl who clutched it to her chest.

  “I love her!” she exclaimed and turned to show her mother.

  Louisa leaned in and hugged her daughter.

  “That was very kind of you, giving Mr. Hunger the kitten like that,” she said.

  May twirled a lock of hair in her fingers. “Frankly, I think he needs the company,” she said, leaving Duncan and Louisa laughing uproariously at her bluntness while she ran off to play with her friends.

  At the cavernous fireplace, Robin was talking to Morwenna. She was packing her things and preparing to return home.

  “We’ll call at my ’ouse first, get you settled, and then—” Robin began.

  “No, we won’t do anything of the kind. I want to see first-hand what’s happened to my cottage.”

  Robin tilted his head. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Morwenner. It will be very upsettin’.”

  She drew herself up to her full height, all five feet nothing of it, and stomped her walking cane on Robin’s left boot, causing him to hop back.

  “Robin Jonas Shipp, I have survived being shipwrecked, widowed, and now one hurricane. I will survive seeing some damage to a house.”

  Robin wondered if perhaps she was fretting about the harm that might have come to her late husband’s paintings and wanted to check on them. He extended his arm, which she took, and the two of them marched out of the Moth & Moon and up towards her cottage.

  Mr. Reed stood in the doorway of the inn with his hands on his hips and his ever-present towel over his left shoulder. He sighed heavily and fixed his soft silvery hair into place as he surveyed the wreckage, both indoors and out. It would take days to clear up the mess left behind by the storm and by the villagers. He hadn’t gotten much sleep. His private quarters were up four flights of stairs, and consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, and modest living room, which had been given over to some of the villagers he was friendly with, though his bed had remained his own. Even still, he only managed a couple of hours sleep. Between the noise of the storm, the noise of the crowd downstairs, and the noise from the numerous amorous adventures taking place in the small rooms upstairs, it wasn’t exactly a restful night for anyone. He wondered how many new faces might be found in the village nine months from now.

  He’d been raised in those quarters. Lived there with his parents and sister. She had gone to Blackrabbit Island when she was old enough to make her fortune, or so she had said. He received a letter from her every once in a while. She was doing well enough, had married a man and together they’d opened an ale house in the city. He couldn’t imagi
ne why. She’d run away from Merryapple precisely to avoid working in the inn. Why would she go and open one herself? He didn’t understand. But she was happy, and that was what mattered. He’d only managed to visit her a handful of times over the years. She refused to come back to Blashy Cove, perhaps fearing the ghosts of her parents would rise from their graves and chain her to the stove in the tavern’s subterranean kitchens. It was difficult for him to get away from the inn for too long, and he didn’t care much for Blackrabbit Island or its people. Eva Wolfe-Chase had proved to be the surprising exception to this rule. A visitor from the mainland might not see too much difference between the islands, but their rivalry stretched back generations.

  There were only a handful of people left in the tavern. The toymaker sat chatting with the paint shop owner’s wife by the fireplace, and the Caddys were stuffing their belongings into some burlap sacks. Some chatter from the gallery upstairs told him others were still milling about up there.

  Every surface had some combination of empty tankards, spillages, plates, and leftovers. It simply hadn’t been possible for himself or his staff to keep on top of clearing up everything as the night wore on. He would have dearly loved to lock the doors for the next day or two and get the place back in proper order, but he knew there had been a great deal of damage to the village, and the inn had to remain open to serve as a hub for those affected, and for those trying to help. Lady Wolfe-Chase had helped him to appreciate something he’d always known, deep down—the importance of the Moth & Moon to the community. Sometimes, it helps to see our life through a stranger’s eyes, he thought.

  He took the towel from his shoulder and began to mop up a spillage of wine from one of the robust wooden tables when he became aware again of a fluttering at the corner of his eye. Spinning around, he finally found the source of it. He thought it might turn out to be a large wasp or maybe a bee, but as the sunlight caught its iridescent azure wings, he gasped. Fluttering past him was the largest blue moth he’d ever seen. Just like the ones he remembered from his childhood, the ones he’d chased through the long grass on the north coast of the island. The ones he’d thought long gone.