Mr. Reed held out his hand and smiled as the moth gently landed on his finger. He turned his hand slowly from side to side, admiring his unexpected visitor from every angle. The moth gently flexed its wings. Trimmed in white and dazzling blue on top, underneath they faded to grey with black spots.
“So, you’re the one I’ve been chasing around all night,” he said softly.
He thought about how he was going to display his latest find. This one deserved a case all of his own. Something special. Cedarwood, maybe? Or oak? But something stopped him. Instead of catching the moth in his hands, he simply stood there and admired it for a while, and then he carefully walked outside and went a few steps into the courtyard. Avoiding the fallen branches and other bits of debris, he stopped and held his hand up to the sky.
“Off you pop,” he said, and with that, the moth spread its elegant wings and took flight, heading at first toward the sea, then banking and aiming itself towards the hills to the north.
And Mr. Reed kept smiling.
Chapter Nineteen
WHEN ROBIN AND Morwenna arrived at her cottage, they found the roof had been almost completely destroyed. Some of her belongings, which had been stored in the attic, had been strewn around neighbouring gardens, along with paintings she didn’t have room to display. Among them were some unfinished pieces, including preliminary canvas sketches of the portrait of her and her husband. Robin held her hand as they entered the cottage, prepared for the worst. Mercifully, the painting still hung above her fireplace. With one hand she touched her chest and with the other the frame, and laughed a nervous little laugh. Robin left her alone with her thoughts and went back outside. Neighbours who had suffered less damage and were pitching in to help recover her possessions. There were several large trunks filled with old clothes, books, and letters. Some had burst open, and the items within had been soaked. As Robin was tidying up the contents of a large oak trunk, he dropped an old satchel onto the ground. It flopped open and something slid out. A small, leather journal, the colour of blood. As he bent down to retrieve it, he heard Morwenna call to him to leave it.
“Don’t you worry about that, I’ll get it,” she said as she began to stoop down.
But Robin had reached it first. He lifted the item and studied it, turning it over in his hands. A single piece of soft, burgundy-coloured leather, folded over on itself and held closed with thin leather thong, at the end of which hung a brass pendant. This was shaped like a ship’s wheel and decorated with nine tiny flowers on either side. The cover was embossed with a lavish compass design and the spine featured two X shapes formed by more strips of leather which held the pages in place. Lastly, another ribbon of leather was attached at the top as a sort of bookmark. A second pendant hung from it, in the shape of an anchor with a piece of rope wound tightly around it, a rope which emerged from a spindle centred in the crown of the anchor. This anchor pendant was exactly the same as the one sewn to Robin’s own cap—the cap which had once belonged to his father.
He had recognised the notebook straight away, for he passed by it every morning on his way downstairs in his tall, thin house. This was the very same book that appeared in the portrait hanging in his landing, the portrait of his father. He remembered seeing his father writing in it many times when he was a boy. He always had it with him. Robin undid the strap holding the journal closed and opened the notebook to the first page, which read, in beautiful flowing script, “The Journal of Erasmus Shipp.”
“Morwenner,” he said, turning to face her. “This is Dad’s journal.”
Morwenna had turned pale as a sheet. Her mouth hung open.
“Why do you ’ave this?” he asked.
He felt confused, betrayed, even. She began to wobble and steadied herself with her cane.
“I thought ’e took it with ’im when ’e left. Why is it ’ere?”
Morwenna reached out for the journal. “It’s just something to remember him by. Give it here.”
He flicked through the pages. One word occurred over and over again. Morwenna.
“Why were you ’iding this?” Robin demanded. The friendly tone from his gruff voice had vanished. He was weary and ached all over and was in no mood for games.
“Please, Robin, it’s nothing. Just give it to me,” Morwenna wailed.
“It’s not nothin’—it’s my dad’s journal, and you’ve ’ad it ’idden for over forty years!” he roared.
He was reading it now, the last entry, the day Erasmus Shipp signed on to a whaling vessel that was docked in the bay, the day he left his hastily scribbled will for Robin to find on the kitchen table. The entry read—in hurried, rushed script quite different from the elegant calligraphy of the first page—“I hope you can forgive us both.”
“Forgive? Forgive who? You and Dad? For what?” he asked.
The raised voices had drawn a crowd. Duncan had arrived, carrying little Bramble, along with Louisa and May. Edwin was there with his parents, as were many of the other villagers. Some light raindrops started drizzling out of the remaining clouds.
Morwenna shook and shook. She didn’t look at Robin.
“Please, Robin, not like this—I wanted to tell you—I wanted to talk to you, I said earlier…”
“Forgive you for what, Morwenner?” he boomed, shaking the journal at her. He’d never felt this kind of anger before. His face was warm, his stomach sick. He frightened himself with the tone in his voice. He sounded just like his father.
“For lying to you,” she whispered. “I got to your house early that morning, the morning Erasmus left. I was looking for Barnabas. He hadn’t been home all night. I thought Erasmus might know where he was. I saw the journal and his will on the kitchen table. He wanted to explain everything to you; he wanted you to know everything, in case he never returned. I think he knew he wouldn’t be coming back.”
Robin was motionless; a massive, bulky statue, frozen in the sodden garden. “What do you mean, explain everythin’? Explain what, exactly?”
“Your father and I were close, Robin. Very close. I loved my husband, but Erasmus and I had known each other since we were children, we had a…a bond that went beyond friendship. One evening, we were out on Bucca’s Call. He was thinking of leaving the Cove for good. I was trying to convince him to stay. It was then I felt something, a pain not like any I’d felt before. I fell to the deck and…I gave birth. Right there and then.”
A startled gasp came from the assembled crowd. Everyone knew Barnabas and Morwenna had never had any children. Standing at the front of the crowd, Sylvia Farriner had a very different reaction. While everyone else whispered and gasped in shock, she just sneered. Scowling at Morwenna, she hugged her shawl tightly around herself.
“I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t even know I was pregnant. I lay there on that boat, holding this tiny, beautiful baby. I couldn’t tell Barnabas; he wasn’t able to have any children; it would have destroyed him to know what I’d…what I’d…”
Morwenna’s tears burst forth and someone from the crowd moved to comfort her, but Robin held out one hand to stop them. In the other, he still gripped the journal. He never took his eyes off Morwenna. She sobbed and sobbed, and Robin never spoke a word.
“We were out in the bay. No one heard the baby crying. We concocted some story about one of his hussies leaving a baby in his boat in the middle of the night. A woman he called Rose. Everyone believed him; he certainly had the reputation for it. It wasn’t so far-fetched that some poor waif he’d courted had ended up pregnant. We knew there would be plenty of witnesses when the baby was discovered in the morning; he just had to act surprised. No one could ever know the truth. I couldn’t do that to Barnabas, but I couldn’t bear to be apart from my baby, either. So I offered my help to him, our help, to look after the child, help him raise him, take care of him when Erasmus was at sea, or whenever he needed. Barnabas…Barnabas was very supportive. He and your father were very close, the best of friends, really. He knew how much I had wanted children. Sometime
s I wonder if…if he knew. Deep down.”
Morwenna looked at Robin now for some glimmer of pity or understanding. He offered none.
“I took the journal and hid it. I couldn’t face you knowing the truth. I tried to tell you so many times. I tried to say the words, but I just…couldn’t.” She sobbed again. Deep, mournful cries, decades in the making.
Robin felt the world rock beneath his feet. It was as though he was standing on Bucca’s Call, swaying from side to side, up and down, in the crests and troughs of mighty waves. He looked at the small old woman in front of him, the woman who had raised him and loved him. The woman who had lied to him and deceived him. He lowered his head, turned his back, and walked away.
Morwenna stood alone, still quivering. Pulling at her shawl as if to hide her face, she staggered away from the on-looking crowd, towards the hills. Before long, the moss-covered woods were in sight. The narrow laneway was soaking wet and muddy. Her cane tapped on the stones as she hobbled along under the dripping boughs. Every few yards, a great trickle would splash her bonnet and cause her to flinch, but she held the bow of it tightly around her throat and hurried on, fuelled by something akin to desperation or perhaps sorrow. The storm had brought down some of the lighter trees, and she carefully avoided any fallen—or falling—branches, as well as wreckage from the village deposited by the winds. The scent of petrichor and lichen was overwhelming and, on any other day, would have dragged her through her memories and calmed her mind, but today they had competition.
Eventually, she came upon the island’s graveyard—a simple meadow set a little ways into the woodland. Flat and green and peppered with wildflowers, it had proved the perfect spot for the people of Merryapple to lay their loved ones to rest, in the shadow of a huge, ancient, thick-trunked yew tree standing in the centre of the pasture. The grave markers—simple stone blocks engraved with name and dates—were placed around the tree in ever-widening concentric circles. The closer one went to the trunk, the older and simpler the grave. Some families chose to have symbols of the old beliefs adorn these markers, and here and there were etched a Green Man with his face made of leaves or a bare-breasted mermaid. It was said the roots of the great tree worked their way into each grave, providing it with nourishment and turning death to life.
She walked to the far end of the meadow and stopped beneath the far-reaching branches of the very same walnut tree where Erasmus had built his boyhood treehouse. There, she laid her hand on a granite slab engraved with his anchor symbol. The inscription beneath read In Memory of Erasmus Shipp. 1700—1740. Lost at sea. Morwenna had insisted the marker be placed in the graveyard, even without a body to bury. This had proved to be a controversial decision, given the circumstances surrounding his death, but at the time, everyone agreed little Robin deserved a place to remember his father. The gravestone was set far from the roots of the yew tree—the villagers had insisted on that much. They might not have believed in the literal truth of this tradition, but the symbolism was still important—body or no, there would be no life after death for this man. Morwenna’s husband was buried on the opposite side of the graveyard, hidden from view by the trunk, as far from his murderer as possible.
From there, water dripping from the trees made it sound as though the rain had returned. She stood there for some time with her eyes closed and her hands resting on her cane, and listened.
Chapter Twenty
ROBIN WALKED PAST the Moth & Moon, lost in thought. His first instinct upon hearing Morwenna’s confession had been to race to the harbour and cast off in Bucca’s Call, to get away onto the sea, to find some peace, some space to think. Poor Bucca’s Call. How he longed to sail in her.
A small group of men had gathered in the courtyard of the inn, preparing to mount a search for Jim and Allister Stillpond. Most of the village’s sailors had been up all night drinking and were in no fit state to do so much as walk to the boat, let alone sail it on rough waters. Though the hurricane had passed, the sea was still quite turbulent and the light rain was turning heavy once again. Mr. Bounsell and Mr. Penny were organising the effort and had roped in Archibald Kind to help. Mr. Blackwall had also been press-ganged.
Seizing the chance to be of some assistance, Robin immediately volunteered to accompany them. He also helpfully offered the services of Edwin and Duncan, who were sent for.
The rescue party piled into the largest lugger that was still seaworthy. Not a single boat had escaped with their sails intact, so they rowed their way out of the bay, two men per oar, with Duncan acting as navigator. Mr. Blackwall had slipped on a pair of leather gloves and was gripping the oar very lightly, complaining loudly about what the grimy wooden seat was doing to the back of his immaculate breeches. Seawater that had been blown into the boat during the storm sloshed about the men’s boots, and he made sure everyone was aware of what it was doing to his shiny shoe buckles. No one offered him any sympathy. Archibald Kind gave up rowing after about ten minutes but still went through the motions, letting the brawny Mr. Penny do all the work. This was spotted by Robin, who was sitting directly behind him.
“Pick up the slack there, Mr. Kind,” he bellowed, in an unusually serious manner.
Archibald tutted and began rowing again.
“This is no place for a man like me.” He sighed. “My talents would be best utilised in comforting the many women who’ve been left traumatised after the storm. Think of them, Mr. Shipp! They’ve lost so much—they need a strong shoulder to cry on!”
Mr. Penny turned and snarled at him. The gnarled sailor’s wet, straggly hair hung like rats’ tails from beneath his weather-beaten tricorne cap. He had a rough, stubbly, and unbalanced face, with a large scar running from his brow, across his milky left eye, and down to his jaw. Raindrops ran along this furrow as if determined to emphasise it. Archibald Kind started to row harder.
Rumbullion Bay was located in the larger of the small islets lying southeast of Merryapple. These islands were uninhabited save for scores of cormorants that made their nests in the cliffs. Caves riddled the little islet—a honeycombed labyrinth that made it the perfect hiding place for smugglers’ loot and gave rise to more than a few stories of hidden pirate treasure. Only the most adventurous of Merryapple’s residents ever visited those caves, however. Aside from the fact the isle was usually shrouded in mist, there was only one entrance large enough to moor at, and even this was narrow and lined with jagged rocks. Usually, a visitor would take a rowboat inside the mouth of the cave. The rescue party had no such luxury, but they did have the foresight to tie a tiny raft to the lugger and trail it behind them. This would be big enough for a search party and to carry out any bodies, if it came to that.
When the lugger approached the mouth of the cave, they saw no sign of the Stillpond’s vessel.
“Are we sure this is where they are?” asked Mr. Penny.
“It’s the most likely spot. Jim Stillpond likes to fish in the waters round ’ere. If they moored at the mouth, their boat was probably wrecked during the ’urricane,” said Robin.
“And if they didn’t come here?”
Robin scanned the horizon. From there, he could see two more far smaller islets—just rocky outcrops, really—and behind him in the distance, sat Merryapple island.
“If they didn’t come ’ere, then they’re at the bottom o’ the sea,” he said grimly.
They anchored their boat and climbed on board the raft. This required kneeling, which Robin’s aching joints weren’t happy about and so he sat back on his heels, trying to ease the pressure on his knees. The men each took up a small oar and began paddling. The tiny craft bobbed up and down violently on the choppy waters. As they approached the dark entrance to the cave, they held their lanterns up. It was deathly quiet.
“Hullo?” Mr. Penny called out.
The silence was shattered by the cawing and flapping of hundreds of cormorants, which came rushing out of the cave all at once, disturbed by the sailor’s call. The men ducked and held their caps tight to the
ir heads while the birds passed by, their squeals and squawks echoing through the cave in a deafening crescendo until finally the last bird left the cave and joined the rest of its flock, nestled on the cliff faces.
The men continued their journey and called out to Jim and Allister as they went, their voices blending with the sound of dripping water, reverberating around the chamber. Each man carried a lantern, but the light from them was pale and not up to the task of illuminating the whole cave. They called out as they reached the sleek, flat beach on the far side of the cave. In reality, it was simply a smooth area of rock worn down by the lapping tide. There was a stalagmite jutting up from the edge serving as a mooring post. Robin and Mr. Bounsell had both been there before, and though it was some years before, they thought they knew the layout fairly well, so it was decided they would be best served by dividing into two teams. Edwin and Duncan would accompany Robin, while Mr. Penny and Mr. Kind would go with Mr. Bounsell. It wouldn’t do to become lost in there.
“Mr. Blackwall, you stay ’ere and guard the raft. The sea is still rough and we can’t risk losin’ it, or we’ll be stranded,” Robin ordered.
If that did happen, they could probably swim back to the lugger, but depending on what condition Jim and Allister were in, that might not be an option. He didn’t think the finicky fishmonger would be much use in the dark, grimy caves, in any case.
“What happens if the water starts to rise again?” Mr. Blackwall asked, looking to the mouth to the cave—a ragged white shard torn from the blackness.
“Try not to worry about it,” Duncan said.
“That’s right, you try not to worry about it,” Mr. Penny snapped. “Try not to worry too much about the lapping, sloshing waters at yer feet. Try not to worry about how deep those waters might be. What might be under there, sleeping on the floor, submerged but stirring from all this noise we’re making, getting ready to burst forth and grab ya.” He stuck his arms out quickly and wriggled his fingers for effect, causing the nervous Mr. Blackwall to flinch. “Try not to picture yerself floating in that stygian pool with infinite darkness below ya and crushing stone above. Try not to worry about how yer only escape is a maze of tunnels bringing ya deeper and deeper into the rocks, a winding, confusing tangle of channels, where precipitous drops or tidal surges wait around every corner. In fact, you stay here and don’t worry yourself about anything at all, Mr. Blackwall.”
The Moth and Moon Page 13
