by Sophie Moss
A girl. On the island. Liam’s fingers stilled on the keyboard as Caitlin’s shocked face floated back to him from that first night on the dock. Then the sand, sifting through his fingers last night, and that horrifying feeling of being swept out to sea.
“You haven’t told anyone about it, right?”
Liam swallowed. Told anyone about what? “No.”
“Good. The historical society’s going to eat this up and I want it to be a surprise. To think…” His voice went wistful. “We had no idea they even existed until now.”
“They being…?”
The dean laughed again. “Don’t be daft, O’Sullivan.” Then his tone turned serious. “I know your family owns a pub so don’t go tapping into the single malt before this file’s sent off. And speaking of.” Liam heard the sound of a chair squeaking faintly as the dean leaned forward to check his inbox. “Have you sent it yet? I haven’t received it on my end.”
“Internet’s a bit slow out here. It should come through in the next few minutes.” He scanned file after file. It had to be here somewhere.
“Did you see the Times this morning?”
“Not yet.”
“There was an article about the Prime Minister’s wife talking about wanting to expand government funding for more research into Ireland’s myths and legends. She thinks magic will help bring back the tourist trade.” He chuckled. “You’ve got to love this woman, really. But… I’m thinking big here, but if—and that’s a big if—you could crack this new legend like you did with your sister-in-law’s, it could mean creating a new department dedicated exclusively to Irish fairy tales and legends at the University.” He paused. “With you running it.”
Liam sat back slowly. A new department dedicated exclusively to Irish fairy tales and legends? “Do you happen to have any suggestions on how I might solve it?” Maybe if he got a sense of how it was supposed to end, it might trigger a memory of the beginning.
“Now let’s not go getting ahead of ourselves. One thing at a time. Let’s present our findings first, then you can spend the next term figuring out how to solve it.”
“Right.” Liam’s hands went back to the keyboard. “I wonder… if you’d given any thought to the title of the presentation?”
“The one we came up with last week is fine.”
Liam ground his teeth. Come on, James. Give me something. “You don’t think we need something catchier?”
“The one we have’s catchy enough. And, Liam, I still don’t have it. Can you try sending it again?”
“Sure. Maybe if I hang up it’ll go through faster.”
“Right. I’ll give it a read-through as soon as I get it and send my edits back this afternoon.”
“Thanks,” Liam said, hanging up the phone and dropping his head onto the desk. What was he going to do? He couldn’t remember anything about going to the Trinity Library, let alone being in Dublin. Rain pounded against the windows, streaking down the glass. How was he supposed to present his findings to the Prime Minister’s wife next week if he couldn’t even remember what he was working on?
He shoved back from the desk. A bubble of cheerful conversation drifted up the steps from the dining room and he turned away from the tempting scent of frying bacon and pipe smoke, strolling over to the bookshelf by the window. Outside, the heavy wooden Guinness sign swung back and forth on rusted metal chains, squeaking eerily in the storm.
Scanning the volumes lining the shelf, his gaze landed on the anthology of folktales he’d compiled this summer. He snagged it from the shelf and started flipping through the collection of island legends, including Seal Island’s own legend, which Tara played a large part in this summer. His fingers parted the pages, lingering on the words of this updated edition which now included the ending. His gaze drifted to the sketch of the selkie ghost, Tara’s ancestor, who’d needed her help to break the curse so she could return to the sea.
“Reading your own words again?” Dominic joked, good-naturedly, from the doorway.
Liam snapped the book shut. He hadn’t even heard his brother walk up the steps.
“Here,” Dominic said, holding out a steaming cup of coffee. “Thought you might need this as you haven’t come down for breakfast and it’s nearly noon.” Strolling into the room, he eyed the scribbled notes on the desk. “Thought you’d be working hard on a new story, not trying to remind yourself of your skill as a writer.”
Liam dropped the book onto the desk and took the coffee, swallowing a scalding sip. “Thanks,” he said, not even noticing when the hot coffee burned his tongue. His gaze drifted back to the blank computer screen.
“Hey,” Dominic asked, concern knitting his dark brows when Liam didn’t even crack a smile. “Everything alright?”
“Sure.” Liam forced a smile, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Just stuck on a bit of research is all.”
“Might help if you eat something,” Dominic suggested.
“Fair enough.”
Dominic pushed away from the desk. “You’d tell me if something was up, right?”
“Of course.” Liam lifted his mug, downing another sip, and then brushed past him on his way out the door. “Just a bit of writer’s block. It’ll pass.”
Dominic turned. “Since when do you believe in writer’s block?”
“Since today.”
***
A sea of white surrounded him, pulling him under. The echo of waves shattering over a rocky coastline faded as Owen fought to breathe, seawater rushing into his lungs. He struggled against the strings of cold, white pearls snaking up his wrists, tugging him deeper.
The silent, lonely kingdom rose to greet him. He kicked, fast and hard in the other direction at the first sight of the white corral turrets, the soaring towers of broken oyster shells and white-walled paths lined with ice-colored roses.
“Owen!” Caitlin dropped to her knees, pulling him into her arms.
A shaft of light streamed down from the surface. A hollow female voice called out to him and he struggled against the rush of panic, reaching for that fleeting beam of light. Warm arms came around him, hauling him away from that empty kingdom. Clawing his way to the surface through schools of darting silverfish and sleek black rays, he clung to the hands pulling him to safety.
“Let go!” Caitlin shouted over the pounding rain. “Owen, let go of the rose!”
He choked, coughing seawater from his lungs. He tried to sit up, to suck in those first precious breaths of life-giving air, but his fingers were still stuck to the frozen petals. The same petals he’d seen surrounding the towering gates of the palace. He started to cry, little choking sobs and Caitlin grabbed his hand.
“It’s okay,” Caitlin said, rocking him as she pried his rigid fingers free from the petals one by one. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
When his last finger uncurled from the rose, he scrambled back, away from the flower, crawling into her lap and sucking air into his burning lungs.
“It’s okay,” Caitlin soothed, wrapping her arms around him as his fingers dug into the sleeves of her rubber raincoat. He clung to her as the rain poured down around them, soaking streams of rivers into the muddy earth. “You’re safe now,” she whispered, holding him until he stopped shaking.
And when he finally lifted his head from her shoulder, tears streaked down his face and those big blue eyes blinked up at her through the rain in wonder, as if seeing her for the first time. Slowly, he raised a shaky hand to her cheek. “Mum?”
***
Mum? “No,” Caitlin shook her head, quickly. “No. Owen, I’m not your mother.”
“Then… who are you?”
Reaching for the hand still touching her cheek, she brought it down and gasped when she saw the ice coating his fingers. She chipped away at it, rubbing his freezing hand frantically in both of her own. His fingers were as rigid as stones and she struggled to contain her growing panic. “I’m not your mother, Owen. You’re in shock. I’m going to take you to see a doctor. It’s going
to be alright.”
“Wh-what happened? Where are we?”
“You’re on Seal Island. Your mother is renting a cottage here for the weekend.” She stood, scooping him up. “We’re going to find her and get you to the doctor. Now!”
“Wait!” He scrambled out of her arms, catching sight of the book lying in the mud.
“Owen, leave it!” Caitlin’s voice was edged with panic as she fought to keep her footing in the gusting wind.
He grabbed for it, wiping the mud off the spine. “I…” He trailed off, cradling the book in his good hand. “I… remember.” He looked up at her, rain streaming down his hood and into his eyes. “I remember!” he shouted over the crash of the sea. “This is why we came here.” He lifted the book up, waving it at her.
“That’s not why we came here!” Caitlin shouted back. “We came here to fix up the cottage!”
Owen shook his head. “No.” He fumbled with the pages, flipping through them and then pulling The Little Mermaid book out of his coat. “We came here to talk about the sea witch who comes on land to steal the prince away from his true love!”
“What?” Caitlin shoved at the wet locks of hair plastered to her face. “Owen, what are you talking about?”
“It’s right here,” he cried, tapping the soaked pages with his frozen fingers. “She steals him away from the girl he’s supposed to be with!”
“Please, Owen.” Caitlin held out her hand. “That’s only a fairy tale. We need to see Tara, now.”
“No.” He shook his head, hugging the book to his chest. “You can’t tell her. You can’t tell anyone!” Owen froze when a voice calling his name over the wind reached him. He shoved the books into his pocket, stuffing them away as fast as he could, visibly shaking as his mother ran up the path toward them.
“Owen, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Caitlin spat rainwater out of her mouth and stared at Nuala in a long white hooded cloak, swirling around her ankles, not a splash of dirt or mud on the hem. She ran to her son, snatching him up into her arms. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!”
Owen held Caitlin’s gaze over his mother’s shoulder, his eyes pleading with her not to say anything.
Nuala set Owen back down, clutching him to her side and taking a minute to catch her breath. She glanced over at Caitlin. “Has he been with you the whole time?”
Caitlin nodded.
“He said he was going to the market and he’d be right back.” Nuala shook her head. “I’ve been all over this island searching for him.” She let out a long breath, pressing a hand to her chest. “Owen, please.” She looked down at her son. “Please, don’t ever do that again.”
“I won’t,” he mumbled, gripping the front of his jacket and stuffing the books deeper into the folds.
“He needs to see a doctor,” Caitlin called through the rain.
“What?” Nuala’s eyes snapped up, her voice panicked. “Why? What’s the matter?” She bent down, cradling Owen’s face in her hands. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he said, edging away from her. “I’m fine.”
Caitlin opened her mouth to protest, but the wind whipped her hood back from her face and rainwater soaked down the back of her neck. Planting her feet against the wind, she fumbled with the twisted rubber material, yanking it back over her face. Her gaze dropped to Owen’s hand and she stared as the faint shimmer of blue faded and he began to wiggle his fingers.
How? How was that possible? She lifted her eyes to Owen’s. He shook his head, small snaps from side to side, his eyes pleading up at her not to say anything.
The sea surged, black waves crashing against the rocky coast to the north, spraying white foam into the air. Caitlin swallowed. Why didn’t he want his mother to know about the book? Or the rose? “I heard him cough a few times. I thought he should see Tara and make sure it’s nothing serious.”
Nuala’s eyes narrowed, her arm curling around her son’s shoulders, protectively. “I think I’ll decide what my son needs or doesn’t need.”
Caitlin’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t mean…”
“What are you doing out in this storm, anyway?”
“Looking after one of my cottages,” Caitlin explained, raising her voice over the howl of the wind.
Nuala eyed the crumbling cottage in disgust. She took Owen’s hand and started to lead him back toward the village. “Next time, don’t bring my son with you.”
“Excuse me?” Caitlin marched after them. Her sneakers filled with rainwater and squished into the soggy blanket of moss with each step. “Owen followed me out here. I didn’t put him up to this.”
Nuala glanced over her shoulder. “He’s only a child. He doesn’t know any better.”
“He told me he couldn’t go home,” Caitlin shouted. “That you wanted to be alone to write.”
Nuala stopped and turned to face her. “Children can come up with the most imaginative stories, can’t they?”
The rain pelted the back of Caitlin’s legs, soaking into her jeans. “You’re saying it was a lie?”
“Of course it was a lie. I would never throw my child out of my home so I could write.” Nuala’s eyes were like ice. “I apologize if he was bothering you. It won’t happen again.”
Caitlin’s hands curled at her sides. “Owen’s never… a bother.”
Nuala pinched the drooping sleeve of Owen’s bright yellow rain jacket. “I assume this is yours.”
“It is.”
“I’ll come by later to return it.”
“Keep it,” Caitlin said through clenched teeth. “Let him use it through the weekend and leave it in the cottage when you go. I’ll pick it up later.”
“How kind of you,” Nuala said, her voice dripping with derision. “But he has his own. He just refuses to wear it.”
Caitlin looked down at Owen, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Owen,” Nuala said, frowning when she saw Owen rustling around in his pocket. “What do you have in your jacket?”
“Nothing.”
“Let me see,” she said, reaching for the buttons.
“It’s okay,” Caitlin cut in. “It’s just a book. I told him he could borrow it.”
Nuala shook her head. “Owen, give Ms. Conner back her book.”
Owen swallowed and with shaky hands he withdrew Beauty and the Beast, and held it out to Caitlin. “I’m sorry I got it wet,” he whispered.
“That’s okay,” Caitlin said, tucking it into the crook in her arm. “I’ll get another. It’s just a book. It doesn’t matter.”
“Let’s go, Owen.” Nuala scooped up her son’s hand, gripping it tightly in her own as she glanced back up at Caitlin. “I’ll be by this afternoon to return your things.”
Caitlin nodded, numb as the mother and child turned, disappearing into the curtain of rain. But just before they faded, Owen looked back at her over his shoulder, helplessly. Caitlin stared at their silhouettes until they were nothing but ghosts in a gray landscape and her gaze fell to the book still clutched in her arm.
***
Owen ducked into the shelter of the cottage, but the chill followed him inside and he stood in the damp living room, shivering. He flinched when his mother shut the door behind them and locked it.
She swept back her hood, shedding her cloak and draping it over the hook behind the door. “Give me your jacket.”
Owen clutched at the rubber folds. “It’s got dirt all over it.”
She held out her hand.
“I could take it into the bath and rinse it off,” he offered.
“Give me the jacket, Owen.”
Trembling, he slipped it off, sleeve by sleeve. Rainwater dripped from the hood onto the floor. He bundled it up, wrapping the thick rubber around the book still tucked in the inside pocket and handed it to his mother.
She took it and frowned at the weight. “What else do you have in here?”
“Nothing.” Owen’s eyes darted to the pocket. �
�I don’t have anything.”
His mother shook out the bundle, the wet rubber squeaking in protest. Dipping her hand into the pocket, she fished out The Little Mermaid. Her eyes met his. Her voice was cold and quiet. “Did you think I wouldn’t find it?”
Owen swallowed the lump in his throat. “I just… wanted to look at the pictures again.”
“Owen, listen to me. Listen very carefully. You are not to spend time with Ms. Conner again. You are not to look at books written for children half your age.”
He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand, silencing him. “You are not to sneak out of the house unless you tell me where you are going.”
“But I told you where I was going,” Owen protested.
“You told me you were going to the market.”
“I did go to the market. And then I… kept walking.”
“To Ms. Conner’s house.”
Owen nodded.
“Why?”
Owen looked down at the ground, scrubbing the toe of his sneaker over the muddy tiles. “Because.”
Nuala sighed. “Do you think Ms. Conner wanted you tagging along with her for the day?”
“She likes having me around.”
“Does she?” His mother arched a pale brow. “Did she tell you this herself?”
Owen lifted his chin. “She said I could stay as long as I wanted.”
Nuala’s lips curved into a thin smile. “What did you expect her to say?”
Owen’s gaze dropped back to the puddle of water, at the mud streaking across the pretty white tiles. His mother’s white cloak hung on the back of the door, spotless and already bone dry. His toes curled inside his shoes, the only part of his body still warm clad in Caitlin’s fuzzy wool socks. He remembered how warm and safe he’d felt with Caitlin after the terrible dream. The image of the underwater palace floated into his mind, and he started to shiver again. “Why can’t I remember where I’m from?”
