A CRY FROM THE DEEP

by Unknown

  A CRY FROM THE DEEP

  By

  Diana Stevan

  A Cry From The Deep

  Copyright © 2014 by Diana Stevan

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Printed by CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  ISBN-10: 1497536634

  ISBN-13: 978-1497536630

  Cover design by Ares Jun

  Cover photography by Dmitry Laudin

  Formatting and layout provided by Quantum Formatting Services

  (http://quantumformatting .weebly.com)

  For daughter, Karen,

  whose courage in life is unparalleled.

  1878

  Killybegs, Donegal Bay, Ireland

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky or a whisper of wind to disturb Margaret O’Donnell’s wedding day. She should have been happy, but she was about to marry a man she didn’t love. The man who’d stolen her heart had left for India over a year ago. He’d written, but that was six months back, and there’d been no further word. Unable to put her hope aside, she sat on top of a craggy cliff and scoured the ocean’s edge for any sign of his ship.

  Below her, the fishing village was awake, and the men were out on their boats praying for a good catch. Margaret’s pining for James was no secret among the villagers. Ever since the word had spread that she’d be marrying another, the fishermen had been keeping their eyes peeled for the Alice O’Meary.

  She shivered with the morning chill and sighed, “If you’re listening, James, I’ve tried to wait, but for all I know, you’ve found someone else.”

  As if on cue, the water that had been still as glass began to lap along the emerald coast. Margaret raised her hand to her brow, shielding her face from the rising sun. In the distance, a dark speck bobbed on the ocean’s surface.

  It wasn’t long before two of the fishermen below shouted, “He’s here, Margaret!”

  She could not believe it at first, but as the ship got closer, she realized what they said was true. She yelped in excitement, grabbed her skirts and ran down the stony path, across a meadow, and through a thicket to a thatched cottage surrounded by ravaged potato fields.

  She wasn’t far from the cottage door when a magpie flew over and landed on the roof. Frowning, she muttered, “One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, and four for birth.”

  Once inside, she quickly forgot the bad omen and went straight to the corner cupboard to get a shoe brush and a soft cloth. She shined her old black leather boots until they gleamed in the dimly lit room.

  When her father and grandmother returned from their visit to a neighbor, they were surprised to find her out of her brown wool dress, and into the gown her grandmother had sewn—a simple white satin affair, trimmed with ecru lace stolen from the cottage curtains. Overjoyed to hear of James’s return, they quickly went about helping her get ready.

  While her father went off to arrange a rowboat, her grandmother braided some fresh primroses into Margaret’s long auburn hair. She couldn’t see the ocean from where she sat, but the thought of James waiting for her on the ship was enough to make her squirm.

  “Now, Margaret, you’re goin’ to make your old granny cross if you don’t put a stop to your movin’. I can’t promise you a handsome head if you keep twitchin’ this way and that.”

  “Sorry, Granny, I’m too—”

  “I know, child. You don’t have to tell me,” said the old woman as she wove in another primrose. “All I can say is the good Lord’s been lookin’ out for you. Goodness knows what you would’ve done if he hadn’t come back.”

  What she would’ve done was marry Barnaby Athol, the middleman for their landlord, to keep from starving in the future. After she’d accepted his offer, she’d prayed to St. Patrick, telling the saint it wasn’t Barnaby’s withered leg that repulsed her, rather it was his mean ways with his tenants. She silently thanked the saint for bringing James back.

  Margaret held up her hand mirror and examined her face. Though her complexion was fair and unblemished, her forehead had furrowed in James’s absence. Would he find her looks less pleasing now? Would he be regretting his promise? Pushing her fears aside, she put the mirror down and shook her head.

  “You couldn’t look finer,” said her grandmother. “The angels graced you with a body that would make a saint blush.”

  “Ah, Granny, I’m goin’ to miss your tales.”

  Margaret’s father, dressed in a worn black suit, poked his head in the cottage door. “Are you ready, lass?”

  The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Go with God, child.”

  Her own eyes misting over, Margaret hugged her grandmother, picked up her carpetbag, and hurried outside.

  When she reached the shore with her father, two seamen were waiting with a row boat. Before climbing on board, she took one last look at the land she was leaving behind.

  ~~~

  Barnaby Athol stood with a group of villagers on a hill overlooking the bay. They were gathered around a makeshift altar: a boulder with water-worn stones strewn upon it, each one the size of a fist. When Barnaby spied Margaret in the rowboat, his mouth drooped and his eyes narrowed. Even the tails of his long grey coat flapped in the wind as if in protest.

  ~~~

  The rowboat drew close enough to the ship for Margaret to see James and his captain setting the ropes and ladder for their incoming guests. As she admired James standing at the rail, looking smart in a black pea jacket, her hazel eyes twinkled in jest. She shouted, “It’s about time, James. I nearly gave up waiting for you.”

  He laughed, and his black curls twisted in the breeze as if in on the joke. “I had to come back for fear you’d comb the earth looking for me. There’d be no escaping the wrath of a woman spurned.”

  “Ha!” she said, smiling. She lifted her skirts and climbed the ladder, exposing slender calves to the delight of the seamen in the boat.

  “Get your eyes back in your heads,” bellowed James. “You all know she’s taken, as sure as the sun marks the day.” He then took Margaret’s hands. “You’re more beautiful than I remember.”

  “You always had a way with words.” She kissed him lightly before breaking away. Blushing, she whispered, “It won’t be long, James.”

  He laughed and gave her a pat on the backside.

  A boatswain slapped James on his back. “I can see why you were in such a hurry to get home. If I had a lass like that waiting for me, I would have flown like the wind meself.”

  “Sure, you’re all full of blarney,” said Margaret as she joined her father, who’d followed her onto the deck. She said quietly to him, “Thank you, Father.”

  “James is a fine young man.” He reached into his jacket’s chest pocket and pulled out a ring. Placing it in his daughter’s hand, he said, “This was your mother’s.”

  Margaret teared up as she examined the gold ring in her palm. Two hands held a heart with a crown on top. The last time she’d seen the ring was when she was ten. She’d assisted the midwife during her mother’s labor, and the memory of her mother’s clammy face came flooding back. She remembered her mother handing the ring to her father and saying in a voice barely above a whisper, “Keep it safe, Martin. Keep it for Margaret.” She then closed her eyes and died, along with her baby daughter.

  At the time, Margaret had been very
angry with God, angry that all she had left of her mother was the promise of a ring. She hadn’t wanted it back then and had forgotten about it over the years. But now it seemed as if her mother was right beside her.

  Her father must have sensed her feelings, as he said, “As sure as I’m standing here, lass, she’s smiling in heaven.”

  James took her arm. “Are you ready, Maggie?”

  “Are you afraid I’ll jump back in the boat?”

  “That had crossed me mind, but no, 'tis not that. I’m afraid if we don’t get on with it, our time will be taken up with fighting whatever winds are coming our way.”

  The blue of the day had clouded some, and a hint of breeze suggested the weather was turning. Margaret could see the grimace on her father’s face as he looked skyward. She mumbled, “I’ll let nothing ruin me day. Not even a bit of rain.”

  Margaret and James stood on the main deck with the crew and her father looking on. When there was nothing but the sound of the waves slapping against the hull, the captain said, “We are gathered here to witness the union of James Gallagher to Margaret O’Donnell. We pray for their good fortune for many years to come. With the power that is vested in me, I ask the Lord to bless this marriage, and hold sacred the ties that are bound on this day.” The ship’s rocking caused the captain to stumble. He glanced at the changing sea, and his brow creased with concern. Turning to James, he said, “Can we have the ring?”

  James pulled out a gold band from his trousers and was about to put it on Margaret’s finger when she unfolded her palm and handed him the Claddagh ring. “Do you mind, James? This was my dear mother’s.”

  “I’d be honored.” When he put the ring on her left hand, it was a little loose. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

  “And I thee, as well.”

  The captain said, “If there is no one here to protest the marrying of these two, I pronounce James and Margaret, man and wife.” He then turned to the groom. “James, are you not going to kiss your bride?”

  The couple kissed with such fervor that the crew whistled and hooted in kind. Then a sailor played a Celtic wedding song on his violin and James led Margaret in a waltz, which quickly turned into a step dance. As they twirled and kicked up their heels, a number of the men took each other as partners and joined in the revelry. Others clapped their hands and stomped their feet in time while the captain passed a bottle of wine around the circle.

  The massive ship swayed in the rough waters. The waves rolled in as if they too wanted a whirl on the boards.

  ~~~

  On the hill, Barnaby scowled when he heard faint fiddle sounds on the Alice O’Meary. Thinking he was the laughing stock of the village, he said to himself, “We’ll see who has the last laugh.”

  The Curser, a hunchbacked old man in a shabby cloak, nodded to Barnaby. “It’s time.”

  Barnaby stepped forward and gave each stone a counter-clockwise turn.

  As he did, the Curser made incantations in an eerie voice, one that seemed borne of the black crow flying overhead. “May every pestilential and ferocious gale blast the cursed ship the Alice O’Meary without fail!”

  An “Aye” from Barnaby sealed the curse.

  ~~~

  With the dancing over, Margaret’s father turned to the couple and raised his tankard. “May God be with you and bless you; may you see your children’s children. May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings. May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.” Clearing his throat, he added, “And as your fortunes improve, come back and get the rest of us.”

  One of the rowboat’s seamen came up to the father and said in a grave voice, “We’d best be going, if we’re to leave at all.”

  Margaret’s father hugged her and then grabbed James by the shoulders. “Take care of her, my son. She’s the world to me.”

  James said, “I’ll take care of her as I do me own life.”

  Margaret and James then watched the waves buffet her father and the seamen as they rowed back to shore.

  ~~~

  Down in the first mate’s quarters, the bridal couple, giddy with wine, laughed when the ship suddenly pitched to one side, tossing them onto the bed. James kissed Margaret and said, “I will always love you.”

  “And I you, forever.”

  He cupped her chin and kissed her so deeply it shook them both. She moaned with pleasure as he unbuttoned the bodice of her gown. The tops of her breasts were exposed, and her skin gleamed like polished alabaster in the moonlight streaming through the porthole. He gently pulled her up from the bed and slid her gown off her shoulders.

  Clothed only in a muslin slip, Margaret shivered not from the cold but from the lust that had been ignited by his touch and the way he looked at her. She helped him undo his shirt buttons. His chest glistened with sweat and when he embraced her, she pressed her thighs against his. With their desire mounting, he picked her up and laid her on the bed.

  Though the waves crescendoed outside and the ship rolled, Margaret entertained no qualms. Hadn’t James told her many times about the gales he’d ridden without any calamity striking his ship? If he was relaxed in her arms, then she would be too, in his.

  James was about to raise Margaret’s slip when a hard knock on the door jolted them both.

  He frowned and got out of bed. He opened the door a crack.

  It was the fiddler. “I’m sorry, mate, but you’re wanted on deck.”

  Frustrated, Margaret buried her head in the pillow. Any further lovemaking would have to wait.

  ~~~

  The roar of the storm made Margaret uneasy. It had been awhile since James had left the cabin. With the ship tossing violently from side to side, Margaret put her dress and boots back on, grabbed her shawl, and fought her way out the cabin door. She then gripped anything that protruded in the passageway to keep her balance.

  Once on deck, her heart pumped wildly with dread. The boards were covered by a shallow lake that sloshed about with each roll of the ship. Every seaman was battling the storm—working the rigging or bailing with buckets. The casks that had stood motionless on deck were on their sides, sliding with each thrust of the raging sea. Any movement was treacherous, as her boots slipped easily on the deck. Her drenched clothing clung to her body and her hair lay in wet strips across her chest and back. It was so hard to see with the water pelting her face that she had to keep her head down. Though scared and nauseated, she pushed forward in the wind that lashed the ship and everything on it.

  Margaret could see the captain at the helm with James at his side. She was about to climb the steps to the bridge, when one mast broke. She yelled as a piece of it plunged to the deck, narrowly missing her. Stopping only to cross herself, she clenched her teeth and grabbed the stair rail, pulling herself up one step at a time. James, along with the captain, was struggling to control the wheel. She called out his name in the deafening storm, but he couldn’t hear her. It was then a boom crashed, striking the captain and sending him reeling against the ship’s side. He lay there, unconscious, blood gushing from the deep wound on his forehead.

  “Oh, Mary of God!” she cried as she slid into James. In fright, they held one another. As she nestled her head into his chest, the ship lurched, and a rogue wave rose over the gunwales and swept them into the sea.

  ONE

  Provence, France, 2010

  Catherine Fitzgerald walked up and down her rows of lavender plants, looking for any damage after an unusually harsh winter. There was no serious harm but the large number of slow budding plants was distressing. It meant that even with extra help, she’d have trouble getting the flowers to the distillery in time for the tourist season. Why, she asked herself, had she tossed aside her life in Manhattan for a centuries-old farm in France? Had this been another mistake?

  A raucous honking caught her attention and she glanced up to watch a vee of gray geese fly low over her fields. She raised her hand in salutation. They knew where they were going, unlike her.

  She was about
to check another row, when she heard the phone ring. She looked across the field at her thatched cottage, the one she’d bought on a whim. It had reminded her of an oil painting she’d seen at the Tate gallery in London. There was something about the past that Catherine found reassuring.

  “Mama,” cried Alex, her daughter, as she ran out the front door, holding the phone. “A man wants to talk to you. He says his name is Frank.”

  Catherine knitted her brow. This was the moment she’d been dreading, ever since she’d learned that Frank was back as editor at National Geographic. She could never say no to him. He was the kind of man who made every assignment appealing, even when her intuition told her to run the other way.

  Meeting Alex half-way down a lavender row, she took the phone. “Hi, Frank.”

  “Hey, Catherine. Nice to hear your voice. It’s been awhile.”

  Not long enough, she thought as she followed Alex back to the cottage. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “How did you know? I thought you’d dropped out completely.”

  “I got an email from Henry.” Henry, a coworker from her glory days, still kept in touch even though he’d retired from the business a year before. “Is he the one who told you where I was?” She opened the front door, and Alex scooted through.

  “Well, when you need the best, you find out where to look.”

  “I hope he told you I’m content where I am.” She took off her dusty garden clogs in the entryway, where some of her photographs hung on the walls. A photo of a parrotfish caught her eye, and she stood there a few moments marveling at its turquoise and fluorescent pink skin.

  “Let me tell you what I’m calling about before you say no.”

  “Frank, you haven’t changed.”

  He responded with that endearing throaty laugh she remembered. “You remember Kurt Hennesey?”