Sam turned to Freya once more and pulled a face. ‘But that can’t be true, can it, Mum? That must be a myth.’
‘Yes, I think perhaps it is.’
‘Although certain things can undergo a metamorphosis. Like flies and other insects. Crustaceans and molluscs.’
‘That’s right,’ said Freya, slightly taken aback. ‘Have you been talking to Granddad again?’
‘Uh-huh. He called Dad the other day.’
Freya nodded. ‘I see. Yes. But Beira’s was more of a magical transformation. Rather than the change of a caterpillar into a butterfly.’
‘Do you believe in magic, Mum?’
Freya looked at him. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Well, I don’t believe it. Beira couldn’t grow old that quickly and then become young again. I think it’s really just a story about the seasons.’
Freya suppressed a laugh and dropped the book onto the bed. ‘Yes, most likely, Sam. Your father would certainly agree.’ And his father would be shocked at the mere contemplation of anything out of the ordinary. She kissed Sam’s head again then stood, gazing at him for a few moments, before turning out the light.
The dusk of summer cast a shadowy light through the windows. Freya heard Sam shift his head down into the pillows, getting comfortable in anticipation of sleep. ‘Sing that song, Mum.’
She smiled. ‘The one about the storm?’
‘Hmm. I like that one.’
Because even though it came from a magical tale, it was about a shipwreck and all things below the sea fascinated him. So in the half-light, beside her son, watching his small body lying safely in bed, she sang:
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
But then the room began to fill with water. Quietly, innocently almost, as it always did. And, as always, she couldn’t tell where the water was coming from. She heard its low trickle and then watched it climb slowly up the legs of the chest of drawers, over the tops of Sam’s small shoes lying haphazardly across the floor where he had just pulled them off and left them, urgently moving on to the next thing.
She saw the water rise gradually over her own feet, up to her ankles and beyond, ever rising. She watched it soak the dirty clothes piled in the corner, saw it rising inexorably upwards. She was powerless to stop it. She felt that clearly. She looked towards the window, saw the pale light gaining access there, spilling over the rising tide within the room, the water inching its way up the walls. Where was it coming from? She couldn’t understand it. Before long it spilled over the bed and covered the sleeping form of her son. She tried to move towards him but she couldn’t; her feet were cemented to the floor. She felt a flash of fear move through her body, and still the water flowed into the room, rising ever upwards. Now it was approaching her neck, and before long it would rise over her head.
The water continued to creep. Freya took a deep breath and held it as her body became entirely submerged. For a moment she stayed stock still, then she opened her eyes and looked. They were no longer within the confines of the bedroom. Instead it had given way to a vast watery expanse. Beyond the edge of her vision, there was something, she was sure. Something in the darkness. In front of her, she could no longer see Sam’s silhouette, his sleeping form, and fear bolted through her again. She looked deeper. There was someone, or something there – watching her. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came. Only the escape of breath. She wanted to call out to Sam, to say ‘Goodbye.’ For she knew that this was goodbye. But no words came out of her mouth. And then she knew that there was no breath left in her. But it didn’t feel like death. She closed her eyes and surrendered. ‘Goodbye my son,’ she said.
Then she woke up.
Freya opened her eyes. She felt the pillow wet with tears. It took her a moment to remember, to realise that she had had the nightmare again. But it took her turning over in the empty bed, feeling the cold absence on Jack’s side, to remember everything. To feel the sickening reality claw its way out of the dark. Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Freya lay still for a few moments. She was always drained after the dream. More than that, she felt it was trying to tell her something. But quite what it was, its meaning, always eluded her. Finally she looked at the clock. It was only 9 p.m. She flicked on the bedside lamp. Yellow light spilled into the room, and with it the last clutches of the dream – any resonance it might have had – vanished in an instant. Besides, what was there for it to tell her? Her husband and her child were dead, drowned. And there was no way anyone could feel anything beyond despair at the remembrance of that.
Freya closed her eyes and swallowed. Her throat was parched and she had a bitter taste of saltwater in her mouth. It was simply fallout from the dream, she knew – her doctor had told her enough times. It was her mind playing dirty tricks on her. She climbed unsteadily out of bed and made her way slowly across the creaking bedroom floor. The wood felt warm, reassuring against her feet, and yet she still felt cold to her core, had the sense of being disconnected from her own body. In the hallway she paused at the threshold of Sam’s room, her hand resting lightly upon the doorknob. But still she could not open it. Ridiculous as it seemed, she placed her ear upon the door and listened. What was she trying to hear? she wondered. The sound of her son breathing? His voice calling out to her in the night? Or perhaps it was the absence of sound she needed to hear. For a moment she listened intently. All was quiet. The only noise was the faint sound of waves breaking on the shore. Freya’s hand fell back down to her side. Perhaps tomorrow, she thought. Perhaps by then she would be able to do it. To look at everything that was still there, that was exactly as he had left it.
Turning away, she made her way down the hallway into the kitchen. Even in the dark, she could manoeuvre her way around it effortlessly – the long table against the north wall, the island in its centre, work surfaces along the eastern wall. She walked to the sink in front of the kitchen window, turned on the tap and stuck her head beneath it, greedily drinking the water down. She became conscious of the dull ache in her throat, as if all the breath had been squeezed out of it. But she blinked the thought away and continued to drink. It was always this way – after the dream. As Freya turned the tap off, the sound of running water was replaced instantly by silence. Outside, there was barely any cloud in the sky and moonlight shone down into the walled garden. It was unkempt, overrun, weeds strangling the pathway, the trees and bushes overgrown. But beyond it, she knew, beyond the whitewashed wall that ran around the lighthouse enclosure, was the sea. Freya opened the door.
It was still, the wind that had picked up earlier had dropped, and it was surprisingly warm given the lack of cloud. Barefoot, she made her way across the garden and then followed the path. When she reached the gate, she unlocked it and tiptoed down the slope to the beach, over the grassy knolls and the shingle. The sea was calm, flat, and when she reached its edge she dipped her toe in. It was cold. She took a step forward until her feet were submerged and a shiver ran down her spine. It was the temperature of the water, she told herself, watching her skin shimmer and distort below the surface. She fought the urge to take another step and then another and raised her head.
After a moment, a broad flash of light arced across her gaze, reaching – it seemed – almost to the horizon. Then there was only a dark ocean. Seven seconds later it came again. One, two, three, Freya counted in her head. It was magical, beautiful, this interchange of light and dark, making it possible for things to be saved from the clutches of the sea. After a time, Freya realised that she was looking for something to emerge. A boat, perhaps. She smiled and a tear slid silently down her cheek. Yes a boat, bearing her son and her husband back to her once more. She narrowed her eyes. Perhaps if she longed for it enough it might just be possible, if she simply wished for
it enough. The lamp arced to the horizon, dissipated the darkness for three seconds, and then was gone.
7
WHEN SHE RETURNED to the cottage, Freya poured herself a glass of wine and sat, drinking it, at the kitchen table. She was tired, her thoughts sluggish and dull, but she knew that she would be unable to sleep if she went back to bed. Her hands played with the pile of letters in front of her, the mail that had accumulated at the cottage in her absence and that she had stacked on the table to be dealt with when she was ready. She picked the letters up now, one by one, scanned them cursorily and then placed them slowly back down on the table. At the bottom of the pile was a thick brown envelope addressed to her. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was heavy and on the back was a stamp indicating that it came from a Dr MacCallister at the National Museum in Edinburgh. She frowned, wondering what it could be. She had no idea who Dr MacCallister was or why he would be writing to her. Curious, she turned the package over one more time and then ripped it open.
Inside were a number of typed A4 pages, held together with a bulldog clip, and on the top of the pile was a letter addressed to her. It was dated three months previously. Intrigued, Freya read it.
Dear Mrs McPherson,
My name is Rory MacCallister, and I am a curator at the National Museum in Edinburgh. I have long been a friend of your father-in-law, Alister McPherson, and as such I hesitated to write to you, knowing as I do the tragic circumstances of the passing of your husband and son, for which I offer my most heartfelt sympathy. I hope that this letter will not prove to be unwelcome as a reminder of that time. Rather I hope that it will serve as a touchstone to a happy time your husband and son shared together. It is with this in mind that I continue.
As you may know, last Easter Jack and Sam discovered a Bellarmine jar sandwiched into a crevice in the Torran Rocks while they were sailing in the area. Your husband sent it on to Alister, who in turn passed it to me. A number of these jars – made in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries in the Netherlands – have been recovered from shipwrecks off the Scottish coast, the Swan being one of the most famous in the Western Highlands. What was most striking about the jar recovered by your husband was how amazingly well preserved it was, Cardinal Bellarmine’s face – on the outer surface of the jar – being clearly visible and whole, the glaze practically unscathed, the neck of the bottle stoppered and still sealed. It really was quite remarkable given the journey the object must have taken.
As many of these jars were used as means of carrying liquids, beer and wine in particular, I passed the find on to a colleague of mine who is a specialist in analysing items recovered from wrecks at sea. He carried out a CT scan of the jar – to determine if there was anything inside it – and this revealed what looked like a roll of paper. Now, while the jar had proved remarkably resilient and watertight, after all the time at sea the contents were in fairly bad shape – decayed and decomposed. But my colleague is exceptionally skilled and managed to remove the paper, dry it out and treat it. And he discovered that it was not just a roll of paper but letters. Quite miraculous.
To cut a technical story short, the letters have been radio-carbon dated for authenticity, treated to preserve them and a lot of the text has been salvaged – although some, as you will see from the pages attached, is missing. The letters have been transcribed into more modern English for ease of reading, but it appears that they were written by a soldier aboard the Speedwell, one of the six ships, including the more famous Swan which I mentioned above, which were part of a flotilla sent by Cromwell to quash Royalist support in the Highlands. It disappeared in a ferocious storm in 1653, presumed sunken, but the wreck was never found. Few records remain about the expedition or what happened to those who took part in it. So they are a remarkable find.
I wanted to send copies of the letters to you, as without your husband and son they would never have come to light, and I understand Sam, in particular, was fascinated by the jar and what it might contain. Perhaps he would have been as amazed as I am by what was salvaged.
With kindest regards,
J. C. MacCallister
Freya placed MacCallister’s letter on the table and closed her eyes. She remembered her conversation with Sam on the phone on the day he and Jack had found the jar. He had been incredibly excited, stumbling over his words, telling her the story of Cardinal Bellarmine. She vaguely recalled him saying he would give the jar to his grandfather, but she had had no idea that he’d ever done so, let alone anything beyond this. She opened her eyes and flicked through the letters once more, breathing in deeply, as if to inhale the scent of salt and sea spray that the originals must once have contained. Letters in a bottle. She smiled. She had to admit her curiosity was aroused. Turning to the first letter she began to read.
8
6 September 1653
Speedwell
My dearest Josie,
We arrived in Scottish waters yesterday. I do not know whether you care about this now or indeed whether I will ever send this letter even if the means to do so are at my disposal. But I feel the need to write it, to make a connection with you despite the distance between us.
After departing Plymouth three days since, our journey passed largely without event. We made our way around the treacherous Eddystone rocks, around the coast of Cornwall and from there sailed northwards, first with Wales to our starboard side and then Ireland to our port. We were blessed with fine weather almost the whole of the journey and only once did a gale start up, as we approached Chicken Rock, off the southern tip of the Isle of Man. That is a dangerous spot, Josie, the rocks jutting out of a sea which is as black as pitch at night, unlit by fire or lantern, and I feared that, as with many ships, the spot might prove to be our undoing. But while we suffered heavy rain and a turbulent sea, the storm stayed mostly on our tail and so we avoided the worst of it. From there we continued northwesterly, along the coastline of southern Scotland and shortly after emerged into Highland waters.
The first island we skirted was Islay, the southernmost of the Highland islands. It is low lying and marshy, a man named Duncan told me, one of our force and a Scotsman originally from these parts. The population, he claimed, often come to a famous well to drink, turning once sunwise around it – in a circle east to west the way the sun rises and sets – before drawing water. They believe that in doing so it will be blessed. Blessed by who exactly is anyone’s guess. It seems nothing but nonsense to me. But Duncan said that such customs are not infrequent in these parts.
Islay’s neighbour, the island of Jura, is by comparison mountainous. Along the middle there are four hills of considerable height. As a result of the mountains, Duncan told me, Jura is said to be the wholesomest plot of land in all of Scotland, with fresh breezes and pure air, the population rarely becoming sick and living to be extraordinarily old. One of the natives, he said, died at the age of 180 years, while others have seen at least one hundred Christmases in their homes. The more I hear these tales, Josie, and Duncan speaking with such reverence about the air, the water, the unexplainable miracles of these isles, the more I feel he believes that we have entered a magical kingdom. While his accent has no doubt faded, he clearly still believes the silly superstitions of these parts.
Leaving Jura behind, we skirted its neighbour Scarba, and arrived at the Sound of Mull. At last, the object of our mission came into view – Duart Castle, seated on a peninsular jutting out into the water. Our orders were to take the castle and quell the uprising of the Royalist Macleans. Sadly, for our Lord Protector, Cromwell, things did not go according to plan. Having surveyed the area for some time, we prepared to take Duart, and its inhabitants, by force, according to our instructions. We loaded ourselves with muskets, rifles and ammunition, and then took small sailing boats to the land. But as we approached from behind, readied for battle, it quickly became apparent that the loyalist Macleans had fled. The Castle was deserted and we encountered no resistance whatsoever gaining access. So it was a victory –
although a hollow one.
It seems, if the small pieces of information gathered from the locals are to be believed, the Macleans sailed for Tiree some time ago. No doubt, as a result, we will set off for the outer-lying islands, but without more detailed knowledge of exactly where they are to be found, any mission to locate them would doubtless fail.
And so, for the moment, we are taking in the weather and scenery. It is a wild beauty here on Mull, a ragged splendour: crags, moorland and rocks, sea and mountains. One minute we are bathed in sunshine, the next there is cloud and then rain, the elements often following rapidly one after the other. The sunshine casts a candour, a beauty over everything. But when the weather turns sour, the cold mist and drizzle make this place utterly dreary, like quite the end of the earth. ‘Dreich’ is the word Duncan uses for it. And it is as perfectly miserable sounding as that which it describes.
But I must not fall into a black state of mind. Although I fear it is too late for that. Before we came below deck to sleep, as we looked out over the deserted darkness of the ocean, Duncan told me of a famous shipwreck in these parts, a wind-battered remnant of the Spanish Armada, Florencia, laden with gold and silver coin. When the Spanish double-crossed the Scots who had come to their aid, the Florencia mysteriously blew up and its cargo of coin sank into the silt of the sea bed and was never recovered. Neither were the crew. I looked at the impenetrable darkness of the water once more. It was like a veil drawn over the past, the carcasses of ships, coins, and the bodies of countless men strewn about its bed. Is that my destiny, I wondered then, floating here and there on the tide, unbound to any place, fighting and suppressing rebellion? I risk death here for a commander I feel no strong allegiance to and leave behind what has grown to be most dear to me.
Beyond the Sea Page 4
