Beyond the Sea

by Melissa Bailey

  The staircase did a final sweeping turn and Freya stood at the threshold of the lamp room. For a moment she simply looked at the light, revolving once every ten seconds, moving out over the Atlantic for three of those. It was so beautiful, the light sweeping out into the darkness. She walked to the long glass doors that opened onto the gallery and looked out over the waves. The sky was clear and she could tell with every revolution of the lamp that it was a quiet sea. She peered towards the horizon, mesmerised by the flash of the light. After a while, she sat down on the floor and stared out through the glass. She felt content watching the ocean, the wash of light over her – felt like she was sitting at the bottom of a well, the sun directly above her, bathing her in warmth and cleansing her soul.

  15

  THE NEXT MORNING, in spite of the sunshine, Marta was in a foul mood.

  Whether this descended upon her after Freya produced the tower key and revealed she had ventured up into the lamp room alone, or whether it came from some other cause, Freya didn’t know. But Marta reacted coldly to the news. She ate her breakfast in frosty silence and then curtly declared that she was going for a walk. By herself.

  In Marta’s absence, Freya prepared lunch. Perhaps a roast chicken would cheer her up. When it was ready, and her sister still hadn’t returned, she crossed the garden to the edge of the enclosure. From here it was possible to see over most of the island. She could just make out Marta on the southwestern beach, furiously kicking pebbles around and then flinging them out to sea. She was angry, that much was apparent. Freya’s actions alone couldn’t have affected her this deeply.

  Back in the kitchen, Freya saw Marta’s phone lying on the table. There was so little service elsewhere on the island that it was pointless to take mobiles out of the cottage. Freya thought about it only for a moment before she picked it up and checked the history. Marta had had a call the night before from a Pete on a London number. Perhaps it was the married man. And perhaps that was what she was really upset about.

  Freya took plates and cutlery up to the lamp room, laid a blanket on the floor, then made a second journey with the food and a bottle of wine. If her sister hadn’t experienced the tower the night before, she would do so now, indulgently.

  When Marta finally returned, and despite her protestations of indifference, Freya dragged her up the tower stairs and made her look out over the Western Isles. She never tired of the sweeping views and she could tell that her sister, for all her insouciance, was affected by them. By the time they had eaten, the worst of Marta’s truculence had abated.

  ‘So look at these,’ said Freya, thrusting a bundle of papers towards her. ‘They’re the soldier’s letters. I remembered you saying you wanted to have a look at them.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Marta, turning them over in her hands.

  ‘Did Mum tell you they were found in a sealed Bellarmine jar?’

  Marta nodded somewhat wearily.

  ‘The jars were often used on ships to carry alcohol. That’s probably how the soldier got his hands on it.’ Freya paused, something suddenly occurring to her. ‘But now I think of it, they were also used as “witch bottles”.’

  ‘Witch bottles?’ Marta sneered. ‘Really, Freya, where do you get all this stuff from?’

  ‘Well, in case you’d forgotten, my son was obsessed with shipwrecks and finds. I’ve been dragged around more museums on the subject than I care to remember.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Marta, more meekly. She lowered her head to read the first letter and muttered a small ‘sorry’.

  But Freya wasn’t listening to her. She was trying to remember what she had read about the bottles. They’d be filled with objects considered to be of magical potency (pins, needles, nails, a written charm), sealed, and then buried or hidden. Their purpose was to deflect a witch’s curse or to destroy the power of the magical being who had cast a spell upon the bottle’s creator. Obviously this was not the purpose of the soldier’s jar. But, even as she thought it, she remembered his persecuted soul. Perhaps the jar fulfilled a dual purpose.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Marta, turning back to her sister. ‘Pretty interesting. Shall we continue with the second letter?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Freya.

  8 September 1653

  Speedwell

  My dearest Josie,

  Last night I tossed and turned, my sleep dark and disturbed with dreams.

  This is what I remember from the first.

  I was younger, back in Dublin aboard the Swan, manning guns in the King’s service – the days when I still loved to fight. A lack of pay and food for many months had put mutinous thoughts in the men’s minds. And so we surrendered our weapons and the Swan’s cannons and instead pledged loyalty to Cromwell.

  I defected without a thought. I saw us sailing with the tide, our spirits high, my sword wielded freely and without remorse, while my hands grew ever more tainted with the blood of men I had once fought beside. I remember the sound of my laughter, the crack of broken, battered bones. It was all so lightly done. The betrayal, the killing.

  Then I was no longer above the water but below it. I do not know whether this was still Dublin or somewhere else but the sea was dark and heavy, pressing against me. I saw ghostly reflections around me, dead men with pale faces, shimmering white bones. And beyond that horror there was something else in the distance. I could not see it but I knew it was there. And fear gripped my heart.

  I awoke then, sweating in the darkness, with the rough scratch of the wooden deck against my body. But I fell back to sleep and dreamed again.

  This time you were by my side, the softness of a mattress beneath us, the long red curl of your hair spread over the pillow. A candle flickered and the embers of a fire glowed in the grate. You asked me about my family. Family must have been on your mind.

  I told you that I had no brothers or sisters and that my father I had never known. My mother rarely spoke of him, even though I asked her often, and now she was also gone. So I was alone. But I thought, even as I said it, that I had always been alone.

  You nodded, smiling at me in the half-light, as if my words explained everything. Then you said that perhaps my father was also from the north, like yours. You ran your fingers through my orange hair as you lay on my chest looking at me.

  Perhaps, I thought. One of the few things that my mother had told me was that my father came from far away.

  Suddenly a smile spread across your face and you said we should run away together. To the wildness of the north. You thought we would be happy there, away from all of this. You said that perhaps we could start a family.

  You must have felt me flinch at your words, because suddenly you sat upright. I tried to pull you back to me but you resisted. I said I was sorry, that I didn’t mean it.

  But you shook your head and then stood up. A moment later you turned back to me and for the first time I saw hatred in your eyes. And then you told me you were with child.

  That is all you said, knowing perhaps that was all that was needed. You must have watched the colour drain from my face. Then you told me that you didn’t need me to respond. That you knew who I was, even if I did not. And that you knew that I would now go away again.

  Your anger was calm and cold. Perhaps that was what was so shocking about it. Then you turned your back and waited for me to leave.

  I awoke to the early morning light and chill of the Speedwell. The taste of you was in my mouth, the smell of you on my skin, the sweat on my brow a testament to your ire. As I lay on the floor of the ship, I remembered the day after this exchange between us.

  My captain summoned me. There was an expedition to Scotland planned. I would not travel on my usual vessel, Swan, as he would prefer a good soldier like me aboard the Speedwell, a commandeered merchant ship which would accompany it. Its crew was inexperienced, not nearly as adept as the one on my craft. Those were exactly the words he spoke. He could use a good man like me. To help whip them into shape. They would sail the next day.


  It would have been hard for me to resist the captain’s request, but I did not even try. Instead I had smiled at him and shaken his hand, taken his words about me as a compliment. But I have been haunted by them since we departed. I am good at killing, Josie, and show no regret. That is what he meant for all his nicely chosen words. And I have no loyalty. But I think you knew that already.

  I have been wracked with guilt since my departure and for not taking proper leave of you. I hope my note goodbye did not make you despise me. It cuts me to the quick to think upon it now and how I may have lost the most precious thing in my life.

  I make my way onto deck. The sun is not yet risen but through the darkness I can see mist on the water. What will this day bring, I wonder, when the sun burns that away? Perhaps death. Perhaps that is what the other dreams signified. That I, cur that I am, will perish here. It never used to concern me which way. Yet now I am afraid. For death means that I shall never make it back to you and our child. And, I hope, to forgiveness.

  For you have brought an end to my rootlessness.

  You are my anchor, Josie.

  And I am your

  Edward

  16

  ‘WHAT A SELFISH bastard,’ Marta spat out. ‘Long may his nightmares continue.’

  Freya nodded, as if in agreement with her sister’s sentiment. It was easier than contradicting Marta in her current mood. Besides, she felt her sister was only partly talking about Edward. The main thrust of her disdain seemed directed further afield, perhaps towards Pete, the married man, if that was indeed who he was. Freya longed to be told about the affair – whether Marta loved him, whether she wanted him to leave his wife or whether, as Freya suspected, she was actually relieved that he wouldn’t. But as usual, whenever Freya pressed her, Marta refused to confide the details. Freya looked at her sister. It was a pattern that seemed to endlessly repeat. If a man wanted commitment from her, ultimately she fled in the opposite direction. She had more in common with Edward than perhaps she would care to admit.

  Marta stood suddenly and walked to the gallery doors. The weather earlier had been beautiful: sunshine, endless blue sky, a light breeze. But now clouds hung dense and low, and the waves, ripped by a cold wind, were growing ever larger. Daylight was fading, and before long Freya knew fog and rain would move in and there would be no view to speak of.

  ‘I wish you’d woken me last night,’ Marta grumbled, turning to look at Freya over her shoulder. ‘It must have been amazing to see the lamp, up here, at night, for the first time.’

  So she was annoyed by being excluded from that. Freya shrugged, as if to signify that the whole experience had been underwhelming. But she still felt a tingle of excitement at the remembrance of it – the cloudless, star-filled night, the lamp ranging over a seemingly limitless ocean. She had considered waking her sister, but then had thought better of it, instead savouring the strange sensation of being cleansed with light, of being scrubbed clean. But she kept her silence on this now in case she too was declared a selfish bastard. Instead, all she said was, ‘Well, you can see it tonight.’

  ‘There won’t be anything to see,’ Marta whined. She stared out of the glass for a few more seconds, before turning abruptly and heading for the stairs. ‘I’m going to have a cup of tea. Do you want one?’

  Freya forced a smile. ‘No, thanks. If you wait for a few more minutes, you’ll see the lamp come on.’

  But Marta shook her head obstinately and disappeared.

  Freya sighed. Her sister could be so infuriating sometimes – worse than Sam on his most petulant days. She turned her attention back to the letter and read it again. But still she couldn’t quite agree with Marta. She knew that Edward’s betrayal was callous, his abandonment cruel. But Freya was also touched by the acuteness of his regret – and his profound misery at having made a mistake that he knew he might not be able to put right. Adrift on the sea, he was plagued by dark dreams, images of loss and death, and though he was surrounded by other men, he felt entirely alone. Freya felt a certain kinship with him.

  The lamp suddenly sprang into life and the foghorn sounded. Low, dull, penetrating. Freya put the letters on the floor and moved to the gallery doors. The fog was rolling in, and even with the sweep of the light, her gaze couldn’t penetrate far. One moment the swell of the sea was visible, the next it was obscured by thin wisps of white. After a moment she realised she was searching, waiting to catch sight of a boat containing the figures of a man and a boy. She remembered Torin’s words. You must be careful of the past. What had he meant by that?

  She closed her eyes and tried to suppress the thought. As she stood in the darkness, the sporadic flash of light visible from behind her eyelids, she heard a sudden plaintive cry. Her eyes snapped open. It was the same almost human sound she had heard before. She peered into the night, trying to make out the surface of the water. But it was pointless. The fog continued to roll in. Still she looked, trying to search out the movement of whales, porpoises or other marine life. But these were hard enough to spot in the daylight. Now it was more than hopeless. She waited, and a moment later the baleful noise came again. Something about it resonated with her. Freya narrowed her eyes and squinted. What was it? But the fog drew a pale white blanket over everything.

  The telephone line crackled as Freya held the receiver to her ear. She had abandoned the lamp room and was now lying in bed, a mug of hot milk on the table beside her. It wasn’t late but she felt exhausted. Marta had already gone sulkily to bed. The ringtone continued to sound, unanswered. Perhaps he wouldn’t pick up after all. She was about to hang up when Torin’s unmistakeable voice sounded on the other end of the line.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he said, dispensing with introductions. It was usually the way he answered the phone, as if he knew who it was before they spoke.

  Freya smiled. ‘Yes, everything’s fine. I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

  ‘Not at all. What is it?’

  The haunting sound she had heard in the lamp room was still on her mind and Torin was the person she wanted to talk to about it. When she had explained why she was calling, he was unusually quick to respond.

  ‘Well, of course it could be whales.’

  Freya nodded. She had thought the same thing.

  ‘But it’s early for the migration. That’s all I would say.’

  It was exactly what had gone through her mind.

  ‘Did Marta hear it too?’

  ‘No. She was in the kitchen with the radio on.’

  ‘Hmm. Who knows what else it could be. Bird, animal … practically anything …’ Torin’s voice trailed away and Freya knew he was thinking of something else.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh. It reminds me of … But that’s just myth.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Freya, rearranging her head on the pillows piled beneath it. Then she pulled the duvet over the length of her body. She had hoped that he might tell her a story. Perhaps it would even make her sleep.

  ‘Well, it’s an old tale of the Scottish mermaid, the Ceasg. I mentioned them the other day when we spoke about the Flannan Islands’ lighthouse. Some believed the Ceasg had spirited the keepers away. But you have to be of a certain … persuasion to believe that a possibility.’

  Freya smiled. Torin could say what he liked, but she knew the things he did not believe in could be counted on one hand.

  ‘Little is known about these creatures, for the Ceasg is mysterious – dangerous, some say. They are the sisters of the sirens of ancient Greece, with the bodies of women and the tails of fish. It is said that they possess great beauty and that, like the sirens, they too have haunting, bewitching voices, using them to entice sailors to them for sex.’

  Freya closed her eyes, hearing the lap of waves against the shore. If she listened hard enough, would she also hear the plaintive song of the Ceasg, a hypnotic sound imbued with sadness?

  ‘Sometimes the sailors might survive such an encounter,’ Torin continued. ‘But they
were the lucky ones. Death often followed in the wake of pleasure. So the mariners learned to force abstinence and life upon themselves by blocking up their ears with wax.’

  Freya remembered the books of her childhood, with their pictures of men aboard ship, driven half mad by the tantalising song of the mermaid. Some were melting down candles but others succumbed to the sound, diving overboard to satisfy their lust before surrendering to the deep and drowning. Life and death, the endless merry-go-round.

  ‘It was said that if a person happened upon a Ceasg by chance and she was caught unawares, her wrath could be terrible. Death may indeed have followed swiftly. It was said that the best thing to do was leave quietly. Do not try to meet her eye and do not listen to her song. However, the lore has it that if the Ceasg came across a person who was blessed or otherwise captivated her, she may have granted them a wish.’

  Freya saw herself, suddenly, swimming in a dark ocean, her white hair spread out around her, a presence somewhere in the blackness ahead of her. Was it the Ceasg and would it grant her a wish? Did it have the power to bring the dead back to life?

  ‘It has been said that some Ceasg have had affairs with men and have even adopted human form and attempted to live a life on land. Perhaps they have even married and had children. But the call of the sea was always too strong and this life never lasted. The Ceasg always return to the ocean.’

  ‘The sea took them,’ Freya murmured, feeling the pull of sleep very close.

  ‘Aye, the power of the sea always prevails.’ Torin paused for a few moments then he went on. ‘Which reminds me, you should hunker down. There’s a storm coming.’

  17

  WHEN SHE WOKE later, the first thing Freya heard was the rain lashing against the windows. She lay still for a few moments, listening, and then came the sound of the waves, heavy rollers pummelling the beach. She turned over, wondering if she would be able to go back to sleep. The small voice of experience inside her told her that would be unlikely. She turned on the lamp and looked at the clock. It was 11.30 p.m. Rising, she made her way to the sitting room. In spite of the rain flooding down the large windowpane, it still afforded a good view out over the ocean. The fog from earlier that evening had cleared and she could see, with every flash of the lamp, that the sea was broiling. It pounded against the shore and further out the waves cut across each other furiously. As she watched, she heard thunder sound in the distance, and a few seconds later lightning fractured the sky. A storm was in full swing. Torin had been right.