But here, just like her son, she felt differently. She wondered whether she was simply mirroring the feelings of disquiet that she had read about in his diary. But she didn’t think so. She shivered and looked at the black rock again, the ghostly lighthouse sitting upon it, long abandoned to automation. She listened to the ocean churning upon the reef, haunting and angry. Then she stared over the side of the boat into the deep, impenetrable blue. She thought of Sam, doing the same thing, face to face with the darkness of the sea and feeling afraid. Her heart crumpled at the idea of it, folded itself into tiny pieces. And she wanted it to keep on collapsing until it vanished entirely and she couldn’t feel anything any more. For the thought of her son’s fear was perhaps worse than anything else in the world. And on the day he disappeared, his fear would have been much greater.
She took a hard breath inwards, and imagined the dark, submarine valley stretching out into the wilds of the ocean. She felt an urgent pull to follow its deep track and lose herself there. Yes, she too could join the lost, the dead, the gone. Whatever her darling boy wanted to call them. As she stared into the darkness, she thought of her nightmare, of her son being taken by the sea, of her waiting on the threshold of life and death. Then his small clear voice brought her back to herself. You must be very careful. There is danger for you here. Do you hear us, Mum?
She looked up suddenly and turned round, half expecting to see him standing at the back of the boat, frowning at her. But there was no one. Nothing. Of course. It was all in her head. But the words pricked at her memory and she heard her son’s voice. Death is everywhere, he said, pointing to the sea.
Freya shivered. Anxiety, that’s all it was; her doctor had said so, many times. Anxiety, pure and simple. And she had believed him. Then she heard Torin’s voice whispering to her. You risk disappearing too. You need to be careful of the past.
Freya looked down into the water once more. Perhaps the dreams and warnings were connected somehow? Did they come together to form a coherent narrative, or was it madness even to think such a thing, to try to make truth of dreams?
She felt suddenly out of breath and gulped greedily at the air. Her throat was parched, salty and dry, as if it recalled the taste of seawater. She needed to calm down, get back home, take some of her pills and wash them down with lots of cool water. Her hand reached instinctively for the necklace at her throat. But it wasn’t there. It was in the box at home where she had left it. She looked around her once more. But there was nothing to be afraid of. The sea was calm, deserted but for a few boats in the distance, too far away for her to make out clearly. She tried to see her own lighthouse, a tiny marker, a beacon to guide her home. And after a while of searching, she thought she found it on the horizon, suspended somewhere between sky and sea.
Her breathing stilled. It was time for her to go. As she started the engine and began to manoeuvre the boat towards home, she tried to ignore the persistent tug of memory, that in the darkness of the ocean of her dreams, there was something hovering there, unseen, watching her, waiting.
36
FREYA WAS WASHING the deck of the Valkyrie, throwing buckets of water over it and brushing it down. She had already polished the wood of the cabin, cleaned the glass of the windows, the brass of the portholes, tidied the interior. The work was therapeutic and absorbing. So much so that it was not until the boat was close that she became aware of it. She watched it approach and, even though it was still some distance away, she recognised it as Callum’s.
The sea was choppy, whipped by the wind; it was an entirely different day to the one before when she had visited Dubh Artach and the Torran Rocks. Yet Callum handled the boat skilfully, avoiding the bigger waves, riding the smaller ones. As the boat came into the bay, he raised a hand in greeting to her. She waved back and climbed down onto the jetty to wait for him.
‘Doing a bit of spring cleaning?’ he said as his boat glided next to the Valkyrie and he roped them together.
‘I was. But I’m delighted to have the interruption. Do you fancy some tea?’
‘Sounds great,’ he said, jumping down to join her.
As they began to climb up the steep pathway to the lighthouse, Freya turned to look at him. ‘How’s things?’
‘Oh, I can’t complain. Business is good. I’ve taken three tours to the Treshnish Isles already this week and I imagine it’ll keep on getting better as we get properly into summer.’ His grey eyes were soft as he looked at her. ‘And you? How are you feeling?’
‘I’m okay,’ she said, but dropped her gaze from his as she answered. He would notice, no doubt. In fact, it was probably why, in part, he was out here. Dropping by to read Edward’s letters, but also checking up on her after their recent meeting at Lunga. But instead of feeling annoyed about it, as she did with so many others, she realised that with Callum she didn’t mind.
Half an hour later, they were sitting next to one another at the kitchen table, a pot of tea and some cake in front of them. Callum was reading the bundle of letters from the Speedwell. Freya, waiting for him to catch up to where she’d got to, peered over his shoulder intermittently.
From time to time, Callum would shake his head, murmur or tut. But mostly he read in silence. When he got to the final letter, he looked up and smiled at Freya.
‘It should become less incredible the more I read of these. But instead I can’t help but feel it’s astonishing. Your son was obsessed with shipwrecks, particularly the one that sank out in the Sound of Mull …’
‘The Swan,’ said Freya, thinking of Sam looking out towards the wreck the last time they had been to Duart Castle, reciting the excavation finds by heart.
‘Aye, Swan. And then it turns out that he and Jack find this jar, from another ship in the same flotilla, and it contains these letters which we are reading now. It’s amazing.’ Callum smiled. ‘And Sam’s grandfather knew who to send them to for restoration.’ Callum shook his head again. ‘There feels like something of destiny about it, don’t you think?’
Freya reached out and touched the letters, even though the pages weren’t the originals. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. Then she thought of Sam uncovering buried treasure in another place and the strange and unlikely providence of that find. Her hand rose involuntarily to her neck. But it was bare. Nonetheless, she felt a tremor of disquiet within her. Perhaps, she told herself again, the necklace hadn’t belonged to Daniel’s wife.
‘Shall we read the final letter then?’ she said to distract herself.
‘Yes, I’d like to.’ Callum picked up the teapot and poured them both another cup of tea. ‘I want to know what happens to him.’
37
13 September 1653
Speedwell
My dearest Josie,
We are returned from Tiree, the Macleans nowhere to be found. So that is the smallest of mercies – no bloody skirmish or loss of life. But since we are back at Mull, the wind has been up.
For fourteen hours it has churned the sea and Speedwell rolls from side to side, creaking and groaning like an old man in his death throes. We are consigned to ship by the orders of the Colonel and will ride out this storm on board he says. So all six vessels are anchored in Duart Bay and lurch against the waves, straining and sick. The cloud is thick and black as tar in parts, the rain batters down upon the deck and thunder grumbles low in the distance. My thoughts are dark, returning often to the words of the blind old man. His storm has come.
Below deck the stench of seasickness is overwhelming and enough to turn even my hardened stomach. The men are ill and – much worse – are losing hope. Even Duncan is preoccupied, his face beset with frowns. When he speaks, he talks of his mother, and he was but small when she died. He recalls the shadow that her form cast over him in his crib, the sweetness of her smell. He feels these things close about him now, and from this, I know, he thinks death is near. I try to cheer him and myself besides. Then I remember his words of shrouds hanging about men’s shoulders and my spirits fall. And I fight the urge
to ask whether he sees such a thing about me, whether I too am condemned.
A sound of ripping and grating, the ship lurching sharply sideways before righting itself once more.
Duncan and I stagger upwards to the deck. Only there is the true horror of our situation revealed. The force of the wind has grown so strong that the ship has torn free of its anchor and is being blown out into the Sound. Martha and Margaret and Swan are in the same predicament, unanchored and at the mercy of the waves.
Our captain is shouting, his voice blown unheeded, into nothingness. Men are scrambling on deck trying to regain control. And all the while the tempest rages wild and wilful about us. Just outside Duart Bay, the Swan flounders, caught perhaps upon some rocks. I watch the fray and clamour, think I catch the echoes of men’s screams on the air. Some plunge into the churning sea seeking to evade death, others cling to the ship for dear life. Most, I fear, will perish.
It is all coming to pass as the old man and Duncan have said. My heart grows cold and I remember the Florencia, sunk in Tobermory harbour, all disappeared in the mud and silt of the sea bottom. Will that be our epitaph? Our Cromwellian force wrecked off the coast of Mull, no bodies ever found to stand testament to the lives of the men. Will we disappear, covered by shadowy waves, and ultimately be forgotten?
[missing text]
I feel it in my heart, my love. This is my last letter.
We have been dragged south towards Jura, battered by the wind. The helmsman tried to steer a straight course, but the ship was pounded by surf and tide and blown about like a child’s toy. Finally we heard a horrible splintering sound and then came the terrible pitching of the ship. We had run aground at the edge of the Corry Vreckan.
Above the noise of the gale I could hear it. A sound of great grumbling and thrashing. And all about us were waves at least 20 feet high, rising and falling, even greater in the gulf, with the swirl of the whirlpool, black and devilish in the growing darkness of the evening.
I have seen many a storm in my time, but nothing to compare with this. The unholy shrieking of men crashes upon us with each burst of the wind. The ship, crushed by colossal waves, raised high by the swell and then dashed back down upon the rocks, is slowly being stripped down to nothing. The Martha and Margaret has disappeared.
We are doomed, I feel it.
[missing text]
I see men trying to make it to land. But all too many are smashed against the rocks, or dragged under by the waves; worst of all, I think, sucked into the awful blackness of that whirlpool.
Then I hear another noise. A wild wailing erupting from the maelstrom. Whether from the whirlpool, the press of water, rock and wind, or whether from an animal I cannot say. But it is high-pitched, plaintive even, almost like a battle cry. And I feel, even though I do not understand it, as though something has been declared.
I turn to Duncan, my ears overwhelmed, but in the paleness of his face, I know I am not mistaken. I see now the cause of my vision, he says. This is what will kill us. Although you, he says, studying my body and my face closely, I think will escape with your life.
And all the time he speaks, in the back of my head I hear this relentless, almost human cry.
Do not listen to it, says Duncan. Block it out. And he reaches into his pocket and hands me a stick of wax. Stopper up your ears against the sound. And may your God help you.
I think I see something dart below the surface of the waves. Out of the darkness and then back down into the depths. Pale, quick, shimmering and vanished in a second. And once it is gone I question whether I have seen anything at all. But then it returns, sleek and swift, before plunging once more into the deep.
[missing text]
I stagger to the ladder.
I cannot think straight.
I cannot see how this story will end for us all, or for you and me.
I may never make it back to you, Josie. If we survive the wrecking, we will most likely not survive what is waiting for us in the deep. I feel the quick rush of anger alongside my fear at the foolishness that took me so very far from you.
[missing text]
I am in the hold.
Water is pouring in as I scribble down the last of my love for you.
I think again of the old man. Give the creature a token and your life may be spared. I pull the letters I have written to you from inside my coat. They are a poor gift. Rough paper. Crude script. But they are precious to me.
The taper behind me flickers and will soon fade. There is little time.
A wine jug rolls across the floor and comes to rest beside me. And I decide. I will place my letters inside it and seal it with the wax Duncan gave me, melted down before the taper burns itself out. I will make the jug watertight. And when I fling myself overboard, I will carry it with me.
If I come face to face with a mermaid, I will hand her the jar, my heart bottled and stoppered and offered freely. And if she sees how much I love you, perhaps she shall speed me on my way.
I pray to God and all those other things that we do not understand that I will see you again.
Watch for me from your window, overlooking the sea.
Yours always and forever,
Edward
‘DO YOU THINK it’s true?’ Callum said, as he came to the end of Edward’s account. ‘That it actually happened like that?’
Freya took a sip of her tea and thought of the old man from the earlier letter questioning the lines of history and myth and where one begins to turn into another. She replaced her cup on the table and shrugged noncommittally.
But Callum refused to be put off. ‘I know, but what do you believe?’
Freya saw herself in the lighthouse tower surrounded by fog, or lying in bed just woken from sleep, hearing the same sound as the battle cry Edward had heard. Had it been her imagination? Was it, like so much else, simply in her head? She felt a cold shiver run through her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last.
‘Well, I think it’s possible,’ Callum said. He hesitated for a second before going on. ‘And do you think Edward made it home to Josie? Or do you think he died?’
Freya thought of the blind seer, warning of a storm, of danger. And her thoughts turned to Torin. She blinked hard. ‘I don’t know,’ she said again.
‘I can’t decide either. I think the old man sees death. But Duncan, who also has the sight, thinks he will live. So which is it?’
‘We’ll never know, not for sure. There are practically no records of what happened to the Speedwell except for the fact that it was lost.’
‘Well, I hope he survived and that he made it home to his family to tell the tale.’
Freya nodded, thinking of Josie and the baby, so far away from Edward in all but thought and memory, and the desolation that he felt on imagining them lost to him for ever. But perhaps that wasn’t the end of his story. Perhaps it continued beyond the words on those pages. Freya saw Josie, in her small rooms in Plymouth, sitting by the fire as evening set in. She saw her look up surprised, at the unexpected knock on the door, and smile as her soldier opened it and walked back into her life after weeks of absence. Perhaps Josie ran to him, held him and he told her, in a way that he never had before, how much he loved her and what she meant to him. ‘So do I, Callum,’ Freya said. ‘So do I.’
38
THE RINGTONE CRACKLED as Freya, lying on the sitting-room sofa, held the phone to her ear. She bit into a biscuit, looking out through the window into the blue of the afternoon. The deep azure of the sky melded almost seamlessly into the blue of the ocean. The weather was glorious and she had been outdoors for most of the day – walking across the island and then tidying the garden. For the first time since she had arrived, the plants and bushes had been pruned and neatened.
Just as she had decided that it was inevitable she would get voicemail, Marta picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’
Freya smiled at the brusque efficiency of her voice. ‘Hello, sis.’
‘Oh hi, Frey.’ Instantly there was a s
hift in tone. Warm and relaxed.
‘How are you?’
‘Oh, you know. Getting dumped on. Heaps of shit that no one else wants to deal with have suddenly gravitated towards my desk. But it always happens when someone leaves. Or when someone leaves in these circumstances,’ Marta added, and then laughed. ‘But that job that I told you about, the one I interviewed for and really wanted. Well, I got it.’
Freya smiled. That’s why she was in such a good mood. ‘That’s fantastic, sis. Well done.’
‘I know. Cool, huh? And it’s only two weeks until I’m out of this place. I can’t wait. I’m literally counting down the days.’ Marta paused and took a breath. ‘And how are you doing?’
‘I’m fine.’ She spoke to Marta almost every day so there wasn’t much to update her on. She told her about Callum coming over and them reading the letters together. And then, perhaps because Marta was so upbeat, she told her about the blind old man’s mention of the mermaid and Edward’s revelation, in the final letter, of catching sight of one.
‘Wow. Talk about the blind leading the blind.’
Instantly Freya wished she had kept her mouth shut. Why had she been so stupid as to divulge that? She felt anger growing inside her. Marta was always dismissive of things like this. How could she have thought she would be any different today?
‘More likely Edward was panic-stricken and delusional on a sinking vessel. Or did he and the mermaid swim off into the sunset together?’
Marta started to laugh and Freya tried to make light of it. But what she had really been angling to say to Marta was that she felt a connection with this man. Even though they were separated by centuries and his world was gone, it was a world she couldn’t help thinking resonated somehow with her own. And the feeling that she had had before, that the letters were somehow destined to come to her, was even stronger now.
Beyond the Sea Page 18
