The Call of the Sea

Chapter 8

The cool sea breeze brought the smell of salt and kelp to her senses; she felt the spray of the waves on her bare arms, and she could feel the ebb and flow of the tides. Her eyes closed, she recalled the night they had arrived on the island, she remembered the strange, shimmering gold object that had lured her into the kelp forest, she remembered the singing that had hypnotised her into jumping from the railings of the ferryboat.

Aiofe had given her so much to think about, almost too much as she struggled to understand everything that had been said in the short amount of time she had been in her childhood home.

Sorcha had left a note resting on the pillow beside her, telling Bronagh that she would be with her family the whole day. It was painfully abrupt, the wording, and it had struck Bronagh as cold – when had her companion ever been cold? She had seemed a bit detached after dinner the night before, but had been willing to sit with Bronagh and Aiofe despite the strange things being said.

Bronagh left the wooden footpath that wound through the dunes and followed a trail through the ice plants to the beach below. The water lapped the sand with a rhythmic hum. The music of the tides lulled her into a gentle sense of contentment, which a part of her warned her against – one should never be complacent while on the beach. The waters can change without notice, and daydreaming could mean death if one wasn't careful. But Bronagh couldn't help but fall into deep contemplation as she lowered herself to the sand and pulled her scarf tight around her shoulders.

Nothing made sense – with every new thing that Aiofe said, Bronagh had more and more questions. Her most pressing curiosity was not about anything that her mother had told her, but about the things she had not.

We do not bury our dead, nor do we cremate them. Well, then, what happened to the bodies? Her mother had dodged the question, moving on with her stories, leaving Bronagh to ponder over the funeral that had been held for her great-grandmother, the ashes she had received in the mail, and the plot of land with headstones behind the house, overlooking the ocean. There were so many little inconsistencies in what her mother said that they added up to rather large holes in her families history, customs, and heritage.

Aiofe had promised Bronagh that, should Sorcha remain with her family through the night, she would share with her daughter a special piece of history that few knew still existed. She had, in veiled language, suggested that there were ancient items hidden within the more modern rubbish of the attic, and that it was not safe for outsiders to bare witness. She had also hinted at there being more to the tale of Muirín that she had not divulged, which intrigued Bronagh more than any artefact hidden in the ancestral attic.

***

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting pinks and purples and greys into the clouds that hovered over the vast sea. Sorcha had left a message stating that she would not be returning that night, that her family had plans in Bayside and she was invited. Bronagh bit her lip as she and her mother sat on the deck, her eyes threatening to let go of the tears she had been holding back.

There was a space between herself and her companion, and it was widening with each day they were on the island – between Sorcha's family and their wishes for her future, and Bronagh's own family history, she knew that there was little hope for their special brand of intimacy to continue. She could not offer the things that Sorcha, and her family, wanted for her – nor could Sorcha stand up to the battering waves of intense emotions for much longer. She had seen her closest friend falter more than once under the weight, and though she wanted more than anything to spend the rest of her life beside Sorcha, Bronagh knew how impossible it would be.

"My dear, what's troubling you? Your tears are upsetting the tides, and your thoughts are muddying the waters," Aiofe said, placing her hand on Bronagh's. She was brought back to reality, back to the deck, and a sense of comfort filled her chest. She shook her head and wiped at her eyes. "Well, we should get inside – I feel a storm coming."

Bronagh followed her mother into the house where they had left the strange trunk from the attic. Turlough had agreed to bring it down earlier that day, and though she had shown curiosity about the contents, Aiofe had put off opening it until after dinner. She moved around the trunk, her eyes focused on it, and toward to the dining room where dinner was being set out. Aiofe stopped at the wall phone and dialled the wharf to inform them of the impending storm before sitting across from Bronagh at the table.

The two women ate in silence as thunder rolled over the waves – Bronagh had learned at a young age to never doubt her mother's feelings. If Aiofe warned that a storm was coming, everyone on the island accepted it. Fishermen came home, regardless of their catches, and the families remained indoors until the storm passed. No one questioned Aiofe and her knowledge of the skies and seas, they just listened.

Bronagh had attempted to do something similar, in her small seaside town, but the local authorities told her that the weather station had predicted clear skies and calm seas. Her first year in the town, she had called the police station to warn them of a terrible storm brewing down the coast – she tried to inform them of the severity, but she was laughed off of the phone and told to keep her theories to herself. By that evening, three fishing boats had washed ashore, all of the crews having vanished beneath the waves. At the end of the storm, three days later, many homes were damaged by rain and floods, and the beach was littered with debris. Regardless of the truth behind what she had said, the townspeople refused to heed her future warnings. Finally, after months of trying, Bronagh gave up and worked to keep her home safe from the violent tempests.

There was something unnerving about the breeze the came through the open windows and French doors – something not quite right about the smell, the coolness, the very sound it made coming off of the ocean. Her mother looked on with a strange light in her eyes, as if she were straining to hear something far off in the distance.

Beneath the sounds of the waves and wind, Bronagh could hear the same song she had heard on the ferryboat, before she had drowned.

"It is time, Bronagh," her mother stated, setting her fork down. She looked at Aiofe, one brow lifted questioningly. "It is time for you to meet Muirín."