The Call of the Sea

Chapter 13

Dawn broke, casting red-orange light through each of the east facing windows, and Bronagh opened her eyes. For a moment, just a single second, she forgot all of the sorrow that had filled her body the previous night. She sat up, stretched her arms over her head, and considered what she would do once she and her mother had finished breakfast.

Then it hit her, as if she had been the target of every cannon from the past, present, and future. Her head swam and she felt nauseous – the room spun in fast circles around her and she struggled to keep her eyes open. Her mother was dead. Every single emotion flooded her limbs and her head, and a strange sound filled the bedroom. It was the sound of anguish and rage and fear, the sound of a wild animal – for a moment, it confused Bronagh, until she realised that the sound was, in fact, coming from her.

Turlough threw the door open and looked around the room, holding a broom handle over his head. When he saw Bronagh, her mouth open and her fingers pulling at her hair, he dropped his weapon and moved to the bed to comfort her. She heaved against his chest, screaming and wailing – he shushed her gentle, smoothed her hair, squeezed her shoulder, all to keep her grounded to the present, all to remind her that she was not alone. He understood the process, all to well, and knew the role he had to play in it all. His family had served the Ó Loinsigh's for generations, he had been raised with the myths and the legends of the family, and the island. He had witnessed the rituals, Muirín coming from the sea, the duties of the Muir-óigh.

Bronagh inhaled deeply and sat up, moving away from Turlough's embrace. She was grateful for him, but felt the need to be alone in her grief. Standing from the bed, she moved to the windows, her back to him – she felt the air in the room change as he left, closing the door behind him. She found her cell-phone and opened her contacts menu – Sorcha's number was already highlighted, and she pressed the dial button. It rang a few times before she heard the click and the voice on the other end:

"Bronagh," Sorcha whispered, "what is wrong?" Bronagh couldn't speak, the words refused to roll off her tongue – only a choked sob escaped. She realised, as she held the phone to her ear, that she had made a mistake in calling Sorcha – she had no right to burden her with the storm that battered at her chest and her eyes and her brain. She had no right to reach out and ask for comfort, she had let her go without so much as a goodbye. In silence, Bronagh lowered the phone and ended the call.

She remained at the window, watching the clear sky and the calm sea and the fishing boats out in the bay until she could no longer keep her vision focused. Turlough had left a fresh tray of tea, but it had gone cold while she had been standing at the window. As she stared into the brown liquid and watched the tea leaves settled on the bottom, she recalled her mother's request:

You must not let the pain and fear take over your spirit.

The ritual, the book, the secrets of her family – she had forgotten her duties, and though she knew she had tasks needing done, she could not will her feet to move. The pain had already dug its roots deep into the soul of her spirit, and the fear was spreading like so many leaves from its branches. She was alone. She had no one to help her, no one to guide her.

Her mother's body was waiting for her in the lower rooms, rooms she had never been permitted to enter as a child. They had been bored deep into the cliff below the house, long before the walls around her had been erected. They were sacred, not only to her family but to the island's inhabitants. It had been considered an honour to enter them, with the guidance of the Ó Loinsigh matriarch, to gain wisdom and go through a sort of rite of passage. Bronagh had only heard stories as she waited in the drawing room with the entrants family.

She felt a spark of curiosity growing in the pit of her stomach, and her vision cleared enough for her to see the whole room around her. She needed to take care of her mother – once she was finished with the preparations and the ritual, she could allow herself to feel the pain and the fear. She moved, only a step, toward the door – another step, easier than the first. A few steps more and she was reaching for the doorknob.