The Call of the Sea

Chapter 14

Her mother's room was dark – the curtains were drawn and no lamps had been lit since she had passed. Bronagh felt as though she were trespassing on hallow ground as she stepped over the threshold into the space that had been purely Aoife's. As she turned the switch and light flooded the space, she saw the room for the first time in years.

She had been a gifted interior decorator, her mother – the room was done up in light blues and silvers and pale creams, with gentle accents of dark brown and tan and moss green. Aoife had always been partial to lace and chiffon, and her room reflected that through the curtains and the skirting around her four-poster rosewood bed.

Bronagh let her fingers trace the smooth surface of the footboard as she rounded the bed – she noticed the silver key from the door, resting on the night-stand on the right hand side, the side her mother had slept on. The key was cold in the palm of her hand, and as she rolled it in her fingers, she considered the consequences of running away. She hadn't found the book yet, she hadn't begun the preparations – her mother's body would sit in the rooms beneath the house until someone would come to collect it for the ritual, and by that time she would be long gone.

She jerked herself away from the thoughts, angry with herself for considering it, though she knew that she would never, could never, leave the commitment she had made to her mother and to her ancestors. She had run away once, and though she knew it could not all have been her fault, she and her family had suffered enough.

The book had been right where her mother had described, buried beneath clippings and printed photos of herself and her paintings. The memorabilia served as yet another reminder that her mother had always loved her, and her chest tightened under the strain of her emotions. She sat on the bed where her mother had recovered from radiation and surgeries, and where she had read and wrote in her journals and had dreamt whatever dreams had entered her sleeping mind, the book laying unopened in her lap.

Deasghnátha, the cover read. Rituals. An entire book devoted to the rituals of the Muir-óigh. It was old and had been restored many times over the years, its worn cover a patchwork of different materials in different shades of dark blue. The edges of the inner pages were brittle with age – she opened the book carefully, finding the page her mother had marked with the crisp white paper. In Aoife's scrawling cursive, four names were written – the names of the men who would arrive to assist her the next evening, after the viewing. Bronagh mused over just how much of the truth the four men had been told, just how much of her family's secret did they know and understand? The other inhabitants of the island could not be entirely ignorant to everything that went on involving her family, it just wouldn't have kept with the closeness she had always felt from everyone she encountered. No, they had to have some amount of knowledge, even the bare minimum that she had been told as a child.

Deasghnátha Sochraide

There are no graves bearing our names, nor are there urns holding our ashes. We are born from the sea, live for the sea, and shall return to the sea upon death. This, above all else, must be honoured.

Bronagh continued to read through the steps of preparation and the ritual itself, finding that she had no understanding of half of the tasks she needed to do. As she turned the page, a folded piece of paper slipped and fell to the ground. Her name, written in her mother's hand, beckoned her from the floor.

Dearest Bronagh,

I know that what I have asked of you is difficult, especially seeing as I was not able to walk you through the steps and explain everything in detail. The ritual is not as complicated as it seems, I promise you that. I have already prepared everything you will need to ready my body for the viewing – let Turlough handle that aspect of this terrible time for you. He is well equipped for his duties. I need you to know that I will not join Muirín and the rest of our family – my reasoning for this is simple, and it is so that I may continue to be with you through your journey. Muirín knows this and understands, and has agreed to assist my spirit in returning to you in such a way that is helpful but inconspicuous. I will not spoil the surprise, as I want to see your face when you realise it is me – I always have loved a good surprise.