Beyond the Sea (14 page)

THE NEXT DAY,
Freya's thoughts kept returning to what Callum had told her, out on the sea at Lunga, his stories of the mermaid.

She had just recounted them to Torin, who was sitting beside her, then turned her head lazily away from him, feeling dullness in her brain. She had started taking more of her pills since Marta left – only a small increase in her dose, but it somehow managed to take the edge off.

She stared out of Torin's sitting-room window and could just make out two eagles as they circled higher and higher over the loch. They were calling to each other noisily and she was surprised, as always, that they didn't sound more dignified, more in keeping with the way they looked. Instead, rather like gulls, their call was high-pitched, shrill and slightly raucous.

‘Are you all right, Freya? You don't seem quite yourself.'

She turned back to Torin, then reached across the table between them and took his hand. ‘I'm okay,' she said. Lying had become a way of life. ‘Do you want some more cake?' She had bought it this time, instead of making it, and wondered if he had noticed. But if he had, he kept it to himself.

‘No, my dear, I'm fine, thank you. I'll take a drop more tea, though.'

Freya poured them both another cup, then sat right back in her seat. She followed the undulating line of the garden down to the loch's edge. The water looked molten in the thickening evening light, the heavy orange-red of sunset settling upon it. She looked up into the sky once more but the eagles had already gone.

‘Well, I don't need second sight to pick up on your mood.'

In spite of herself, Freya smiled. He was an old devil, she thought, who it was impossible to keep things from. He seemed to know so much, even unspoken private things. The next moment she found herself telling him about the discovery of Sam's secret box; the diary and the entries that she had read.

‘It made me so happy to hear his voice again. And so sad and guilty that he had missed me so much. That I wasn't there for him in those last weeks.'

Torin nodded gravely. ‘I can imagine. But his father was,' he added, matter-of-factly. Then he took a sip of his tea.

‘Yes, that's true.' Still, it was not the same as her being there. She knew that from what Sam had written. ‘But it got me into that spiral again. Would it have been different if I had been around the day they disappeared? Would they have even done what they did? Would they be alive now?' She shuddered, wracked with doubt.

Torin put down his teacup slowly and leaned in towards her. ‘Look, my dear. You have to forgive yourself. Everything would have been the same, even if you had been here.'

‘But how can you be sure of that?'

‘I'm sure,' said the old man, and reached across to her. She grasped his hand again. ‘You need to accept that. Or, perhaps, things would have been even worse. Perhaps you would be gone too.'

‘But I'm not gone,' Freya said despondently. Torin's words had tapped into something she had long felt. ‘I survived and they didn't.'

Torin nodded. ‘Aye. But how would it be better if you too had gone, Freya? Really, deep down, you must know this.'

She nodded. ‘I do. But the guilt I feel is so huge sometimes, suffocating. I feel I'll never be able to forgive myself, to move on.'

‘You must learn to let it go. There is nothing to forgive.'

Even if she didn't feel his words were true, it was good to hear them. And, besides, one day, maybe, she would actually believe them. For a few moments they sat in silence, Torin holding her hand. Then he tried to move the conversation on.

‘So,' he said. ‘What else did you discover in Sam's box of goodies?'

‘Why don't you tell me?' said Freya, looking at him.

‘Hmm,' said Torin. ‘I must admit I do not know.'

‘So there
are
limits. I did wonder.' Freya laughed. ‘There were lots of other beach finds. And, best of all, there was this.'

She leaned forwards, guiding Torin's hand to the necklace at her throat. His fingers moved over the bands of silver which twisted around Freya's neck. She had taken to wearing it. She wondered now, as Torin's fingers touched its surface, if he could sense its beauty.

‘Is it one piece?' he said at last.

‘Yes,' said Freya. ‘Amazing, isn't it? I've done some research since I found it and I think it's a Permian ring – a neck ring made by the Russian Vikings out of twisted silver. It's stunning, Torin.'

‘Hmm. They were used as currency, you know. Vikings carried their wealth in their jewellery and then chopped it up when they needed money. Hack silver, they called it. Rather appropriate, given their way of life, wouldn't you say?' Torin's fingers moved over the necklace inch by inch, slowly. ‘I think part of it is missing. Broken off.' Then he frowned. ‘Hmm. I see something – a boat and the ocean, maybe.'

Was it Jack and Sam out on the sea? Freya wondered. She looked out of the window and down to the loch. The last wisps of coloured evening light were thinning and receding, absorbed by the spread of deep inky blue. Before long the sky would transform itself again. And another black night would begin. Freya shivered even though it wasn't cold.

‘No, perhaps it isn't the ocean. Although I'm not sure. There is also something underground. A grave, I think.'

Freya had wondered about the history of the necklace and what, if anything, Torin would see. But now she wondered whether in fact she wanted to hear it.

‘Ah,' said Torin. ‘I think I understand. Vikings were often buried in their ships, with many worldly possessions beside them. I can see fragments of the scene – a red wool dress, a tunic made of silk, a white linen veil. A rich site and grave goods. A wealthy woman was buried in this necklace.'

Freya touched the rough surface of the silver once again. She had imagined it once adorning the neck of a woman, someone from the distant past. But she hadn't thought of it being entombed with the dead who had once worn it.

For a moment Torin was silent, as if gathering his thoughts. Then he spoke. ‘I would like to beg your indulgence, Freya. I know you will think me a silly, superstitious old man. No doubt you think that anyway.' Torin smiled. ‘But perhaps you will humour me nonetheless. Please don't wear the necklace any more.'

Freya was taken aback by the sudden and unexpected nature of the request. ‘Really?'

‘There is a darkness, a heaviness around it. It may simply be from its heritage, but I think it is more than that. There is sadness around it too, more recent. I feel it. But I cannot see more than this.' He paused. ‘I think it would be better if you put it back where you found it.'

Freya raised her hand instinctively to the silver at her neck.

‘Please, Freya. Can you do this for me?' Torin's voice was tight, strained.

‘Of course,' she said. ‘If it means so much to you, of course.' She reached for his hand once more to reassure him. ‘Now, let's have some more tea and talk about something else.'

FREYA HAD WONDERED
whether, given her reaction the last time, it was wise to continue reading the diary. She had weighed both sides as carefully as she could: her pleasure in hearing her son's voice whispering to her anew, against the potential of what he told her to fuel her rage and her sadness, to disrupt her already precarious equilibrium. Perhaps there had never really been a contest to speak of, but she had decided to keep reading. Besides, she had been so disciplined, savouring these last moments, rationing herself to just one entry at a time, that she felt, no matter the consequences, she couldn't deny herself this. So the day after visiting Torin, Freya had read another entry.

22 April 2014

Today the weather was brilliant. The sun shone all day and it was really warm. So Dad said that we would take the boat to Tiree. I was really excited as there are great beaches there and fantastic beachcombing.

We sailed to Balevullin Bay on the northwest of the island and Dad let me steer nearly all the way there. Last time we went there Granddad came with us and I found an old pipe. I remember Granddad saying that lots of things get washed up on beaches because of the sea currents. He then told me a story about the people who lived on St Kilda who used to put letters in wooden boxes that they sealed up and attached to an animal stomach, or something like that, filled with air. Then they floated them to Lewis, Harris and Skye on the tides. It was the only way of getting their news regularly to the mainland, he said. I thought this was cool even though it sounded like it was made up. But then it was Granddad saying it. Mum says that Granddad always tells the bald truth – meaning he never tells lies or stories. And it did seem possible. It would be very annoying though and also a bit sad if the letters got lost or didn't make it to the people they were written to.

When we got to Tiree Dad and I went swimming. Then we had our lunch. The sea was too flat for any good surfing so we spent time hunting for stuff on the beach. Granddad bought me a mini metal detector for Christmas and I had been dying to try it out. It didn't have very good range so I had to walk very slowly along the beach. After a long time finding nothing, Dad had a go. He seemed to take AGES even though he found nothing either. Then, when I took over again, covering a different patch of sand, the beeper finally went off. That was really exciting. Dad helped me dig with my spade and it turned out that we found the most amazing necklace. It was a big loop of silver and Dad said it was probably meant to wind round and round a woman's neck. He said it looked really old but amazingly well preserved considering it'd probably been washed up by the sea. He said it was a specktacular find. I said straight away that we should give it to Mum as a surprise. Dad smiled and said it would look lovely on her. We then did more hunting for treasure and found a few old coins but by then the whole day had practically gone and we had to go. I didn't want to. I could have carried on treasure hunting for ever. And who knows what else we might have found.

I sailed the boat back to our island. The sea was very flat and the sky had loads of little clouds in it like tiny candyfloss. What a great day. I love being on the boat. In fact I think that heaven would be sailing on a nice day. And maybe finding the Green Island.

After she had read the entry, Freya had headed directly for Tiree. Now, standing on the edge of the boat, the sun beating down on her bare skin, she rejoiced in her decision to keep reading. Balevullin Bay was behind her, and in front the wide-open ocean. She took a deep lungful of air and dived into the water. The icy coldness was shocking but also thrilling. She surfaced, took another breath and began a fast front crawl, ploughing away from the boat. At first she concentrated on her direction. The water was calm but still she picked the line of least resistance – swimming at an angle to the path of the waves. Then she set her rhythm, a swift pace but one she knew she could sustain. She had not swum once in the open ocean since she had returned to the lighthouse, and only now did she realise how much she had missed it. She would head southwest out to the
Cairnsmuir
wreck, circling back through Hough skerries. But then, as she calculated the distance, she thought better of it. It was a round trip of about ten miles. That would be optimistic on a first outing, even for her. Maybe next time. For now she would content herself with Hough skerries and back. And if she was tired she could break up the journey by resting on the rocks there.

As she settled into a pattern, inhaling the clear salty air, exhaling it into the deep blue of the sea, she thought of the
Cairnsmuir
out on Bo Mor reef. The last time they had taken the boat out there, Jack had told Sam about the shipwreck and the subsequent whisky highjacking.

‘The
Cairnsmuir
was a thousand-ton steamer on its way from Hamburg to Glasgow. It had already sailed past the Orkneys along the Pentland Firth and was now making its way down through the Hebrides. On Monday the sixth of July, 1885, approaching Tiree, she ran into dense fog. At a quarter to three in the morning, she ran aground, here, on this reef.'

Freya remembered that all three of them had looked over the side of the boat, trying to make out the wreck underwater. At low tide and in good weather it was possible to see it. But that day had been cloudy and the sea had followed suit. It revealed nothing but a pale reflective surface.

‘Her captain was John Georgie,' Jack continued, as Sam stared down into the depths. ‘He tried to rescue the
Cairnsmuir
by reversing off the rocks, but seawater gushed into the engine room and flooded her. As the weather worsened to a gale, the crew grabbed the lifeboats and made for shore.

‘Now these shipmen, perhaps glad to have survived the storm and been met with hospitality by the locals, told the islanders that among the ship's cargo were spirits and wine. So when the Customs men arrived, they found gangs of local men looting the beaches. They tried to chase them off but were heartily abused instead.'

Both Jack and Sam, she remembered, had started giggling at this point. Two peas in a pod. She had started laughing too, but less about the story.

‘Highly enterprising as were these men of Tiree,' Jack continued, ‘they set up watchmen to keep an eye on anything that washed up. As soon as it was seen, they transferred it to more reliable containers and buried it beneath the sand to be retrieved later. Away from spying eyes, if you know what I mean.'

Jack winked at Sam and they both laughed again.

‘When a case of liquor was spotted floating on the water, a man named Kennedy stripped naked and dived into the sea, wrestling the case through the waves and onto the beach. The officials tried to take it from him but his friends turned out in support and they eventually backed down.

‘At an inquiry into the accident, Captain Georgie was found guilty of careless navigation. But his reputation was restored on appeal. What was never restored was the booty from the ship's cargo, the sea's quarry – the islanders never revealed where they had concealed it.'

‘Perhaps it's still there, buried under the sand,' said Sam, looking back to shore.

‘Perhaps it is,' said Jack in his most mysterious tone. ‘We'll hunt for it sometime. But for now let's check out if there's anything left of this wreck.' And suddenly Jack had stripped off all his clothes and, with a cry of, ‘Come along, Kennedy,' jumped overboard. Sam had dissolved into laughter, followed suit and dived naked into the sea. Suddenly Freya was alone on the boat, laughter ringing in her ears. She had thrown their snorkels overboard and left them to it. Then she had dived in and begun to swim back to the mainland. She heard the voice of her son, muffled but audible, as she glided away. ‘See you later. Swim hard, Mum. The shore will be in front of you before you know it.'

As she lay on a rock among Hough skerries, Freya thought back once again to that day at the
Cairnsmuir
. And she remembered Daniel's words when he came to the cottage. You look like you were happy, he had said. We were, she had replied. And she had meant it. She thought of Daniel's wife, also a keen swimmer, and realised just how precarious happiness was. You had to be vigilant. Death stalked these waters and sailed in on a change of tide. He'd take offerings like wine and whisky, but only in the short term. Everyone knew what he really wanted. And what he took when you least expected it.

Freya rolled onto her front. She had found this rock the last time she had come here. It was perfect: flat and smooth like an altar, perching just inches above sea level. As she lay in the searing heat, the place deserted and silent, snippets of Callum's tales of the mermaid floated through her mind again. The schoolteacher, so sure of what he'd seen that he had risked everything to write about it. And Callum's great-great-grandfather, convinced that the woman he saw, combing her hair on fishing baskets, was a magical being. It was incredible to imagine.

She thought of Edward's letter and the old man chancing upon a mermaid on his rock far out at sea. Freya smiled and looked down into the water, trying to see the bottom of the ocean floor. Perhaps if she looked hard enough she would be able to see the flash of a mermaid's tail below the surface. She stared hard for a while, but the only movement she saw, an occasional flicker at the edge of her vision, was the breaking of waves over the skerries. There was nothing else there. Freya sat upright and let her hands drop into the ocean. Then she washed water over her face and head. A baptism of sorts, she thought, as she made a silent prayer to the mermaid, if such things indeed existed. Protect me, and my family, if they are with you. Watch over us.

Then she stood, dived off the rock and headed back to her boat.