Beyond the Sea (17 page)

LATER THAT AFTERNOON,
while the biscuits were cooling on a rack, and Pol was still busy in the tower, Freya took Sam's cardboard box into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. She opened the lid and rifled through its contents once again. For some reason she tended to keep them together.

She flicked through the diary, staggered once more by the strength of her own will, and that she had stuck to her policy of rationing and reading only one entry at a time. As compensation she had read and reread the entries she had allowed herself and now knew them almost by heart. As she was thinking about reading on, there was a knock at the kitchen door.

‘Who is it?' she shouted.

‘Daniel,' came the reply.

‘Come on in,' she said, getting up and heading into the kitchen. ‘The door's never locked. No need.'

He came in, smiling, looking more relaxed than when she had seen him before. ‘Hope it's not inconvenient. I saw another boat moored and wondered if you had company.'

‘No. It's fine. Pol, from the Northern Lighthouse Board, is testing the light, that's all. It's actually good timing on your part – I've made biscuits.' She pointed to them on the kitchen table as he closed the door behind him and put his rucksack on the floor.

‘Wow. They smell good,' he said. ‘The weather's roughing up so I won't stay long. But I thought I'd pick up the mermaid blade on my way home. If that's okay?'

‘Of course,' Freya said, putting the kettle on and then moving back into the sitting room. ‘It's in this box.'

Daniel followed her and sat down on the sofa. ‘Is that Sam's box of tricks?' he asked.

‘Uh-huh,' she nodded, rifling through it. As she did so, her eye caught upon the necklace and she felt her heart flutter. She wished she'd known he was coming, then she could have hidden it somewhere else. She looked at Daniel, unsuspecting on the sofa, then down again at the contents of the box. Her hand hovered over the necklace for a moment but then she grasped the blade with her fingertips. As she offered it to him she felt another stab of remorse. It felt inappropriate, childish even, in light of his grief.

But he reached to take the object eagerly, turning the sharp piece of rock over in his hands. ‘Basalt chiselled to make a primitive blade.'

Freya nodded. ‘It's a fairly crude design,' she said, lowering the box lid.

He ran his hands over the blade, pressed his index finger to the point. ‘It's different to the knives and other objects coming out of this area. This gully at the base of the blade was obviously made so it would fit over a piece of wood or another kind of handle. It was probably tied to it. So it makes sense that it was some type of hunting or fishing spear. Do you believe that it once belonged to a mermaid?'

Freya shrugged. ‘I don't know. But I think Callum believes it. He's the one who found it with Sam. And he said there are photographs that show fish pierced by the blades. That's a bit hard to explain away.'

‘Yes. If it's true,' Daniel said. ‘But a picture doesn't mean the fish came out of the water looking like that.'

Now he sounded like Jack. Freya felt a rush of guilt. She'd dragged him out here to pick up a fake mermaid blade when she really could have given him something worthwhile. ‘Perhaps you can carry out some tests on it,' she muttered. ‘Maybe that will tell you something.'

‘I'm sure it would. Still, I don't really care about that. Thanks for thinking of me.'

She flooded with shame and to deflect it she said, ‘I didn't tell you that Jack and Sam found a Bellarmine jar – amazingly well preserved – which actually contained letters. They've been salvaged. Would you like to see them?'

‘Sure.'

Freya ran to her bedroom where she had left them, then strode briskly back to the sitting room. ‘There are tales of mermaids in here too,' she said, lightly. ‘I haven't finished reading them yet, but have a look while I make some coffee.'

Freya moved back into the kitchen, and, so Daniel could read, took her time. Then she made her way back into the sitting room with a tray of coffee and biscuits. As she approached, she noticed that Daniel was standing, letters in hand, staring into the open cardboard box.

Freya's heart sank. At the same time, she felt a flash of anger. What was he doing nosing through her son's things? She put the tray down on the table and turned towards him. Only then did she notice the sudden pallor of his face. Hers, in distinction, flushed.

‘Daniel. Are you okay?'

He jumped and turned towards her.

‘Are you okay?' she repeated, startled by his sudden movement.

He looked back at the box. Then he nodded. ‘I'm sorry. It's nothing. I just … I don't know what really.' He paused. ‘I didn't open this, by the way. The lid fell open by itself.'

She nodded, even though she wasn't sure she believed him. Then she decided to bite the bullet. She reached for the necklace and lifted it out of the box. She might as well find out the truth. ‘It's a Permian ring. Sam found it washed up on a beach in Tiree.'

Daniel nodded, his eyes moving over the surface of the silver, its thick, uneven texture, its partially erased pattern. ‘Jormungand,' he muttered.

‘What?' said Freya.

‘Jormungand,' he said again, louder this time. He pointed to the tail of the snake at the end of the ring. ‘It was the serpent child of Loki, cast into the great ocean by Odin. It grew so large that it completely encircled the whole of earth and could grasp its own tail in its mouth.' He pointed to the area beyond the tail. ‘Here there would have been a head, a mouth, which interlinked with the tail. Then the silver would have continued to wind round and finally taper off. The piece containing the head has obviously broken away.' Daniel faltered. ‘In legend, when Jormungand lets go of its tail, the end of the world will come.' Daniel shook his head, looking visibly upset, and for a moment Freya wondered if he would cry. ‘It reminds me of a necklace I uncovered at a burial ground in Ardnamurchan not that long ago.'

Freya leapt upon this. Perhaps it wasn't his wife's after all. Perhaps it simply reminded him of death, of a site he had once worked on. Torin had implied much the same thing. ‘Daniel, why don't you give this to me? Have some coffee and a biscuit.'

‘No, I'm okay,' he said, and tried to pull the necklace away from her.

But Freya didn't let go. Unless she knew for certain that it was his wife's, all she could think was that Sam had thought of her when he'd found it, had wanted her to have it. And she wanted it back. She tried to wrest it from Daniel's grasp but his grip remained firm. ‘Please give me the necklace,' she said.

‘I just want to look at it, to be sure.'

But Freya felt anger rising inside, hot, quick and uncontrollable. She stood up, pulling the necklace with her. But instead of letting go, Daniel rose too. They stood side by side, each holding one half.

‘Let go of it,' she said, louder than she'd intended, almost spitting the words out.

Daniel didn't reply but his eyes moved from the necklace to meet Freya's. She saw defiance there.

‘Let go,' she said again.

Then a small voice floated into the sitting room.

‘Is everything okay?'

Both Daniel and Freya turned towards it. It was Pol, a dirtied yellow duster in his hand, smudges of dust and grime on his face. ‘I heard raised voices. Is everything okay?' he said again.

Daniel's hand immediately fell away from the necklace and Freya felt the tension drop out of the situation. ‘Yes, Pol,' she said. ‘Everything's fine. Just a misunderstanding.' She placed the necklace back in the box and closed the lid. ‘In fact you're just in time for coffee. Shall I pour you a cup?'

‘That'd be lovely,' said Pol, looking from one to the other and then, satisfied that the situation was defused, he made his way to the kitchen table and sat down.

Freya felt embarrassed by her own behaviour. She shouldn't have been so aggressive. She should have let Daniel take a look. But she was worried about what he might have discovered. She shot a look at him, still standing in the sitting room, as she took the tray of coffee and biscuits back to the kitchen table. He seemed to have recovered himself a little but he still looked upset.

Finally he followed her into the kitchen. ‘I'm sorry, Freya.'

‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have raised my voice.'

He shrugged.

‘Do you want some coffee?' she asked.

‘Thanks, but I should probably go.'

‘Okay,' said Freya. She wanted to say something else but couldn't think what.

‘Thanks for the mermaid blade,' he said and, picking up his rucksack by the door, left the house with a quick wave goodbye to Pol.

‘Who was that?' Pol asked after a moment, picking up a biscuit from the plate.

Freya came to sit beside him. ‘That's Daniel.' She sighed. ‘And it's a bit of a long story. His wife died a while ago.'

‘Ah,' said Pol. ‘That why he was upset?'

‘I'm guessing so,' said Freya, but then felt a deep, curdling sense of shame.

‘Are you okay?' Pol asked.

‘Yes, I'm fine. But thanks for coming down.'

He smiled. ‘I was always the one in the lighthouse smoothing over a situation, deflating tempers.' He nodded, then turned to face Freya again. ‘But are you sure you're okay on your own out here? No one to help you if you need it.'

His words reminded her so much of everyone around her. Torin, Callum, her mother and father, Marta. Her dead husband and son. They all said the same thing. And she had wilfully defied them all and stayed on at Ailsa Cleit, so sure that this place would make her feel better. Now she wasn't sure. But she still wasn't ready to leave.

Freya looked at Pol, at the concern in his eyes, and all she could do was nod. The words just wouldn't come.

23 April 2014

Today was a beautiful day. The sky was really blue with practically no clouds and the sea was still. We have had a lot of great weather while Mum has been away. Dad says we have been very lucky. I know what he means but I think we would have been much luckier if Mum had been here. Anyway, she is back in a few days so that will be great.

To make the most of the day Dad and I went to the Torran Rocks. I don't remember ever having been there before but they are really cool. People call them the dragon's teeth as they are so sharp and dangerous in bad weather. Dad says they have caused many shipwrecks and he told me two very interesting and big statisticks which I had to write down.

1. Between 1800 and 1854 there were 30 wrecks on the rocks and 50 lives were lost.
   
2. In 1865 during a single storm 24 vessels were lost.
   

I asked Dad why people who die at sea are called ‘lost'. Because they aren't lost really – or not like someone who might get lost in a supermarket or at the aquarium like happened to me. To say that someone is lost makes it sound like they might be found again. But if they're gone at sea, they're dead and they aren't coming back. Dad agreed with me that it didn't make much sense.

Anyway, after we set off from our island, we reached the west reef of the rocks first. They are really small and so we didn't stop there. We kept going until we reached a clump of the bigger ones which also sit much higher out of the water. I said to Dad that it was very hard to imagine how this place could be dangerous because it was so lovely when the water was still. But Dad said that when the wind and the tide were up it would be treacherous here, huge waves smashing the rocks, rushing between them, cross currents or something like that. I tried to imagine it with the wind howling and blowing everything to bits. But it was very difficult.

We anchored the boat and went swimming which was fun. Then we climbed up on some of the rocks and dived in – but Dad made me be very careful as there are lots of rocks below the surface of the water. We had taken our snorkelling gear and after lunch we swam around looking for things. I found an old silver coin under the water. But Dad found something so much more brilliant – a stone flagon – that's what he called it – wedged into a crevice lined with seaweed high in the rock above the tide line. Basically it was a jug with a man's head engraved on it. Dad said it looked in really great condition – it was even sealed – and it was amazing given the number of rocks in this area that it hadn't been broken into bits. Anyway, Dad said it looked really old and that we should package it carefully and send it to Granddad. He would know who to give it to to see if there was anything inside. Mum says that Granddad has been to the museum in Edinburgh so many times that he thinks he knows everyone there and also that he knows as much as them. But I didn't say this. I just thought it to myself and told Dad that it was a great idea.

I shook the bottle but I couldn't hear anything move inside. Dad said it wasn't good to do that – much better to keep it still in case whatever was inside was delicate as it was so old. But he said if I kept it safe I could look after it until we sent it to Granddad.

After that we went to Dubh Artach – the black rock – to see the lighthouse built on it by Thomas Stevenson. I remembered from when we came here the last time with Mum that she had said it was built to light not just the black rock but also to mark the Torran Rocks beyond it.

I stared up at the lighthouse – it is really big – 145 feet tall, Dad said. It has a red band around the middle to make it look different from Skerryvore lighthouse which is not far from here. Even though Dubh Artach sits out in the middle of nowhere, today it wasn't scary. But Dad said that when the weather was bad the seas could be very frightening here. That is because the black rock is at the end of an underwater valley which stretches out 80 miles into the Atlantic. This acts like a funnel and makes the seas in this area big and dangerous, drawing everything from the bottom to the top. I looked down into the water then and it was dark and even though there was no wind the sea was still churning and sploshing around the rock. And it made me a little bit afraid. I was glad when Dad said let's go.

When we got home Dad and I put the flagon in bubble wrap ready for posting and I put the coin in a box where I am keeping everything I have found beachcombing or in the sea. I am keeping everything safe.

FREYA RAISED HER
eyes to the sky. It was clear and unthreatening, the day sunny and still; a similar day, perhaps, to when Sam and Jack were there. Yet, even in such weather, there was something foreboding about this place, and Freya kept the boat at a distance from the black rock. That's how they said Dubh Artach translated from the Gaelic. Although Freya had once heard that the root from old Irish meant death – the black, deadly one. And looking at the rock today, looming 35 dark feet above the sea, she preferred this translation. The water growled around the outer reef, even though otherwise it was flat, barely shifting, and she felt goose bumps rise on her skin even though the temperature was mild.

Her eyes crept up the lighthouse tower until they reached the lamp room and gallery lookout. She was reminded of Pol's tale from a few days earlier – the old keeper who had tried to throw himself from the lighthouse and swim back to shore. So many stories. There had also been a keeper who, despite the inhospitable conditions here, had kept the lighthouse for eleven years. Still, she felt it clearly. Disquiet lurking inside her. She raised her eyes upwards to the sky again, then over the sea into the distance. But there was nothing to be afraid of. The weather was with her. Just as it had been at the Torran Rocks. There the islands and skerries had been idyllic, scattered haphazardly within the water. She had navigated easily around the granite below the surface, watched the seaweed floating in the water, shaping and shifting in a timeless dance. And she had imagined her husband and her son, swimming and diving down into the green, enticing water, its movement soft upon the rocks, whispering upon the breeze. She had pictured Jack finding the Bellarmine jar sandwiched in a rocky crevice, cushioned by kelp, heard Sam's whoops of delight as he dive-bombed into the water. And it had made her happy.

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.