Beyond the Sea (19 page)

THAT EVENING FREYA
sat on the lamp-room floor, the necklace at her throat, a glass of wine and Sam's diary beside her.

There was only one entry left. Yet something in Freya baulked at reading it. Part of her couldn't believe that she hesitated – now she was so close to the end; so close, perhaps, to knowing what had happened. She had persuaded herself that it was her willpower, her immense discipline that had prevented her from galloping straight through the diary from beginning to end. But now she realised what perhaps she had known, unconsciously, all along. That in reading a little at a time, in delaying the arrival of knowledge, there had been solace. In not knowing there was also a kind of comfort.

She stood and made her way out onto the gallery, looking southeast towards the Torran Rocks. She could just make out the largest ones, where Jack and Sam had anchored. She tried to see further, to Jura and beyond, but the horizon blurred everything deep blue and charcoal. Moving back into the lamp room she sat down again. It was so familiar to her now, this place, floating somewhere between sea and land and air. It was her place, her home.

25 April 2014

Mum will be home in three days and I am counting down the hours.

Even though I have had a great time with Dad, I have really missed her. Especially at bedtime. It's funny but I have missed the stories she reads to me even though lots of them are silly. I told Dad this and it made him laugh. He asked me which story I liked best. That was a difficult one as we have read so many. But then it jumped out at me – Beira, Queen of Winter. And I think it is Mum's favourite too. She always smiles when she reads it. Dad asked me to tell it to him. I couldn't remember all of it so I just told him the bits I could. They went like this.

It is winter. Beira is old and dark and fierce. Her beauty has faded. She remembers a time when she was fair, when the world was different and she is sad. Worse still, her reign is only just beginning. Every year it starts the same way, with her washing her great shawl in the sea. The place she chooses is between the western islands of Jura and Scarba, the whirlpool, the Corryvreckan. It is called that because the son of a king, named Breckan, was drowned in it, after his boat was tipped over by the waves.

Three days before Beira begins her washing her servants make the water ready for her and the Corryvreckan can be heard seething and churning for twenty miles around. On the fourth day Beira throws her shawl into the whirlpool, and stamps on it until the edge of the Corry brims over with foam. When she has finished her washing she puts her shawl on the mountains to dry, and when she lifts it up, they are white with snow. That is how the Queen begins her reign.

As winter goes on, Beira grows older and angrier until at last her strength is spent. She cannot go on. But then she drinks from the Well of Youth on the Green Island, an impossibly difficult place to find unless you are magical and blessed. Then old Beira grows young and beautiful again with long flowing hair.

The End.

Dad liked the story. I think it also reminded him of Mum because he looked a bit sad. I think that he has missed her too. He asked me if I believed the tale of Queen Beira and I said Mum and I had talked about it and thought it was really a story about time and change and the seasons. I also said that Granddad and I had talked about the whirlpool as obviously it wasn't formed by an old hag washing her shawl. Granddad said it was because of the narrow strait between the islands, the underground rocks and pinnacles and the Atlantic sea currents that flow there. I said I didn't know about Breckan though and whether he had really died there or not.

Dad laughed at this and ruffled my hair, which is what he always does when I say something that he likes. Then he asked me if I'd like to go to the Corryvreckan as we hadn't been for a while. Perhaps the next day just before Mum came home so we could celebrate the story and her return – like that of Queen Beira.

I thought that was a brilliant idea. And I said it would also be great if we could try and sail to the Green Island afterwards as Mum and I had often talked about it and how difficult it was to find.

And Dad laughed again and said that he would do his best. He asked where we should try to find it and we got out a map and had a look. I traced a line back from the Corryvreckan, back past the Torran Rocks and Dubh Artach where we had just been.

I told Dad that I thought our best chance of finding the Green Island was out beyond the black rock heading into the open ocean. Okay, he said, smiling. We'll go as far as we can. Weather permitting.

I'm so excited I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep tonight.

I wish Mum could come with us.

But I can tell her all about it when she's back.

THE
VALKYRIE
BOBBED
on the water in the heart of the Gulf.

Freya stared over the side of the boat. It was difficult to tell where the whirlpool ordinarily formed. The water was relatively still, but for the occasional eddy stirring here and there. She tried to see below the surface to the pinnacle of rock she knew was 30 metres down. But it was obscured.

She turned to check the tide clock attached to the doorway of the cabin. It was ebb of tide. She had timed her journey precisely to ensure there was no danger. Still it was hard to imagine, seeing the Gulf in its current placid state, how deadly this place could be at flow of tide and in high winds. Freya turned towards Eilean Beag, the islet off the coast of Jura. Perhaps that was where the
Speedwell
had met its end. It looked so innocuous in the still of the day. Gulls perching, sunbathing, silent but for the occasional flap of their wings. When the wind and tide were up it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get from there across the foaming gulf and on to land.

She sat down and took out Sam's diary once more. She had no idea what time of day her son and husband would have visited here. But she imagined they had come approaching high tide to see the best, most dramatic effects of the whirlpool. Then perhaps they had been caught out by the turn in the weather. But if they made it away from the whirlpool in time, they might have caught the Great Race, the large spill of high water out of the gulf of Corryvreckan onto the lower water to the west of Jura, and ridden that towards Colonsay. And then who knows how far they might have ventured before the storm hit. Beyond the Torran Rocks. Beyond the black rock. Perhaps even to the Green Island.

Freya put the diary down. She didn't really need to see it – she had read it over and over and it was committed to her memory. But she had reached the final chapter and still she didn't know where the last journey of her family ended. In all likelihood she never would.

For a long time she gazed over the water, looking at the sea caught between Jura and Scarba. She remembered having read about the documentary makers who had once thrown a mannequin, complete with life jacket and depth gauge, into the heart of the Corryvreckan. It was swallowed up and spat out far down-current, with a depth reading of over 250 metres, showing it had been dragged along the bottom of the sea floor for at least part of its journey. She closed her eyes and tried to rid herself of such thoughts. In their stead, she wanted to see her son and husband on their last day out together.

The sun was shining, although there was a tinge to the sky, a smell on the air that indicated to the wary that the weather might well change. She could see Sam standing at the back of the boat, in jeans and his favourite checked blue shirt, turning towards his father and smiling at him, his blond hair, blown by the breeze. She saw the scar on his forehead from a fall when he was four years old. She could almost smell his unique scent on the breeze. Milky sweetness, like almonds, mixed with the wildness of the Atlantic Ocean.

She could see Jack beside him: strong, protective, a larger version of his son; his blue eyes, often as unfathomable as the sea, now twinkling in the sunlight. She could see his lips, curved into a smile, hear his voice, speaking to Sam, telling him about the Gulf, pointing to birds flying close by. She saw them sail away beyond the reach of the whirlpool and caught Jack turning back to look towards her. Then she heard his voice, whispering, words for her alone to hear, words he once uttered to her in the darkness of night. And in the daylight beside the Corryvreckan, she surrendered to the ebb and flow of love and memory and longing.

Freya opened her eyes and looked at the clock again. She still had time before the flow of tide beginning at the southern end of the Strait of Jura reached here. But perhaps it was better to leave now. This was her final pilgrimage, she realised, the last time she would make a journey retracing the steps of her husband and son. She touched the silver necklace at her throat, worn as a token to Sam, and then zipped up her jacket. The breeze on the water was cold today.

As she went into the cabin to start the engine, she noticed another boat approaching from the northern coast of Jura. She hadn't noticed it before; didn't know how long it had been there or if it had only just now come into view. She watched it draw closer. It was Daniel.

‘Hi,' he shouted, as he drew alongside her.

‘Hi,' said Freya, smiling but she felt a flicker of fear move through her. ‘What are you doing out here?' she asked.

‘I know. Such an odd coincidence, right?' And then he laughed, awkwardly. ‘Work, kind of.'

‘Right,' said Freya, but for a fleeting second, as he tethered his boat to hers, she had an irrational thought that he had followed her here. As she walked towards him, she tried not to think about it.

‘How are you?' he asked her.

‘I'm okay,' she said. His eyes were flat, as unreadable as ever. ‘I got to the end of Sam's diary. The last entry was about them coming to the Corryvreckan. So that's why I'm here. What about you?'

‘Hmm. It's a bit of a long story.'

‘Well, we have time.' Freya looked towards the tide clock and then back at him.

‘I guess I've been thinking about the letters that I read the last time I came to your cottage.' He looked at her directly then, seemingly analysing her reaction. She met his gaze steadily even though her heart was pounding.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I just finished reading them myself.' She paused, looking out over the whirlpool. ‘And they end here, of course.'

‘Exactly. I dropped by to see you the other day actually. I wanted to talk to you about it all. But I think you were out. The door was locked.'

‘Oh. Then I must have been.' Freya met his eye again.

‘I thought I remembered you saying you never lock the door. That it's not necessary around here.'

‘No,' she said. ‘I don't usually – although sometimes it's just instinct if I'm not thinking. A hangover from London.'

‘And your boat was at the jetty.'

‘Maybe I'd just gone out for a walk then.'

‘Well, I scoured the island and didn't see you, so I don't think so.'

Something about the persistence of Daniel's enquiries, his tone, bothered her. He clearly suspected that she'd been at home. ‘Oh well.' She said it lightly, trying to lift the unsettling mood. ‘Perhaps a friend came to pick me up. Anyway …' She let the word hang on the air, hoping to move the conversation on.

‘Yes, anyway.' Daniel looked away from her, then out over the sea, playing with an object around his neck. Freya realised that it was the mermaid blade she had given him.

‘Would you look at that?' she said. ‘I like what you've done with this …' She gestured to her own neckline and, as she did so, immediately remembered the silver necklace she was wearing. Instinctively, she touched the neckline of her jacket, which was obscuring it. She didn't want him to see it and for it to become an issue again way out here.

But Daniel, it seemed, was thinking of other things. ‘I had some tests carried out on this. Like you suggested.'

‘You did? What did you find out?'

‘Nothing about the basalt – apart from the fact that the rock was local and old. But while they were running those tests, they discovered what they thought was a fish scale wedged into the base of the blade – here, where it splits into two parts.' Daniel leaned over towards her to show her. ‘Tests on fish scales aren't performed often as they're difficult and time intensive. But they usually yield results. So here came the surprise. My colleague couldn't identify the scale. And that's not something that he's come across before. You can generally establish, at the least, the group of fish the sample came from. The best he could do was say it was probably akin to a porpoise or dolphin but wasn't a porpoise or dolphin. It was likely something undiscovered.'

‘Wow,' Freya said.

‘Mmm. So while we don't know what it is, we know it isn't something very ordinary.'

Freya looked at Daniel, but he was staring into the Gulf, completely preoccupied. ‘What is it?'

‘I think it started with the blade and your stories of mermaids out in the deep ocean. Then there was the inconclusive test on the fish scale. It all adds up, don't you think?'

‘To what?'

‘To the fact that I don't think the fish scale belonged to the fish that was hunted. I think it was from the fish that was the hunter.'

‘That's quite a leap,' said Freya.

‘Perhaps.' Daniel shrugged. ‘But then the letters suggest something similar too. And now it all seems to me to point that way. And I'm a man of science.' Daniel laughed, but the sound was entirely devoid of joy.

Freya met his eyes. They were cold, and she realised for the first time that there was also something dead about them. Annalise's disappearance had killed something in him, something that perhaps he would never get back. Something perhaps he didn't want back. She wondered for a second if the same was true of her. That her restlessness – roaming the sea searching for something, her desire to be alone with the ghosts of the past – was actually a death wish rather than seeking to come to terms with things.

‘I've been exploring the myths of the Scottish mermaid, the Ceasg, since all this other stuff came to light.'

Freya knew the tales, had been conversant with them since childhood.

‘And I've heard that if the Ceasg is given a token or can be charmed by a person she may grant a wish. Have you heard that before, Freya?'

‘Yes, I've heard it.' Freya thought of Torin, reciting stories over and over to her – both when she was little and again more recently. Edward also mentioned it in his letters.

‘And it occurred to me that she couldn't fail to be captivated by a talisman – a thing of magic and beauty. You know what I'm talking about, of course.'

Freya looked at Daniel, a feeling of foreboding growing inside her.

‘The Permian ring, of course.' He snapped the words out, impatiently.

Freya's fingers twitched and her first instinct was to touch the necklace at her throat. But instead she kept her eyes on Daniel.

‘What do you know about the necklace?'

Freya swallowed. ‘Not much. I was told that it was Viking and would have been buried with its owner in death.'

Daniel nodded. ‘Who told you that?'

‘A friend of mine.' Torin had seen darkness and sadness surrounding the necklace and had warned her of it. And yet, against his advice, she had continued to wear it. She blinked hard and went on. ‘And I know that Sam found it under the sand at Balevullin Bay on Tiree. That's it. Why do you think it's a talisman?'

‘Well, perhaps you can let me see it again, properly this time, and then I'll tell you.' Daniel smiled, but it had no warmth to it.

Freya's blood ran cold. How did he know that she was wearing the necklace? The only way he could was if he'd been watching her earlier and seen. Now she began to understand his true purpose for being here. For a moment outrage outweighed her fear. ‘Have you been following me, spying on me?'

Daniel raised his hands. ‘I'm sorry, Freya. But you gave me no choice. I came back to the house to ask to see it and you avoided me.'

Freya made a noise as if to speak but he raised a hand to her.

‘Please, Freya, don't deny it. I can tell you're attached to it – because of Sam finding it. But now you'll have to let me see it.'

For a moment Freya thought about refusing. But what good would it do, to antagonise him out here, miles from anywhere? Her gaze moved past him, around the Gulf and beyond. There was no other boat, no one nearby. And although she usually relished such isolation, she realised that right now she found that prospect unnerving.

She unzipped her jacket and let him see the necklace wrapped around her throat.

Daniel reached towards it and stroked its silver. ‘Like I said, when I first saw it at your house, it reminded me of another I had unearthed at a burial site. I couldn't be sure that it was the same one because this one's broken and the other one wasn't. But now I see it again, around your neck, I'm sure.'

Freya braced herself as he continued to touch the necklace, expecting him to try and take it from her. But he didn't.

‘You see, I did a very reckless thing when I first saw this. I took it.'

‘You took it?' Freya repeated. ‘From an archaeological site?'

‘I wanted Annalise to have it. I knew it would look so beautiful around her neck.'

So it had belonged to his wife. Freya felt breathless even though his words were simply an affirmation of what she had known deep down.

‘Even though I knew I could get into serious trouble. I didn't care. She was worth the risk. And she loved it and wore it all the time, even when she went swimming. So imagine my surprise when it turned up in your house.' He stroked the silver again, accidentally running his thumb over Freya's skin. His touch made her feel nauseous. ‘You realise what this means, of course?'

‘I don't,' said Freya.

‘It means that it's charmed, blessed, something like that. I found my way to you on the night of the storm and, through you, the necklace found its way back to me.'

‘Why didn't you tell me that you thought it was your wife's when you first saw it?'

Daniel shrugged. ‘I was shocked and unsure. I couldn't think straight. And besides, you didn't want me to look at it properly.'

‘But if you'd told me, I would have given it to you. Of course I would.'

Daniel's raised his eyes from the necklace to look at her. ‘Would you? Would you really, Freya?'

‘Of course,' she insisted again. Then she remembered how she had avoided him, avoided having the heritage of the necklace confirmed to her.