Beyond the Sea (20 page)

‘Anyway, it doesn't matter. You can give it to me now. I've begun to think that, through this necklace, I might find a way back to her.'

‘To Annalise? What do you mean?' Freya asked.

‘Isn't it obvious?'

Freya shook her head.

‘That if I give the symbol of my love, the necklace, to the mermaid, she will surely grant my wish to be reunited with my wife.'

Freya looked at Daniel, at his eyes burning with emotion. And for a moment she could almost see herself – trapped in her grief, imagining all kinds of crazy things. But she had never got so close to the brink; always, somehow, managed to pull herself back from there. Then she thought about Torin's warnings, that she should be careful of the past, stop dwelling always in the blackness there, that she shouldn't wear the necklace, a symbol of death at its most concrete. And then she heard Sam's words again, that there was danger, that death was stalking her. She had ignored them all. Freya wondered, as she looked at Daniel now, if she had more in common with him than she would like to admit.

He was still talking, pursuing his own thoughts, ‘… And I think with the mermaid blade as well, I'll have two talismans. It can't fail really.'

Freya looked at the blade around his neck, a small and insignificant piece of chiselled rock. And she realised that she had to try and reason with him.

‘But haven't you ever thought that you were saved on the night of the storm for a reason? To go on living.'

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘I realised that that was solely to bring me to you. And that.' Daniel pointed to the necklace and smiled at Freya. A happier smile than she had seen since she met him. ‘Besides, I would go on living, but with Annalise. Come on Freya, tell me you haven't had the same thoughts.'

She looked over the side of the boat, at the water circling around them, gaining momentum with the flow of tide. She had determined that she would not be here as it got more dangerous and yet here she was. She remembered looking into the water at Dubh Artach, longing, in a way, to be swept out into the submarine valley, washed way out to sea, where she could join the gone and the lost. She had thought the same at the top of the lighthouse tower, as she felt the urge to jump. Perhaps in a way things had always been moving towards this point. She touched the necklace at her throat. It was the embodiment of death, wrapped tightly around her. And yet she had not shunned it; she had worn it like an invitation.

‘I have.' She nodded and her eyes filled with tears. ‘And yet …' She stopped, struggling with herself. ‘But I don't think this is something that you really want to do. Deep, deep down.'

‘Trust me, Freya. It is. I've been stuck in this place for three years and I can finally see a way out. The letters were the final thing to show me that.' His eyes were shining, more animated than she had ever seen before.

Freya saw him then, perhaps properly for the first time. But it's not real, she wanted to say.

‘So, I'd like it please.' Daniel touched the silver at her throat again, his fingers beginning to curl around the bands.

Freya took a step back from him. ‘I don't think you should do this,' she said.

‘Yeah, you've said that before. Come on, hand it over.'

‘It's madness,' Freya muttered, holding her hand to her throat.

Daniel's eyes narrowed. Then he climbed over the side of his boat into Freya's. ‘I'm getting tired of this,' he said, moving towards her until they were face to face at the stern. He held out his hand. ‘Please give it to me. I don't want to hurt you.'

Freya's stomach twisted at the threat but she stood her ground and shook her head.

For a second Daniel paused. Then he grabbed her throat.

She gasped and strained against his hands. Even though part of her, the rational part, told her to simply surrender, to let him take the necklace and let him do what he wanted to do, the irrational part wondered perhaps if he was right, if here there was escape from pain, a way back to what she loved and had lost. And that part of her also longed to surrender to the deep.

As they struggled, she felt Daniel's fingers grasping the silver around her neck, trying to prise it free. She bent her head down and bit his hand. He recoiled and she took a step away from him.

‘You crazy bitch, Freya. Just give it to me.'

‘No,' she said defiantly. ‘I won't. You're not thinking straight.'

Daniel took a step towards her and then slapped her hard across the face. She was flung sideways and, before she could right herself, Daniel lunged at her, grabbing for the necklace. They both overbalanced, toppling over the edge of the boat into the water. As she fell, Freya hit her head, hard against the stern. The blow was unexpected, shocking.

She felt the cold water against her skin. Then nothing.

FREYA OPENED HER
eyes. The darkness was the first thing she saw. If that was the right word. You didn't really see darkness, after all. You felt it. But this was a darkness punctuated with rays of shimmering light, falling softly from above, dissolving the black into iridescent blue and green. Where was she? Freya wondered. It was so beautiful, so intoxicating, this place. Then, in a flash, it came back her. The struggle, the fight, the falling, and suddenly she felt the cold pricking her body, the pain shooting in her head. As she looked up to the sunlight, now far above her, Freya realised. She was under the water.

There was a flush of panic and then the instinct to kick hard to the surface. But she resisted it. Instead she looked downwards and saw the pinnacle beneath her and, beyond it, in the ever-increasing blackness, the channel which plummeted down so deep. Freya felt the pulse of the water, its sensuous, arrhythmic heartbeat, catching her in an eddy, pulling her gently up and then more forcibly down in a sudden thrust.

The maelstrom was gaining force. She floated, her white hair spreading out around her, suspended somewhere between life and death. It was the choice she had struggled with, had anticipated, the taste of saltwater so often on her lips, catching at the back of her throat, erupting out of her dreams – the darkness or the light, the sea or the sky, death or life. There was tightness in her chest, the burning choke of white-hot lungs. She fought the urge to cough and gulp down water in the absence of air. And yet she also longed to do it. As she drifted further towards darkness, she looked for Daniel, but she couldn't see him, reached for the necklace at her throat, but it was gone, surrendered once more to the deep. What will my offering be? she thought, before the blackness closed again around her.

She drifted in and out of consciousness: one moment feeling the thrust of the water, upwards, pushing her towards the light; the next, the languid tug of the current at her heels, pulling her towards oblivion. How easeful it would be, she thought, to simply slip now into the dark. And yet. She opened her eyes, suddenly alert. She was still alive, she realised with a rush. Her breath was all but extinguished and yet she was alive. And there was something else. She felt it, she was sure of it. Something was watching from the darkness. Dreamlike images floated through her mind: her son's bedroom filled with water; something beyond her sight. And, as she continued to look, the darkness before her seemed to tremble and unfurl, a shadowy figure emerging from its clutches.

Perhaps it was death coming for her. Perhaps it was nothing at all. She blinked. But she was not mistaken. The figure was moving closer, propelled towards her on the tide. And then she heard the noise, the sound that echoed through her dreams, the haunting, melancholy cry. Was it the sound of the whirlpool gathering force, or something else? As the figure moved nearer, she thought she could make out the form of a woman, gliding across the water with ease. She caught a shimmer in the darkness, a flash of light and gold. Was it the woman's hair, streaming behind her, or the last touches of sunlight flickering in the depths? Then came a glittering burst of silver, flashing past at speed. Could it be the Ceasg, a beautiful half-woman coming to take her life? Or would it spare her, recognising that her soul had already been touched too many times by death?

As Freya slipped towards unconsciousness, she thought she saw the woman's face, close now, her skin glinting with light in spite of the darkness, so close that her hair, rippling on the tide, intertwined with Freya's own. She reached out to touch the creature, but she was so weak her fingers brushed only through water. Was it an apparition, she wondered, down here in the deep? But then she heard the Ceasg's voice in her head.

For a moment she listened, and then the darkness claimed her.

FREYA HEARD IT
first: loud, chaotic, bubbling, popping in her ears, a noisy rush of water around her head.

A moment later she burst, gasping, above the surface. Her eyes were wide open, shocked. She was still alive. Then thoughts rushed in. How long had she been down there? How had she survived? She coughed; deep, rasping breaths, filling the suffocating emptiness of her lungs, struggling to stay afloat, to resist the snapping downward currents. Her body was pulled one way, then back again on the surface of the water, caught – it seemed – in a powerful tidal flow, crashing outwards from the whirlpool. It was the Great Race, she was sure of it. If she could ride it out, she might even survive.

Every few seconds she was dragged down below the water, but somehow she always fought her way back up. She let the tide carry her, spewing her forward with its momentum. Gradually the churning din of the whirlpool faded, the tug at her heels lessened and she managed to stay afloat. As she glided, disoriented, eyes aching, head throbbing, body pummelled and exhausted, she tried to get her bearings. There was land around her, on either side of a channel, but she couldn't tell where it was. She turned her head back and forth, looking for a marker, something distinctive. But there was nothing. She let out a terrified, shuddering breath. She had no idea where she was and no will left to fight her way to solid ground. Fear clawed in her gut, tears pricked her eyes, but she didn't have the strength to cry. She turned onto her back and tried to float with the current. Less resistance, more surrender.

She felt dizzy and sick and her eyes grew dark, spots flickering across her vision. She feared that she would black out again. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she moved fleetingly in and out of consciousness. Images flashed: clouds fluttering at speed across a sky, blue shifting into grey, growing darker, the green and brown of hills with silver burns gliding down their sides, trees and bracken, the sea crashing onto rocks coated in kelp, wildflowers on the machair, a man waving to her, shouting out that he loved her, begging her to swim for home. What was real and what was not, what she saw and what was only memory or imagination, Freya ceased to be able to tell. Time had no meaning. How far she floated, supported by the sea, she did not know. Yet somewhere, in the midst of her isolation, she felt that someone or something was with her. That she was not alone. She caught it, in a blink of gold below the surface of the water, in a flash of scales and silver and light. And she heard its voice in her head.

She drifted past a cluster of rocks, spattered across the ocean. She thought of reaching out to grasp them but they disappeared too fast, too soon. They made her think of letters, stoppered in a jar and consigned to the deep. But they had been released, had they not?

She breathed deeply. Her chest stung and her head smarted. She was bone tired, her body freezing. She closed her eyes and didn't open them. She wanted to, but she couldn't. She had no strength left. Then she heard the ocean braying, felt it clawing at her. She was ready, she thought, to finally let go. But then she heard another voice. Her son's. Swim fast, Mum. The shore will be in front of you before you know it. And then, in a different tone: Mum, do you understand? There is danger for you here.

Freya's eyes snapped open. Her body was tingling but she was alert. She trod water for a moment and then looked around her. She had to get her bearings. But there was no land, no rock anywhere close. Further away she could see hills, but she had no idea where they were. She was out in open ocean, God knew where. She felt the panic lurking, longing to surge. It seemed hopeless. But then she remembered Pol's words.
The sea can be beautiful but it can also be frightening. I overcame the fear.
Freya swallowed and determined to do the same.

She turned in the water and then turned again. Nothing familiar. Then, as she stared ahead, into what seemed like nothing but sky, she saw it. A lighthouse emerging from the surface of the waves. A pale, rose-coloured tower, on the horizon at the very edge of her vision. It was her lighthouse, she was sure of it, beckoning her. East of it, she could see land, and beyond that high mountains. Mull, most likely. So that was north. At last she had something to grasp onto. She turned and looked south and west, and on the opposite horizon as she stared she caught a shadowy glimpse of Dubh Artach. She felt a tremor inside, much as she had when she was last there, and imagined the long, deep tunnel floating away underwater. With a clarity she had not felt in a long time, she knew that that was not the direction she would take. Instead she would swim north, towards home. The route, the quickest and most direct, was still imprinted on her mind from her recent journey to the black rock. She turned and began to swim, her strokes measured. She would follow the lighthouse as a guide, a marker, and she would swim as far as she could.

‘
FREYA, IS IT
you?'

She heard the voice first from a long way away. Her eyes were closed, she knew that much, and her clothes were wet, she thought, although she couldn't be sure exactly what she felt beyond pain. The voice came again. It was nearer this time and she could hear the crunch of feet running towards her. There was also the sound of water, lapping gently close by, the shingle shifting in the rise and fall.

‘Freya, is it you?'

The voice was close now, almost upon her. She inhaled deeply and smelled the ocean, salt and seaweed. Then she opened her eyes.

‘Freya?'

She could see a man running towards her. Then he was down on his knees at her side.

‘Freya.'

He turned her over and the sky came into view. As he brushed the hair from her face she saw clouds like small puffs of smoke. The sky is on fire, she thought.

‘Freya, can you hear me?'

She shifted her gaze to the man. He had kind grey eyes, but they looked anxious, the lines at their edges pronounced. And his body was taut as he repeated her name over and over.

She managed to nod her head. Just a fraction but it hurt her. She tried but she couldn't speak. So she smiled instead.

The man took a sharp intake of breath and then released it. It felt to Freya as if he had been suddenly deflated, his tension dispelled onto the air. Then he smiled back. His eyes lit up when he did that. ‘Jesus, Freya. You had me worried sick. And Torin. He sent me over to check on you.'

He took off his jacket, rolled it up and put it under her head. He examined her as he did it. ‘You're bleeding, Freya. What happened? Where's your boat?'

‘Corryvreckan,' she managed to get out.

Callum's eyes rolled, concern overtaking them again. ‘Jesus. And you made it back here. How the hell …?' His words stuttered to a halt. ‘Are you okay?'

She looked at Callum again. ‘I am now,' she said, and reached for his hand.

He took hers, squeezed it and smiled again. Then he grabbed his phone.

‘I think we need to get someone out here to have a look at you. And you know I'll never be able to get any service down here.'

He fiddled around for a moment or two before giving up. Then he pulled off his sweater and covered her with it. ‘I'll have to go up to the house. Use the phone there. Don't you be going anywhere while I'm gone. Promise?'

Freya smiled but felt a ricochet of pain through her head. She winced and tried to lie still.

‘Aye, don't move, don't try and speak.' Callum jumped to his feet. ‘I'll be back in a minute and I'll bring blankets and water.' He started to leave but then turned back to her as if something had just occurred to him. ‘I almost didn't recognise you. With your hair and everything.'

Freya frowned as she watched him turn and run up the beach to the cottage. What was he talking about? She reached and took a strand of her hair in her hand. What she saw she couldn't believe. It was black. She took another strand and then another. But it was the same. Her hair was black once more. She thought about the Corryvreckan: a flash of silver in the deep, golden hair interlinking with her own.

She felt another stab of pain in her head and closed her eyes. Out of the darkness of her mind a beach appeared, an arc of bright white sand, and behind it a swathe of green machair. From a corner of the beach a young boy came running, stumbling over the rocks as he approached the water's edge, laughing at his own clumsiness. His blond hair was whipped by the wind and his eyes were bright, shining with delight. He looked at her and smiled. I love you, he called out, and she repeated the words back to him. Then the boy turned and shouted out to the man who was following behind him, a tall man with the same eyes, once icy blue but now warm. The man and the boy stood side by side on the beach looking at her for a moment. Then they turned and carried on until they disappeared from view. Freya smiled. It was a special place they had found, that was what she told herself, a place always bathed in sunlight, with a magical spring that kept its inhabitants for ever young. The Green Island. It was a place she too would like to find one day.

She opened her eyes again and, as she lay staring at the sky, she realised something else. It wasn't just her hair that had changed. She felt different too. The darkness inside her had shifted. The pain was still there – would no doubt always be there. But intermingled with it was something else she hadn't felt for a long time. Hope had returned.