From above the coarse, clumpy sand she stood watching the horizon. It had been ten days. Across which freezing gales, and Atlantic salts had gnawed at her cheeks, and bit upon her finger tips without mercy. Her eyes watered. From the culmination of the reflection of the light, the winds, weather, and the molten gloom that ate away at her insides. The hours crept as much as the days had sped past. Time, said by many to be a healer, had done nothing but torment Fiona.
And the days marched on.
The ocean air made the heavy cloth of her dress and cloak stick and itch upon her skin. After two weeks the black of her clothes had been peppered with enough salt to be mistaken for a dusting of snow by those from a distance. Up close, the stains twinkled like salt of sweat, and the dust that of filthing dander. It needn't matter. She fancied for no one's opinions. She cared not for the eyes of others. She cared for nothing. Not of comfort, not of self. Fiona gave no further thought to the coals of sorrow smouldering from where her heart had once lived. Fiona had been hollowed. Emptied, of her love, her heart, her thoughts. Even the hurt of hunger had left. Abandoning her after days of suffering through her silence and inattention. Now, she couldn't even find the feeling in memory.
She moved not.
The weeks rolled and Fiona had become a fixture. A sad sight for the others in the village. In whispers the elders would speak, fearing their beloved girl would become fodder for poetry, or the subject of another sad song added to annals of the pub's songbooks.
By the end of the month the only company she'd keep was that of the squalling gulls. As for the villagers they'd all taken their crack at comforting her. Going to the beach. Sinking their feet in the cold, wet sand. Standing beside her and saying their soft words. Bringing her food, and drinks. Sweets and teas. Whiskey, and cigarettes. She'd give them her gratitude in nods, and croak her thanks. But never a word more. Rare even to grace them with the blue of her eyes. Until one by one, they gave way to her sorrow. They'd mourned with her. The whole community had mourned together after the tragedy. After Manannán had collected his boon.
It hadn't been the first. It wouldn't be the last. The ups and downs of lives took as consistent as the waves crashing along the shoreline. Breaking against the cliffs, returning to the depths, and back again. And now they watched the water take another. Cold and cruel. They watched their Fiona drowning ea ch day on the sand. Gasping for a breath well after the Sun set itself to rest. Staying long past the pub’s last patron stumbled to the black of night, and the barricading of its doors.
Until she could hardly stand.
Then by some miracle she'd step her aching limbs over the rocky roads, past the dwindling candle light from her neighbour's windows, back, to her bed. Atop her mattress Fiona would curl to a fetal ball of hurt under her thin sheets until a cold dreamless sleep took her.
Although irregular, her rise was inevitable. On days her body forced longer rest Fiona's neighbours would prematurely rejoice at her absence over their breakfasts. Disappointment would creep back with Fiona's tracks across the sand in the late of the afternoons. Her frozen pain had become a shared wound that would not heal.
She haunted the shore, waiting for their ghosts.
The tireless priest had been the last to worn and wain. Convinced the good word would save her from the cold hell she'd cast herself to. When his sermons had sputtered he'd reached for his good book. By the end of season he'd reached the last passage, on the last page, and the pale girl stood on. Unmoved by God's hand.
As their pity plundered, their resentment rose. Fiona withstood the shouting, she fought not their hands. She let herself be pulled away, pulled to bed, pulled by the women to wash. She ate their soups, chewed their breads. It mattered not if she stood by water or sat in their arms- she was as gone to the world as soul's she'd lost. Gone as the songs in her throat.
They pleaded and begged as she had in her bed on the first day she received the news. Between her suffers and shakes. Their bargains meant as much as their kind words and threats. Fiona was not there. It mattered not if she was in the sand, or in her bed. Her hollowed heart was as empty as their rooms. As empty as the coffins that had been placed at their gravesite.
She waited.
She waited for five long months. Over two seasons. Through the heat, through the rain. She waited for him to collect her too, or their impossible return. Until on a sleeting Saturday morning, When the crack of the ferry's five minute bell warning from the docks, sounded something inside of her.
Without a second thought Fiona walked with the pennies in her pocket, to a boatman of her own. He knew the pale frail girl, he knew her from his passings. He refused her fare, found her a free seat, and took sweet Fiona passage. Took her to find herself across the water.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write