Ashes on the Waves Read online

  “You have enough food at home, Liam?”

  I nodded, relieved she’d changed the subject.

  The cowbell on the door clanged, and six-year-old Megan McAlister skipped into the store followed by her mother. I’d seen Megan around. She was sort of a celebrity in our tiny village, being the youngest resident and the only child. This was the first time she’d been in the store since I’d begun working here.

  “Hi, Miss Francine!” Megan said, standing on her tiptoes to peek at the candy jars behind the counter. “You got any saltwater taffy? ’Cause I need some.” She opened her mouth and pointed at a bottom tooth. “It’s wiggly and Mommy says I can have a piece of taffy since I lost my last one that way.”

  Francine patted her head. “I most certainly do. We had a delivery this morning, and it just so happens, candy was in it.” She reached in a jar and gave the little girl a piece of taffy.

  “I hope flour and cornmeal came too,” Mrs. McAlister grumbled. “You’ve been out for a week.”

  Francine opened a cabinet and hefted out a ten-pound cloth bag of flour. She dropped it on the counter with a thud punctuated by a puff of white powder. “Weevils got in the last batch Che of and this shipment was late because of the storms. Cornmeal will be here in a day or two, weather permitting.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Need anything else?”

  Mrs. McAlister leaned closer. “I hear the Leighton girl flew in yesterday. Miss Ronan had Polly and Edmond come up to Taibhreamh to help clean out the cellar and load the supplies off the helicopter. They said there was lots of it. It looks like she’s staying awhile.”

  My heart stopped beating for a moment. She would be here “awhile.”

  Mrs. McAlister glanced over her shoulder at me, so I occupied myself by sorting hardware that customers had dropped back into the wrong bins.

  Megan came over and tugged my shirttail. “Can I help?” She picked up a handful of sixteen-penny nails from the bottom row of bins. Obviously, she hadn’t been told about me yet or she’d have never gotten this close.

  “Sure,” I said. “Those go . . .” I pointed to the bin from which they had come. “There.”

  She gave me a gap-toothed grin and dropped the nails back into place. Other than my ma and Francine, this was the first time someone had actually smiled at me.

  “Well done.”

  “Megan! Come away from him!” her mother shrieked.

  As if electrocuted, Megan ran to her mother’s side.

  By this point in my life, I’d discovered that it was not possible to truly become desensitized or accustomed to discrimination. It is something one endures—and I had suffered it since my unfortunate birth almost eighteen years prior. Even my pa considered me an outcast.

  Other than Ma, Francine was the only person who had ever treated me with respect. Well, other than Anna Leighton. But that was a long time ago; she probably didn’t even remember. She certainly hadn’t shown any signs of recognition last night on the jetty.

  I took a deep breath and resumed sorting.

  “With only one good arm, he can’t be much help to you, Francine. Why do you keep him on here?” Mrs. McAlister whispered just loud enough for me to hear. I’d learned that statements intended to cause hurt could be excused if “accidentally” imparted.

  “Why would I not?” Francine’s voice was level, but her Scottish burr had deepened. I was familiar with this tone. She was angry.

  “Because he’s . . .” Mrs. McAlister looked at me, then at Megan.

  Another thing I’d learned about discrimination is that the perpetrator often dons a mask of false politeness to obscure the ugly reality of fear and hatred.

  “. . . He’s, you know . . .”

  Francine leaned over the counter so that her face was quite close to Mrs. McAlister’s. “I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me, Katie lass?”

  The woman’s face flushed crimson.

  Were it not for the fact I’d witnessed this scenario played numerous times, I’d have found solace in her discomfort. Instead, I knew it was yet another of Francine’s valiantly fought battles in a war she could never win. Neither of us could.

  “He’s cursed. He’s human flesh worn by a demon!” Mrs. McAlister blurted out.

  My heart sank as Megan, still clinging to her mother’s leg, stared up at me. She no l C me’songer wore her prior look of wonder and joy. Instead, she chewed her taffy, deep blue eyes brimming with distrust. The loathing her mother harbored would come later. Fear is instinctual; loathing

  is ingrained over time.

  3

  They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

  —Edgar Allan Poe,

  from “Eleonora,” 1841

  Don’t think on it.” Francine lowered herself into a chair across from me at the round table in the storeroom. “The old ways are hard for folks to shake off. It’s simple ignorance.”

  There was nothing simple about this. The lore of my people was complex and ran as deep as human imagination allowed. I accepted the cup of tea she pushed toward me. “Thank you.”

  Ordinarily, my situation was tolerable. In this case, it riled me to see a gentle child’s spirit tainted. Megan was as much a victim as I.

  I’d learned long ago that I couldn’t stop it, but if I began to believe the stories, I would become as lost as they expected; I refused to let that happen. So instead, I had developed the ability to tune out the ugliness and bring beauty into focus. If that part of my soul remained dominant, the darker side of me could not advance.

  My antidote? Anna Leighton. I hadn’t seen her close to twelve years, but she had sustained me since childhood. And she was here. Last night I’d seen her. Heard her voice. Felt her warmth seep into my own skin heating my very soul.

  “Liam? Are you okay?” Francine’s pale eyes searched my face. “You’re trembling.”

  So I was. Perfect concentric circles vibrated inward across the surface of the tea in the cup clutched firmly in my palm. I released the cup and leaned back in my chair. “I’m fine.”

  She reached across the table and patted my hand. “For all the reading you do, you certainly aren’t one for words, are you?”

  Words were inadequate. They never came out as intended. “No.” I gave her a smile.

  The bell clanged, followed by a light creaking of the floorboards. “Hello?”

  I stood so abruptly, I knocked my chair over. That voice. Her voice. All night, I’d run it through my head. Over the years, I’d often imagined what she’d sound like grown up. The reality exceeded expectations.

  “Hello?” she said again. “Is anyone here?”

  “Just a moment,” Francine called. She lowered her voice and leveled her gaze on me. “Well, don’t just stand there with your jaw hanging open, Liam. Go help the girl.”

  No. Not now. Not yet. I shook my head.

  Francine stood. “For the love of heaven, lad. Make things happen.” She patted my cheek. “Just a moment. I’m coming!”

  I remained momentarily frozen in both mind and body. Last night, I’d come upon her by accident and had acted out of necessity. She’d been about to succumb to the call of the sea. Today, she was simply . . . here. Touching things I’d touched. Breathing the same air.

  For so long I’d held on to her as a concept. Now she was Fthi tangible.

  Her voice drifted through the air like music. “I’m told you have a phone. My cell doesn’t work on this godforsaken island and I really need to make a call. It’s kind of urgent.”

  “Well, I have a satellite phone, but it is quite old and awkward; I’ll have to work it for you,” Francine answered.

  “I don’t care if you have to use smoke signals; I need to get hold of my parents.”

  I smiled. She was quick-witted. Taking a deep breath, I silently moved to the doorway and peeked into the store.

  There she was—hands on hips—the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Ebony waves cascaded over her s
houlders, and her clothes, unlike any worn here on Dòchas, clung to her slender form like those from the etching of Venus in my book of nineteenth-century French poetry. I covered my mouth to stifle a gasp.

  “And, I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you. I have to pay two dollars and fifty cents for each minute. Sorry, lass.”

  “Whatever it takes. I just have to make this call.”

  Francine led her to the phone in the corner. After turning some dials on the console and entering the number Anna recited, she handed the receiver over and walked to the counter.

  “Hello, Mom?” She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Oh. Hi, Aunt Susan. I need to talk to Mom or Dad.” She brushed her hair over one shoulder. “Is Charles there, then? . . . Good, I’ll talk to him instead. Thanks.” She examined her pink fingernails and tapped her foot.

  “Why don’t you come on out here?” Francine whispered. “You’ve pined for this girl for over a decade.”

  I had not pined for her. Pining suggested sorrow or angst. My thoughts of her were never sad. I dreamed of her. Not about being with her, just . . . of her. Who she was, what she was doing.

  I stepped just inside the doorway.

  “Charles!” she said. “You’ve gotta send someone to come get me. . . .” She twirled her finger in her hair while the person on the other end spoke. “I know it’s Mom and Dad’s decision, but it’s because of you and your stupid wedding. . . . That’s not true! Come on. Give me a break. The people here are nuts. . . . No, really. The old bat that runs Taibhreamh is totally out of her mind talking about evil spirits and supernatural stuff. She really believes it, too. They all do. . . . Charles. You’re not listening. None of you ever listen. I think I’m in danger. And a guy jumped me last night . . . Charles? Are you there? Hello? Dammit.” She slammed the receiver back in the cradle.

  “Careful there, lass,” Francine said. “It might be old, but it’s all I have.”

  She turned to face us. “Sorry, I just—”

  Her eyes locked onto mine, and the world stopped.

  “You,” she gasped.

  “I didn’t jump you.” My voice was barely above a whisper. I hadn’t even intended to say it out loud.

  She yanked the straps of her handbag higher on her shoulder. “What would you call it, then?”

  She was in denial, which wasn’t uncommon. I denied it myself the first time the sea tried to lure me to my death. “I was keeping you safe.”

  “W Kizemysell, in keeping me safe by pouncing on me, you gave me bruises all down my back. Wanna see?” She stuck her chin out in magnificent defiance and turned, lifting the bottom of her shirt. Angry, violet-tinged bruises marred the perfect alabaster skin on the small of her back. I winced at the thought I might have been responsible for the marks. Still, she would’ve been much worse than bruised had I not come along. She lifted her shirt higher still. From what I knew of her from the tabloids, she did things for shock value. This was certainly no exception, and it worked. My body reacted viscerally to the sight of her bare expanse of flesh and black lace bra.

  Two could play this game. “I’m bruised as well. Would you care to see?”

  She looked over her shoulder and lowered her eyes to the area in question, then back to my face. And then she did the most remarkable thing: she laughed. As if the sun had emerged from behind a cloud, her laughter lit my soul. That singular sound wielded far more power than any cutting remark uttered by Mrs. McAlister, and for a brilliant moment, my dreams and reality collided.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you last night,” I said. “I didn’t intend to injure you.”

  “Sorry I racked you,” she replied. “I did mean to injure you.”

  “Anna Leighton, this is Liam MacGregor,” Francine said with a wide grin. “But you’ve already met.”

  “Yes, last night was quite an introduction,” Anna said, meeting my eyes directly. “You should really adopt an introduce-yourself-first-then-tackle-later policy.”

  Francine shook her head. “No. I mean before that.”

  Anna’s brow furrowed. I hadn’t truly expected her to remember me, but somewhere in a recess deep in my being, I’d hoped.

  “Princess Annabel,” I said, bowing.

  She took a step back. “Oh, my God. You’re . . .” She looked me up and down. “You’re Prince Leem. Whoa. You’ve gotten . . . tall.”

  My heart felt too large for my chest. She remembered. “Growing up usually yields that result.”

  “And you talk funny—like somebody out of an old book.”

  “Yes, that too. Puberty rendered me tall with peculiar speech patterns.”

  She laughed again, and I was in bliss. This was the Anna I’d imagined for all those years. Not the one from the tabloids, but the one who spent a summer long ago on the beach with me, chasing crabs on the rocks and building sand castles. My Anna.

  Her laughter faded and silence stretched between us as we simply stared at each other. Surely, memories of childhood were swirling through her brain as well, finding their correct slot and slipping into place, reconciling past with present.

  She reached into her handbag. “So, how much do I owe you?” she asked Francine.

  “Oh, nothing right now.” Francine looked pleased with herself. “You’ll probably be needing to use the phone again, so I’ll just keep a tab. You just come on down whenever you want.”

  “Thanks.” Her eyes met mine briefly before she lowered her gaze to the floor at my feet, as if hit by a wave of sudden shyness. “Well, bye, Prince Leem.”

  Then she was gone, cowbell clanging in her wake, leaving behind the ghost of her laughter and the scent of fresh-cut lilies. I filled my lungs with th Klunlane smell of her.

  “Well, what are you doing just standing there, boy?” Francine said. “You can’t let an opportunity like this pass you by. Get your carcass out there and walk her home or something.”

  * * *

  Muireann had never been all the way into the humans’ harbor before. A delightful thrill shot through her body as she watched a male with red hair and a matching red beard untangle buoy lines on some lobster traps on the wooden pier.

  “Dad would be really angry if he knew you were here,” her sister, Keela, whispered from behind, causing Muireann to flinch and reflexively duck underwater. Staring up, she noticed Keela’s head was still above water. She relaxed and allowed her body to float back up to the surface.

  “How did you find me?” Muireann asked.

  Keela rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t much of a challenge. I simply followed you.”

  The human with the red beard whistled a lighthearted tune as he hefted a trap onto the front end of a fishing boat tethered to the pier. Another man tromped up, his heavy footsteps cutting the whistling short.

  “Quick, over here,” Keela whispered, bumping Muireann to steal her attention away from the humans.

  Muireann ducked behind a boat tied to a buoy a little farther out from the pier and peeked around to watch the humans. “Why must we hide?”

  “Because Dad says the harbor is dangerous. The boat motors can hurt us and there are too many humans in one place.”

  “They seem harmless enough,” Muireann said.

  “We should go back.” Keela nudged her.

  “Fine.” As Muireann reached the mouth of the harbor, she turned back for one last look. Her breath caught as a human female she’d never seen befor

  e strode down the pier on long, slender legs.

  4

  Just as the day dawns to the friendless and houseless beggar who roams the streets throughout the long desolate winter night—just so tardily—just so wearily—just so cheerily came back the light of the Soul to me.

  —Edgar Allan Poe,

  from “The Premature Burial,” 1844

  By the time I caught up with her, Anna was halfway down the harbor pier. She didn’t appear surprised by my presence. She simply turned and smiled as if she knew I’d come. I suspected this should shame or humble me, but instead
, I was emboldened. She wanted me to follow her—expected it, even.

  She paused to look over the edge of the pier at a barnacle-encrusted piling. “This place stinks.”

  “Stinks literally or figuratively?”

  One of her perfectly arched eyebrows shot up and she studied me for a moment. “Both.” She resumed her stroll toward the end of the pier and I followed. “How do you stand living here?”

  “Is your question rhetorical or do you really want an answer?”

  She glanced at me over her shoulder. “Do you have an answer?”

  “No.”

  “Stnt size="-1">“Rhetorical, then.” She stopped short when a sand louse darted across the planks in front of her and slipped between the boards near the edge. “Yuck.”

  “I assume you don’t have many of those in New York City.”

  She stopped beside an empty boat slip and leaned against a piling. “We’ve got creepy-crawly things that make that bug look like nothing. We have rats the size of small house cats.”

  I wanted desperately to close the distance between us but stopped well outside of arm’s reach. “Sounds lovely.”

  She brushed aside the hair the wind had blown across her forehead and gave me a leisurely, thorough perusal from head to toe and then back up again. “You grew up good, Liam. And you’re educated. There’s no school on this island, so you must have been sent out. Where did you go?”

  “No one born here leaves. I suppose you could say I’m self-educated.”

  Again, the eyebrow lifted.

  “Liam! What the hell are you doing down here?” Pa’s voice shattered the first joy I’d had in a long time as easily as if it were a piece of brittle glass. Wearing his usual flannel shirt and waders, he glared at me, fists clenched. “Get back up to the store and make yourself useful.”

  His boat was docked in the last slot, and his fishing partner, Johnny, was loading some mended lobster traps on the deck. The storm had prevented them from going out last night, which would put Pa in an even fouler mood than usual. At least he was heading out and not coming in. Still, I wasn’t in the mood for an altercation, or a black eye for that matter. Since Ma’s death a year ago, he’d had little patience with me.