This is a short story adapted
from my first novel, Swim the Moon, and is an exclusive to
this site.
Cold Comfort © Paul
Brandon 1998 All Rights Reserved. Unauthorised copying or
distribution of any part in any form prohibited without
written permission from the author
Cold
Comfort
Sorrow washed over me completely, like a flood-fuelled
winter tide.
There’s been so much loss in my family that I think the
death of my father had come as no true surprise. I had been
mournful at first, conveniently faraway, but once I’d
arrived here, one grief had replaced another. I was beyond
tears, and although his death left a hollow place inside of
me, I knew I would not cry.
I would grieve later, on my own, like I had before.
Shrugging the unaccustomed weight of my black coat
slightly, I picked at the now-cold offerings of the buffet
and tried to turn my thoughts away. With a few morsels
cupped in the palm of my hand, I slipped through the
impressive crowd to where the front doors stood open. The
church hall smelt strongly of food, old ladies’ perfume and
varnish, but once on the threshold, my senses broke through
the cacophony of noise and aroma. I could hear the distant
thunder of the waves breaking on the cliffs and the gulls
squabbling over the scraps thrown to them by the
net-menders. I was aware of the salty tang of the
sea-breeze, tainted only slightly by the smell from the
fishing boats, and of the damp fragrance of the purple
heather that collared the hill behind the church. I took a
deep breath, and a hundred scenes flashed through my mind
like someone flicking the pages of a journal, the faces and
scenes blurring into a collage of memory, sorrow and dream.
My father acted through some of them, but most were of
another, even dearer person that I’d also lost to the sea.
The images were fierce in their poignancy; complex and
overwhelming. I’d shut them away, guarded and secure for
six years, but here, in this small Scottish village just
about as far north as I could possibly get from the place I
had grudgingly called home, they had found a key, and were
returning triumphant. I lowered my head a little, trying to
submerge them in a lake of the mundane, the commonplace,
but it was no use. They had been awoken, and I thought that
perhaps this time it would not be so easy to run. For a
moment, the images were so consuming that I didn’t see my
sister leaning against the thick door jamb next to me.
Short and fair-haired, she looked the complete antithesis
to my rangy, dark form, but although we looked at the world
through different pairs, we shared the same eyes.
Those that knew recognised us as kin, and once, we had been
inseparable, but now we were more like cousins that are
reunited only for weddings, or funerals. She too lived in
Australia, but still, we hardly ever spoke; only the
occasional Christmas or birthday, or the odd time when she
would turn up wherever I happened to be performing.
Florence was the strong one.
“What is it about the men in this family and water?” she
asked heavily. Her large blue eyes were ringed from
tiredness and emotion. I shook my head and shrugged, not
really knowing what to say. She saw my reaction and pressed
on. “I mean, I could understand them drowning if they were
all fishermen or something, but they weren’t —Dad was an
architect for Christ’s sake.”
I removed my glasses and rubbed them clean, my fingers
tracing the round metal of the rims through the cloth as I
absently listened to Florence. She looked up at me
critically, brushing a few strands of grey-coursed, dark
curling hair away from my face. I might be nearing forty,
but she’ll always be my older sister.
“God, Richard, this must be so hard for you,” she said
softly, her large eyes searching my downcast face. I just
nodded, pushing my glasses back on.
“It’s pretty painful,” I replied eventually, my voice
thick. “I know I should be here for Dad, but...I see her
everywhere, Florence. I can’t help it.”
She took my arm and steered me down the slick steps and out
into the graveyard. The tombstones reared around us like
old teeth, and as the bell tolled mournfully, Florence
said, “Perhaps you shouldn’t have come.”
I shrugged again, the gesture barely perceptible under the
thick woollen coat. The wind chased the leaves around us,
sculpturing them against the headstones like snow. The
clouds were rolling in from the sea, and from the leaden,
almost metallic feeling in the air, and I knew there was a
storm coming without having to think about it. I drew a
slow breath and looked around. Below us, the houses dotted
over the gentle slope of the hill like milling sheep,
Seaholme lay silent, most of the villagers being inside the
church. The water stretched away behind like a grey
blanket, and even from this distance I could see the white
flecks of foam as the wind brushed against the tips of the
waves, coaxing them higher up the rough beach. My view
travelled back over the village and across the high,
cliff-faced glen that sheltered the tiny bay, picturing the
tiny crofter’s cottage I knew lay on the other side.
Our ancestral home.
I’d lived there for a time, sharing the peace and wonder
with my beloved wife, Elisabeth, but then she’d been lost
in a boating accident and my world had died around me. I’d
been forced away, driven if you like.
Too many ghosts.
The pain was still there, as raw and aching as the last
time I’d walked this churchyard, those six years past.
Within two months of the funeral, I’d packed and moved as
far south as was possible, following the trail of my mother
and only sister who had both moved to Australia when the
divorce had been settled.
But I was back, and a wound that had never really been
healed was open again, and once more bleeding.
Treading through the wet-bladed moor grass, the sorrow
nearly choked me. It seemed a lifetime since I’d looked
upon Seaholme, but nothing had changed, not even me.
I suppose in a place like this, nothing ever does.
Her gravestone was here —somewhere underneath the spreading
canopy of the ancient yew tree, but I’d only ever been
there the once. To see it was to admit she was really gone.
The people were beginning to file out of the church, a
black-clad line of sombre-faced Scots, hard and resistant
outside, shelling warm and passionate interiors that glowed
like the coals under an old fire. It was this land that
cultivated my love of folk music —taught by a granite-faced
man who only came to life when his bow ignited fire along
his fiddle strings. As they passed us, each offered their
condolences; a prayer, a word, sometimes only a nod. How
different we must’ve seemed —the pair of quasi-Australians
complete with tans and fledgling accents, but we were
embraced all the same, like children come home.
It all ended eventually, and Florence and I parted, knowing
we would meet in a few days to discuss the will at the
solicitors in Fort William. Despite his frugal last years,
dad had been wealthy; and as well as the small cottage,
there was another, larger residence further inland, and a
substantial sum distributed about the local banks. I
dreaded the picking over his leavings, but it had to be
done.
* *
*
The clouds were
clearing as I drove south out of the town, and although the
sky was still moody, there was an air of change gusting
through the mountains around Glencoe.
My hands tightened on the wheel of the rental car as I
mulled over what had happened. The solicitors had been curt
and precise, delivering the will with a practised air of
solemn sincerity. Florence had inherited the manor house,
and I the money and the cottage. On paper, the values
worked out even, a fair half each (mother had been struck
off long ago), but I knew dad’s ulterior motives, and
although my mind balked at the idea, I found I was actually
contemplating moving back. I could easily make a living
playing my fiddle in the legion of pubs and inns that
proliferated the western coast, so money was certainly not
the problem, no.
I would have to face the past.
My mind worried at the thoughts like a terrier does a rat,
but deep down, I knew I had already made the
decision.
* *
*
It took a lot
less time than I anticipated.
I sold most of my things, keeping only clothes, essentials
and my fiddle. The hardest thing was booking the flight,
but my new-found wealth helped considerably, and within
three weeks, I had said my goodbyes in Brisbane, and was on
my way back to Scotland.
I had my first real stab of doubt as I steered the Land
Rover between the two narrow posts and down the thin ribbon
of overgrown lane that wound down the croft to the sea, and
the cottage. It was all so familiar; the twisted,
wind-blasted trees, the moss-smeared rocks, the velvet
grass. I crested the rise and stopped suddenly. The small
building sat before me, looking out to sea.
Waiting.
My breath faltered and my heart beat against my chest like
a caged bird as I looked upon my old home. I fumbled with
the door, swinging it open and stepping down from the warm
cabin into the blustery sea air. I hesitated, digging my
hands into my pockets as I started forwards, feet moving of
their own accord. Immense white clouds floated silently
against a perfect backdrop of blue, and the sun that
slipped out between them gilded the shimmering sea. The
wind was fresh and biting, coming in off the Atlantic and
circling the hills and mountains before sweeping back down
the glen. My boots made no sound on the spongy ground, and
quite suddenly I was before the bleached timber door. I
stopped, the memories overwhelming me at
last.
He opens the
door and steps into the inviting warmth of the room. Under
the stone mantle, a bright, cheery fire throws forth
shadows that chase tails across the walls, and the smell of
simmering soup fills the air. To one side, a woman, golden,
sun-streaked hair dancing down her back, stands facing away
from him, unaware, as she uncorks a bottle of wine. He
closes the door, puts down his fiddle case and pads across
the flagstone floor, his arms encircling her slim waist,
his face burrowing into her wondrous, wildflower-scented
hair. She turns in his arms, her eyes sparkling like
emeralds in the flickering candlelight as she smiles and
kisses him warmly...
I pushed open
the door slowly, not knowing who was the more reluctant,
the old hinges or myself. Damp air seeped out like a
released breath, and I finally crossed the invisible
barrier my imagination had erected. It was larger than I
remembered, swelled with the feeling of a place too long
alone. Although it was here that he had drowned, the old
man had not lived in the crofter’s cottage in the true
sense of the word, rather just used it to escape from the
chaos that had become his life.
With my hands back within the scant warmth of my pockets, I
wandered from the dim room into the kitchen, and then on
into the single bedroom. I did a mental stock-take, noting
that the bed linen would need to be replaced, as would a
fair amount of the old iron pots and pans. I walked slowly
through my old home, submerging my mind with a hundred
little details from the important to the paltry, just to
keep the memories at bay.
Eventually, I left the house and walked the short distance
to the beach. With one hand holding my wind-tossed hair
back from my face, I gazed out across the rolling waters
for what seemed an age. A few feet away, the waves broke
against the shore, stirring the shingle into hissing life
as the waters retreated like an intaken breath, only to
surge forward again. Above me, black-backed seagulls, the
living souls of the dead fishermen, turned cartwheels on
the strong breeze, their cries haunting and almost mocking
as they dived and swooped. To my right, nestled within the
lea of the rocks and drawn up safely away from the water, a
single boat lay, upside down as it slept on two old railway
sleepers. I crossed to it, slowly running my hand along the
rough, barnacled keel.
Crouching down, my fingers traced the fading, inverted
letters of its name; The Selkie.
That had been my grandfather’s idea and insistence, despite
the objections of his believing wife. She had known it
would bring the family nothing but ill omen, and she had
been right. But still none of us had had the courage to
change the name.
But nothing could be really be changed.
I took a deep breath of the cool air and let my hand fall.
As I rose and trudged back up the beach towards the Land
Rover, the sun was slowly curtained by a thick cloud, and
the shadow gradually overtook me, leaching the colour from
the land yet still leaving it beautiful.
* *
*
The first night
was the hardest.
With my supper plate pushed away and a large wood fire
burning in the grate, I settled back, one hand toying with
a glass of red wine. The cottage was alive with ghosts as
the candles and lamps guttered fitfully. I had no
electricity or gas —neither did most of Seaholme, but I had
fresh running water and most importantly, time.
The breathing of the Atlantic was a sound I had sadly
missed during my years abroad, and as I closed my eyes,
resting my head on my arms, it lulled me almost as much as
the absent recorded music I would have doubtless been
playing had I the means.
It was very late when I was suddenly awakened. The fire had
burned down to a bed of throbbing embers, and the table was
puddled with melted wax from the dead stubs of candles. I
strained my ears, listening for the sound that had woken
me. Without knowing it, I was holding my breath, only to
exhale when the call came again; the bark of a seal.
I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and resting my
elbows on the smooth wood. The sound repeated, once, twice,
then stopped. I rose, scraping the chair back on the stone,
and reached down for my fiddle. Pausing only to free it
from its case, I pulled open the door and started out into
the night.
The sand of the beach shifted restlessly under my bare
feet, and the wind tugged at my white shirt like a child at
play. A bright moon hung like a pendant out over the ocean,
lighting the water from the beach to the horizon with a
silver corridor of light. The air was suffuse with the
smell of the sea and wildflowers; memories that clung to me
like brambles on a cliff-top path.
Mist gathered wraith-like in the hollows between the rocks
and, knowing exactly where to place my hands and feet, I
climbed up. I sat down, my back to a large boulder, facing
the water, and after only the briefest hesitation, began to
play. It was an old Irish air, one with a hundred names,
but known to me as Casadh na nGéanna, The Turning of the
Geese. It had been Bethy’s favourite, and as my bow slowly
stroked across the strings, I pictured her face. The music
was released from within me and taken gently by the wind
out over the moonlit waters. I imagined it like smoke,
writhing and gradually dissipating as if reluctant to
release its corporeal form. As the tune progressed slowly,
I became aware of the small shapes bobbing in the
moonlight-channel, watching, listening. For each one that
appeared, ripples would circle out across the still water.
There were five in all, and as I played, my eyes locked
with the nearest, one I instinctively knew was female. The
liquid pools, tinted with green —or was that a trick of the
moon?— blinked knowingly, and for a moment, I knew she
could see into my soul. She called out again, raising her
face to the sky as she sculled out what sounded like a
single word. A name.
Richard…
The fiddle fell from my fingers, landing on the shingle. I
stood quickly, my muscles protesting at the sudden
movement, and as I leaped from the rocks, stumbled, then
ran to the water’s edge, I cried, “Elisabeth!”
One by one, the small domes of the seals’ heads dipped
smoothly back under the water. The nearest lingered, just
for an instant longer, then it too disappeared.
I was once again alone.
I fell heavily to my knees, ignorant of the sudden wetness.
My fingers clawed at the heavy sand by my sides as my eyes
searched the sea. The moon slipped behind a thin tendril of
cloud, and like a door gradually closing on the horizon,
the corridor of light was extinguished.
I lowered my face into my cold hands and wept
bitterly.
* *
*
A day later, and
I awoke cold, damp and naked, the sheets tangled around my
legs.
I sat up shivering, the threads of a dream that I couldn’t
quite gather together skeining through my head.
With one hand pinching the bridge of my nose, the other
patted noisily across the bedside table, searching until it
found my glasses. Putting them on, I raked my hands through
my mop of hair then wrinkled my nose as a peculiar aroma
assaulted my nostrils. Brackish and pungent, the air was
sharp with the smell of seaweed and the ocean. Tugging on a
pair of jeans, I padded towards the bedroom door then
stopped suddenly as my foot slipped on a small puddle of
water. My first reaction was to look up to the ceiling, and
other than seeing no hole, I realised it had not been
raining. I opened the door, letting it swing gently out.
What I saw sent a thrill of, well, fear I suppose, gliding
down my back like ice. Sunlight slatted through the thick,
watery glass of the windows, spilling off the table and
chairs and onto the cold floor. Dust motes danced merrily
within the pillars of amber light, swirling like dervishes
as I disturbed the still air. The fire was long dead, and
both the oil lamps had burned down to the quick. But it
wasn’t the postcard quality of the scene that so beguiled
me, it was the dozen or so small pools that led from the
bed to the outside door like footprints. I crouched down by
one, picking up a small strand of black weed and rubbing it
thoughtfully between my fingers. The smell was stronger in
here, like rockpools in the sun, but there was something
else, an undertone that spoke in whispers to my primal
self.
The exterior door was slightly ajar, and as I slowly opened
it, I had to shield my eyes from the sudden brilliance of
the sun that had at last been granted entrance. The small
band of scrub grass that led from the cottage to the beach
looked normal, and as I walked slowly down, I could see no
more of the curious watermarks. With skin goose-bumped from
the frigid breeze (but I wasn’t really cold), I went back
inside. My curiosity was afire, and although I had a
million and one things to do today, I knew the time would
ebb excruciatingly slowly toward the next dawn of the
moon.
* *
*
Two mornings
later, and a gift awaited my awakening.
I discovered it at the foot of my bed; a sudden splash of
vivid colour sitting atop the dark green cotton of my
bedspread. Where, at the beginning of winter, she found
such a flower I do not know. It had an odd look to it; long
lobed, lop-sided petals brushed with a brilliant amber-
yellow colour danced around a centre that was darkest
damask and smelled fresh, almost citrusy. There was no
stem, just a large flower head that filled my cupped palm.
It reminded me a little of the summer orchids or the lilies
that sometimes floated around the banks of the more
sheltered locks and pools, but this flower was unlike any I
could remember. But then, I was hardly a botanist, and I’d
read somewhere there were pockets of land in Sutherland
where almost sub-tropical flowers and plants bloomed —a
little like the Burren in Ireland, I suppose. I lowered my
face to the centre of the petals and took a deep breath.
The scent evoked images of the hills, and also, oddly
enough, the ocean floor.
I shivered with both the cold and with a delicious sense of
excitement knowing that last night she had stood here, as
silent and noiseless as a ghost and watched me sleep. I
wondered why I felt no apprehension, no concern over the
intrusion into my privacy.
I padded barefoot from the bedroom into the kitchen,
wondering what I should do with the gift. Left as it was,
the flower would surely be dead by the end of day, and
there was no way I could put it in a vase. Eventually, I
filled a shallow bowl with water and just let the flower
head float. I placed it in the centre of the table,
marvelling at the sudden splash of colour the room quickly
borrowed from it.
* *
*
It began to
rain.
Starting as a fine drizzle late in the afternoon, the vast
shapes that hung in the sky out to sea seemed to assemble,
then decide to move inextricably towards land, the heavy
rain hanging below them like a dirty gauze. It lashed over
me vehemently as I stepped down from the Land Rover. I
stood for a moment, feeling the sting of the drops on my
face as the storm continued up the croft, lashing at the
grass and silvering the trees with a coat of water. I
cursed the sky, my shouting angry and incoherent through
the fury of the falling rain. The surface of the ocean was
stippled and untrue, and the white-capped waves that broke
against the shore were tall, strong and resentful. I walked
slowly, deliberately through the wall of water that the sky
spat hatefully down onto me. Reaching the solace of the
cottage, I thundered inside, slamming the door. The water
dribbled off my waxed jacket, seeking the joins in the
stone floor at my feet.
* *
*
The daylight was
long gone, and with a small fire flickering before me, I
sat in a chair next to the window, looking out longingly.
A single finger tapped a dull tattoo against the old, thick
glass, a counterpoint to the churning murmur of the tide
that continued on regardless to my moods. The rain had not
eased, and far away, occasionally visible to me, sudden
streaks of white lightning would stagger down from the sky.
The crofter’s cottage smelt strongly of earth, stone and
smouldering wood, and the base aromas were somehow
comforting and welcoming in their complexity. I thought
about playing some music, but my hands were stiff and cold,
and I knew there would be no hiding behind a tune. Sighing,
I rubbed the glass free of condensation and looked back
through the square of window.
There would be nothing out there tonight.
* *
*
With the western
sky was pinking, the sun set slowly, brushing the last of
the fleeing rain clouds with a rosy lambency as if there
were soft bulbs inside the swells of each.
The sky above me was a depthless indigo, the wondrous
halfway tint between night and day. Almost breathless with
anticipation, I paced the beach, kicking at stones and
driftwood while I waited.
When I could delay no longer, I went back inside and
fetched my fiddle, tuning it briefly as I crunched down to
where I had sat before, amid the dark outlines of the
rocks.
With the night fully dark, and a heavy, swollen moon
gradually lifting into the sky, I began to play. The air
was filled with the perfect notes, a melody as pure and
unbroken as the mirror that glided away in front of me. I
closed my eyes and let the night seep into me, filling me,
comforting me. Time extended then, stretching out into one
long moment, only broken by the rise and fall of the notes,
the steadying voice of the gentle waves, and the
counterpoint of the curious breeze that breathed down the
croft.
Then I heard it.
A single bark, like a hail, or a welcome.
Still playing, I opened my eyes slowly. The moon was high
now, suspended expectantly in the black, and the shaft of
phosphorent light was brilliant and almost dazzling. I
picked out the single listener easy enough, an individual
head that poked from the water. I fancied I could make out
the detail on the face, the deep green eyes, the slightly
amused mouth, even a light dusting of summer freckles.
I changed the tune, summoning an aching air from my heart.
The single seal was joined by others, all watching, barely
disturbing the luminous water as they dipped down, only to
reappear elsewhere.
The first one lifted her face and called out, the same
desolate plea as before, and as I heard my name carried to
me by the errant wind, I stopped playing and
listened.
Come...Swim the
moon...Swim the moon with us...
Stepping down
from the rocks, I gently laid my fiddle down and began
peeling off my clothes, shedding my land-skin with a
single-minded resolution.
I took two single steps towards the sea and dived smoothly
in. The sudden bitter cold lanced into my mind, urgent and
demanding, but my desire and determination swallowed it,
pushing it aside like a troublesome insect.
With a last, deep breath, I clung to my humanity, savouring
it, cherishing it one final time, then I inverted myself,
my arms wheeling, legs kicking as I swam down to the deeper
places. I pushed through the black, eyes stinging from the
cold and the salt then, with a fierce burning and a
shuddering flash of pain, all cleared, and I knifed though
clear, lagoonal waters, my strokes broad and effortless.
There were shapes below me, amid the shoals of fleeting
fish, floating almost ethereally, all recognisable, all
beckoning, welcoming. I saw my father, my grandfather, all
of them.
Bethy was there, her honey hair wafting around her like a
silk pennant on a summer’s day. Her perfect grass-green
eyes were filled with love, and her arms opened as she
smiled.
My heart was bursting with love, happiness, and the
incredible feeling of rightness that was pervading my soul.
Returning the smile, I swam to her.