It happened on one misty night when the fog rolled over the water, curling about the masts like they were rising up from high smokestacks, obscuring the moon behind a thin sheet of gray. It was an eerie effect to see a pale white light, blurred behind this impenetrable curtain of mist.
We were hugging the coast of northern Ireland, by County Antrim. The ancient Fair Head cliff shot out above us, an odd, distorted image through the fog.
Ratlin, though English by birth, was Irish by blood, and his childhood was spent solely on the island, where his parents hastened to take him back to soon after his birth in England.
He was pleased to be gliding under the familiar face of Fair Head, a well known sight for him. In his childhood, he was raised in nearby Ballycastle town, and he and his father would take the opportunity to visit the crag at least once a month, despite having to travel five kilometers there and back.
For rugged peasant folk, it was a small distance, though sheltered aristocrats might balk at having to cross the wild land in little more than a rough, shoddy cart.
Nearly all Irish lore was no mystery to Ratlin, and you need only ask him a question about anything, to which he'd more often than not have an answer.
Fair Head's past, according to Ratlin, was not a happy one.
The tale went that there was once a lovely fair-haired maiden, who long ago lived in a castle on Rathlin island. Her innocent age and sweet, pure beauty made her an object of desire, leaving her a pack of suitors. A fight broke out between two of them, and escalated until it led to one of them becoming mortally wounded.
As he lay dying, he commanded his servant to dance with the girl on the steep cliffs below the castle. Unsuspecting, his man faithfully obeyed, unwittingly leading the maiden closer and closer to the edge of the steep cliffs, where they both plummeted to their deaths.
Days later, her broken body washed ashore on the mainland, at the location that was dubbed 'Fair Head'.
We were sailing steadily in its shadow, all of us gathered together around Ratlin, listening intently to his tale. Even Maccus, Broondjongen, Manray and Jimmylegs, the most belligerent among us, had paused to listen to the sad story, enraptured in Ratlin's words.
As happy as he was to be so close to something he knew well as a boy, Ratlin felt more sadness than joy at seeing the familiar cliffs of his childhood. It only served to remind him of what he lost, and he regretted more than ever his choice to serve on the Dutchman.
This passionate sadness was threaded into the tale of the maiden and her suitors, weaving a realism that was both enthralling and painful to hear.
When his last, finishing words finally drifted away, lost forever in the mist, the crew all disbanded, but I stayed next to him, unable to bring myself to move. His tale touched my soul- what was left of it, at least, and only the creaking of the ship was the sound that passed between us.
Ratlin is a gifted storyteller, able to weave fine fables and completely capture his audience. When his story had finished, I yearned for more, unwilling to be caught once more in the strains of life on the Dutchman.
Though things were calm and at peace at the moment, I knew this was only a temporary release; a succulent dish just barely tested before being ripped away, leaving one starving for more food.
Ratlin's stories were my food, my nourishment, at times. As we didn't need actual things to sustain us, -not really, at least- every time the Irishman had a legend to tell, I would be his most attentive listener.
"This was the story you were brought up with, then?" I asked him at last, breaking the silence between us.
He shifted, not expecting me to say anything.
Ratlin is a man of few words, and when he speaks, his grammar and pronunciation are lacking, though his voice itself is so unblemished in its quality, it is remarkable for one who spent his life as a peasant and sailor. It's a shame to see such a gift wasted.
"Aye, my da would always tell it to me; it was my favorite." He answered softly.
His voice was as the velvety night sky, smooth like the milky pattern spilled across the stars.
We fell to silence again, and I stood, arms crossed, on the deck beside him. We both looked out to the rocky shore, searching through the fog for the distant outline of Fair Head.
"Quittance," he began, never raising his voice, though never needing to. "D'you think it's foolish o' me to miss my da, even now? He must be long dead after all these years."
I focused my attention on him, mildly surprised that he brought up a conversation by his own volition, even more so because it was a personal subject. Ratlin was not keen on sharing his innermost emotions and weaknesses.
"Why no," I replied, my eyes trailing over his mutated body, mangled by the curse that afflicts all of us. I felt such deep pity for the man, a surge of it upwelling and tightening my throat, leaving me helpless to respond.
It was only after a moment, when I recovered myself, did I continue.
"No…not at all. We each and every one of us has lost something dear to us, even the Captain. We all have felt loss, at a young age or not, and it has touched us deeply. There is no shameful act committed in mourning your father."
He took a long time to gather a sentence and string it together, seemingly thoughtful. He stared at me…past me, in fact, far deep into his own history.
"Perhaps you're right." Ratlin didn't seem content with my answer, however. Indeed, he seemed ill at ease, as if my comment did nothing to help with his unsettling feeling of despair.
It was an overpowering sadness that I sensed buried beneath the layers of the rope and sailcloth that was his body.
"I would tell that story to my own boy, at home with his darling mam." Ratlin said quietly. "She was my beautiful angel. My bright star." He sighed.
"I wonder how old my son would be now. Sixteen at most. Fifteen, fourteen. The years have passed so slowly here." He looked at me. "We've missed so much, Quittance. So much. My little babe would be a man now."
"Yes…" I responded dumbly. I was beginning to feel just as morose as him when an unearthly sound wafted between us, floating around the ship, banishing the cloying feeling of depression and lightening the mood of the air.
Our shipmates stirred from their nooks and crannies, and began emerging, keen on inspecting the noise.
It was music.
Not the painful strokes of twisted agony that screamed from the Captain's organ, but the single, pure quiver of a violin. It was so faint, and we feared that we might lose the sound. It was luck that the night was as still and silent as it was; else we might not have heard it at all.
Greenbeard was at the helm, as was custom, and though his vision was no better than any of ours, it seemed the course he held was steady and true, for the music grew louder, clearer.
A young boy's voice cut through the chill night air, so full of innocence and sweetness that it touched our frozen hearts. We all listened with the same intensity as we did to Ratlin's tale.
"Near Banbridge town, in the County Down one morning in July...Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen and she smiled as she passed me by…She looked so sweet from her two white feet to the sheen of her nut-brown hair…Such a coaxing elf, I'd to shake myself to make sure I was standing there…"
The singer must have been little more than a lad; fourteen, fifteen…still fresh and open to the world, so many opportunities piling at his feet…instead of envy, I felt joy for this young soul, praying silently to myself that he would forever find peace and love.
He had so much ahead of him, unlike us onboard the Flying Dutchman, we who have failed life, we who have lost everything.
I glanced beside me to see Ratlin, who was gripping the rail so tightly it looked like he'd crush it into splinters. His face was so transfigured that very few human emotions were easily discernable on it, but I knew he was smiling wistfully.
If still had the ability to shed tears, I know he would have.
"From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay…
And from Galway to Dublin town…
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen…
That I met in the County Down…"
The chorus was chanted out, still that youth's lone voice penetrating the cold of the misty night, warming our spirits and rekindling in us a hope we didn't know we had.
"As she onward sped I shook my head and I gazed with a feeling rare…And I said, says I, to a passerby, 'Who's the maid with the nut-brown hair?' He smiled at me, and with pride says he, 'That's the gem of Ireland's crown...She's young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann...She's the star of the County Down.'"
The fog was evaporating, inch by inch, slowly working its way closer to the coast, receding. I knew this was just circumstance, just the weather choosing this instant to dwindle away, leaving for us an open sky and lovely moon…but it seemed as if it was so much more that caused it to retreat.
We could see lights now, blinking in the night, sparkling like fairies on the ship from which the boy's song was emanating from. No lamps were lit on the Dutchman, and with their human vision, it was doubtful that they were aware of our existence.
But I know we were all relieved, for I have not a doubt in my mind that we all felt we would corrupt and taint the picturesque scene, annihilating the wholesome goodness of the lad's song.
We, such monsters, knew that we had no right to be among the beautiful things of the world. As such, we lurked in the shadows, remaining out of sight, knowing well what the consequences would be if we dared approach.
Anything we touch withers and dies, like a blossom shriveled in the morning frost.
"From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay…
And from Galway to Dublin town…
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen…
That I met in the County Down…"
It was not the song itself that marveled us, nor the fair hum of the violin that accompanied it. It was not even the softness of the boy's voice, but the light, untouched radiance that it produced.
"I've travelled a bit, but never was hit since my roving career began…But fair and square I surrendered there to the charms of young Rose McCann…I'd a heart to let and no tenant yet did I meet with in shawl or gown…But in she went and I asked no rent from the star of the County Down…"
Much to our dismay, Greenbeard began steering us away from our bright beacon of light, the Dutchman retreating from the youth and his ship, fleeing into the darkness.
"From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay…
And from Galway to Dublin town…
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen…
That I met in the County Down…"
That was the last we heard of the song, for our Captain had emerged now, noticing our change in course, however slight. Captain Jones was considerably unhappy with the apparent lack of discipline. It was probably for this reason that Greenbeard righted our direction when he did, lessening the extent of the Captain's ire.
While none of us were punished, the look on his face showed just how much he would tolerate our behavior in the near future.
The majority of the crew and I retreated below decks, having no duties to perform at this hour. The thoughts of the angelic singer remained steadfastly implanted at the foremost of my mind, refusing to be pushed into the depths of my memories, hidden far back along with all of the treasures that I've lost.
It would seem foolish to be so touched by a disembodied voice that I heard by chance one night on the coast of Ireland, but this one fair youth had imprinted some of his beauty on my tainted soul. It was as if his angelic singing exonerated us, if only for that one magical night.
I recall that as we finally steered away, diving back into the ocean, I glanced up at the night sky, clear now of the fog, and I smiled at the celestial bodies that winked down at me, giving me renewed feelings of hope and peace.
All was silent again, and serene, the water's caress a feather-light touch enfolding me in a cocoon of warmth. I grew sleepy, and finally was ready to submit myself to unconsciousness when Ratlin's voice rang out through the murky depths of the cold ocean, uncannily similar to that of the lad's.
"At the harvest fair she'll be surely there, and I'll dress in my Sunday clothes…With my shoes shone bright and my hat cocked right, for a smile from my nut-brown Rose…No pipe I'll smoke, no horse I'll yoke, til my plough with rust turns brown…'Til a smiling bride by my own fireside, sits the star of the County Down…"
'Til a smiling bride by my own fireside, sits the star of the County Down…