I must admit I love this chapter.
I hope you do too!
Review! Pretty please with a cherry on top :-)
XIV. On the Nature of Sea Foam
Her hair pooled around her in auburn ripples; the salt water burned her bleeding feet. She watched the blood billow up towards the surface, spreading over the water like a Chinese tea flower, and dug her nails into her palms. Breathing heavily, she followed the patterns of her hair that spilled onto the road where she sat, her feet in the water, burning, burning. Her nails digging into her palms, deeper, deeper.
She had once heard him say that men often do extraordinary things, things that even they themselves are unable to explain. Perhaps, as she now realised, that meant her. He had looked after her after he had found her, weak and nearly drowned, sprawled on wet gravel. He had promised her that she could live in a house of her very own, near the sea, – a beautiful home that even she would feel at home in, in which she had that sense of belonging she thought she had long lost. It would be small, he said, and yet it would be filled with remnants of sea voyages and the smell of seawater. Perhaps it was an extraordinary thing for him to look after her, to be so kind and solicitous, even as she was unable to repay him with anything except the fierce, silent love in her heart; the kind of love that is given by fate; the kind of love that makes all pain seem insignificant. It even made death seem like a petty enemy to her, though she knew she was mistaken.
Now, she, too, was doing an extraordinary thing she could not explain for herself. What was she doing? Was it not men who came to think near the sea, because it was so dark and foreign to them, just like this world beneath a starry orb was to her? Was it not men who sought solace in the unknown, for they knew that they would once know it, after they died? After they had gained an immortal soul? Why then, was she sitting near the breakwater, near what she had so willingly tired of and left behind.
They would travel to a place called Plymouth soon, and she wondered what it would look like there. Physical pain and unimportant, trivial thoughts were good remedies for heartache. It was a funny word, «Plymouth»...she wished she could say it aloud. She wished she could tell him she loved him, that she wanted him to choose her instead of his wife of a two days; the woman he had married, the woman he would live with in Plymouth...that it was her, and not that woman who saved him from certain death. And yet, she could not. That was the price she had paid.
Digging her nails into her palms, digging, digging, she saw the man, the man she loved, and his wife, board the ship. As the wife disappeared into the entrance, her love waved at her, beckoning her. Come on, he mouthed. If she had been stronger, she would have resisted. If she had been as strong as she had been a few days ago, when she sacrificed everything – three centuries of life, her voice, her family, for him – she would have refused to come. And yet, one cannot command the heart; love worked in its own, mysterious ways and made her walk, with each excruciating step coming closer to the ship. Closer to him. So close, so far. Inches away from eachother, and yet miles apart.
As she walked to the ship, another couple entered it. The man was a sailor, young and attractive in a beardless, innocent way; and the woman that was clinging onto his arm, was, to her surprise, wearing what she had learned were men's clothes – most women wore dresses, and elegant little hands adorned with dried flowers they had torn from the ground, and yet this lady wore no dress, but a two-piece with a jacket and trousers, and a tweed cap she had seen London boys wear. Her hair was fair, yellowish, a few locks hanging out from under the cap. She smiled at the girl. She was different, but loved nevertheless. They, too, disappeared, arm in arm, into the belly of the ship. The Bountiful.
That night was one of the darkest of her life, even with the stars that twinkled at her, eternally alive and uncaring, from that dark expanse above the sea that men called the sky. She had no will to go and join the celebrations, thought she should have, logically; should one not enjoy as fully as possible the last day of one's existence?
«Sister, sister!» She did not react at first, but continued staring at those stars, counting her breaths. Had the air always been that fresh? Had the stars always been so bright? Had the noise of a ship cutting sea water ever sounded like music? And yet, the second time, the calls drew her attention back to the present. «Hark, it's us, your sisters! We've heard all about what happened! Look! Do you see this knife? It's magic! The Witch gave it to us in exchange for our hair. Take it! Kill him before dawn, and you will become the way you were again and forget all your troubles!" Indeed, she could see one of her sisters' wet hands, reaching out a knife to her, a shining, silver knife, its blade glinting unnaturally in the starlight. She grasped it tightly in her hands, pressed it to her chest, breathing heavily. All she had to do was kill him while he slept with his bride.
As her sisters once again disappeared into the darkness beneath, she clutched the knife, a wave of hatred coursing through her veins. His kindness had been superficial nobility, oh yes. A charity to please those around him, to make him seem a good example of a man of high society, to make him appear like a knight in shining armour. Yes, he thought would take her to Plymouth, and she would live there, in a house by the beach; he thought she would have all she asked for and wanted; he thought that she would never go hungry, never be miserable. He would have granted any wish of hers, he would have done anything for her, like a servant for a master. And yet that would be done just like that – coldly, professionally, cruelly in a friendly manner. And if he found out the truth, somehow, he would believe it to be madness, for that was the way men were; they believed nothing that did not agree to what their eyes had seen in their lifetime.
As she prepared to stand, she heard footsteps approach behind her. She clutched the sword close to her heart. A thousand thoughts, like fireworks, rushed through her mind. Should she kill him? Should she not? Should she turn? Should she stay the way she was? Should she just dive into the waves now and have this over and done with?
There was no- one to kill, alas. She heard a voice. And yet it was not his voice. It was another, saying a name, sounding the way she wanted his voice to sound when he spoke to her. It was tender, loving. It came from the heart. When he spoke to her, his voice was warm, friendly, perhaps a little tinged with sadness. That detached amicability, that sweet familiarity that often shone through in conversations between two male friends, between children. The memory of it sent another wave of hatred, hot and bitter, coursing through her veins.
The man was proposing to the woman. It was the sailor, the sailor and his sweet lady who was dressed like a London boy. She perked her ears up and listened in. He said her name, a pretty, soft name, one she could not pronounce. What did her own voice even sound like? She had forgotten, forgotten the sound of her own words and songs, songs that had intoxicated everyone with their beauty. Her voice, a price to pay for an unrequited love.
She turned her head slightly. He was kneeling before her on one knee. Was everyone happy, but her?
The woman, the woman in men's clothes, gasped.
«I...will you be my wife?» Hesitating, obviously nervous, he reached up and took her hand. Even in the darkness of the night, she could see the woman's cheeks flush.
She opened her mouth to speak, but a sharp intake of breath from the man stopped her.
«I promise you, I promise that now we're free, and you're safe. No matter what you said to me back then, I still promise you that once we disembark in Plymouth, all our dreams will come true. I hope so. We will be free of all those ghosts, of those shadows of London.» The woman seemed to teeter on the edge of speech, but the young man spoke again. Breathless. Breathless with new love, as she once had been. «And even if you say you do not love me, even if you don't agree, I will still love you and I will always be there if you want to come back. I want you to be happy.»
«You promise me I'll be happy? As much as I want to believe that...»
«I promise, I promise and swear to you, the ghosts will be gone forever.»
«And the darkness?» The woman's voice was still frightened, but there was hope there. Looking at her, her hair now long and straying in the hair, she could imagine her, sitting at a window, wishing upon a star...
«The darkness is only but an absence of light...»
She could see that light in her face. It illuminated her youthful features, brightened her eyes. From somewhere within the bowels of the ship, she could hear a violin playing. The violin was a woman, in shape, and in sound. And this one was a song of happiness. It was for the sailor and his girl. For her love and his bride. But not for her, no.
It was silent for a while, except for the sound of the violin.
«Yes,» she said quietly. In her mind, she commended the girl again. She was different; she was brave; she did not tarry. She had her chance and she took it. Perhaps she loved him, surely she did, she could see it in that light, that light that illuminated her face when he spoke to her. «I...I love you too.»
She turned away, because she did not want to see them kiss. She did not want to see in them a future she would never have, she did not want to spoil the moment with her miserable presence by crying, for she would cry if she saw love, affection, true affection, right before her eyes.
When she turned, they had gone, now engaged, betrothed to each other, bound by happiness.
She got up and walked slowly to the staircase that would lead to the rooms below, the rooms where he slept, embracing the woman that she would never be. The dark corridor swayed with the ship, and the knife, this magic knife still shone, even if the stars were long gone. She did not have much time left. She had to kill him before sunrise. He deserved it. And she did not deserve the fate she would have if she failed to plunge the knife into his heart.
The door creaked as she opened it.
With baited breath, she waited for him to wake up. All the hatred, every bit of it did not allow her to wish for him to suffer. Yes, she wanted him dead. Did she? Of course she did! Had he not ruined her life?
She walked over to the bed. His features were calm, relaxed. Oh, why was he so beautiful, and even more so in sleep? Even in the darkness she could see the sheen of his copper – coloured hair, the paleness of his lips; she could imagine the green of his eyes, the sound of his voice, as he breathed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Rising, and falling.
Did she hate him? No. Of course she didn't. In her mind, she could hear the sailor's words: and even if you say you do not love me, even if you don't agree, I will still love you and I will always be there if you want to come back. I want you to be happy.
She stowed the knife away in the folds of her dress, and bent down silently to kiss him. She could not touch his forehead with her lips, for he could wake up, and the tender moment that needed no words or actions, would be ruined. She soundlessly kissed the air above his sleeping head, and mouthed a soundless farewell. A farewell without a voice or witness. A true farewell. She had mouthed fairwell and not goodbye, for goodbye sounded shallow and meant nothing; she did not want to simply say goodbye. She loved him and wanted him to be happy. To be well. And so she fared him well. Farewell, my love. And she hoped he would remember her as he looked upon the sea foam below the ship. She hoped that, when he touched the frothing water, he would remember the feel of her hair.
She ran back onto the deck, forgetting the pain in her legs, shedding the hurt like old scales. As she watched the sky grow lighter, she remembered the sound of a song he had played for her, once, on the piano. The song she would take with herself as she turned to foam on the waves. The song the sea winds would howl, with all her pain, as they skimmed the frothy water. Bach, it was. His very firt prelude. «Isn't it beautiful?» he had said, and she had smiled, for yes, it was beautiful. As beautiful as the dawn, which was breaking, so ruthless and yet so welcomed by her. She would be happy that she had just had the luck to love such a person as him. Him, who slept now, with his wife.
As the sky lightened to a salmon pink, as the first young ray of gold was about to peek over the horizon, she threw the knife into the sea. She inhaled the smell of life, felt the deck beneath her feat, replayed his voice for a last time in her mind, and dived into the waves, ready to turn into the foam of the sea from whence she had come, and vanish.
The cold water lapped at her as she watched the first ray of sun skim the waves, skim the sea foam she would soon become. The water subsided, and she felt herself lifted into the air above the sea. The sea that now rippled in the early morning breeze, and she heard what she thought she should not hear any more. Was she not gone? Or did these voices mean she was still alive?
"Who are you?" she asked, surprised to find her voice was back. Perhaps death is not so bad after all... "Where am I?"
"You're with us in the sky. We are daughters of the air! We have no soul as men do, but our task is to help them. Your good heart gave you a new life, for we take amongst us only those who have shown noble kindness and selflessness to men, and you have done so twice!"
Glowing in the early morning light, she looked down over the sea towards the Bountiful, and felt in her eyes. The daughters of the air whispered to her: "Look! The earth flowers are waiting for our tears to turn into the morning dew! Come along with us ..."