A Siren on the Sea

                                               A Siren on the Sea

   It was a light he sought, and it was a light he saw. Faint it was through the fog, a small halo of gold shining upon a finger of land. The man was drawn by the light as a moth is drawn, for where a light shines a soul dwells, and the man had long been rowing the dinghy upon a soulless sea. The light beckoned him to accept its shelter, and to know its people, for a light needs its people, as they need it. The man started for it as he must, the light being his only map through the black swells. He pulled hard at the oars, driving them deep, feeling the muscles ripple through his shoulders and back. The ripple was good. He called on the strength, and it came. There was life in the old dog yet. The dinghy jumped to his will, but soon the sound of waves upon the beach quitted his oars. It would be tricky for a weary man to try a beach landing through the breakers. 

   His fingers ached upon the oars. He arched his back, allowing his cramped muscles to stretch. One hundred yards through the maelstrom awaited rest from this tiresome rowing. His only choice obvious, he resumed his work, aiming the dinghy for the sound of the crashing waves, pulling her toward that alluring light. The dinghy lifted high over the swells and rode them down nicely, nimble to his oars. He caught the lip of a swell and gave a great heave, pushing the boat along its face, stealing speed from the current. There was real danger now, so the man made ready to leap. It could be a swamping in the waves, or it could be a smash against unseen rocks. He could not know the voyage’s end, but no matter, he would follow that light. With some luck he would share a table in the light's glow after this trial, a table with food and wine, a table with others of his kind.  

   The dinghy’s stern rode high upon a crest. Her bow raced downward, into the trough, her nose reaching greedily for the shore. He shouted encouragement to his tiny boat, pulling one last time before a stronger force yanked the oars from his hands and flung them into the roaring tempest surrounding him. A blast of saltwater found his face, cold it was, and wicked. The dinghy made a hard starboard turn into the wave's trough and over she went, tossing the man toward the beach as the ocean’s weight smashed his tiny boat into smithereens.

   The man took his leap from the dinghy and rolled through the wave, reaching bottom. He pushed for the surface as the next breaker washed over, tumbling him toward the beach like the unwanted jetsam that he was, end over end, over end. When he finally stopped his tumult the water’s sounding was scarcely two feet, but the deeper water pulled at him greedily, wanting him back, not yet through with its fun. He fought for his footing inside his heavy boots, they being filled now with water and sand. He made it up to his sea-legs just as the next wave hit, sending him forward and down, knocking him back into the salty froth. The last of his leaking strength washed out across the sand, racing the surging fingers of sea up the beach even as the under-toe pulled his limp figure back toward the depths.

   He dug his fingers into packed, wet sand that melted through his fingers like liquid steel, the sand being uncooperative and in league with the sea. The man rolled to his back, awaiting the water’s inevitable return. He noticed the sea-fog above him, blotting out the stars, and then the black water washed over his eyes. 

   And then came the dream. The dream of a great, red-haired woman in a fine, sea-foam dress pulling him from the water. A likely heroine this angel, thick and stout, as an Irish lass should be. He surrendered himself to her as she grasped the shell that was left of him, lifted him by his arms, and drug him as far as she could into the deeper, softer sand. 

   "If Death is coming tonight," he thought. "Let her come in just such a form. "Yes, let Death come with bare feet, and with the smell of the sea in her fiery hair."

   Milo McKinney awoke to the crackle of a wood fire. It was still night, but the night was not still. Some distance away angry waves hammered at the beach. Closer still a snore, a soft, womanly snore with the attached “whistle” at its end. Milo was under a blanket. He was surprised to discover that he was naked beneath the blanket. He rose to sit. Where then were his clothes? Moreover, who had removed them?

   She lay abeam of the fire, sleeping on another blanket she had stretched upon the sand. He could not make out her features, but he was sure that it was the dream woman, the coppery headed sea-sprite, she who had pulled him from his watery grave. Milo rose from his pallet, letting the bedding fall to the sand. His clothes were spread about the fire, drying in its warmth. He reached for the leather breeches. They were damp yet, but he pulled them on. He was a proud man, and would not be at a disadvantage when she woke. The shirt and boots he left to dry.

   The woman had piled driftwood close by, so Milo added wood to the fire before taking his turn on watch. He took a position away, but convenient to inspect her as she slept. What sort of woman pulled a large, drowned man from the ocean, stripped him naked, then slept a harpoon’s toss away? What if that man awoke angry? What if he awoke lusting? What would stop him from... ? What indeed? Milo had been called a rough man, he had done some things, away back when, but he hoped he was not a mean man. There must be some “thing” that supplied her confidence. Could she have a concealed knife beneath her bedding, or a pistol? His curiosity grew as he watched her dream, wondering what spirits lived within her, and why did those spirits twitch at the muscles of her face, leading him to smile?

   It was the end of the night, but it was not day. It was that shaded, gray moment between the aspects. With a stick he stirred dying embers to smoke, as man always has. With a breath he blew that smoke to flame, as man always will. Above him beggarly gulls dipped wings in the breeze, crying for a generous sea to spit them out their breakfast. Far on the eastern horizon the steely water followed along behind the steely sky, they trudging through their gray journeys before the dawn, he nudging her toward the day with a velvety nose.

   She awoke with beauty, as she had slept, only now emerald eyes shone beneath her brassy hair. Those eyes looked at him expectantly. Emotionless eyes they were. Eyes waiting for the story he would tell, ears listening for how well that story would be told. Hers were great and caffeinated green eyes that darted when he looked into them, skittering away behind cream and sugar skin. “Ah,“ he thought. “Irish eyes with a secret to conceal.”

   A rough man he had been called. He would let her wait. Surprisingly, she said nothing. Milo was set aback by the nothing that she said. It is not a woman’s way to say nothing. Milo knew people, he knew their natures, although he mostly wished he didn’t, but sometimes he was surprised. He hoped this would be one of those times, and she one of those people who surprised him.

   Milo added wood to the fire. He backed up to it, awaiting its warmth. She watched him from her blankets, her eyes following his movements, his effortless movements practiced beside many fires on many mornings. He still wore only the breeches, despite the cold breeze off the water. His legs and chest were thick with muscle. His feet were planted in the sand beside the fire like the trunks of a great human tree, solid, and seemingly immovable. Her husband was a strong man. It would take a strong man for a woman such as she, but she was not sure she had ever seen a man with a physique to equal this one. While she watched him her heartbeat quickened, angering her. Was she that easily conquered? No. She was not, but then she was also unsure what she would do if he came to her blanket and stood over her, or how she would feel about it if he did. 

   She stood, and walked to the opposite side of the fire from where the man stood. The deep sand felt good on her feet, just as the fire felt good on her skin. She wondered that she no longer worried about her lack of propriety. Two years ago she would never have allowed a strange man to see her bare feet, or even to see her wearing this thin dress, but those things seemed trivial now that love was dead, and now that melancholy had made her its home.

   Two years she had been here alone. Two years battling the sandy soil for a garden, and battling the surf for her sustenance. Two years watching. Two years waiting. If her husband was coming back he would have done so by now. She knew this, but still she watched, and still she waited. That is what she was doing when she heard this man’s shout. She had been watching through the fog for a ship’s light. She was not just watching for any ship, but for his ship, the ship bearing her name, the “Lilly Anne”. Most any time of day she could be found watching, sometimes from the window, sometimes from the door, or sometimes from the garden, or from the beach, but always watching, ever waiting. Before this time the longest she had awaited his return had been four months. This time it was two years. No, he was not coming back.

   “You must be hungry. I will see about food.”

   He turned as she walked up the beach toward the cottage among the dunes. “A practical woman,” he thought. She walked easily through the deep sand, walking on the balls of her feet, her ankles making quarter turns for traction. The breeze pressed the lacy, sea-foam dress tight against her curves. He admired its cling, and her curves, and her walk. He was a man.

   When she hailed him from the cottage, he went. On the way he noticed the sagging gate with its useless latch. He noticed the overgrown shrubs, and the shutters with their peeling paint. Inside was tidy, showing the touch of a woman, but the absence of a man was obvious. An oak bucket had been placed to catch water from a roof leak, and some of the bricks had popped free from the hearth, needing to be re-mortared. 

   However, what really caught his attention were the books. The walls were lined with their leather-backed volumes. There were maritime guides, atlases and constellation guides, as well as books of history, literature, and poetry. There were books from antiquity, books named by Homer, Rumi, Boccaccio and Cervantes. A poor man his life long, Milo had never seen such a treasure. He pulled one from the wall, Virgil’s “Aeneid”, letting loose its rich smell. He smiled at its comfortable weight, the weight of the knowledge of those who had come before, of those who had lived and learned, and who had much to tell that was useful yet. The cover opened unwillingly, tightly, concealing its secrets, as though it had never been asked to tell them ’til now. 

   The meal itself was simple, vegetables and clams. There was no bread, no oil, no milk.

   “You are here alone?”

   “My husband is at sea.”

   “How long?”

   She looked up, her eyes finding his. “It is an unfair question,” the eyes denounced him, “when I have invited you inside my home, and prepared you a meal.” 

   The “eyes” were correct, of course. It was an unfair question. He must remember his manners, something not given much thought to during his years aboard a ship.

   “Thank you for helping me, for pulling me from the sea.”

   “It was nothing. I would do it for a dog.”

   “Aye, no doubt you would, but it was indeed something, as I am much bigger than a dog, and much heavier to pull. How far is it to a town?”

   “It is far. Five miles, and a ferry ride.”

   “I will leave after the meal. Make a list of the supplies you need.”

   “I have no money.”

   “Make the list. I will bring the items.” 

   And bring them he did. It was three days from the day he left. Lilly Anne sat watching the breakers from her rock when she heard a commotion coming up the path. It was the man, and he was not alone. He was trailed by a goat, the goat pulling a small wagon. The wagon was piled high with goods, and chickens. The man carried a pack himself, which was also filled with goods. A dog trotted behind the wagon, a small, gray dog with large, white whiskers.

   Caution ruled over her excitement. “You could not pay for all of this?”

   “It was foraged, Lilly Anne.” His chest was puffed, proud of his ‘work.’ “These things have been liberated for you from those with plenty, liberated for you by an admiring corsair!”

   “You mean that it was stolen by a pirate.”

   His look was pained. “Madame, pirates are hung by the neck over the gunwales. It is no good to call a man a pirate, and is like to get him killed.”

   “And it is good then to call him a thief? Well, I will not be called one. It all goes back!”

   “But Madame, if I may say so, you are in need? I am in need! We are in need of these things, and here we have the use of them?” 

   “I hope I shall never be in need of someone else’s things. It was taken from the people of the outer-banks, it was taken from my neighbors. Turn it all around. It is going back! We must take all of it back immediately!”

   And she did take it back, with Milo McKinney tagging along. All of it went back excepting the hens and the cock, which had been won at cards in the tavern, played against the stolen goat, but won square from the man who lost them. Looking at the man, his face red with rum, Lily Anne suspected that the fowl were stolen as well, but finding from whom would be impossible, as this man was not telling.

   They tied up the hens and the cock and carried them under their arms the five miles back across the narrow island. The gray dog was still with them, he finding the wanderers more interesting than his home. The dog zig-zagged behind them, searching out the interesting smells. When those smells were found he stopped to smile before sprinting ahead to begin it all over again, his enthusiasm boundless.

   The walk was silent. The woman was angry. The man showed little concern, but was still wary of an angry woman. Milo McKinney would rather suffer the flogging from a cat o’ nine tails than the flogging from an angry woman’s tongue, the first flog at least having a known duration. 

   “The books in the cottage, mam? They are yours?” He broke the silence, his curiosity strong.

   “They belong to my husband.”

   “Do you read them, then?”

   “Aye. They are all that keeps me sane here. Do you read?”

   “Aye.” His chin lifted, as though she would doubt. “I have read a little, and would read more, but there are few books on board a ship, and little opportunity to study at sea. Books are expensive, and are heavy ballast for a man adrift.”

   “From my observation you appear to care little about the price of it when you want something.”

   “Aye, 'tis true, but I have a conscience about taking from a woman.”

   “So you loved your mother, then?”

   “No. I did not know her.”

   “I see,” she said, and sadly she did.

   When back at the cottage they untied their bundles, loosing the hungry chickens to scour the yard for insects. The dog ran into the deep saw grass, happily chasing away the terns, and the pipers. The man set to work on the gate, worrying the chickens would escape. The woman stood with her arms crossed below her breasts, her hands clinging to her biceps, content to watch the industries of man, and dog, and fowl on the quiet dunes. Only yesterday she had been lonely. She would likely be so again tomorrow, but today she had the animated motions of a makeshift family as these adopted souls shared her home. She would not get attached, but she could watch, and enjoy. 

   No. She would not get attached. Lily Anne would not name the dog, nor would she love the man. She would not love the man, but neither did she want him to go. There was “something” she could do, though. There was a way. Here was a masculine man, but she had seen the wonder in his eyes when he looked at the books, and she had heard the wonder in his voice when he asked her about them. She pulled the volume of Tennyson from its shelf. Unlike the stiff book Milo had pulled from the shelf earlier, the Tennyson was stained and dog-eared. There were underlined passages and notes in the margins. The Tennyson was her husband’s favorite. Matthias had read “Mariana” to her often, until “Mariana” had become Lily Ann’s own favorite, made more so since her own, lonely trials. 

   "She only said, my life is dreary. 
     He will not come,” she said. 
     She said, “I am a-weary, a-weary. 
     I would that I were dead.”

   He was a man of the sea, a man of the wind and the weather. He had so many years balanced upon the swells that he was uncomfortable now upon solid ground. Milo McKinney had won fortunes with his sword, and had lost them to a pair, but it was not fortune that led him to sea, nor was it fortune that kept him there. Rather, it was the search, the search for fortune, the search for love, the search for answers. It was wondering what lands lay over the horizon. It was wondering what people inhabited those lands, and what Gods those people followed. It was that knot in his stomach when his ship drew alongside another ship, a ship with a man standing strong upon its deck, that man holding a sword in his hand, and staring back at you ’or the gunwale, and ready to test your strength.

   But there was also something missing aboard ship. Milo had taken orders from many captains, and he had given many orders, in turn. Each of those men Milo had followed he had found wanting. Some were cruel and quick with the whips, some greedy, some ignorant, some lazy, foolish, or cowardly. That was this last one, cowardly. That captain had been quick to attack a small boat, a fisherman alone, but he was without the courage to try a real prize. There was much that Milo McKinney lacked, but courage was not among them. He did not care to sail, nor to fight, with a man who lacked it.

   This last captain had hailed a fishing vessel, and had turned his own vessel into the wind, showing the fisherman that he out-gunned him twelve broadside guns to none. Many years ago, Milo McKinney’s father had owned a fishing boat. Milo had learned to sail aboard her. Those were his only happy memories, sailing with his father. When that last captain was gone overboard, and the fisherman sailed away, Milo McKinney was placed in the dinghy two days from land with a jug of water and some well wishes. It was all right, though. Milo was the fortunate one. 

   
   When the gate was repaired, and the hens safe, Milo McKinney found some little things to do about the yard and garden. As darkness fell he stepped nervously, reluctantly even, up the sagging porch steps. He would look at fixing those steps come the morning. Lily Ann had not invited him to stay, but he was hoping that she would. 

   She had invited him to supper though, so he rapped lightly on the door. When there was no answer he pushed his shaggy head inside. There was a fire in the hearth, and a bowl upon the chair beside it. Beside the bowl was a book. Milo took the seat. He ate the stew as if he was starving, and he read the words exactly the same way.

   It was a long time that they were together. There were many sunsets, many books read, many thoughts expressed. They ate their eggs in the mornings, along with what could be harvested from the sea. He found a place near her rock while she watched the horizon, and he read to her through warm days and nights. He found that he did not miss the rolls of the sea, nor the wicked men floating upon them. He found that it was good to have a place, a quiet place. He found it good to be needed by a woman, even a strong one. He found, over time, that it was enough to be a man.

   And she? A brutal sea had pulled her love away, but just as the tides will come and go in chasing after the moon, so too will men come and go upon them.