First Day (sort of poem/story)

Grey Seal, Part One, First Day It was not an unusual afternoon on the small Hebridean Island that she had come to call home; but a strange expectancy hung in the air like the soft mist that covered the tops of the distant mountains on the island of Mull and slid down into the sea. She unfastened her coat, shook her head and lifted her hand to brush damp hair from her face. Her hair was dark, dark brown, tinged with orange and hung long and frizzed from her small head. Her features were soft but sharp as if chiseled from marble and softened by the passage of time. Eyes were dark pools that drew you in. In where you did not want to go. They made strangers afraid and kept all but a few from coming close to her. She was all of twenty four. Older and Younger. Lifting her eyes she looked west across the dark waters of the Atlantic. “Next Stop - America,” she laughed to herself. She spun round and around and yelled out aloud, “Next Stop - America” A wave broke on the pebbled shore. She turned and looked. Stared. And looked again. A grey seal was watching, listening. Near to the rock on which the seal flopped a dark patch appeared on the deep, still water. Suddenly, a chill wraps around her. She is not afraid. With all her senses heightened, she turns to the seal and is drawn into his marbled, black eyes. Strange thoughts begin spinning, swirling around and into her. “I am a woman. Life can live in me Life can be born from Me.” S p l a s h! The seal slides between the waves and vanishes under the dark, undulating water. She shakes alluring thoughts from her head and walks purposefully down to the shore. She stands at the waters edge thinking about that seal. Was it a messenger? From whom had he come? What is the message? She knew the stories, legends, that the old people had told huddled around peat fires on stormy October evenings. She knew seals were special, other worldly creatures, in whom the spirits of folk long dead were said to live. An untidy blancmange of foam had been left by the retreating tide. She touches the foam with her feet and wonders. And wonders if life flows through beings and chooses one from which to be born. Enough of these fanciful notions. Your’e Mhairi MacLeod, a married woman with a good, strong husband and - and no children. A great sadness filled her and water welled up deep from inside of her, filled her eyes and trickled down pale cheeks. She would dearly love to have children and often felt that she had failed Rhuaraidh, her husband. They never talked about it and the subject was always carefully avoided. Wiping her tears she struts along the waters edge kicking angrily at seaweed as she passes. AAAAAAAAArrk! A seagull cries out a shrill warning. She stops, stands alert, listens. All is Still. For that moment time itself stopped. She stood above herself suspended, floating in and through air. She was not transparent, not substance but real. Really real. Beneath, she could see herself. A tall slim figure, not lonely but alone, yet, strangely, not alone; standing on the no mans land between low and high tide. That part of the Earth that belongs neither to the ocean nor the land; neither the creatures of the deep nor the creatures of the land. Whatever was about to happen would. No one stands in the way of what is preordained! Slowly she floated down and melted into her body, she felt a jolt, and knew her consciousness. In a rock pool close to the shore a dark shadow appears, floats over the rocks and approaches her menacingly. She shivers, pulls her coat tight around her shoulders and turns back. Rhuaraidh will be back from the fishing. “I must be getting home now” she whispers to herself unconvincingly. Starting for home she walks quickly until she catches sight of something lying tangled in the dried seaweed, odd pieces of wood and fishing line. “What is it? Probably some unfortunate seal” she tells herself. On the rocks, not far from where she was walking a grey seal sat up and began to take notice of her. The seal was not afraid. He seemed to be in control and is watching patiently. The dark shadow slid up beside her, passed through her and hovered above the patch of weed, for a long second before melting into the fine rain that had begun to envelop her. She is not afraid. A low moaning sound attracts her attention, calls to her from the depths of her own being and cries out for love. To love and be loved. There, tangled in the weed, is no seal, it is a child. A child. A boy, barely alive, cold, but not shivering. A child of the sea. Her heart pounds; blood races through her veins. Thoughts. Selfish longings taunt her. “My child, my child,” she hears herself say softly, so softly that no one, not even herself might hear. She daren’t believe it. A child to love and care for. She stopped. “This child is not MINE!” She shouts to the waves. The sea mocks her with no reply; even the grey seal is gone. Whispering on the wind she hears the words, “The boy is here for you.” Bending down over him she wipes the weed from his strangely familiar face. A peculiar orange-grey light from the setting sun forcing a way through the clouds before sinking into the Atlantic, highlights his sculptured features which bare a curious likeness to her husband. She draws closer to the boy and holds his battered, half dead body close to her - for warmth and comfort. Her comfort. A whirlpool of thoughts and emotions spin her head, drag her down and threaten to drown her. AAAAAAaark! The seagull cries out to her. The spell is broken. “Home. We must get back to the croft.” She says aloud; as much to herself and the ocean as to the child. The wind tugs at her skirt as it swirls round her feet lifting crisp autumn leaves dancing around her. The clouds are scudding across the darkening sky and already she can hear the rumble of distant thunder. By the time she stumbles through the roughly hewn, wooden door of her cottage the first heavy drops of rain are beginning to tumble from a laden sky. A flash of lightning, cold and blue, lights the boys face and she knows, that this child; this boy; is no lost child, no anybody, no stranger. He was hers. Part of her is him. Part of him is her. He is hers. She lays the boy on the sofa and covers his pale, broken body with a crochet blanket that she had lovingly put together last winter. The bright colours of the odd pieces of wool that were used to form the blanket clash with the cold greyness that seeps into the cottage from the outside. He was fighting for breath now and she knew that for certain there could be no recovery for him. He struggled to open his eyes. Eyes that were empty. Eyes that could not see but pulled you in and left more questions unanswered than asked. As she looked deeper into the void she realised that his last breath had been drawn. She put her head to his chest. There was no heart beat. Thunder roared overhead and the whole scene was lit up by a pink curtain of lightening. Then a chill moved through her very being like a fine morning mist through forest trees. She shivered uncontrollably. Mhairi froze. A cat screeched on the wind and she became aware of a presence. A dark shadow was sliding through the wall. She recognised it immediately and became afraid. No not afraid. Terrified. “The boy. My child.” Turning to face the shadow she pushed out her right hand and screamed “NO!” Her hand passes through the shadow. It has no substance. The shadow passes through her and over the boy before melting into the night. The body of the boy is now a smoky image that shimmers in the half light of the cottage. It sits up and turns to face her. She is not afraid. All is quiet. Even the storm is silenced. No living thing dares move, let alone utter a sound. Forces stronger than life itself are at work tonight. She looks through the image facing her and hears a voice in her inner being whisper softly as mist settling on forest bluebells making tear drops, “Goodbye. Goodbye mother.” The wind rises again shrieking almost to a crescendo then C r a c k! The shutters rip from their hinges. B O O M! The window explodes and sharp splinters of shattered glass stab the earth outside the cottage. Lightening flashes twisted fingers that claw hungrily at the ground, wind howls like packs of demented dogs, fists of thunder pound the walls and rain batters down on the roof without remorse Everything is in motion swirling round and round. Spiraling in circles, spinning towards a vortex that hovers over the rocky shore not far from where the waves lap over the pebbles. The vortex is a vacuum into which nothing could not be drawn. Even the walls of the cottage seem to be sucked out towards it. Mhairi is lifted on the current, and pulled irresistibly towards the weed strewn pebbled shore. The dark cold of the Atlantic lapping at her calves bring her to an abrupt halt and she regains control. At that moment the vortex vanishes, evaporates, and the storm ceases. The clouds part and a large moon is suspended above the distant horizon. It is almost peaceful now. In the moonlight she sees a grey seal. The grey seal. A regal seal. He is perched on his rock, His grey coat silvered in the moonlight. She steps backwards to avoid a wave breaking over her and feels a sharp pain in her leg. Bending down to touch her wound, she finds splintered pieces of shattered timber floating all around her on restless waves. A fragment has pierced her leg and blood is flowing from the wound. She pulls a splinter from her leg with her numbed hands and holds it up in the moonlight as an offering. Instantly she knows that it is a piece of oaken rib from a small boat. She puts her hand back into water amongst the fragmented remnants of a boat that had come to grief, in a recent storm, on the rocks, near to the shore where she stood. She touches the broken bones of the craft, caresses them with her finger tips and shivers as only a fisher-wife can. Her eyes, heavy with sadness are lifted up and, there, enthroned on his rock, sits the seal. Slowly, he turns his head towards her. She sees no moonlight in his eyes, only oceans of sadness, salt tears and grief. And now She knew. And understanding came to comfort her. This is not Rhuaraidh’s boat. An image of the boy is floated into her consciousness as a wave washes over the pebbled shore. It moves everything and changes nothing. She stares out into the blackness. No light from distant lighthouses will befriend her. She is quite, quite alone. Emptiness. “He is gone,” she says softly and the image disperses. Understanding is not far when she hears, “Goodbye, Goodbye Son.” drift on the waves and carry far across the dark, dark waters, by the gentlest of winds. The seal eased itself into the dark water and vanished beneath the surface; a dark veil that conspires to hide the mysteries of the deep. She felt an ache, a hurt deep inside of her, a pain that tore at her soul and dry tears screamed as they ripped themselves from her being. Then. She stood there motionless without thinking, barely breathing, for how long she could not tell. She was in a deep wakening sleep. Dreamless. Then. Then a tingling. A quickening. A stirring of new life was awakening inside her. Rhuaraidh would have a son. She paused, and then her joy was turned to grief. My child. My son. My poor shipwrecked boy. Understanding floods into her and she knows that she should not know what she now knew. She is cursed with knowledge that she did not seek nor want. We are blessed that guess tomorrow. We are cursed who know. What must happen. Must. A long agonising cry split the night and she collapsed on the rocky shore clutching the kelp that had been washed up on that nights tide. Written April 20th, 2002 © on Apr 20 2002 12:51 AM PST   10 • 0