Bound to the Sea

Part 8 - More Voices

The next day passed in a blur of activity. Ronan was quickly outgrowing his clothes, so Ellis took him to the village shops on the mainland in Galway. During the outing he brought Owen a batch of fish to sell at his market stall in Connemara, and upon returning home he tried to tidy the cottage while Ronan and Mac's playing quickly undid any progress he made.

Ellis told himself that the chores simply had to be done and were not a means of distracting his mind from the image of the woman at the dock.

Evening came softly with shadows crawling out from behind the furniture, the fire flickering gold where the velvet dark couldn't reach.

Ellis moved about the dark house with practiced ease, following a memorized path around the furniture and Ronan's scattered toys. The usual somnolent sounds that filled the house were interrupted by a soft rustle from outside. Barely anyone lived out here, so any foreign noise was unusual. Instantly wary of intruders, Ellis held a finger to his lips to keep Ronan from making any sound. The little boy complied, flopping into a chair by the fire and watching his father solemnly as the fisherman eased open the front door.

Ellis took up an oar that had been discarded in the long grass outside of the door, burst around the corner of the house, and was startled to see a silhouetted figure pulling a fish from the stock barrel.

"Hey!" He cried, brandishing his makeshift weapon.

The figure spun away, knocking over the barrel and spilling its contents into the long grass.

The woman, he could tell now, tried to make a run for it but her feet were not fast enough. With one stride he overtook her and caught up her arm in one hand. She turned back to face him with frightened eyes, one hand still clenched tight around a stolen fish.

The hand on her arm trembled.

She waited for the oar to strike her, a reprimand, something. But instead she found herself being pulled against the fisherman's chest, face pressed to the paraffin-scented wool of his sweater. A pang of shock mixed with strange familiarity assaulted her, and her body went rigid.

"I was right. It was you at the dock, you saved me." Ellis took her by the shoulders and held her at arm's length, searching her face with wide eyes. "Saoirse... it is you, isn't it?" He stroked a lock of black hair away from her brow, and a hint of doubt crept into his eyes.

"My name is Saoirse." The woman offered hesitantly, and it was her voice that confirmed Ellis' suspicions. Her hair was black, her eyes somewhat feral and animal-like, but her face, her voice, all were exactly the same as he remembered them.

"I can't believe it. I can't..." Ellis still held tight to her arms. She squirmed slightly, and he let go of her with a jolt. His hands hung in the air where he had released her. She took one step backward, then another. "Wait, please. Please don't go. Saoirse, please..."

The woman froze but her stance softened. Her eyes cast over the glowing windows of the croft house that she had so longed to look inside of. The Pandora's box that she had dared not open. She intrinsically knew that the cottage held some secret for her, waiting to be released. And the fisherman...

"I'll not hurt you." Ellis reassured her. His hands came up in a placating motion and he kicked away the oar where he had dropped it in the grass. "My name is Ellis. Will you come inside?" He gestured to the house with a nod of his head. He slowly lowered his hands, making his stance non-threatening as if he faced a wild animal.

She bit her lip. Ellis remembered it being one of his wife's unconscious habits when she was thinking very hard about something. "Alright." She said at length.

She dropped the fish reluctantly, followed the fisherman through the front door, and was immediately wrapped in peaty, warm air as she crossed the threshold.

A little red-haired boy sprung from the chair he had been sitting in, startling a low growl from the wolfhound at his feet.

"Da! It's the water lady!" He chirped, bounding across the small room to meet them. "Oh but she's getting the floor all wet. Mac isn't allowed in the house when his feet are wet, Da."

The woman smiled warmly at the child and knelt down to his level. "Hello, Ronan. Will you let me tour your bonny house?"

Ronan smiled, displaying a few missing teeth. He grabbed Saoirse's hand and marched her around the cottage, pointing out his toys, his bedroom, his favorite seat by the fireplace. Ellis watched with detached interest, still mystified at the woman's presence in his home, her interaction with his son.

Ronan eventually wore himself out with the tour and fell asleep in the kitchen window seat.

Ellis scooped the child up and carried him into his small bedroom at the back of the house, the wolfhound following closely. After clearing his bed of rocks and cowry shells and depositing them on his nightstand, Ellis tucked Ronan in and closed his curtains against the silver moonlight. The woman stood silent in the doorway of the bedroom, a hand over her mouth. When Ellis turned around he found that tears had sprung into her eyes.

"Sing me a song, Da?" A little voice came from the bed. The boy yawned widely and nestled deeper into his blankets. Little faker, you weren't asleep at all, Ellis mused. The father smiled, turned back to the boy, tucked the blankets around his legs in the shape of a fish tail, and sat at the foot of the bed. He began to sing a sea shanty in a lilting baritone.

Haul on the bowline, homeward we are goin'
Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul
Haul on the bowline, before she starts a' rollin'
Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul
Haul on the bowline, the skipper is a growlin'
Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul

When the song ran out of verses, he substituted his own.

Haul on the bowline, Ronan is the captain
Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul

The little boy smiled sleepily at this. The next line Ellis sang nearly broke the woman's heart in two.

Haul on the bowline, Saoirse is my darlin'
Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul

Ellis' voice faded out until the only sound in the room was the distant whisper of the waves and the little boy's sleeping breath. Very slowly he turned his melancholy eyes up to the woman. "It sounds better with more voices."