Angry fists of water slammed into the sides of Leamhan as the cold ocean tried to force its way into the small fifie boat. The fisherman grimaced as hands, leathered by the sun, gripped the handle of the tiller tighter as the vessel began to roll with the waves. The heavy brass mizzenmast lamp that hung behind him cast his shadow across the length of the boat. He felt the boat slide out from underneath him as the rudder began to lose its struggle for control with the fierce current. His eyes, stinging from the brine that washed over the bow and sprayed back over the deck, narrowed to slits as he tried to make out the faint glow of the lighthouse. It flickered on the horizon like a candle on the sill of a partly open window. And at that moment, he thought of home.
Their kitchen was cast in a warm autumnal glow from the wood stove as an earthy smell lingered from the thatch roof. She was tending to a teapot, her lithe figure discernable under a nightgown and lace shawl that radiated amber as if the flame was from within. Her bare feet glided on the warm wood floor, graceful movements belying coarse skin earned through many years as a herring lass. He was drawn to her, a swimmer caught in the ocean's tide. While lost in her smile, the freckles across her copper framed face were the constellation from which he could find himself. A contented sigh escaped from his lips as she hugged him. He breathed in her scent. His reverie was broken by a jarring peal of thunder.
The waning hours of the fourth watch struggled to bring light to the black horizon. Brief flashes of lightning made the crest of waves seem like tumbling, jagged white mountains and the troughs, like dark green valleys. Time exerted its toll as his back and knees ached from his effort to keep the ship on course towards the lighthouse. His wool coat, laden with ice, weighed his arms down. Fear crept up his legs and into his hands as the tiller became slack in his grip, the boat began to heel. Leamhan threatened to broach. The three crewmen looked back at their father. By the flickering light of the swaying oil lamp, he saw their eyes deeply set with worry.
"Stand fast lads! Lifelines!" he shouted as he grabbed the rope tied tightly around his waist. It was tethered to a line that ran along the cleats on the gunwale. Each boy tightened the knot at his belt. The fisherman tied off the tiller, securing it to the mizzenmast cleat. He loosened the rope hitch and the mizzen boom began to swing outward, filled with air. He stopped it abruptly by tightening the knot again as the boat became upright in the water. Turning back to the tiller, he untied it and immediately began to wrestle the now responsive rudder. Anger powered his once heavy arms. Anger at the storm, anger at the fear that tried to paralyze him, anger at the prospect of losing his family should he fail. The tiller trembled as the small boat turned to climb the wave.
A long line of foam abruptly appeared a distance away on his right. Breakers formed along the shoreline. Further still ahead was the waning glow of the lighthouse, its beam straining to be seen through the undulating tumult. Above the cacophony of the storm a banshee's shriek stabbed through the center of the fisherman.
Her labor was well past its fourteenth hour. The midwives were preparing her for another attempt in her time of trial. He cracked open the door to their bedroom and chanced a look. She was drenched in sweat, pale to the point of outshining the lit lamps around her. A blossom of red grew beneath her. The midwives wore stern faces as they tended to her, wiping her brow and giving her sips of water. The oldest one noticed him at the door.
"You shouldn't be here" she said as she pushed the door shut. The fishermans head hung low as he stared down at the door's latch. From behind it, he could hear his wife breathing heavy, hard. A guttural growl grew into a deafening roar as she began another birth pang, only to end in a mournful wail. Bearing it no longer, he pushed the door open and in two strides was at her side. Her slight frame looked even more fragile as her face hung limp with exhaustion, tears running in rivulets down her cheeks. At once, he noticed the absence of a newborn's cry. In the corner, the midwives worked furiously over a small bundle.
"What's happening?!" he demanded of them.
"Tend to your wife!" was the youngers reply.
His head swam as he tried to take in the scene playing out before him. Their bedroom had been turned into a dark abattoir: candles flickered about the still room, looking like stars through his tear filled eyes; blood stained bedding lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, heavy with the scent of iron. His strong, calloused hands felt useless as he cradled his wife, his arms trembling in both fear and helplessness. She clung to him for support, fingers clawing for purchase. He clung to her for strength. Her weak moan broke the suffocating silence.
"Where is my baby, where is she?" she pleaded, her eyes tired and bewildered. She? They'd had a girl! Breaking her gaze he looked to the silent midwives. His mouth hung limp, his tongue dry as words failed to form. In answer, the older midwife cradled a bundle as she walked towards them, eyes cast low. He could make out a lock of reddish copper hair framing a tiny, wrinkled blue face.
Crash! His sons worked feverishly to bail water out of their craft, but the sea was gaining. A decision had to be made. He leaned on the tiller hard to port, sending the Leamhan's bow to starboard. The small, true boat churned through the water, carrying its passengers to the relative safety of the shore. With a loud crunch, the bow climbed the rocks that defined the shoreline, then crashed down upon them. The fisherman was quick to his feet, grabbing each boy by the collar and hoisting him up as he walked past.
"Off lads, off the boat!!" he shouted, struggling to be heard above the storm's fury. As each son neared the lip of the boat, their father would cut their tether, grab them by the seat of their pants and flip them onto the rocks. The youngest struggled to follow his brothers, tumbling backwards as another wave lifted the boat off the rocks and began to pull it back to the sea. His father turned to face him, shouting "No!" as he pulled on the lifeline, drawing the youth across the slick deck. A hollow, sucking sound filled their ears as the tide both rolled the boat down toward the seabed and rose up behind them, a hulking beast ready to pounce. The fisherman threw the lifeline to shore, then lifted the boy, kissing him brusquely on the cheek before tossing him towards his waiting brothers. The monster wave crashed down on the seaman, flattening his back to the deck and sending his knife spinning from his hand. The three figures receded quickly from view as a rip current drew the moth boat to deeper waters. The fisherman tried to rub his eyes clear as salt water continued to run across his face. Through the burning, he could see a ripple of lightning betray the ocean sweeping across the bow. The Leamhan was lost. Sweeping his view to and fro, he couldn't see the fallen blade. As water climbed past his knees, he pulled on the lifeline that held him fast to the stern. It was a good and firm Irish hemp rope that refused to give way to his desperate pulling. The icy water began to rise past his waist then chest, sharp stabs of cold pain drawing the breath from him. He held his breath as he was pulled under, drawn by the rope as the boat sought the depths. Pressure began to pulsate over his ears and his chest felt like fire until he could hold out no longer. In one cough, he had had his fill.
He awoke with a start. His eyes flickered as he adjusted to the harsh morning beams. It was a candelabra on a nearby dresser, the only light in the darkened room. Looking up, he saw familiar faces: though hidden beneath rough worn features, he could still see their boyhood countenances. His lads. They looked sad. "Dadaidh" one said. He smiled at the greeting. His breath was getting harder to draw. To their side, he saw her. She looked frail and withdrawn, furrows of grief worked across her brow. Her once lithe figure weighed down by time and births. But her face, her face still called to him. His eyes traced long remembered stars that clung to her cheeks in clusters and lines until he found home in her thin smile. Her eyes beaded with tears that rolled unabated to her chin. He smiled, and reached out with a withered hand to hers. She clasped his . "She is clothed with strength and dignity, she laughs without fear of the future" he whispered to her. Her smile stretched slightly. "Don't cry my love" he continued "Im to go on an adventure. I will see you again". He turned to his sons. "Lads, look after your mam." The sun's light began to fade as night took hold.
He awoke to the brightest morn. The Leahman was at sea again, racing across its waves. He looked down at his hands, young and strong as they held fast to the tiller. His face was cooled by rushing wind, a full sail and the spray of the ocean. The sun was the brightest he had ever seen, its warmth washing over and through him. And yet, and yet it itself was outshone. Far across the bow, seated on the first row bench was a wee lass, clutching a cloth doll and dressed in his wool sweater. Her long curled locks of glowing reddish copper hair framed her face as she turned to see him, freckles meandering a trail to the grandest of smiles. He sighed, then called out to her: "We are going home!"
Fin
