Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (19 page)

Forty Two

Tiola’s arm was threaded through Jesamiah’s. She held tight to him for warmth and security as they walked down the hill, too weary to talk, too unsure what to say.

On the far shore, a few of the quayside lanterns still burned; the lamplighter would be around soon to extinguish those not required, and to relight those that were necessary on the quay front. An owl called from somewhere inland. A cow lowed, a dog barked, the sounds crisp and clear in the cold night air. Jesamiah’s boots scraped on the rough stones in the lane. At the first corner out of sight of the house, he stopped and kissed her the once, not long and lingering, but with tender gentleness, a gesture of apology.

She did not kiss him back, but touched her fingers to his lips. “You hurt me last night, Jesamiah.”

He did not reply, but tucked her hand beneath his arm to warm it, and walked on, staring ahead into the darkness, carefully watching the movement of shadows beneath the hedgerows and trees in case anyone lingered there. They were nearly at the bottom of the hill now. The jollyboat was pulled up on the sloping lawn at Tawford Barton. It would not take much effort to drag it over the small strip of remaining dry land and launch it into the water.

“I know I did,” he said as they walked the last few yards along the lane. “It’ll not happen again.”

Tiola slipped her arm from his and stood at the edge of the sand that was frosted and glistened with a rime of ice sparkling in the puddles and between the sand ripples. She folded her arms beneath her cloak, watched as Jesamiah dragged the boat across the sand, leaving a long, scratched line scraped by the keel, his boot prints making it look as if some two-legged monster with a thick, supple tail had walked across the beach.

She had a sudden picture come into her head: a picture of long, long ago, of when the trees were dense palms, and the air was heavy with oppressive heat. Of insects with wingspans wider than the spread of a man’s arms, and of creatures that came to be called terrible lizards… She shook her head, she was too tired for scrying into the past.

The boat was at the water’s edge a few yards away. Jesamiah waved one of the oars to attract her attention. “You want me to carry you?”

“No, I can manage.” The sand broke with a soft crunch as she walked. Ahead of her, the white, wild toss of the Bar shimmered against the darkness of the night sky, the
shussh, shussh
, of the sea…

… Another dark night, no moon yet risen, stars in their thousands watching and waiting… A ship, the flood tide, under full sail, a man on the quarterdeck, his hands gentling the helm as he took his beloved mistress out to the freedom of the sea. His hair tangled and tossed in the wind, his head back, mouth open, laughing. The sense of freedom flooded through her. A bird, joyous as he sang, freed from his cage. The call of the sea, the pound of the waves, the thunder of the ocean. The creak of the deck, the wind whistling through the rigging, the crack of canvas. That was his world, his life. Not here, not ashore. Not with her.

“Tiola?” His voice, his breath warm on her face, his hand taking hers. “You alright, sweetheart?”

She smiled, choked back tears, managed to nod as he lifted her into the boat and shoved off. She sat with her back to him, in the bow, as he rowed. Sat there deliberately so that he would not see the tears glistening on her pale cheeks. Jesamiah was not hers. One way or another, he belonged to the sea.

Forty Three

Day. The sun beat down, burning the wet sand instantly dry as the high tideline fell away, the edge of the water feebly grasping at the land, reluctant to let go. Tiola stood upon the dunes, the wind tugging at her hair and her cloak, hissing in her ears as it hurried by, whispering a warning that she ought not be there; this was not her place, not her time.

The granite stones stood marking the causeway, the tip of their proud heads gleaming black against the sway of the sea lapping at their upright stance.

A man stood at the edge of the sea, knee-deep, his cloak and gown floating about him making him appear as if he were a black-inked jellyfish. He stood very still, his arms raised, holding a round willow-woven basket between his hands. His head was back, his eyes closed, chanting.

“Do not take the life of the land, oh mighty Ocean, do not take what is not yours.”

The sea was restless, aggrieved that this man, this simple, foolish man should dare give her ordered instruction. She, Tethys, ruled here! Tethys, the omnipotent deity of the Deep, ruled without question, without dissent. She would have life, if she chose! She would! A wave smashed against one of the standing stone markers in a crash of spray and spindrift.

Tiola realised he was not the same priest who had been there when they had set the stones as the path of the causeway. This was many years later. Generations had passed since those days when the men had worked with flint and stone; a bronze dagger blade glinted at this man’s hip.

“Take this gift of sacrifice, oh mighty power of the Sea. Take this offering, which I give freely to you, and be content. Be content and do not, again, swallow the land which is not yours!”

Tiola could see no houses on the far shore, no smoke from heath fires. No women grinding corn, scraping animal skins, weaving wool. Debris lay high along the curve of the estuary – high up, where the house of Tawford Barton would stand in the distant future. There had been a flood tide and perhaps something more. The rush of a bore tide, a surge tide that had swept everything away; homes, livestock and crops, and to appease the wrath of the sea, to ensure she did not return, a sacrifice had to be offered.

The priest lowered his arms, stepped forward and placed the basket in the lapping waves and gave it a little push. He stepped back, watched with no emotion as the sea accepted her gift, swirling it gently around and around, taking it further from the shore.

A sound, a thin, mewling wail, and Tiola’s heart and soul lurched with fear! A baby! A baby was in that basket!

She screamed distress. This was the deliberate drowning of a child no more than a few hours old. She ran, her bare feet scudding through the sand, splashing into the water. The man tried to grasp at her, but Tiola was past him, wading into the sea, pushing the barrier of waves aside with her hands, thrusting her body towards the basket and the bundle wrapped within. She stretched out, fell, as the current swirled mercilessly around her legs, the hiss of the sea rising louder, angry.

You ssshall not have him! He is mine! You ssshhall not have him!

The water went over her head, into her mouth, closed her ears to all sound save the thump of her heart and the cry in her soundless voice.

Blindly she reached out, caught the wicker rim, took up the child and willed herself to be standing up on the headland where the ring of wooden posts marked the Place of Life. Where women prayed for their wombs to quicken, where the new moon of mid-winter and the dawn sun of the summer solstice rose between the two tallest markers.

Surrounded by the circle of wood, Tiola knelt, protected, safe from harm, safe within her own world outside of time, where none but the Wise Ones of the Old Ways could travel.

It was a boy she held, a boy child with dark eyes and dark hair. She recognised the essence of his soul instantly, the ancestor of Jesamiah’s line, the boy who would grow to become the father of the father of the father… Here was the son of the son of the son of the boy she had rescued from the flooding tide when the men had built the causeway of stones. That had been the saving of a boy who had no reason to die, for Fate could be tipped to either side of balance when the unpredicted happened. This child, this son of men, had been freely given to the sea; this was no accident, no Weirding of Fate. This child was a deliberate gift to Tethys, given to appease her violent tempers, and Tiola, against all the laws of her Craft had intervened and unwittingly set in motion another law, that of justified rectitude. It was Tethys’ right to claim what was hers, whenever opportunity to take her property presented itself.

Bile rose into Tiola’s throat. It was herself, then, in a former existence, who had initiated this feud. Her own fault for interfering where she should not have done. By denying Tethys a gift freely given she had broken the accepted law of respect, and down through time, generation after generation, Tethys had, again and again, attempted to claim what she considered to be hers. Jesamiah was a direct male descendant, son, to son, to son of the offering that Tiola had stolen from the sea. It would only end when Tethys had claimed her property, the soul of a son of the boy in the basket – Jesamiah’s ancestor.

Forty Four

The boat scraped on the sloping patch of sand on the far side of the estuary. Jesamiah shipped the oars, and grasping the painter, stepped out, the water coming halfway up his boots. “Sorry, m’dear, but you will have to walk from here.” He secured the rope to an anchorage chain, allowing leeway for the full rise of the tide, and turned back to see Tiola still sitting in the boat.

“Sweetheart?” He peered closer; her eyes were blank. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and her face was crumpled into folds of desolation. “Sweetheart! What is wrong?”

He lifted her from the boat and carried her up the steps, her fingers clutching at him as if there would never be a chance to hold him again. On the quay he sat her on a wooden crate, hunkered down to his heels in front of her, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Tiola? What is it?”

She could not speak, the grief was too deep and dark within her, but she thread her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest.

It is all my fault,
she whispered into his mind.
My fault.

He stroked her hair again, lifted her into his arms and carried her to the
Full Moon
. “What you need, my love, is a warm bed and a night’s sleep.”

She shuddered as she felt his arms, strong, about her. She had loved this man, as a boy, as a man, for many, many lifetimes, and now, sometime soon, she would have to let him go, unless she could find a way, somewhere in the past or the present, to undo the wrong she had done. In her mind, though, how had it been wrong to save the life of an innocent?

I have endangered you.
Tiola burrowed her face into Jesamiah’s coat.
You will meet death because I saved the baby.

He knocked on the
Full Moon’s
locked door with his elbow.

“Death is the only certainty in life, sweetheart. When my time comes, it’s more likely to be ‘cos I didn’t duck quick enough for a bullet to miss me. I doubt those babes up at Instow House will have anything t’do with the cause.”

He had not understood, but she was too tired, and too confused, to find the energy or the words to explain.
Make love to me Jesamiah,
she whispered into his mind.
Make love to me as if we may never have chance again.

Forty Five

Leaving Tiola to sleep, Jesamiah dressed quietly and wandered downstairs in search of breakfast. He ached. Every bit of him was bruised or battered – or at least it felt that way. At the foot of the stairs he nearly turned around to go back up again. The public bar was empty, save for the old man who didn’t seem to have a home to go to, and Carter Trevithick. His back to the stairs, he was vigorously sweeping the floor with a besom broom, flicking up more dust than he was cleaning away. Having no desire to talk to the man, Jesamiah hesitated. Maybe he could slip, unnoticed, out the door?

Carter brushed a pile of dust and debris under the settle and caught sight of Jesamiah. His face reddened. “I’d thank you not to mention to my wife that beneath the settle is an easier disposal method than messing about with shovels and such.”

Unable to avoid the man Jesamiah stepped down the last three stairs, crossed the room, pulled a chair out from a table and sat, suppressing the groan as his buttocks and spine came into contact with the hard, wooden chair seat. “No idea what you are talkin’ about.”

“We’ve got cushions if you want comfort,” Carter said, nodding his thanks as he propped the broom against the wall.

“Don’t need no cushion,” Jesamiah answered, “just a tot of something medicinal.”

Tiola had told of the attack at Instow House last night, or rather in the early morning, when he had set her down beside the fire in order to warm her cold hands and feet. Both Pegget and Carter had been askance at the tale, with Carter all for aiding Rue in keeping watch, but as Jesamiah pointed out, with three of the five ruffians dead, it would be highly unlikely that the remaining two would go back looking for trouble that night, if at all.

“We’ve porridge on the stove, and the last of m’best brandy, if that suits you.” Carter offered.

Jesamiah nodded. It suited. So did the apparent truce between them.

The porridge came with a jug of cream and a jar of honey. Without asking for approval, Carter sat opposite Jesamiah and rested his elbows on the table. They both spoke at once.

“I’m…”

“Look…”

“You first,” Jesamiah offered, spooning the hot porridge into his mouth. Why could Finch not make it like this, with a taste to it, and without lumps?

Carter wiped his hand under his nose, then took a long swig from the brandy bottle. “I’m sorry I jumped at you, Acorne. My sister is very dear to me and I’ll do anything for her – including change my name for her sake.”

“No,” Jesamiah contradicted, “you changed your name because you did not want to be associated with any gossip concerning your father.”

Acknowledging the truth, Carter shrugged. “My mother’s husband, you mean? He was not our father, though only I know that for certain. Tiola possibly suspects, but Bennett – Ben – has no idea.”

“Tiola knows,” Jesamiah said, “but as both are dead, does the nit-picking of your parentage matter? An’ I appreciate your wantin’ to protect Tiola, but I assure you I would die for her, and for what she is.” He said the last to see if Carter made any reaction. A raised eyebrow? A searching look? Even a word. Nothing. No reaction. Did he not know, then, what she was? A witch of the White Craft, or was he being particularly careful in order to not reveal secrets? In Jesamiah’s opinion, there were several too many secrets lurking around this place.

“I was going to say,” he said, “that for her sake we must make an effort to be congenial towards each other. She ain’t well and I ain’t prepared to add to her distress by acting the ass.”

“That’s fair enough,” Carter replied after a moment to consider the offer, “but I’ll tell you now, I cannot stand mules. They stink and are stubborn.”

Jesamiah took his meaning, but refrained from answering that mules could kick harder and faster than a man could jump out the way. He finished the porridge, swallowed some of the brandy. If this was the
Full Moon’s
best stuff, he did not want to taste the worst. “Fok sake man, if you are going to run contraband, I’d advise running decent bloody liquor!” He stood up, set his hat on his head, pulled on his coat. “You got half an hour free?”

Carter answered warily. “If I needed it. Why?”

“You’d better come with me. I’ve a few kegs stashed away in my hold that might interest you. I reckon we’ve time to have a look before I need to go to Marley Court for this fancy jig the ladies are planning for the Duchess.”

“Dowager Countess,” Carter corrected as they walked together towards the beach. “I will be there too. I’m providing the liquid refreshment.”

“Just as well I’m the one supplying you then, ain’t it?” Jesamiah quipped, “else all the guests will ‘ave bellyache from drinkin’ the mule-piss you serve.”