It was a common sight by now. The pair sat in the kitchen, one attempting to help the other with the madness that was pre-calculus.
"I really don't get it."
"I'm not sure how else to explain it to you, then..."
The angel chuckled, the fond exasperation at their apparent mathematical issues another common sight.
"Perhaps we should take a break?" he suggested.
"Maybe... Sorry about dragging you into this," she said, standing from the table.
"Nonsense," he dismissed, standing as well, "it's not a problem. It's actually a small relief to get away from the others every once in a while... A new cafe just opened up nearby, right? Maybe we should go there for a little while."
"That... Would be wonderful," she nodded, "Let me just grab some money from my room-"
"No, no, I'll pay."
"Are you sure?"
"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't."
And so the two went off to the cafe.
Ever since being chosen as a student for this school of demons and the occasional angel or human, she had been surprised to learn a lot of things. For example, how this angel seemed to know her by a different name. It hadn't been brought up since they first met, and by this point she had nearly forgotten about it, but it was intriguing nonetheless.
At some point during their journey, the angel had begun to hum absentmindedly. It wasn't exactly anything to behold, at least, not at first.
"I've heard that song."
The angel stopped humming, glancing at her.
"...What do you mean?" he asked, a strange mix of hope and confusion laced within his voice.
"I've heard it somewhere, I'm sure," she confirmed. "What song is that?"
The angel smiled lightly, glancing ahead.
"It's... It's a song native to my home," he explained. "The Celestial Realm. It's not from your world."
She tilted her head and thought.
"...Strange," she mumbled, "though I'm not sure where I would've heard it... It was probably me mistaking it for something else, then," she chuckled lightly.
"...Perhaps," the angel muttered before continuing to walk, "Come on, it's not far now," he said as she began to follow.
While she may have dismissed the thought, it rang clear in the angel's mind, along with one other.
'Maybe there is a chance to help her remember after all...'
(@flashfictionfridayofficial) (Kind of a continuation from last week! Same girl, different setting!)
Once again, thanks to the wonderful peeps at @flashfictionfridayofficial this wonderful prompt!
For this one I actually revisited an old story I wrote during NaNo 2017. Its title was "The Voice of the World" and this prompt made me think about it. This short story is actually set after a possible sequel of the story!
Title: Familiar Melody
Warnings: none, really.
Ever since she was a kid, she had always felt people's presences as melodies and tunes. Many of them, even though immaterial like emotions, were dear to her heart exactly like the real songs of her childhood.
The gentle humming of her mother's presence. The vibrant song of her father.
But the one that slowly carved a deep place in her heart was the gentle soothing tune of her mentor.
In the dark nights of that unknown city, where even the stars looked different from the ones she found solace in her hometown, the soothing sound of her mentor's presence had always been a source of comfort, and a lullaby to fall asleep to.
But, everything changed the day her mentor finally found the traitor of his tribe. She remembered well the ghostly sight of his fangs dipped in blood, his hair drenched with red splashes of color, an unnatural savage fury in his eyes.
The tune changed that day. It was soothing no more, replaced by the roaring strength of the wilderness, the shrieking call of the bird mother trying to protect her children.
She continued travelling with his mentor, helping him fix the aftermath of the traitor's doing.
The roaring of his presence never left her heart and her ears, leaving her shivering inside her sleeping bag during the dark foreign nights. She tried to listen to the forest's lullabies instead, to no avail: her mentor was so deeply rooted in his anger that his presence overshadowed reality.
One day, her mentor finally told her that his job was done. The traitor's doings were finally fixed and his loyalty to his tribe had been upheld. She tilted her head in confusion.
The air felt silent. No roaring, no soothing tune.
His presence was silent.
"Let's go back home, shall we, Sephi?"
A new tune filled the air. Joyous and full of life.
Sephi's heart soared with happiness. That violent roar was finally gone.
"Yes!"
She smiled. His presence's sound was different, but so familiar. That was the mentor she knew and felt at home with. That night, a new lullaby sang her to sleep.
A/N: Another ficlet, where it’s melancholic and probably less angsty.
Featuring Taranee Husna, because I haven’t been doing my queen any justice, and she deserves some love! Oh, as a hint, she’s a childhood buddy of a fellow king, who’s also a good man. ;P
Word Count: 583
TW: None
***
Smell of fresh bread and pastries flurried in the air as a person opened ovens. A cake being baked finished with a ding then a pair of gloved hands pulled a handle to take it out. Setting it on a tray.
Upon smelling it, she let out a sound of contentment.
She took out a latest batch of pies, putting them down on a table. She dusted flour off her apron then applies whip cream into a croissant.
Lively music burst from speakers while another slowed from a phone. Everyday in Netty's bakery, people worked with energy and vigor. If anything, music aided them on doing their specific tasks.
A general cozy style of the atmosphere gave an impression of a comfortable workplace.
Taranee grinned at those cupcakes already covered with sprinkles. Maybe she should add an extra pizzazz for this order because the customer had been oddly generous for a while.
Midst a riff-raff of a guitar and brisk tempo of a violin, a mellow voice tugged at her heartstrings and memory. Turning a view around her into a mist.
Tarz hadn't heard of this particular melody in a long time. Or even thought of it.
It transported her back to a simple time, where was in a field with a dear friend. Her friend, she couldn't dare to think of her name, had laughed with her voice bright and joyous. Her heart raced quicker at that sound, and she had smiled with her. She had reached for her agile and flexible hand in her soft and delicate one.
It sent an aching through her bones, rattling her heart. Her breath quivered, almost climbing up her throat.
Pausing, Tarz nearly dropped a bowl of flour. She picked up a rolling pin and flattened dough, which she might have forgotten about.
A tune and melody of a song seemed to be playing across halls, lulling her deeper into a memory. She and the woman dancing in a wide field while rhinos and other cattle witnessed them from afar.
For you are my true friend. . . and you are the one, I can call when I'm alone. Whether you're far or not, you're always important to me. . .
A sweet, lilt tune spoke those words with her raw and exposed heart. She rolled the batter until it slightly crumpled.
Tarz sucked in a breath. She stuffed her hands into her pockets, shaking her head. She needed to focus on preparing another batch of strawberry pies. But thanks to that familiar tune, it lured her to a nostalgic time.
She shouldn't be thinking of her, at this point. She had left Imara for a reason because she wanted to follow her dreams of exploring the world on her own terms. If it hadn't reminded her of why it wasn't worth any pain, she didn't know what else could have helped.
If she could, she would run back to her but. . . but she didn't feel the same way. Despite the intimacy between them going beyond that line, sometimes. She knew she didn't and would never return her feelings.
Plus, she was. . . with someone else. A man.
They had been friends since childhood, and it was all they could be. She couldn't be naive or foolish enough to believe for a chance between them to happen.
When Taranee inhaled heavily, she felt a weight lifted from her chest.
Flattening the dough once more, she tried avoiding being captivated by a familiar melody determined to keep her in the past.
Cherry Blossoms and Snow (Prompt: Familiar Melody)
Hi, it’s me again. For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt of this week I decided to “use” my oc Cheri again :3 as always, sorry for mistakes or weird sentences. Hope you’ll like it!
«Here, this is the place».
There was only that old cherry tree in the clearing, covered in heavy snow; the total whiteness of the place around made the tree look even lonelier. Cheri pointed her curious blue eyes on the tree.
«Why are we here, mom?» asked. That was not exactly how she expected to spend her 10th birthday, but if her mother insisted on taking her there, there was surely a good reason. She glanced at her waiting pantiently while Gera was fixing again her jacket and beret, making sure she was well covered; Cheri found that almost ironic, since her mother wore nothing but a light white vest and was barefoot, but it was like the cold couldn’t even reach her. In the village next to their little cottage people said that her mother was a charodeika, a witch basically. She didn’t know if they were right, she just knew that she could do amazing things, that she could make the cold disappear, that everything around her looked brighter and that she made her feel so warm. And safe. People in the village said mean things about her too, they called her thevshi, “ghost”, because of her white hair and pale face. But she didn’t care.
«This is where I found you, my blossom», said Gera smiling brightly, «today is the day the Good Mother brought you to me». As she said that, she took Cheri’s little hands in hers and kissed her forehead. Cheri felt around her all the warmth of a spring she never witnessed in her life. Her mother approached the tree laying a hand and her forehead on the bark, closing her eyes. Her lips started moving as she let the sweet lullaby, that familiar melody that filled Cheri’s everyday life with sweetness and joy, resound in the cold air.
Eternal Yule, cruel numbness
my creatures you deprive of the light,
Cold Yule, eternal grief
can’t you see how they tremble in fright?
As the song went on, the tree started to turn its appearance; little turfs of moss painted the bark of green, the branches grew buds under the snow.
Beloved Beltain, awaited abundance
my heart longing for you in the night,
bright Beltain, beloved relief
bring to my creatures joy and delight.
And the white of the snow turned pink as the buds bloomed, bringing fresh cherry blossoms to life. Gera took Cheri by the hand again and their feet moved following the cadence of the sweet melody. Snow and petals falling gently all around them.
«Happy birthday, my cherry blossom».
The carillon stopped.
Cheri opened her eyes and looked gloomily at the black lacquered box. Another birthday without her. All she had was that familiar melody and her cherished memories of cherry blossoms and snow.
It utterly refused to sound right. The only thing he could hear was a loud ticking, beating through his skin and up his arm. He signed, bending his head down to the holographic piano keys and through to the hard wood of the table. The humming of the holograph couldn’t drown out the ticking. For a moment, he wondered if he’d have fewer problems with a physical keyboard. Maybe he ought to have the librarian give him access for a few hours.
He straightened up, unhooking the watch and laying it on the table. Wouldn’t make much difference, the end user wouldn’t be on a physical keyboard.
It still wasn’t cooperating. He flexed his fingers to avoid banging on the bloody keyboard. That would just make it fritz. And then he’d have to reset it, and that would take—A crash down the hall caught his attention. Simon was fighting with the housebot again.
“Do you even know where that comes from?”
The little boy yanked the music box back. The thing in front of him blinked odd eyelids, not grasping what it had just been told. He ruffled Simon’s hair, asking for the music box. The boy turned it over with suspicious eyes. He swallowed another sigh—he was doing entirely too much of that lately.
“Remember what I told you? You have to train the bot. Here.” He knelt down, the metallic gaze following him.
“Training action.”
The robot nodded. He wound the box up, letting it play out the old tune. The robot nodded again.
“Action noted,” it said.
He handed the box back to Simon. “See?”
The boy took, hugging it to his body, still eyeing the metal thing with a cold eye.
“If you ask, maybe it can run another search—”
“No!”
He sighed. “Why not?”
“It’s mine.”
He patted Simon on the head and went back to his keyboard. Bloody thing would be the death of him. Maybe if he—his eyes flicked to childish movement.
“Don’t touch that.”
A composer and yet, the most settling melody in the work was the rhythmic ticking of an old watch his father had given him. He liked to image a long lineage for the item, passed down from generation to generation, something to justify being his most prized possession. But the truth was, it was some trinket from a thrift shop.
He’d been eight. Unsettled, and never able to stay still. Didn’t matter the amount of counseling or threats, he couldn’t help the squirming. Constantly moving, as if he was looking for something. His father had dragged him along one Saturday morning in July, when it was sunshiny outside and he would have rather run around in the backyard with his friends and the VR headset. Instead, he was following along erratically as his dad dug through this and that in an attempt to find something worth fixing. Worth fixing and then selling. He’d never seen the appeal, but his mother claimed everyone needed a hobby. Dad had pulled the watch out of a clearance box, flashing a smile and tossing it to him to carry around. He’d never put it down.
Simon let go of the watch. Everything ground to a halt as the fragile old glass headed for the floor. His own heart clogged his throat and there was the screech of wood on wood as he pushed off the bench. A metallic claw got there first.
The robot straightened up as he did, holding out its hand. He took the watch, and the robot retracted its claw. Simon, not understanding why his father was breathing too fast, went back to the music box. The odd old tune creaked out again. He took a steadying breath, reminding himself of that age. Of how many things were disposable and how little consequences made sense.
“Don’t touch the watch, right Simon?”
The tune stuttered to an end as the mechanical gears slowed. The robot cocked its head.
“Tune is that of ‘This is My Father’s World.’ Hymn of the Christian tradition, written by Maltbie Davenport Babcock. 1901.”
He whistled. “Didn’t know their records went back that far.”
Simon scowled. “No it’s not!”
He made eye contact with the robot as Simon stormed out of the room, music box held tight to his chest. The eyes with fake lids blinked. Manufactures still hadn’t got the pace right.
(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt: FFF45: Familiar Melody. Set in superheroverse again. Enjoy!)
“Begin.”
White Violin tracked Siren with his eyes and lifted his violin to his shoulder and began to play. He wasn’t going all out yet, just starting with a simple piece to destabilise Siren and make them vulnerable. Siren wasn’t physically big, not like Kraken or Trajectory and he didn’t want to kill them by using too much force at one go. They were still his classmate, after all.
Siren watched him without saying anything, dodging the force waves and letting them hit the walls around them. White Violin changed the piece to one he had come up with recently, because where else would be a good place to test something like this? Siren still hadn’t made their move yet but he was reasonably confident that he could win this fight.
“Stop playing.” Siren’s voice was clear and eerily resonant. White Violin felt his fingers and bow stop moving on their own, to his shock and horror, and he couldn’t control the force over them. Siren approached, almost calmly and entirely unperturbed by the fact that they were in the middle of a fight and were supposed to be testing their skills against each other. Siren hadn’t made any moves to attack, even going so far as to flick out their wrists as if showing off their lack of weapons, but White Violin was wary.
So this was their power.
White Violin placed his violin down, trying to break the spell Siren had cast. Siren just smiled and continued approaching.
“Sit down.” Siren said, in that eerie tone. White Violin tried to cover his ears but the words had gone through already, and he felt his body fall. “Don’t move.”
Siren finally reached White Violin and just smiled. They plucked his bow from his fingers, spun it once and then placed it at his throat. Their smile turned into a smirk as they pressed his body downwards with his own bow.
“I win.”
White Violin didn’t think there was anything he hated more in the world at that moment than that smirk on Siren’s face. White Violin, if later asked, would also identify that singular fight as the turning point that sparked his rivalry in earnest with Siren.
----
“The piece you played, that was the same one you played in our first fight.”
White Violin didn’t need to turn around to see that Siren was speaking. Siren’s voice was still hoarse from being gagged when they were kidnapped and their voice was softer than normal, but he would recognise it anywhere.
He turned around anyway to see Siren standing at the doorway. Siren looked smaller than usual and White Violin didn’t know why that was making him uncomfortable. Siren was direct and firm and terrifying at the best of times and if he was pressed, usually larger than life and one of the only people he truly respected. Not that he would ever admit the second part, but they were.
It was disconcerting to see Siren with their hair dripping and exhaustion in their eyes and in a crumpled, oversized T-shirt he suspected Illustrator had lent them, and looking so tiny.
White Violin put his bow down and looked at Siren. “What about it?”
“No. It’s- no, it’s nothing. I just thought it sounded familiar, is all. I- I think I should go.”
Siren took a step backwards and out of the doorway and White Violin put down his entire violin.
“Wait.”
“What.” Siren turned back and he saw some of the familiar spark and annoyance at him come out of the haze of their exhaustion, and he couldn’t help but feel a little relieved by that.
He suddenly wanted to ask if they were okay, even though all the signals were pointing to the fact that not only were they not okay, but they would not be willing to admit that they weren’t okay.
He’s suddenly reminded of something Illustrator said once about Siren when they had both been children. It had been in the context of Illustrator trying to convince him to stop being rivals with Siren and just be friends with them. Siren had apparently always been willful but-
He wonders sometimes, if Siren and him would have been friends. In some other timeline, would they have ended up friends instead of rivals?
“What do you want, Violin, or are you just going to sit there and stare?” Siren snapped, though their entire frame trembled and they had to hold onto the doorway to keep upright.
“Do you want to listen to the full piece?” He responded, grasping for something.
Siren raised an eyebrow at him skeptically. He just shrugged.
“It’s 2am in the morning, Violin.”
White Violin just raised an eyebrow back at them, challenging them in return.
Siren stared at him for a moment then threw up their hands and went to sit on the sofa next to him.
“Fine. Play your stupid piece.”
White Violin lifted his violin to his shoulder and began to play, letting himself just fall into the rapture of the music. This particular piece had taken several rounds of perfecting but he had to say he had a soft spot for it. Unlike most of the pieces he played on the field, this piece wasn’t loud and didn’t involve a lot of sharp movements but was fast and reminded him of a running river. Or maybe a rainstorm. It was one of the first pieces he had composed and one of the only he had in the last year. He had been busy lately and composing hadn’t exactly been on the top of things he needed to do.
Siren seemed to like the piece, despite themself, listening and smiling a little with their eyes. Siren also seemed tired and by the end of the piece, had drifted off on the sofa.
White Violin watched his rival sleep and made the split-second decision to just put a blanket over them, before leaving for his own room.
Another entry for @flashfictionfridayofficial with this week’s prompt, Familiar Melody, and just over a hundred words.
The scattered beads of water on the window bounced around, tiny droplets stuck on the glass, dancing together until some chance caused the enlarged blob to plummet and fall, going I knew not where.
The music blared in my ears, then stopped with a familiar slowness. The buzzing noise of scattered conversations slipped through my headphones now that I had nothing to drown it out. Shit. I looked down. My tape deck was stopped. The batteries must be dead. Again.
I opened my bag, even though I knew it was pointless. I had no more spares, no replacement. No way to escape the people around me. I couldn’t retreat back to my songs any longer.
I am two weeks late for the 8th of december entry but I have a good(ish) excuse: I wasn't inspired by the prompt so I took a random flashfictionfridayofficial prompt and then I couldn't stop and ended up behind on all the other entries. Here's the 6740 word long result. (first draft, unbetaed but I'm still proud of it)
Yes I listened to RQG and the first episodes of St Kilda, why do you ask? Ben Meredith thank you for haunting my every waking thoughts.
Tw for mention of a suicide attempt, alcoholism, christianism (just in case) shipwreck and death by drowning. (there's a happy ending I promise)
Down the street a shadow was walking, passing by rows of silent houses with no street lights to guide it. It needed none, it was following the stars ahead and the sounds of crashing waves below. A half moon broke free from the cover of thin summer clouds and shone on the silhouette who stopped in its track to turn its gaze to it. It revealed the face of a man of about thirty, skin battered by the sea and the sun with a longing expression making him look far older than he was. Tattoos and scars dotted the skin that could be seen from under his shirt and light jacket. A spyglass was tucked inside his belt. He took a left turn out of main street, resuming the humming of some rhythmic song that echoed down the main street of town to arrive as a faded melody at the McAwley's small house.
"Oh, is it ten already? The sun is setting so late in the summer!"
The thin middle aged man sat by the window inside gave a noncommittal hum without detaching his eyes from the newspaper, paying no mind to the softly singing silhouette who passed by. It was gone as quickly as it came, like it did every night. The plump woman at the dining table put down the shirt she was fixing and moved to sit on the armchair next to her husband's. She knew he already read those papers back to back at least twice today. He could spare some time to have a conversation with her about their most recent neighbor!
"While we are on the subject, Ricky, don't you think we should invite Mr. Finley over?" She began, pressing the hand her husband had put over the papers on his lap on her own.
Patrick obviously wasn't blind to the attempt to cuddle him into acceptance: the finger playing with her ginger curls, the sweetness on her tone, the light touch lingering now on his forearm, the insistence in disturbing him during his reading of the news - admittedly his fourth reading but it still was a sacred time! He scratched his graying temples with a sigh. What had Noami planned this time?
"And why such an idea at such a time, pray tell honey?"
"Well" she continued with a cunning smile "our dearest Lizzie is coming to visit this week-end, maybe they might take a liking to each other?"
"Are you trying to set our girl with this lad? You read too many novels Naomi, she is studying medicine in Galway so she won't have to take the first former sailor, former dockside worker, good for nothing boy to secure a living!"
"I said 'take a liking'! I am not forcing Elizabeth into marriage - yet. Besides he is a lovely and intelligent young man - very well mannered for a sailor - who has taken his place in our little community, I think they could genuinely get along! And if you got out of the house a little more you'd know he quitted working at the docks to become Mr. Stanton's secretary."
"Mr. Stanton!" Rick erupted, facing glowing red "The Mr. Stanton from the Stanton Banking Company? I swear to everything holy Noami, I would rather have my daughter marry a fisherman than a banker!"
"Good Lord, you're impossible to please! Anyway it is settled: I invited him for lunch on Sunday after service and he already agreed!" Noami exclaimed, one hand on her hip and the second pointing an accusing finger to her husband's nose "And he didn't make such a ridiculous fuss as you did, Patrick McAwley."
Rick mumbled something about marrying a hag disguised as a siren but gave up the fight: once Noami had decided she wanted something she clung and she never let go. This was how they got married after all! He plunged back to the few news articles he didn't know by heart yet. He knew very well that it wouldn't take the full week for Noami to convince him that inviting /Quinn Finley/ home was actually a brilliant idea.
Quinn had indeed made a habit of going out at ten every night and walking to the shore of rough sand a few minutes of walk away from town, to the point that it had become a more reliable way to tell time that the old dysfunctional clock tower - which at the moment still pointed to half past eight.
Through rain, gusts of wind or snow the man made his repeated pilgrimage, always humming some old shanty he knew from his time sailing from Britain to every port in the Mediterranean sea. He had seen countless far shores, exotic islands and tropical lands, the wonders of the middle east, the delights of southern europe, the secrets of north Africa! And yet when the time came for him to leave the merchant shipping company, Second Boatswain Finley chose to withdraw to this small island off the Irish coast.
He jumped the fence of old farmer Bertram's field and petted the pony that lived there to thank it for the free passage. It was the shortcut which avoided a perilous climb up some odd rock formation; he almost broke his back trying to get through it once a few months back and was glad the lonesome pony would accept some carrots or apples to let him get through.
A few hundred meters further Quinn crossed the bushes that closed the field and finally arrived at the small creek where the sand and earth met in the otherwise rocky island. He kicked out his boots, buried his feet in the warm sand and breathed the sea air with a sigh of satisfaction. Since he started working for Mr. Stanton he spent most of his days in a business office in the center of town. It was further from the shore than any job he had had in his life and he had to admit, he missed it. But the pay was ten times better, the career path also and he was starting to think this maybe was what he had come back to the island for.
It wasn't a major commercial port, to be honest he can't remember docking there in the twenty years he spent in the navy. There were fishermen, the two postal ships which made daily rotation to the mainland - when the sea was lenient enough - and some small commercial ships who would not go further than Britanny for their travels. The ship he traveled aboard only sailed along the coast of this small rock lost at sea when their journey would take them to Scotland, that is to say rarely.
But still this small nook of the ocean, this island, this shore, haunted his dreams and wouldn't let him forget the past. He tried everything, from the church to the bottle to a rope and everything failed. He couldn't let go. It wouldn't let him go. The only silver lining was that it allowed him to quit the shipping company with some savings and a small annuity, not enough to live off of but still better than nothing. It had been his chance to start over, and yet he somehow decided to start over from there.
His family never had much. He had the burden of being the second son of a farmer who had decided only his older son would inherit the small but productive farm. When his brother would learn with his father to work the ground and care for the flocks Quinn was at the church where the priest would teach him to read the Bible, to handle the church's small accounts, to give counsel to the parishioners. Young Quinn was hopelessly craving the attention of a father who was far more interested in the well built, seven years older eldest brother and less in the frail younger one who had been so sick for the first four years of his life that the parents thought he would not survive. God had decided the boy would live, his father said to the obedient and silent women his mother was, then he would live to serve Him.
In his years at the small church, Quinn grew to be an avid learner, fervently drinking every spoken word from the Father, and the whole books of written verse of this other Father thou was in Heaven. He finally found in them the love and intimacy he never had at home and with time the parish became more of a home than his father's house was. In return he spared no effort to care for it. It was a parabolic farm, like the one he would never inherit, with a parabolic flock and a parabolic farmer. The priest was so pleased with his choirboy, he wanted to send him to London to become a deacon. Eleven was a little early, certainly, but the farmer could understand that a gift such as his son's quick brain and dedication was not to be wasted! Unfortunately the boy's father had not gotten ill. It left only the eldest brother to care for the farm and the last few winters had been implacable and merciless. There was not a cent to waste anymore on Quinn's education and his workforce was begrudgingly required at the farm. There were other people to help the parish but the farm only had Quinn and his brother. The priest had no choice but to yield.
Betrayed, heartbroken and more alone than ever, Quinn made a deal with his father: he promised never to make any claim to the family's farm which would belong entirely to his brother and send half of his paycheck to his family as long as his father was still bedridden. In exchange he would never have to work there, especially if it means working under his elder brother's orders. The next morning the boy left both the farm and the parish, turning to look back only for the latter, and, following his intuition or some guidance from Above, took the road to London to offer his meager service to the Mediterranean Shipping Company.
He was posted as a seaman aboard the Lorelei, a new ship which would be sailing from the British Island to the Mediterranean ports and back. From there on, the boy worked under the orders of Captain Jonah Floch. He invested as much of himself as he did with the church, he never knew how not to put everything he had to the task assigned anyway. He learned sailing as naturally as reading, molding into his role on board and attracting the attention of the master. The experienced man watching over his ship and crew as a father to his house and family reminded Quinn a lot of the old tranquil priest back in his village. He revered him, taking in everything he was willing to teach him. The spyglass, his most treasured earthly possession, was a gift from Captain Floch, just before the Lorelei set sails for Aberdeen on what would be her last journey. He remembered his very words, his fatherly tone, his hand laying heavy and warm on his shoulder.
"How long have you sailed under me, boy?"
The question was casual but the look on the old man's face wasn't. Quinn's eye fell on his shoes and he stammered.
"I haven't counted, sir"
"But you know how to, so count."
They stayed silent for a moment, Quinn gaze was far away, recollecting every journey, every call, every return to home port. He made the calculations he never felt the need to do before. Since he was twenty seven and first joined the navy at twelve it had been...
"Fifteen years, sir."
Quinn was beaming with pride. His Captain nodded standing straighter, looking Quinn in the eyes. His body stood at attention by itself. The officer's words where full of gravity when he exclaimed:
"Fifteen year indeed. More than most of the men aboard this ship! Second boatswain Finley, I think it deserves a reward."
He had worn the horizon out all day, scrutinizing it with his shining brass instrument. With it he observed clouds, stars, whales, ships. With it he watched the storm darkening the sky dead ahead, coming closer and closer, vast, furious, inescapable. It hit them like the biblical Wrath of God. Captain Floch was almost immediately thrown at sea by a swinging shroud when the mizzenmast fell. From then panicking arose among the crew: on a ship without a master, no amount of maneuver or prayer could prevent their doom. Sails were torn, masts were cut down, the hull was cracked open. Soon nothing remained of the men's only shelter at sea. Those who were not thrown overboard by raging waves were dragged down by the sinking debris. Quinn was one of them, tangled in a large shred of sail, still clutching his beloved spyglass. Both of them were the only thing left from the Lorelei. How? No one knew. The islander could only tell he was found with it clutched in his fist. He stayed one month on the island for recovery. Just long enough for a letter to be sent to the Company, informing them of the Lorelei's fate and of its sole survivor state and for a ship to be sent to retrieve Quinn and the few remains of the ship to have washed on the shore.
So Quinn went back to London, was quickly back on his feet, profusely interrogated about the wreck and sent back on another of the Company's ships which was short one crew member. For five years he clenched his fist, swallowed back his grief and kept sailing on this new ship. Leaders in London were eager to send an experienced sailor back at sea after losing so many workers, a good ship and all its cargo in one night. They cared very little for employee Quinn Finley's state of mind and in earnest, neither did he. He only wanted to drown his sorrow in work - and rum. It was a win-win situation. Young seamen, full of morbid curiosity, asked him if he was afraid to sail again. He shook his head, swinging the bottle to his mouth and swallowing a generous pour of strong alcohol: if the Sea wanted him, It would claim him and if It didn't he might offer himself anyway, his soul be damned! It was a cold and merciless deity but at least it was something he could believe in! It did not take long for his new second in command to notice his crew member's behavior. Mr. Finley would not open up, keeping a cold layer of courtesy between him and the officer. Despite, or maybe because of this, Lieutenant Collins kept a closer eye on the sailor than on the youngest or rowdiest men under him.
It was this unwanted attention which saved his life, on that lonely night watch when Quinn thought no one had noticed the missing noose and bottle of whisky. The officer was waiting for him on the deck: he was spying at the clear night and pacing behind the helm with a detached demeanor. Despite this apparent tranquility, Quinn could feel, the very second he emerged from below deck, the eyes darted on him. Bright as a beacon it pierced through his fog of despair and drunkenness, asking a simple question: Are you certain this is what you want? The Lieutenant looked at him this way for what felt like an eternity; it was as if he could see deep inside his soul and read him raw. Quinn staggered, pushed backward by the intensity of the gaze: no, he was not. Actually he was not certain of anything anymore. Lieutenant Collins took the rope and alcohol from his weakening grip, threw them overboard and sent the sailor, shaking like a leaf, to his bunk. He would take his watch tonight.
As soon as they docked back in London he fought with the company to obtain his retirement and the pension he benefited from, a rare gift restricted to officers and sailors injured or mutilated on duty. He put only one condition to his help:
"You will give up the bottle, unconditionally and definitely, you hear me, Finley? Not a drop anymore. And you will live. Be worthy of your second chance. You will have enough resources to quit sailing completely, choose a new place to live and start anew. Become a man Captain Floch could be proud of from where he is now. I won't accept anything but your most solemn word on this: do you promise?"
Quinn was so grateful he would have agreed to anything. He nodded, fighting back tears. He thanked and blessed his benefactor profusely and promised over and over to do everything to deserve the trust the lieutenant was putting on him. He took his first month of pension to pay for a passage to the island he now lived on and did his best to get his life back together.
Why did he choose to return there? Quinn had no idea. But he was drawn to this island like a moth to the flame. He knew that it was the place he needed to be. Six months later he still didn't know if he had been right but if sailing taught him anything except sea shanties and knots, it was that long nights with nothing in the horizon didn't mean that there was no land to find. It was, after years of doubt, a leap of faith he was willing to take.
He took on working at the docks since it was the closer he could find to sailing without actually getting on a boat. He kept on his best behavior, renting a small house from an elderly woman, sweet Helen who baked him pies and brought him in every friday night so Quinn could read some Bible verse or poetry aloud; her sight was getting worse with every year and her dear Angus, bless his soul! was not there anymore. He bought some fish and vegetables at the market on Wednesdays, went to church every Sunday - except when the docks needed some more hands - and gave the best impression he could to his new neighbors. Rumors ran quicker in a small isolated town than on any ships, and he genuinely wanted to be appreciated and welcomed.
As time passed people slowly started to accept his presence, especially the priest when he learned Quinn had been a choirboy, and in here people listened to the priest more than the mayor. Helen's son, at first very suspicious, seemed to like the way he cared for his mother and put the same trust in him that she did. He was always courteous to the ladies when met them on the square and listened attentively to the latest news from Naomi's daughter at medical school - she showed him pictures, the girl was an angel sent to Earth! - or the town's boys away for military service. Their fellows would appreciate a hand given to mend a roof or fix a chariot. Kids would run to him in the streets and ask for stories of his journeys and their mothers drew more and more fond of the man who would sit on the pavement and tell with emphatic gestures and mimes what he saw on the far shores of Spain, Greece or Egypt. He was known in the port as a hard working man who - and it was an agreeable surprise - did not drink a single drop. The word eventually came to the local bank's director that this Quinn Finley could read, count and write; rare skills among sailors, fishermen and farmers, and he decided to take the promising well liked young man under his wing. And here he was today! Quinn thanked God everyday for his lucky fate.
Only one quirk he couldn't erase and did not want to. Every evening at ten he would get out of his tiny house and follow the streets to the small beach, the very one he had been found, barely alive, five years prior. He did not understand how he found back the creek in the first week after he arrived on the island: the storm stranded him unconscious on the sand, he had been carried by townsfolk to the doctor's house and the company brought him back to London before he had a chance to explore the island. No, the former sailor just found his way back to the shore like a sleepwalker, as if lured in by something - because there had to be something, that wanted him back there.
It was a cold rainy dark night, six months before, and the icy wind painfully drew Quinn from his trance-like walking. He had no time to try and put together the missing memories to understand why he wasn't asleep in his bed: he suddenly realized he was mid-calf deep in freezing cold water, wet sand slipping between his toes, seaweeds rolled like cuffs around his ankles. The pouring rain sipped through his night clothes but the chill that ran through his spine was even colder. He knew where he was.
Quinn stumbled backward in shock and crawled back to dry land as fast as he could without taking his gaze off the water. Sea black as tar under the overcast sky. Mistakenly calm. He didn't remember much from that night, and the little he did remember he worked his hardest to forget. But an image the man could not erase no matter how hard he tried, was a glimpse of this creek under the moonlight, violent waves crashing on the sand and dragging his half dead barely conscious body to land, to safety while all his crewmates drowned a few breaststrokes away. He could still hear their voice, from the orders yelled on deck to the aimless prayers that couldn't cover the roar of the elements. And the song, the one last song.
Tears of fear and grief and rage and guilt mingled with the rain on his face. He yelled at the empty sky the same question that dragged him so far down after the tempest: why? Why was he still alive? Why did he deserve another chance when the body of good men, great men even! were feeding Poseidon's flock in the broken remains of the Lorelei? He should be dead, just as dead as the others! It shouldn't have been him. If there had to be one man to survive this horrific night, to bear witness to the fury of the ocean, it shouldn't have been him!
And what was there to witness? The unyielding severity of a Deity asking for endless proof of blind faith, up to the sacrifice of the most precious thing a man can have and still He was not satisfied! The ineluctability of the chastisement for sins of omissions and faults you did not even know you committed. The mercilessness of a God who destroyed cities, flooded the world to punish those who, knowingly or not, disobeyed him.
It was cruel, it was unfair! His crew mates were good faithful people, why weren't they spared? What heresy did the Lorelei commit to bring on herself this senseless fury? Where was the God who calms storms with a word to protect his disciples? Nowhere to be found, on Earth or Above! Quinn had lost all his hope in a loving Lord and Saviour that fateful night. And yet the Devil was still following him everywhere he went, still tormenting him with the ghost of his past. As if the loss of the only homes, the only families he had known, was not penance enough for the most grievous Fault of being born! Had he not lost everything, given up everything, almost his own life as contrition? Christ, he had never wanted a drink so bad!
This sudden thought shook the former sailor out of his despair. He stood back on legs less steady than he wanted to admit and took a detour home to avoid any inhabitants who could have been awake. He did not want anyone to ask why he was crying and shaking, eyes wide as a man who just saw Death - because he certainly did. The next day Quinn had to stay in bed with a fever. He didn't know if it was due to a cold or to the shock of what happened the previous night but he did not care to find out. He drank the broth Helen had prepared for him and fell into a deep slumber full of crashing waves, roaring winds, cracking wood planks and far away chanting.
As soon as he was able to get out of bed he went to the priest and confessed the events of the night at the beach, his shame and anger and hopelessness. Exiting the church nearly an hour later he already felt his soul lighter. So he was at a loss to explain why, just before going to bed that evening, he felt the urge to get back to the creek. There was nothing for him there except pain and guilt! Quinn tried to summon the words of reassurance the Father told him earlier that day: God's ways were mysterious but He wanted that storm for a reason. His comrades were in the Lord's hands now and he would meet them again when He decided his time on this earth was over. Quinn should be grateful that in His mercy God brought him to shore and praise the Lord for the beauty and power of His Creation but Quinn was still putting his clothes back on and wrapping himself in a warm cloak and woolen shawl and getting out of the house! The man finally gave up on fighting his impulse and started walking with a brisk pace. Better to get this quickly over with once and for all!
It had been the beginning of a habit which ran and was still running for six months. From a dreaded impulse it became a ritual to sooth his soul and even now a part of his day Quinn would look forward to! Up to his knees in the water, humming or whistling the shanties which better reflected his current mood, he would get the spyglass that never left him and scrutinize the dark horizon, looking for nothing in particular. Sometimes he would see the silhouette of a ship sailing to far away shores, and wish them a safe journey. Sometimes he spotted some cetaceans: majestic whales with their gigantic tail fins, dolphins playfully jumping out of the water and other creatures too quick for him to identify in the dark.
He also listened, with the attention of both a choir boy, a watchkeeper and a child who learned by doing among grown men: intensely, as not to miss any piece of information, because neither God or the sea nor a boatswain begrudgingly showing a twelve year old how to tie a bowline knot would repeat themselves. Quinn spent hours on the shore at night as he had done when he was young behind the altar or on deck listening to the singing. In his childhood memories psalms and shanties intertwined, full of awe and fear and love for the Power they entrusted their life to, praying for mercy. Now he listened to the sea, trying to grasp in the wind or waves broken pieces of lyrics and melodies eroded by salt and time. He was deluding himself, so much he was aware of. But sometimes when he let the sea lull him more than reasonable, eyes closed and face turned upward, walking until he was immersed in the ocean from the waist down, he thought he could hear a Voice, coming from the bottom of the ocean to sing for him. Those nights he slept the most peaceful dreamless sleep, the sleep that came after a long night watch, back in the bunk for a too short rest before reveil.
The Voice… he could not explain where it came from and what it was, if it was just something he dreamt or hallucinated or something else entirely, but it haunted him. For the first few months after the storm he would hear it each and every day like a ringing in his ear, keeping him up at night, as constant as his guilt or the image of his dying mates, until the call of the bottle won. It had come again when his drinking stopped but now Quinn did not dread the calling of the past. He closed his eyes, let the waves lick at his hips, and listen.
It was a woman's voice, soft as velvet and light as silk. It had the depth of the abyss and the roughness of salt. It was a soothing melody, mingling with the roar of the storm and the last shanty his crew mates were singing. He heard it rise and fall with the waves but too far away to make out the words. But when the vessel sunk, when he got dragged to the bottom of the ocean under the weight of the sail soaked in water he heard it echoing around him, clear as crystal and just as piercing. She sang about the wonders of the ocean, the tenderness of its embrace, how happy he would be if he just let go. The air in his lungs was just holding him back. And the bubbles would look so beautiful as they rise to the surface. They would watch it together and then swim hand in hand to her home at the bottom of the ocean. There he could stay with her forever. This white wide sail would be the sheet on their wedding bed. The treasures of the ship would be theirs and only theirs. She would be so happy with him and she would make him the luckiest of all men. He had sailed long enough, didn't he deserve to rest? She could see he was dying to accept her invitation, how could he say no? The fishes caressing his back would feel just like her hands. She would rock him to sleep like the waves did. The dim light coming through the water was fading and he must be so tired. Wouldn't it be wonderful to rest his head on her lap and sleep? Peaceful. For all eternity. Wouldn't you like this, Quinn?
But Quinn held on and fought. He fought against the currents, the soreness of his limb, the dead weight pulling him down, the despair, the lurring of the voice. He fought until his body started to burn and his vision to blur. Until his lungs opened against his will and flooded with water. He fought and battled but the weakness was gaining on him. He was close to giving up to the Voice when he felt something rolling around his hips and a warmth on his face. The voice sounded more assured, now that it had stopped trying to charm him. It had come closer, he could hear it as a murmur, a breath caressing his ear with every syllable. As real as the grasp on his body.
You really wish so hard to live? Is the surface really worth such a fierce struggle? You are lucky, I am of those who believe some people are worth saving. The brave, unyielding ones. I can bring you back to your world but in return you and I will be tied together, interlocked tighter than any of your sailor knots. You will come back to me pulled by currents you might not understand, but like the creatures of the ocean you will follow them out of instinct and they will bring you back where everything started. You and I share the same breath, the same life. No matter how far we pull away from one another. No matter if you forget my word once on firm land. Go, then. I'll be waiting for you.
Quinn came back to himself in the creek, gasping for air as if he had been drowning again. He remembered. He remembered everything. How he had been saved after the storm, how he came back on the shore, how he survived it all, everything! Until this day he had imagined the thing around his waist to have been some kind of rope, tied to remains of the ship still afloat who would have dragged him back to the surface. He had thought that what he saw, deep in the ocean, had only been a trick of his half drowned mind! Now he knew with the certainty of a thousand scientists that it had been real. All of it had always been real!
He had nodded desperately to the Voice, agreed to any and every terms of what it offered. Anything if it meant living. An arm pulled him in a tight embrace. A body pressed on his, all warm skin down to the waist and under it, the smooth touch of something which wasn't legs. Soft lips on his, inhaling the water clogging his lungs, exhaling the breaths of air which brought him back to life. And they were swimming back to the surface, faster than any human could swim. The stranger brought him to shallower water and trusting the waves to push him back to land. Putting back the spyglass in his hand and closing his fingers around the precious item. One last finger lingered on the shape of his jaw before she disappeared back to the depths of the ocean and Quinn lost consciousness.
This is what he remembered. This is what happened. A hysterical laughter grew in him and grew and grew until it came out as clear as the ringing of a bell in the silence of the night. He laughed like this for long minutes, head pulled back, chest jolting with every new burst of laughter. He laughed like a mad man, splashing around, still immersed up to the waist in the sea. It must have been closing in on midnight; Quinn did not care. It was like he was breathing for the first time in five years. He kept laughing until tears ran down his cheek, and even then only the rising tide convinced him that it was time to leave the creek.
He went home that night shivering and drenched in seawater but still giggling, not caring if anyone saw or heard him. He was feeling feverish, a nice call back to his first day back at the creek but happier than ever to be alive. He blew a passionate kiss in the direction of the ocean before turning off the bedside light and fell asleep almost instantly.
The next morning he slipped inside the church as discreetly as possible, took a place at the back of the church in an attempt not to disrupt the mass which was about to start. He was exhausted and definitely had gotten a cold the previous night. Yet he was there, on his usual behavior and wearing his best shirt and shoes he shined just before going to church, as if nothing happened. He smiled politely to the parishioners who greeted him, waved at Helen a few rows ahead of him and pretended not to notice the ladies - Ms. McAwley, Ms. Denbrough and a third woman who was hidden by the other two - gossiping on the opposite side of the small church.
"Look Ann Mary, here he is!"
"I saw him, Naomi. I have eyes, you know!"
"I almost thought he wouldn't come"
"Um um, you were so sure he wouldn't come that you wore the hat you had for your wedding, my dear."
"Well, there's nothing wrong in putting one's best clothes on a sunday, right Lizzie sweetheart?"
Elizabeth smiled at her mother and shook her head with a knowing look to Ms. Denbrough. Her mother wouldn't change, she always took everything way over what the situation required. Just this morning she had spent an hour brushing her daughter's hair, insisting she knew how to do it best and tying it in a complex crown on her head. Lizzie managed to escape when Noami left to gather flowers as ornaments, to break some curls free of the tight braid and to put on her dress before her mother could offer to lend one of hers. She joined her father, who had been waiting at the door already in his coat for half an hour and the family headed in the direction of the tolling bells with the rest of town. Her mother had spent every minute from this point talking about her plan for lunch and a surprise she had for her little Elizabeth, trying to interest her in guessing what it was about. She obliged just enough to please her mother but making sure her father was not getting more irritated than usual by his wife's constant chatter. So was it not a something, it was not linked to her medical curriculum although it had to do with her vocation in helping people, and interestingly it might sound familiar to her? She was just starting to feel intrigued when the first notes of "Gloria" emerged from the little organ and the congregation rose to the entrance of the priest.
The service ended and people slowly poured out of the church, chatting and exchanging the latest news with the people they hadn't seen since market or worse, last week's mass. Quinn exchanged a few words with the priest. He had heard rumors about his mad excitement of the previous night and was worried about the young man. Quinn quickly reassured him: He had never felt better, Father, never better! He accepted Helen's quick embrace and a firm handshake from her son before slipping away to the tall silhouette of Mr. McAwley, towering over the other inhabitants on the church forecourt.
The man greeted his guest with arms wide open, Naomi had worked her miracles of persuasion and he was very happy to introduce Mr. Finley to his wife - but you already know Naomi, don't you, lad? - and to his daughter, Elizabeth.
Quinn's eye met the woman's and he felt struck by lightning. If she was beautiful in the photograph her mother showed him, it paled compared to the sight of her, in a dark blue dress with a silver belt, a flow of ginger hair she got from her mother twisted in a halo around her head. She truly was an angel, he could not take his eyes from her and couldn't care less if it was rude to stare at a lady. He could hear Ms. McAwley babbling around but he was not listening. Instead he cleared his throat and tried to regain enough countenance to introduce himself, say some civilities. Even just a good morning would be better than watching her, mouth agape like a fish out of the water. Elizabeth's polite smile widened. Was she amused by his indecision? He must have looked foolish indeed, flustered like a schoolgirl, his hand playing with the hem of his shirt. He forced them still. It seemed to amuse her even more. He survived a storm, he could not let greeting a pretty woman be the end of him!
And then she spoke. A simple "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Finley." but it sounded to Quinn's ear like an arm wrapped around his chest, like fresh air filling his lungs, like being pulled up from the depth of the sea. He felt whole, maybe for the first time in his life. It was the Voice, it was her voice, it was Her! She was still looking at him, detailing his face with her pearl grey eyes, waiting for a response. He managed to stammer a bashful:
"Please, call me Quinn."
She laughed with the sound of hundreds of raindrops falling on the sea.
"Very well, Quinn. Then you can call me Lizzie."
"It would be my pleasure."
With renewed confidence, Quinn offered Lizzie his arm to take. Her pale hand against his battered skin was soft as waves licking on rough sand. Just like in his memory. A new fit of giddy laughter rose like a tide in his chest, overflowing up to his eyes in tears he blinked away.
