Witch from the Sea

I felt then that fate had gone against me. I should have married Fennimore Landor. I should have been beside him in his triumph now. I could never share Colum’s, for his successes meant disaster for others. I longed to share in Fennimore’s enterprise and how I hated those of my husband.

It was a mistake, I told myself desolately. A tragic mistake.

The gales came early that year. October had scarcely begun when they started roughing up the seas and throwing showers of sand against the castle walls. I was apprehensive. These were the times when there was nightly activity at Paling. Visitors to the castle brought news of ships that would be sailing near our coasts. I had gradually come to understand how well this diabolical business was organized.

I would lie in my bed alone and fearful, wondering what was happening outside. At such times I would promise myself, when the children are older I will go away. I will set out as though on a visit to my mother and never come back. I could not take Connell. He would never leave the castle. He was his father’s boy. But Tamsyn, who was now ten years old, and Senara would come with me. I would tell my mother why I could not return.

I knew this was only dreaming—a kind of sop to my conscience because I felt sullied by those murders. Sometimes I could not rid myself of the conviction that I was in a way involved, simply because I accepted what had happened and remained a wife to Colum even though I knew what he was doing.

During a long spell of fine weather when there were no wrecks on our coast my conscience would be lulled and I would say to myself: A wife’s place is beside her husband. She promised to remain with him, for better or worse. I had made my vows. Strangely enough, deep down in my heart I wanted to stay with Colum.

There came the night in mid-October. The wind had been rising all day. I was sickened by the now familiar signs of activities. The lanterns in the two towers would be doused, I knew, and the donkeys would be out with their lights high on the cliffs some miles away. News had come that a ship with a rich cargo was passing our way.

I lay in bed.

Was there not something I could do, should do? But what? How could I stop disaster? I could only pray that the captain of that ship would steer clear of the Devil’s Teeth.

I scarcely slept at all. Soon after dawn I was up. I went down to the shore. Colum and his men were busy going out in their little boats bringing in the cargo. I saw one of the men down there and I stopped him.

I said: “What sort of ship this time?”

“One of the finest, Mistress.” His eyes were cruel, his tongue came out and licked his lips. I could sense his excitement. He was doubtless calculating what his share in the profits would be. “One of them East Indiamen we hear about—one of the Lions.”

The Lions! They were my father’s ships. Did he not know that? I had begun to tremble. I said: “Did you see her name?”

“’Twere the Landor Lion, Mistress.”

It was as though the waves rested in mid air; there was a deep silence and then the sound of a madly beating drum which was my own heart.

The man looked at me oddly; then embarrassment was obvious in his face he had forgotten for the moment who I was. I had come from Lyon Court, my father was Jake Pennlyon, the owner of the Lion Line.

He touched his forelock hastily and made off, terrified of course that he had given information which should be kept secret.

I just stood there looking out to sea. So high were the waves that I could see little. Somewhere out there was one of my father’s ships lured to destruction by my wicked husband.

There could be no more complacency. This was the end of it.

Then the terrifying thought struck me: Who was on that ship?

I just stood there looking out to sea. So high were the waves that I could see little. Impossible in such a sea. One of them must take me, I must know. I could not bear the suspense. What if my own father had been navigating that ship? It could not be. He knew this coast so well. But if he were deceived by the lights? I could not believe it, not of Jake Pennlyon who had sailed the Spanish Main and come through unscathed after years of adventure.

What could I do? I must know.

I went into the castle and climbed the stairs to the ramparts from which point I should be able to get a long-distance view. The sun was coming up and I could see the Devil’s Teeth; I could see what must be the ship … the floating mass on the water … rich cargo, and bodies like as not. What if there were survivors? What did they do to survivors?

What had I been doing in this place all these years? Why had I become involved?

I felt as helpless against the tide of my emotions as I was against that of the sea.

Later that day a body was washed up on our coast. I was the one who found it. I had been walking along the shore sadly, my thoughts in a turmoil, asking myself again and again what I could do.

He was lying there on the shore. I sank to my knees and looked at him. It was Fennimore. Dead.