Run Aground: fantasy epilogue
Something new for a change. PG, Gen.
De Profundis
Mara Bryce looked up from her work and shivered as the thunder rumbled ominously through the darkness. ‘An evil night indeed,’ she thought grimly, as she looked about at what remained of the common room of the Two Brothers inn. She had been most unsettled all evening, and it seemed that others had shared the full measure of her disquiet. The coming storm had been building for hours, prowling the horizon like some dark and malevolent beast, and the very air had felt charged with waiting. Tempers had run short, and the ordinarily stolid farmer MacAskell had taken offense at some slight--whether real or imagined none could recall--and her typically jovial customers had erupted into a wild melee of fisticuffs.
Mara turned a concerned eye to her brother, watching him as he worked to restore some semblance of order to the wreckage left in the wake of her patrons’ frenzy. She had been truly grateful for Brendan’s size and imposing presence this night: he had ejected them all--some forcibly--knowing that any potential losses in income would be more than offset by the certain decreases in breakage.
Brendan was moving stiffly. He was nursing sore knuckles--not to mention a blackened eye that would doubtless be truly spectacular come morning--and must be feeling the effects of his labours as he bent to collect the remnants of a shattered chair. Mara gingerly picked her way through the debris and placed a hand on his arm, stopping him in mid-reach. He looked down at her and smiled lopsidedly. “Somethin’ foul on the wind tonight, eh?”
“So it seems,” she chuckled. Sometimes all one can do is laugh, she mused privately. Else one might cry, and that simply would not do. “But you have done enough. Go on to bed, Brendan,” she urged. “There is not much else…I shall finish here.”
Brendan’s brow creased: he was doubtless aware that he was being humoured, but he did not object. That in itself was a measure of his discomfort, she knew, thus she patted his arm and led him to the staircase. “Go.”
As Brendan painfully climbed the stairs, Mara sighed deeply and turned back to the ruins of her once-tidy inn. She worked methodically, ignoring the rain that now pelted the thick glass of the windows with a sound like the crackling of flames. The thunder crept ever closer, and she gasped, startled, as a singularly brilliant flash of lightning cast its blue-white glare about the room. On its heels came a great peal of thunder that rolled endlessly, shivering the windowpanes until she feared they must burst from their frames.
Mara had barely gathered her wits and resumed her work when the candle flames danced wildly in a chill draught that whipped her skirts round her ankles, and her ear caught the distinctive creak of the inn’s front door. She straightened, her back protesting, and turned angrily toward it, her face contorted with irritation. “Haven’t you done enough tonight? Get out. Go home. We’re….”
The vitriolic words trailed to silence as she caught sight of the figure framed in the doorway. She stood, transfixed, her lips parted, her face slack with shock.
He smiled at her. “I presume that means I am welcome?”
The very words he had spoken nearly three years past as he crossed her doorstep for the first time. She had not forgotten: apparently, neither had he.
“Captain Bush!” she exclaimed, finding her voice--someone’s voice--at last. “Dear God….this place is a horror….there was a fight…and you’re soaked to the skin…and…and...”
The miniscule portion of Mara’s brain that still functioned properly realized with cold dismay that she was prattling uncontrollably. She had envisioned this very moment for what must have been a thousand times in a thousand different ways during the two years since she had seen him last….but in none of those visions had she ever become the blithering fool who now stood here smudged and disheveled, babbling inanely amidst broken furnishings and scattered shards of crockery.
The dreadful realization steadied her. She forcibly stemmed the flood tide of words, lifted her chin, and returned his smile. “Well….come in, then, and close that door.”
She did not know precisely why he had come, and her pride prevented her from surrendering to the impulse to fly heedlessly into his arms. He had written often, to be sure, but his letters were full of the matter-of-fact news one might send to a sister, and were scarcely declarations of undying love.
She studied him closely as he came toward her. He walked smoothly, easily accommodating the wooden appendage that marked his rank as hard-earned indeed. God bless him, she thought, he had almost a swagger, and the very idea of it pleased her. Even drenched as he was, he seemed to have grown in stature and distinction, comfortable now in his post captain’s uniform with gleaming epaulettes, and braid, and bright sword that swayed at his hip.
Mara smiled happily. “You look well.” She touched the sleeve of his jacket. “But give me that to hang by the fire. You are soaked through to the skin….you’ll surely catch your death.”
He grinned--and looked almost boyish, she thought. “I should hardly think so,” he replied mildly, though he shrugged out of the dripping garment nonetheless.
Mara brushed at the coat as she took it from him; one of the bright buttons hung by a thread. She tugged at it gently, and it fell loose and shining into her palm. As she stretched the coat to dry she eyed him in only partly-feigned dismay. “Does no one take care of post captains properly these days? Let me get needle and thread, and I shall mend this…”
“Mara…” Bush caught her diligent hands and stilled them, entrapping them in his, and drew her close. “Hush.”
Mara suddenly knew why he had come to her, and she found no further need for words.
*~*~*~*~*~*
It was yet full dark when Mara awoke, though the candle now guttering on the bedside table still bathed the room in a faint warm glow. Bush was already standing at the window, in uniform once more. He must have heard some movement: he turned and smiled down at her, and she marveled at the great change in him. The harsh lines she had thought permanently etched into his face years ago--by pain, perhaps, or by the mere effort expended in making the difficult seem effortless--were smoothed now. He looked settled. Content. At peace.
An odd thought, she realized suddenly, for one to apply to this warlike man. His life was defined by war, and he had been shaped by it: he had scarcely known peace at all. Perhaps one day he would.
Bush crossed the few paces to the bedside, and, smiling, settled down to sit beside her. As he bent his head to hers she cupped his cheek in her hand. “Must you go so soon?”
He shook his head regretfully, his blue eyes pale and unreadable in the candlelight. “I must. I have stayed as long as I am able; it is nearly time to call the morning watch.”
Mara nodded: she had been a sailor’s wife, and understood. “Will you come back?”
He smiled, though his eyes did not, and Mara thought she saw a shadow of pain flicker in their depths. “I have kept my promise once, and I will again.”
“When?” She knew it was an unfair thing to ask of him, but she could not still the words.
He bent to gather her into his arms, and held her close, where she could no longer see his face. “I cannot know,” he said quietly. “But wait. I will come for you…when it is time.”
“A promise?” She asked, knowing it was so.
He kissed her once more, then, and let her go, studying her in the half-light as if to capture her image for all eternity. “A promise. And I always keep my word.”
As he rose and reluctantly opened the door, she smiled as best she could. “I know.”
To her surprise, she slept again, and awoke refreshed with a lightness of heart she had not known for years.
*~*~*~*~*~*
It had been nigh on a month since he had left her, but Mara’s high spirits remained untroubled. She now sang as she worked, and smiled readily, and all who knew her wondered what miracle had wrought this sudden change of heart. Mara knew, of course, but shared it with no one. Some things were hers, and hers alone.
She looked up from her sweeping, and the song on her lips died abruptly as she found Brendan standing stock-still in the kitchen doorway, his face white and strained as he nervously twisted a tattered Gazette in his hands. He looked unaccountably small.
He studied her sympathetically; the words seemingly would not come.
And she knew. Dear God, she suddenly knew.
“Brendan….” She faltered. “Please…”
Brendan winced; there were no gentle words capable of softening this news. “He’s…. he’s gone, lass. An explosion…somewhere in France.” He looked down at the Gazette, grateful to look away from her stricken face. “A place called …Caudebec.”
“When?” She could barely speak the word.
He consulted the Gazette again. “Month ago.” He thought carefully, counting back. “God.” Brendan lifted his eyes to hers, and Mara saw a sickened horror in their depths. “There was somethin’ evil on the wind that night. You felt it.” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, needing the moment to master his own sense of loss. “We all did. ‘Twas the night of that wicked storm, when they broke up the place…..”
The blood drained from Mara’s face, and she felt as though her knees might give way at any moment. No…..no….then it could not possibly be …. She tried to speak, though her lips felt frozen. Wooden. “But….are you certain? It can’t ….perhaps it’s not true….”
“It is, lass.” Brendan sighed heavily and consulted the Gazette again. “It must be….it’s here, in a letter written by Lord Hornblower himself.” He stepped closer to wrap her in his arms, and he gently stroked her hair. “I feared it would end like this…that he’d not come back to you.”
Mara nodded wordlessly, her head pressed into the security of her brother’s strong shoulder. It could only have been a vivid dream, then, brought on by some curious coincidence or some strange echo of his death caught on the wind and carried there.
She broke away from Brendan’s grasp and turned away, fighting for control of her ragged emotions. She had known it would be this way, after all. Nothing had changed. Mara balled her fists furiously, shoving them deep into the pockets of her smudged apron, and froze as she recognized the small object she found pressing against her hand. She dared not remove it, though her fingers traced it in disbelief.
A button. Gilt, she knew, with the wreath and fouled anchor picked out in sharp relief. A button, from a post-captain’s coat. She heard his voice again, as if he had spoken in her ear.
‘I will come for you…when it is time.’
‘A promise?’ she had asked.
‘A promise. And I always keep my word.’
He had kept his promise once, somehow, against all comprehension. And he would again. She knew it.
She smiled, then, and resumed her song.
*~*~*~*~*~
* De Profundis ~ “Out of the deep….” Psalm 130, with references to text of canticle setting by Wm. Croft (1678-1727): see Day 27 Evening Prayer Psalm from the Book of Common Prayer 1559 sung by the choir of Kings College Cambridge
De Profundis
Mara Bryce looked up from her work and shivered as the thunder rumbled ominously through the darkness. ‘An evil night indeed,’ she thought grimly, as she looked about at what remained of the common room of the Two Brothers inn. She had been most unsettled all evening, and it seemed that others had shared the full measure of her disquiet. The coming storm had been building for hours, prowling the horizon like some dark and malevolent beast, and the very air had felt charged with waiting. Tempers had run short, and the ordinarily stolid farmer MacAskell had taken offense at some slight--whether real or imagined none could recall--and her typically jovial customers had erupted into a wild melee of fisticuffs.
Mara turned a concerned eye to her brother, watching him as he worked to restore some semblance of order to the wreckage left in the wake of her patrons’ frenzy. She had been truly grateful for Brendan’s size and imposing presence this night: he had ejected them all--some forcibly--knowing that any potential losses in income would be more than offset by the certain decreases in breakage.
Brendan was moving stiffly. He was nursing sore knuckles--not to mention a blackened eye that would doubtless be truly spectacular come morning--and must be feeling the effects of his labours as he bent to collect the remnants of a shattered chair. Mara gingerly picked her way through the debris and placed a hand on his arm, stopping him in mid-reach. He looked down at her and smiled lopsidedly. “Somethin’ foul on the wind tonight, eh?”
“So it seems,” she chuckled. Sometimes all one can do is laugh, she mused privately. Else one might cry, and that simply would not do. “But you have done enough. Go on to bed, Brendan,” she urged. “There is not much else…I shall finish here.”
Brendan’s brow creased: he was doubtless aware that he was being humoured, but he did not object. That in itself was a measure of his discomfort, she knew, thus she patted his arm and led him to the staircase. “Go.”
As Brendan painfully climbed the stairs, Mara sighed deeply and turned back to the ruins of her once-tidy inn. She worked methodically, ignoring the rain that now pelted the thick glass of the windows with a sound like the crackling of flames. The thunder crept ever closer, and she gasped, startled, as a singularly brilliant flash of lightning cast its blue-white glare about the room. On its heels came a great peal of thunder that rolled endlessly, shivering the windowpanes until she feared they must burst from their frames.
Mara had barely gathered her wits and resumed her work when the candle flames danced wildly in a chill draught that whipped her skirts round her ankles, and her ear caught the distinctive creak of the inn’s front door. She straightened, her back protesting, and turned angrily toward it, her face contorted with irritation. “Haven’t you done enough tonight? Get out. Go home. We’re….”
The vitriolic words trailed to silence as she caught sight of the figure framed in the doorway. She stood, transfixed, her lips parted, her face slack with shock.
He smiled at her. “I presume that means I am welcome?”
The very words he had spoken nearly three years past as he crossed her doorstep for the first time. She had not forgotten: apparently, neither had he.
“Captain Bush!” she exclaimed, finding her voice--someone’s voice--at last. “Dear God….this place is a horror….there was a fight…and you’re soaked to the skin…and…and...”
The miniscule portion of Mara’s brain that still functioned properly realized with cold dismay that she was prattling uncontrollably. She had envisioned this very moment for what must have been a thousand times in a thousand different ways during the two years since she had seen him last….but in none of those visions had she ever become the blithering fool who now stood here smudged and disheveled, babbling inanely amidst broken furnishings and scattered shards of crockery.
The dreadful realization steadied her. She forcibly stemmed the flood tide of words, lifted her chin, and returned his smile. “Well….come in, then, and close that door.”
She did not know precisely why he had come, and her pride prevented her from surrendering to the impulse to fly heedlessly into his arms. He had written often, to be sure, but his letters were full of the matter-of-fact news one might send to a sister, and were scarcely declarations of undying love.
She studied him closely as he came toward her. He walked smoothly, easily accommodating the wooden appendage that marked his rank as hard-earned indeed. God bless him, she thought, he had almost a swagger, and the very idea of it pleased her. Even drenched as he was, he seemed to have grown in stature and distinction, comfortable now in his post captain’s uniform with gleaming epaulettes, and braid, and bright sword that swayed at his hip.
Mara smiled happily. “You look well.” She touched the sleeve of his jacket. “But give me that to hang by the fire. You are soaked through to the skin….you’ll surely catch your death.”
He grinned--and looked almost boyish, she thought. “I should hardly think so,” he replied mildly, though he shrugged out of the dripping garment nonetheless.
Mara brushed at the coat as she took it from him; one of the bright buttons hung by a thread. She tugged at it gently, and it fell loose and shining into her palm. As she stretched the coat to dry she eyed him in only partly-feigned dismay. “Does no one take care of post captains properly these days? Let me get needle and thread, and I shall mend this…”
“Mara…” Bush caught her diligent hands and stilled them, entrapping them in his, and drew her close. “Hush.”
Mara suddenly knew why he had come to her, and she found no further need for words.
*~*~*~*~*~*
It was yet full dark when Mara awoke, though the candle now guttering on the bedside table still bathed the room in a faint warm glow. Bush was already standing at the window, in uniform once more. He must have heard some movement: he turned and smiled down at her, and she marveled at the great change in him. The harsh lines she had thought permanently etched into his face years ago--by pain, perhaps, or by the mere effort expended in making the difficult seem effortless--were smoothed now. He looked settled. Content. At peace.
An odd thought, she realized suddenly, for one to apply to this warlike man. His life was defined by war, and he had been shaped by it: he had scarcely known peace at all. Perhaps one day he would.
Bush crossed the few paces to the bedside, and, smiling, settled down to sit beside her. As he bent his head to hers she cupped his cheek in her hand. “Must you go so soon?”
He shook his head regretfully, his blue eyes pale and unreadable in the candlelight. “I must. I have stayed as long as I am able; it is nearly time to call the morning watch.”
Mara nodded: she had been a sailor’s wife, and understood. “Will you come back?”
He smiled, though his eyes did not, and Mara thought she saw a shadow of pain flicker in their depths. “I have kept my promise once, and I will again.”
“When?” She knew it was an unfair thing to ask of him, but she could not still the words.
He bent to gather her into his arms, and held her close, where she could no longer see his face. “I cannot know,” he said quietly. “But wait. I will come for you…when it is time.”
“A promise?” She asked, knowing it was so.
He kissed her once more, then, and let her go, studying her in the half-light as if to capture her image for all eternity. “A promise. And I always keep my word.”
As he rose and reluctantly opened the door, she smiled as best she could. “I know.”
To her surprise, she slept again, and awoke refreshed with a lightness of heart she had not known for years.
*~*~*~*~*~*
It had been nigh on a month since he had left her, but Mara’s high spirits remained untroubled. She now sang as she worked, and smiled readily, and all who knew her wondered what miracle had wrought this sudden change of heart. Mara knew, of course, but shared it with no one. Some things were hers, and hers alone.
She looked up from her sweeping, and the song on her lips died abruptly as she found Brendan standing stock-still in the kitchen doorway, his face white and strained as he nervously twisted a tattered Gazette in his hands. He looked unaccountably small.
He studied her sympathetically; the words seemingly would not come.
And she knew. Dear God, she suddenly knew.
“Brendan….” She faltered. “Please…”
Brendan winced; there were no gentle words capable of softening this news. “He’s…. he’s gone, lass. An explosion…somewhere in France.” He looked down at the Gazette, grateful to look away from her stricken face. “A place called …Caudebec.”
“When?” She could barely speak the word.
He consulted the Gazette again. “Month ago.” He thought carefully, counting back. “God.” Brendan lifted his eyes to hers, and Mara saw a sickened horror in their depths. “There was somethin’ evil on the wind that night. You felt it.” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, needing the moment to master his own sense of loss. “We all did. ‘Twas the night of that wicked storm, when they broke up the place…..”
The blood drained from Mara’s face, and she felt as though her knees might give way at any moment. No…..no….then it could not possibly be …. She tried to speak, though her lips felt frozen. Wooden. “But….are you certain? It can’t ….perhaps it’s not true….”
“It is, lass.” Brendan sighed heavily and consulted the Gazette again. “It must be….it’s here, in a letter written by Lord Hornblower himself.” He stepped closer to wrap her in his arms, and he gently stroked her hair. “I feared it would end like this…that he’d not come back to you.”
Mara nodded wordlessly, her head pressed into the security of her brother’s strong shoulder. It could only have been a vivid dream, then, brought on by some curious coincidence or some strange echo of his death caught on the wind and carried there.
She broke away from Brendan’s grasp and turned away, fighting for control of her ragged emotions. She had known it would be this way, after all. Nothing had changed. Mara balled her fists furiously, shoving them deep into the pockets of her smudged apron, and froze as she recognized the small object she found pressing against her hand. She dared not remove it, though her fingers traced it in disbelief.
A button. Gilt, she knew, with the wreath and fouled anchor picked out in sharp relief. A button, from a post-captain’s coat. She heard his voice again, as if he had spoken in her ear.
‘I will come for you…when it is time.’
‘A promise?’ she had asked.
‘A promise. And I always keep my word.’
He had kept his promise once, somehow, against all comprehension. And he would again. She knew it.
She smiled, then, and resumed her song.
*~*~*~*~*~
* De Profundis ~ “Out of the deep….” Psalm 130, with references to text of canticle setting by Wm. Croft (1678-1727): see Day 27 Evening Prayer Psalm from the Book of Common Prayer 1559 sung by the choir of Kings College Cambridge