Gifts from the Sea (6 page)

There wasn't enough soil in the place where Papa had buried Mama and the woman to bury two more bodies, so Papa took them out in the boat, weighted the bodies down with rocks, and gave them back to the sea.

Papa hadn't talked much since Mama's death, and he grew even more silent after the wreck. He did his work without speaking, eating little and sleeping even less. I didn't sleep well, either. Each night I bolted awake from nightmares that had me tangled in ship's rigging, getting pulled into the darkness, icy water filling my lungs. I dreaded going to sleep, was afraid of the dreams that haunted me, but I tried to keep all that from Celia, and sang and played with her as if nothing had happened.

I led her carefully down the steep steps to where we could look for seashells and urchins in the tidal pools and where she could watch for seals. Celia refused to go to bed until she'd said good night to them.

“Boat toming,” Celia sang.

Startled, I lifted my head. I hadn't seen anything when we'd first come outside. It was unlike me to miss anything on the horizon, but a few moments later I saw she was right, there was a boat approaching. It was a rowboat, like Papa's, and I watched the rhythm of the oars dipping into the water.

“It's Mr. Richardson,” I said. “But there's someone with him.”

We watched as Mr. Richardson drew closer, until we could see his passenger was a woman.

The boat scraped against the rocks. Mr. Richardson jumped into the shallow water and steadied the boat while the woman stepped out. She held her skirts up and waded to shore.

“Hello,” she said.

I was tongue-tied, not used to strangers. But Celia piped right up.

“See my dolly?” she said, holding up the doll from the shipwreck.

The woman smiled.

“What a precious child,” she said. She talked with such a thick accent I could scarcely understand her. She looked at me, and I saw blue eyes, so blue they could have been snipped from the sky. Mama's eyes had been more like the blue of the sea.

“Are you the keeper here?” she asked.

She knew how to win my heart, pretending to mistake me for the keeper. I smiled back.

“No, my papa is,” I said. “He's up in the lantern room right now.”

“Well, I guess it's him I should be talking to, then,
to see if I could have lodging here for a day or two, until my business is done.”

What possible business could she have here? I wondered, but I knew it wasn't polite to ask.

Papa came down the stairs from the tower just then, wiping soot from his hands. He'd been polishing the reflectors. He was startled to see an unfamiliar face.

“May I help you?”

“Mr. MacKinnon, my name is Margaret Malone. I'm here to say goodbye to my sister.”

I could see by the look on Papa's face he was as puzzled as I was.

There were tears in Margaret Malone's eyes as she spoke.

“My sister went down in a shipwreck somewhere off this island and I've come to say my goodbyes.”

t took a few moments for Papa to find his voice.

“It's poor hosts we are, keeping you standing out here. You must be hungry. As for staying here, you can take Aquila's room. She'll sleep with Celia.”

When Miss Malone tried to protest, Papa waved his hand.

“You'll be doing us a favor, Miss Malone, bringing us news from the outside. We get so few visitors here. I only worry my girls may tire you out with all their questions.”

Miss Malone smiled at me.

“I shall enjoy their company,” she said.

“Quila, show Miss Malone where she can put her bag, and you might as well give her a tour of the place,” Papa said.

I was near to bursting with wanting to ask Miss Malone about her sister, but I did as Papa said.

There wasn't much to give a tour of, the kitchen, three bedrooms above that, and the lantern room at the top, but I did my best. Miss Malone had all sorts of questions about how we lived, and what we did, and how we cared for the light, and she marveled at the way the cupboards and sink and beds were built into the circular walls, saying she'd never thought of lighthouse rooms being
round
. I'd never thought of rooms as being anything
but
round, and Miss Malone laughed when I told her this.

We'd lost track of time, and Papa had to remind me about supper. I hustled about fixing cornbread with codfish gravy.

“This gravy is as fine as my mum used to make, the few times we had cod to eat,” Miss Malone said. “You're a fine cook, Aquila.”

“Thank you, Miss Malone.”

“Oh, please call me Margaret.”

Papa was always hungry for news.

“Which candidate do you favor in the coming election?” he asked. “I like what I hear about that young lawyer from Illinois, Abe Lincoln, but I fear the country will go to war if he's elected.”

Margaret looked surprised.

“There's not many men who'll ask a woman's opinion on politics,” she said. “Are you for women having the vote?”

Papa looked thoughtful.

“Why, yes, I am,” he said, and I felt proud. Mama said Papa was a “forward thinker.”

With Margaret there, dinner seemed like a party. Celia clapped her hands and sang a song about seals that I'd taught her. Margaret stared at her in astonishment.

“My mother taught me that song when I was a girl,” she said.

“Celia loves seals,” I said. “She talks to them. There's usually one waiting for her every morning down off the point.” I didn't mention the day she'd almost fallen from the cliffs, for that is something I had not told Papa, either.

“My sister loved seals, too,” Margaret said softly. “We lived two days' walk from the sea, so we didn't get there often, but when we did, my sister would sing that song for the seals and they'd gather round her. I think she would have gone with them, if she could. My da said it was because she was black Irish.”

“What's black Irish?” I asked.

“My mother, father, and me had blue eyes and fair skin that burns easily in the sun, but my sister had black hair and green eyes. The old folk say that once upon a time, fishermen married seals, and children with that blood in them are dark-haired, and wild, and drawn to the sea.” Margaret giggled. “Whenever Da told that story, Mum would slap him and say, ‘
I'm
not a seal! It must be from
your
side of the family!'”

“So, you're from Ireland?” I asked.

“Quila,” Papa scolded. “Let the woman eat.” But Margaret just smiled.

“She's just curious is all, as I'm sure all of you are, about my sister and what brought me here,” Margaret said. “You've been so kind. 'Tis only fair that I tell you my story.”

I hadn't had someone tell me stories since Mama
died, and it brought tears to my eyes remembering all the evenings she sat on my bed, spinning tales of Knights of the Round Table and Arabian Nights, of snow-covered mountains and steamy jungles and oceans of grass. Mama's stories were so vivid, I could see it all in my mind: tigers and monkeys and green parrots in the jungle, wild horses racing over prairies.

“Yes, I'm from Ireland,” Margaret said. “County Galway. Times were hard enough, but it's all we'd ever known, hard times, and we got by until the Great Hunger, the potato blight. The potatoes turned black in the fields. There was no food, no money to pay rents, and the English turned us out of our homes. My parents didn't have much but they sold everything they had. It would have fed us all, for a little while. But when that food was gone, there would have been no hope for any of us, so my parents saw it as a chance to save one of us. There was enough money to buy a ticket, enough to send one of us to America. My mother said I should go, as my sister was too young, so I sailed away from the only home I'd ever known, away from my family, knowing I might never see them again.

“I found work in the woolen mills in Lawrence, Massachusetts. Word came a few months later that my parents had died of the hunger and my sister was living with an aunt who didn't want another mouth to feed. I worked in the mills, on the looms, for ten years, saving every cent so that I could send for my sister. When I sent her the money, she wrote to me telling me she had married, so I borrowed money and sent it so both of them could come. She put off the trip again, as she was expecting, but after the baby was born, the three of them set sail for New York. They never arrived. They were caught in a terrible storm and lost at sea somewhere off the coast of Maine.”

Margaret's voice broke, but I hardly noticed as a shiver ran through me.

“She was here,” I said. “Your sister was here.”

“Now, Quila,” Papa said, “we don't know if that woman was—” But I interrupted him.

“It was her, I know it was.”

Margaret stared at me, wide-eyed.

“Your sister,” I repeated. “Papa rescued her. We saw the ship going down and Papa rowed out to help them, and he did save a woman. He brought her back
but she only lived a little while. She had dark hair and green eyes.”

Margaret was crying now, silent sobs that shook her body.

“The baby?” she choked.

Papa shook his head.

“I'm sorry, no, I didn't see a baby. By the time I rowed out, the ship had broken up and I found her floating in the debris. I wish I could have saved her. I'm sorry.”

“You did all you could,” Margaret said. “I'm the one to blame. If I hadn't sent for her, she'd still be alive. Now I have no one left.”

I knew about loss and emptiness.

“Papa buried her next to Mama,” I said gently. “When you're up to it, I'll show you.”

Margaret nodded, her eyes closed.

“I think I'll rest awhile,” she said. I showed her to my bed and tried to keep Celia quiet. I read her a book, but she wiggled out of my lap. I cut out some paper dolls for her, but Celia wanted to bang on pots instead. I got some string and was showing Celia how to play cat's cradle when Margaret reappeared in the door-way.
Her eyes were red and swollen and I was sure she hadn't gotten any sleep.

“I'll make you some tea,” I said. “Mama said things always look better after a cup of tea.”

“My mother said the same thing,” Margaret said. “Two wise women. You must miss her terribly.”