18 Liney To Visit
Liney
To Visit
I can see how Elle missed the new cave. If she approached from her habitual counterclockwise direction and didn’t look down at the correct angle, it’d be camouflaged by black rock and seaweed clumps.
The cave has a lip that prevents waves from crashing into its maw and an extended ceiling to create a small gap to wiggle into. The space within is surprisingly dry.
Bridget sits on the blanket I gave her. She’s made a rudimentary table out of driftwood and rocks, where she’s placed my gifts.
“Ahoy,” I greet her, a hitch in my voice.
“Ahoy,” she echoes. I can’t believe her toothy smile is for me.
I can’t believe it’s only been a few hours. I hold my hands behind me, squeezing.
“I should’ve come sooner. I waited until supper. Elle said I could bring you back with me. Well, bring anyone I find.”
Bridget blows a long breath out and slumps back against the cave wall. She raises her arms, offering the hospitality of the cave. “You’re here now. And I’m starved after that tea.”
I lay out her meal of stale bread and a few peach slices I smuggled in my skirts. She laughs in delight at the fruit. That laugh is worth every moment of isolation on this island.
She asks me so many questions, curious about every detail though we barely scratch the surface.
I try to ask a question back, but I’m barely through an answer before she’s ready for the next.
Where did I grow up? What hobbies do I have?
How much sugar do I take in my tea? What are my favorite foods?
What’s the farthest I’ve ever been from home?
“Here,” I answer to the last question, sheepish. We’re a stone’s throw from the city in which I was born, grew up, and would’ve died.
She moves on to something I haven’t considered in a long time: my future.
“Surely we can find a place where you could be safe,” she says between popping peach slices in her mouth.
As though it’s so simple. I could support my whole weight with her use of we.
“I can cover you here. You’d be surprised how easy papers can be forged if you know what they look for.
You could come back with me to Ireland or down to America once the fighting is over. ”
It’s a wondrous idea, both beautiful and impossible. I entertain her notions of traveling across the continent to the Pacific, or high up in the Arctic, or deep into the southern jungles.
“I’ve met girls like you,” Bridget says, leaning back on one hand with a half grin. “Sheltered, upper crust. No idea what lies beyond your street. It’s a horrible thing to steal the world from someone.”
“And what have you found?” I want to gobble up every word she says. No one I’ve known had her worldliness. No woman, at least.
Bridget laughs, then considers which wonder to tell me. “Have you ever seen the northern lights?”
I shake my head.
“You must. I can’t do them justice. Imagine the night sky flowing with ribbons of light. They’re named after the Roman goddess of the dawn, Aurōra. She flies across the sky every morning. Wouldn’t that be marvelous? To cross the pastel world as it wakes up.”
I picture her gliding, but in the ocean instead. Her figure swimming, bringing the dawn to the western coasts and onward across the Pacific. Surrounded by currents, whales, and creatures no one’s ever seen before.
“Where did you see them?” I ask.
Bridget launches into stories of the many names for dawn deities, the darkness of northern winter, and the wonder of Scandinavian forests. Places I’ve only heard of in a collection of Danish folktales Elle used to read to me.
“It made me believe in magic,” Bridget says dreamily. “You can’t see those lights dancing and not believe in something bigger than yourself.”
I’m leaning forward, each story another page written for the book in my heart. “How do you know all this?”
“My father was a cartographer.” Her voice lowers in both register and volume. “He used to travel to and from America with the newest maps of the continent. He told me stories.”
“Was?” I ask softly. For a moment I can’t imagine the pain of losing a parent. It’s a painful lump to swallow realizing that I can. I have.
“Was. His heart gave out. And my mother’s long since passed away. After she died, he started taking me with him on contracts, mainly around Europe. I’ve been on my own for about a year.”
I shift in my seat, too aware of my tongue in my mouth. Should I tell her of my own parents’ fate? Would she feel supported or overlooked? It’s too self-centered no matter the context it could give. “I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, I know.” She waves off my discomfort. “Sometimes I pretend they died in a great tragedy or heroics if someone’s prying. See how far they’ll entertain me.”
That mischief. My heart flutters at how much life one person can hold, even in the macabre. Something deeper than a heartbeat or blush pulls me to her.
“But not me?” My dry lips crack as I grin. I take a swig of water, hoping she didn’t notice.
“Not you,” she confirms. Like it’s our secret. Her eyes are alight, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and embrace her.
“Were you traveling alone?” I don’t want to overwhelm her, but there’s a bubbling in my chest I can’t keep down. We’re on the precipice of friendship.
“Yes. When I turned eighteen I was granted a small inheritance and left to figure out what to do next. I wished to continue my father’s work.
I planned to sail to Halifax, then board whichever train could take me the farthest away from English society.
To places more accepting of women interested in…
” She pauses, biting her lip. Hers must be chapped too.
“Adventure?” I offer. My skin ripples with electricity.
“Places where a young woman’s potential isn’t wasted.”
Are we speaking of one topic or two? How deep can I dig into one without admitting to the other—if, indeed, there’s another? I take another sip of water instead.
We barely know each other, yet it’s clear as my reflection in the teacup.
She wants to expand the edges of a map I’ve never dared to look at.
She’s full of purpose, while I’ve never had any.
I was the spare, the understudy called forward when Elle could no longer play the lead.
Well, the lead’s wife. How can a couple of conversations change me from directionless to steady as a compass’s needle?
Though Bridget would never seriously consider bringing me along.
But I can’t help hoisting my hopes up high.
Could I leave Elle after everything she’s done for me?
Could Elle come with us? What would I do out in the world again?
I wasn’t meant to leave a mark. I’m a laugh on the edge of a dance floor.
Small. There’s no place for an asthmatic girl without skills or ambition in Bridget’s daring world.
“I’ve been trying to survey the island,” Bridget says, interrupting my introspection.
She shows me a piece of driftwood she’s whittled to a smooth surface and marked with charcoal.
It’s a mess of redrawn lines. “I keep getting it wrong. I’ll trace out a jut near the dock, the next time it’s gone.
I can’t make sense of such drastic changes. Do you know what causes it?”
Bridget bounces one of her knees. She’s a creature of facts and maps, not the slipping sanity our island produces.
“The water can shift the sands,” I offer, though my doubt shows through like sea glass.
“That must be it.” She shakes her head, her frown’s crease deepening. “That reminds me, though. How did I survive? There were surely stronger swimmers on the ship.”
“Were there many passengers?”
“Few. Most were a level below me, likely crushed under the ship when it wrecked. It was more for cargo than travel. Mainly crew, some with contracts waiting at the dockyards.”
She looks down at her bread, only the hardest of the crust left. For whatever grief I felt at the loss, they were only the idea of people to me. Someone so bright and warm would get to know the people around her.
“A lot of sailors choose not to learn to swim.” I heard of lost sailors while eavesdropping outside my father’s study. Buyers discussed losing merchant ships to weather and rocks, with only the briefest mention of the souls also taken. “Better to drown quick than die of exposure.”
“Where are their bodies?” Bridget’s tone sharpens, and her knee stills. “There’s no trace of them. Driftwood makes its way to shore but not them? I know the harbor here is deep, but so close to an island?”
I freeze out of instinct. But she’s not glaring at me. She’s frustrated at no clear answer. Bridget lets out a sigh, and the moment passes, no explosion.
“If most of the crew was inside, they were likely trapped as well.” I resist the urge to clam up. “Eventually the ship fell deep enough, and the currents took anyone who would’ve floated up otherwise.”
“That’s it? Just luck?” Her gaze searches mine, hungry for an answer that can fit into the rest of her world.
Whose luck: hers or mine? Is it egotistical to believe my prayers saved her?
“What do you remember?” I want to reach my hand out to hold hers. I fold it into a fist beside me on the blanket instead.
“I woke up, and the water was already knee-deep in my room. It was so cold that it hurt the soles of my feet when I stepped out of bed. We were sinking, the crew were shouting orders. I tried to get out, but it was pitch black. The wood was coming apart, splintering under pressure.” Bridget searches for words, moving her hands.
“Like how firewood pops and breaks. But there was no fire. My ears popped and—no, you’re right.
We were sinking. I squeezed out of my room’s porthole.
The glass had smashed, and water was pouring in.
I swam. Just focused on out and up. I’m holding my breath, paddling.
It’s pitch black. Then the chill’s pain starts to fade. That’s bad, right?”