Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
Cole dreamed of bones again. Picked clean in whispers, spiralling in the silent dark. He woke with a start, and lay still in the half-light of dawn, listening to his sister’s breathing. She was to be wed soon, to the harbourmaster’s boy, and then Cole would have the whole bed to himself.
She didn’t need to get up for a while. Cole resolved to rise as noisily as he could, but as soon as he laid hands on the dress mam had modified for him all mischief drained away like the ebbing tide. Other boys his age got militia training, or were betrothed, or got apprenticed, but Cole was meant for something else. The chill in the air outweighed his reticence, and he slipped the woollen garment on before heading to the kitchen.
“Ha, mam,” he said, without looking, as she leant over the stove and he settled at the rough driftwood table.
“Morning’s blessings,” she replied, sternly.
“Ia, may we be blessed,” he said, sheepishly, and accepted a bowl of porridge. Fresh bread, too, and old cheese. Finally his mam placed a little clay bowl of strawberries in front of him. He ate as though the food was a gift, but under her watchful eye he did not smile.
When he was finished, he saw Lissette in the doorway, her dark eyes simmering with resentment.
“Morning’s blessings, Lissy,” their mother said.
“Ia,” Lissy replied, listlessly, and stared over her bowl at the remnants of Cole’s feast.
He was grateful when mother told him not to dither, and go to his lesson.
The church was older than the rest of the village – even Old Thom’s forge had been rebuilt at least once, but the greystone hulk seemed permanent as the sea that crashed endlessly against the cliffs below. That sound was louder, here, like the chipped walls echoed it in sympathy of spirit rather than quirk of wind.
“Morning’s blessings, Colette.”
Father Morris had been a statue until Cole arrived, stepping from the shadow of the doors like the stone come to life.
“Ia, may we be blessed.”
“In His embrace are we saved.”
“Ia, Manann, rise and hold us,” Cole droned, ascending the steps and passing the priest to enter the church. The pews had all been pushed aside to make space. Morris followed, chanting under his breath. Ma Sorry stood on the chancel, contemplating the salt-crusted obelisk which cast its eerie shadow over the congregation during mass. Cole had come to suspect it wasn’t the same, in other churches – when the black-robed witchfinders from the big city came, the cleaning girls worked to scrub and dry the obelisk. The wreaths of seaweed were hidden away in the infirmary, the coral mask locked in a chest in the smithy.
“The girl’s late,” Ma Sorry snapped.
“Am I not early, Ma?” Cole asked, glancing to Morris for reassurance that would not come.
“No, Colette. Do you think I am a fool? The time is coming, the sun is up sooner than you.”
Cole slumped a little where he stood. “Of course, Ma.”
“Stand up straight,” she said, turning around, eyes cold as the ocean. “You will not ruin the dance with poor posture.”
The lychyard was lower down the cliff, where the soil was no good for crops but soft enough to dig year-round. And yet even here, the waves whispered in his ears. Or perhaps it was simply the wind, flapping his skirts, as he stood over an unadorned marker and stared.
“You did this to me,” he said, tears prickling his eyes, “I could have been a man.”
The cold earth made no reply, and the thick clouds overhead churned in silent mockery.
“If you hadn’t died… if Winifred hadn’t run away…”
He breathed in deep and squeezed his eyes shut. Lowered his head.
“Why don’t we give you to the sea? Why can’t that be enough?”
Cole knew the day had come.
The sound of the waves was a voice. Voices. The whole village gathered in the street, singing wordlessly. He dressed in the green gown that had hung near the shutters all winter. He went out barefoot and shivered at the cold. Would he trip? Would he lash out, and doom them all?
He danced up the dirt path, past familiar faces that blurred into seafoam anonymity. His toes ached and bled, skirts billowing and flapping like weed in the tide. Higher, up the mount. Higher, to the very edge of the cliff where Morris waited with outstretched arms and open mouth. Cole could not hear the prayer; the ocean was too loud.
He held his breath, poised on the tips of his pained toes, looking down into the crashing waves…
Colette dreamed of bones again, picked clean in whispers, spiralling in the silent dark. Pearls that had been her eyes gazed upon the village she had left behind. Her sisters lurked at her side. They had promised wives; Manann had promised protection. One broken pact breaks another. They would all dance, down here.
She didn’t need to get up for a while. Cole resolved to rise as noisily as he could, but as soon as he laid hands on the dress mam had modified for him all mischief drained away like the ebbing tide. Other boys his age got militia training, or were betrothed, or got apprenticed, but Cole was meant for something else. The chill in the air outweighed his reticence, and he slipped the woollen garment on before heading to the kitchen.
“Ha, mam,” he said, without looking, as she leant over the stove and he settled at the rough driftwood table.
“Morning’s blessings,” she replied, sternly.
“Ia, may we be blessed,” he said, sheepishly, and accepted a bowl of porridge. Fresh bread, too, and old cheese. Finally his mam placed a little clay bowl of strawberries in front of him. He ate as though the food was a gift, but under her watchful eye he did not smile.
When he was finished, he saw Lissette in the doorway, her dark eyes simmering with resentment.
“Morning’s blessings, Lissy,” their mother said.
“Ia,” Lissy replied, listlessly, and stared over her bowl at the remnants of Cole’s feast.
He was grateful when mother told him not to dither, and go to his lesson.
The church was older than the rest of the village – even Old Thom’s forge had been rebuilt at least once, but the greystone hulk seemed permanent as the sea that crashed endlessly against the cliffs below. That sound was louder, here, like the chipped walls echoed it in sympathy of spirit rather than quirk of wind.
“Morning’s blessings, Colette.”
Father Morris had been a statue until Cole arrived, stepping from the shadow of the doors like the stone come to life.
“Ia, may we be blessed.”
“In His embrace are we saved.”
“Ia, Manann, rise and hold us,” Cole droned, ascending the steps and passing the priest to enter the church. The pews had all been pushed aside to make space. Morris followed, chanting under his breath. Ma Sorry stood on the chancel, contemplating the salt-crusted obelisk which cast its eerie shadow over the congregation during mass. Cole had come to suspect it wasn’t the same, in other churches – when the black-robed witchfinders from the big city came, the cleaning girls worked to scrub and dry the obelisk. The wreaths of seaweed were hidden away in the infirmary, the coral mask locked in a chest in the smithy.
“The girl’s late,” Ma Sorry snapped.
“Am I not early, Ma?” Cole asked, glancing to Morris for reassurance that would not come.
“No, Colette. Do you think I am a fool? The time is coming, the sun is up sooner than you.”
Cole slumped a little where he stood. “Of course, Ma.”
“Stand up straight,” she said, turning around, eyes cold as the ocean. “You will not ruin the dance with poor posture.”
The lychyard was lower down the cliff, where the soil was no good for crops but soft enough to dig year-round. And yet even here, the waves whispered in his ears. Or perhaps it was simply the wind, flapping his skirts, as he stood over an unadorned marker and stared.
“You did this to me,” he said, tears prickling his eyes, “I could have been a man.”
The cold earth made no reply, and the thick clouds overhead churned in silent mockery.
“If you hadn’t died… if Winifred hadn’t run away…”
He breathed in deep and squeezed his eyes shut. Lowered his head.
“Why don’t we give you to the sea? Why can’t that be enough?”
Cole knew the day had come.
The sound of the waves was a voice. Voices. The whole village gathered in the street, singing wordlessly. He dressed in the green gown that had hung near the shutters all winter. He went out barefoot and shivered at the cold. Would he trip? Would he lash out, and doom them all?
He danced up the dirt path, past familiar faces that blurred into seafoam anonymity. His toes ached and bled, skirts billowing and flapping like weed in the tide. Higher, up the mount. Higher, to the very edge of the cliff where Morris waited with outstretched arms and open mouth. Cole could not hear the prayer; the ocean was too loud.
He held his breath, poised on the tips of his pained toes, looking down into the crashing waves…
Colette dreamed of bones again, picked clean in whispers, spiralling in the silent dark. Pearls that had been her eyes gazed upon the village she had left behind. Her sisters lurked at her side. They had promised wives; Manann had promised protection. One broken pact breaks another. They would all dance, down here.
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