dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
this is the way home poetry - written and spoken stories and creative writings alternative writings, prose, essays, reportage manifestos, insights, alternative views music mp3 original music eyes to see with movies, flash and animations links - click here to read reviews of our favourite websites click to subscribe to our occasional ezine all about dead drunk dublin info on how to contribute to dead drunk dublin

 

T h e   S e a   S a w

b y   N u a l a   N í    C h o n c h i r

 

The sea changed the day Phoebe gave birth to Electra; it went from flat calm to a roiling mess in just an hour. The water churned and roared though it had been as smooth as bone china for weeks, and it glowed green and yellow, as if lit up from the inside. Phoebe held the baby to her chest and fingered her soft-boiled cheek. She sat by the cabin’s biggest window and looked down at the turning sea, wondering what presents it would have left for her on the sand. The baby slept, her fingers wound through the holes in the crocheted blanket. Phoebe heaved herself into bed, Electra still held in her arms, and breathed in her milky smell. Her dark hair settled like seaweed across the pillow. The wind burst around the cabin walls all night and waves cracked against the rocks on the shore. Morning crept up to the windows. Phoebe smiled and the baby sucked at her breast.

‘Greedy little girlie,’ she crooned, and the baby’s fist shot up, punching the air. This made her mother laugh and Electra’s tiny eyelids opened to reveal navy eyes. ‘Are you looking at your Mama, baby girl?’

The birth had not been hard; nearly ten months waiting had left Phoebe impatient for the pushing. She used earth-forces to get the baby out, delivering her into the water-pool like a fish. The midwife caught her, plopped her onto her mother’s belly, and Electra’s slippery body uncoiled under the woman’s firm hands.

‘Girl,’ she said.

‘I knew,’ said Phoebe, cradling the baby’s head to suckle while the midwife eased the afterbirth from her.

‘Storm’s up; I’ll go when you’re dressed.’ The midwife towelled her down and swaddled the baby; she made tea and said she’d stop by in the morning. ‘The child has health, that’s the main thing; never mind that you’re alone.’ She moved towards the door, looked back. ‘New life,’ she said.

Phoebe nodded.

A few days later, when a small strength flowed through her bones again, she laid Electra into a sling across her chest, took up her basket and left the cabin. She felt light, glad the low-hung weight of the baby was gone from her belly. A full moon lingered in the sky even though it was morning; Phoebe thought that its edges looked soft. She saluted the moon, hitched her baby closer in the sling, and headed down through the marram grass towards the beach. The wind sang in her ears and pulled strands of hair across her face; the salt air tasted delicious after the stuffy heat of the cabin.

She walked slowly and sang a song about lovers for Electra; the one where the woman dies and the man kisses her ‘cold corpsey lips’. She made it into a lullaby. Phoebe felt full up with the wonder of her little girl, she reminded her of a kitten: the tiny face scrunched in on itself, her gaping yawns. She bent and kissed Electra’s nose and the baby unpuckered, then snuggled back into her mother’s breast.

The sea was still rough, its surface ploughed up like a field. There was a litter of flotsam on the strand: driftwood, net fragments, a grey bucket, several glass bottles made dull from the thrashing sea. Far off down the beach lay the carcass of a seal. Phoebe examined the pieces of driftwood, placing what she could carry into her basket. She kicked off her sandals and pushed her feet into the cold sand; it felt heavy on her toes. She lifted a cluster of mottled yellow shells and slipped the best ones into her dress pocket. They would join the rest of her collection on the windowsills; little pieces of the sea-world salvaged as ornaments.

She moved further down the beach, her eyes sweeping the debris on the sand, looking for things to take home. When she got closer to the seal she noticed that it was lying on its side; she thought she saw it move. She stood for a moment, swaying her body to keep Electra asleep. The seal’s back moved again. She inched closer, unused to sharing the strand with other living things. Waves edged over her feet and she bent as she approached the animal, hoping it wasn’t hurt. Phoebe began to realise that it wasn’t a seal at all; it was the wrong shape. Then she stood right over where it lay and saw that it was a black-skinned man, all huddled together, with his legs and arms tucked up in front of him. He was naked, and as wet as an eel.

They eyed each other across the room. He still hadn’t spoken. She had poked him with her foot until he came round and looked up at her; then helped him up off the sand and guided him back to the cabin. The sand-grains fell off his skin as it dried out; there was no hair on his body. He sat in her chair by the window, draped in a blanket, shivering. She could see his bone-white teeth shining in his mouth. The air smelt of onions.

‘Phoebe,’ she said, pointing at herself. Then she pointed at him, but he said nothing.

‘Electra,’ she said, holding up the baby. He nodded and parted his lips in a slow smile; then he nodded again. She stood and put some more driftwood into the stove.
‘Nearly ready,’ she said, pointing at the pot of soup on the hob.

Electra started to whimper. Phoebe sat back into the rocking-chair beside her bed, pulled a shawl over herself, and fed the baby. The little one stayed a long time at the breast, nodding off, then waking again to feed some more. Phoebe rocked and watched the man. He rose from the chair and fixed the blanket around his waist, tucking the edges in to hold it in place. He held up his hands to show her he meant no harm; his palms were pale. He went to the stove and ladled the soup into bowls that Phoebe had left there to warm. He knelt beside her chair and, after blowing gently on each spoonful, fed the soup into her mouth. When she was finished he ate his own. Then he pointed at himself and said ‘Tam.’

It was getting near dusk and the water was choppy. Electra plunged out of the sea, water streeling from her long hair. Tam was scouring the sand, kicking at piles of razor shells and putting driftwood into the basket. She sneaked up behind him and launched herself at him, soaking his clothes. He roared at her, then lifted her high and marched across the sallow sand to the water. She screeched and laughed, but Tam dropped her into the waves. Electra managed to snag his leg and drag him down with her. They tumbled in the water like seal pups.

Phoebe could hear them from where she lay; every sound travelled to her. Tam had left the door open a little to let in the breeze; it carried with it the tang of seaweed, salt and oil. Her head felt hot against the pillow and her hair, which was fish-belly grey, clung to her neck. A dull light fell across the bed from the window. The cabin walls were lined with shelves, each one filled with a clutter of beach-finds: fossils, sea-urchins, lobster armour, a Jesus statue, a baby’s shoe. Phoebe could see it all from her bed; each shelf a shrine of hers, or of Tam’s, or of Electra’s, each item weighted with memories. She could remember the day, the weather, the exact spot on the beach where everything was found; even those things that were not hers. She heard Tam whoop and, seconds later, Electra’s answering laugh.

‘Be careful with her, Tam,’ she called out, knowing he wouldn’t hear; they were too far down the beach. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, reached out for her shawl. It lay over the arm of the chair and she couldn’t get her fingers to grasp it. She collapsed back against the pillow, her forehead heavy with sweat. It couldn’t be long now. The wind had started to lift; it was chilly. She tried again for the shawl.
Electra and Tam fell through the doorway, dripping water from their clothes and hair, and giggling. Electra saw her mother’s stretching hand.

‘Lie back, Mama, I’ll get it for you.’ She plucked the shawl from the rocking chair and tucked it around Phoebe. She pushed her soaking hair out of her eyes. ‘Tam, close the door.’

He did as he was asked and then lit each of the tallow candles that stood around the room. Phoebe’s chest rose and fell under the strain of her breathing.

‘Get changed, both of you; this is no weather for swimming. Tam, you need to take better care of her,’ she wheezed and lay back on the pillow. Her breath came in short blasts as she watched the two of them dry themselves down with towels. Tam sang as he changed out of his wet clothes; it was a song with strange words that he had told them was all about a kingdom under the sea. Phoebe felt herself getting warmer, her breath became more relaxed. She looked over at her daughter. Electra’s time was coming near: the orb of her belly was stretched tight and moving lower each week; her nipples were wine-dark now, ready for the baby.

‘We need to tell the midwife,’ Phoebe whispered, moving to make herself more comfortable under the bedclothes.

‘I’ll go and tell her tomorrow,’ Tam said, sitting into the rocking chair and rubbing Phoebe’s hands to heat them up. She patted his arm and smiled up at him.

‘Good,’ she said, closing her eyes, ‘very good.’

Down by the shore the wind whipped at the surface of the water, tossing the waves this way and that. It reared up, howling and spinning around the cabin windows. Tam stood and lifted the broom. He swept the sand they had brought in on their feet into a pile, before hooshing it out through the door. Phoebe drifted towards sleep, and Electra sat in the chair by the window, her hands folded across the mound of her belly. She looked down towards the dark boiling sea and waited.

 

© copyright 2006

to contact the editor, email editor@deaddrunkdublin.com or use our contact form here
all contents copyright © 2007 all rights reserved - redmoonmedia, publishers - authors rights are protected

site design by redmoonmedia