Seasons Between Us Page 19

  She looked down at me, not unkindly I will say, and continued, “Ye’ll have ta leave, and quickly. I’ve made a wee bundle for ye with bannock and the few scraps I can spare. Head south along the coast. Dunna stop for anything and dunna let William catch ye.”

  “How will I live? What will I do? Can you not give me back my seal skin? I will disappear beneath the waves and never return. I promise.”

  “I would ifn I could, Ailish, to be done with you and this sorry business. I dunna ken where William has stowed it. He’s a stubborn man. Life has made him bitter and mean. I canna ask him. There’s nowt to be done. Here.” She stuffed a worn-out piece of cloth bulging with provisions at me. “Be gone, so tha’ I might have me life back.”

  I took the bundle and retreated behind the curtain, dressing quickly. I needed time before William returned home and discovered I was gone.

  I yanked open the door to the croft and pulled the shawl tight over my head. Rain peppered my feet. I don’t know if sending me out into that wild weather softened her heart, but the woman’s parting words provided direction in my terror.

  “The wise woman from the glen yonder told me that if a lass was to shed seven tears in the ocean at midnight on a full moon, the FinFolk will come from the depths to give aid. I dunna ken if they will help one of yer kind but tonight the moon is ripe. Ye must avoid William ‘til then.”

  I nodded and stepped out into the swirling rain, and made my way toward the ocean and the place where I had first lost myself, unsure how the FinFolk might help when my own kind could not.

  The storm blew itself out after soaking me thoroughly, frustrating all attempts by William of finding me in the fog and rain. Finally, the clouds parted and the moon shone brightly in the star-strewn sky.

  I let seven tears fall, and waited.

  Something began to stir out in the bay, a gentle ripple across the still water, moving toward me. Breath halted in my throat and I dug my fingers into the pebbled sand.

  The water erupted where my tears had met the sea and the figure of a man drew upward, fully clothed and dry. His hair was as dark as his eyes. Although he was tall and handsome, his face was solemn. Not one to be trifled with, I feared.

  “Who has called me from my home?” His voice sounded like a bell across the water, deep and sonorous, enchanting.

  “I have called you, FinMan, to come to my aid. I am in danger. There are those who would harm me.”

  The FinMan narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as though he was scenting the air around me.

  “You are not what you seem,” he observed.

  “No. I’m a selkie whose pelt has been stolen. I cannot return to the sea.”

  “How would you have me help you with that?” The FinMan made for land and came to stand towering above me.

  I scrambled to my feet, remembering who I once was, and replied, “I cannot stay here on land or I will be destroyed. I cannot find my skin, but I wish to return to the place where I was once whole.”

  “This is not possible.”

  “So, I will die.”

  “You have cried seven tears and the spell is woven. I must help you. But you do not belong beneath the waves anymore. You hold the stench of what you have become. You will drown if I return you to your home.”

  “What can be done?” I cried.

  The FinMan crossed his burly arms and stood a long moment gazing across the ocean as if the waves themselves would lend a solution to the woman who walked between two worlds.

  “There is one thing that can be done,” he said finally. “You cannot live in the human world. Nor can you live in ours. But there is a place for one such as you.” He glanced down at me, sadness gleaming from his thunderous eyes.

  “Do you trust me?”

  I did not trust him. I trusted no one. All brought harm. Fear sounded deep within me, clattering against my ribs. There was nothing to be done for it. I nodded.

  He gestured for me to stand back from the water’s edge, drew thick fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. The water on the bay began to boil and kick up spray. A majestic horse-like creature emerged from the depths, black as night, and trotted across the waves toward us.

  “A kelpie,” I hissed. I had heard of the magical underwater creatures but had never seen one.

  The FinMan tousled the kelpie’s mane and whispered in its ear. The creature nodded and turned its dark eyes on me.

  “He will take you to a place far from here. There is a cave on a small spit of shoreline to keep you warm and dry. Our kind will make sure you never hunger or thirst. Perhaps some of your kind will not fear to come ashore there to keep you company while you live out a mortal life. It is the best I can do.”

  His hand rested on my shoulder and I knew this was the only way for one such as myself. I would have sanctuary. My heart ached, but there was no choice.

  “I agree,” I whispered. “It is better than living as I have done.”

  The FinMan nodded to the kelpie and the great beast knelt before me so I could scramble onto its back. He lifted up over the waves, galloping into the sky until the world of humans faded into shadow. Wind streamed through my hair. I didn’t want the flight to end. There is a freedom in the wind that stiffens the sails and turns the boat once more to sea. A heartening. The whisper that, although things have changed, there is still possibility. That was how it felt, high above all that had happened to me.

  Finally, the kelpie dropped from the sky and a tiny cove opened up through the shreds of mist and cloud. It slowed, touching down gently on a rock-strewn beach. I clambered from its back, my body trembling and heart thudding wildly. The kelpie nodded to me, then launched upwards into the waiting night. He left behind a silence that echoed louder than any thunder I’d ever heard.

  I learned from my selkie friends that the villagers believed me dead by my own hand; toppled from the cliff in the storm. I had hoped William believed it too and that he might toss my seal skin out over the ocean for my friends to find and return to me. Canny and clever, he did not. Instead, I was told, he took the skin and buried it in St. Olrig’s Kirkyard, where he knew I could never go. Tales arose through the years that nothing grew atop that grave, but water puddled along its surface and, on nights when the moon hid its face behind the clouds, the cry of a seal could be heard above the wind, mourning for its missing soul.

  I, too, felt the loss.

  There is a hole within me the shape of my selkie skin. I topple into the loneliness of that shape as the days pass. It murmurs to me of what might have been.

  I am a patchwork person. Made of bits and pieces retrieved from the wreckage of who I once was. But each day I learn to move with this new skin and find ways to dive through the water. Although I can no longer swim as I once did and must come up for air, the water’s freshness slides along my skin and I remember that my life has texture, although rough and rimmed with sadness.

  I have chosen my own path. Different from what I imagined. Still mine. My needs have been few; my dreams extend only as far as the water and as high as the cliffs that protect me. The seasons turn, as they must, and my memories fold into themselves.

  Time polishes loss, grinding down the sharp edges, binding up the wounds. But always there is a scar. It pulls and pinches when I move just so, or when a scrap of remembrance brushes too close.

  My eyes dim now; hands shaking so I cannot bring food or water to my lips. The time has come. I drag myself from my snug cave to the shoreline. The sun traces warm fingers through my hair and salt air sits on my tongue. Above me, the gulls call in a blue, cloudless sky. Such a sight I must be to them, no more than a ragged bundle of bones tossed up on the sand by the tides.

  It is enough. A life lived is enough. I have made something of my days, however small.

  “I’ve kept faith. I have held,” I tell the misty ho
rizon. “The waiting time is over.”

  The sea whispers against the land. There is a stillness beneath the sound. As I pull a last breath into my body, I see the loving eyes of the ones lost to me.

  “Home. Finally, home.”

  I smile as a grey pelt velvets my shoulders.

  “Be at peace,” the sea murmurs.

  We return to ourselves in the end.

  Author’s Notes to My Younger Self: Life breaks you; whittles away cherished dreams, blasts your world apart. Playing by the rules won’t prevent loss. And when life roars through, draw yourself up, gather the scattered pieces, and crawl out of that dark place. Search for the light and don’t give up. You will return to yourself, made of stardust and steel.

  For Colin, Luc, and Matt. Always.

  Messages Left in Transit, Devices Out of Sync

  S.B. Divya

  On the day of my husband’s launch, I stood in the viewing area with the other families, my hand over the squirmy thing in my abdomen. Thumba Equatorial Rocket Launching Station sprawled near Thiruvananthapuram, the capital city of Kerala. Lazy blue water meandered behind us. Rich green foliage contrasted with the brilliant white of cement and deep azure of the sky. Fans whirred from the awning above, stirring the warm, humid air and the scents of humanity. They did little to stop the sweat beading all over my body.

  Would the baby feel the earth-shaking rocket? Would this moment embed into their subconscious somehow, leading to a life of . . . I don’t know . . . a reckless pursuit of adrenaline-fueled sports? Every decision felt more fraught as I entered my third trimester of pregnancy. Envy, pride, and tension warred as the rocket carrying the lunar base’s second crew soared into the great beyond.

  I didn’t want to give birth to our first child while my husband went to the moon. Not only would he miss the delivery, but he wouldn’t get to hold the baby for months. A newborn is an amazing feeling—the warmth, the fragility, the scent. I experienced it with my sister’s first child, and nothing can compare. But he had history to make. Important work to do. A mission to accomplish.

  My mother’s hand clutched mine. My in-laws stood behind us. They’d been so happy when I got pregnant.

  “Mangal’s father was absent when he was born,” my mother-in-law said, after the noise faded. She winked. “We don’t really need the men at that time.”

  I held back my objections: that India had changed in the intervening decades; that men were expected to participate in raising their children from birth. I did my best to balance being a good daughter-in-law with my natural ambitions. It got easier after the Indian Space Research Organization disqualified me from the astronaut programme. Mangal and I had met during ISRO’s interview process. We thought we’d be the first couple in space.

  We received the news on the same day: Mangal’s acceptance and my rejection. His expression kept oscillating from elation to apology and back again.

  I straightened my shoulders, cupped his face, and looked deep into his eyes. “I’m so proud and happy for you. Truly,” I said and meant it.

  “You can apply again in a year or two,” he said. “You’re just as qualified as I am.”

  We both had flight time from our air force days. We had advanced degrees. My eyesight was better than his. But I would never be an astronaut.

  “It’s my blood work,” I said, forcing a detached calm. “Low hemoglobin counts.” Of all the stupid things that could disqualify me, it seemed like the least important.

  His shoulders drooped long enough to look genuinely sad, but then the excitement of his success overwhelmed it.

  “Let’s go celebrate,” I said, so I could drown my sorrows while toasting his happiness.

  I put my mechanical engineering degree to good use after that. The Chandra project needed skills like mine, and it allowed me to live in Thiruvananthapuram with my husband. The Vikram Sarabhai Space Centre—VSSC—had grown since its inception, now rivaling those of the US, Russia, and China. If I couldn’t train as an astronaut, at least I could participate in space exploration from the ground. And much to the joy of our parents, it also meant that we could start a family sooner.

  We tried for two years, but in this too, I was disappointed. The doctors recommended IVF, but then ISRO selected Mangal for the Lunar Research Programme. It seemed prudent to wait until after his mission to conceive. I should have switched back to birth control then, but the professionals said we’d need help. I didn’t expect it to happen naturally.

  We’d intended to walk hand-in-hand on the moon. Instead, he’d be analyzing lunar soil while I completed the most ordinary miracle of all—bringing new life into the world.

  “Priyanka, record a message,” I said into my phone.

  Hi, it’s me. Bedrest is torture. You know how terrible I am at sitting still? They won’t even let me do basic housework. Here I am, dealing with back pain and bleeding and boredom while you get to play in lunar gravity. I can’t even have wine to go with my whine.

  Amma has taken a month’s leave from her job to help me. Two more weeks and they’ll let me up, and then the baby can come any time.

  I’ve been sorting through our pictures. I’m making an album of Life-Before-Baby, the years we’ve had to ourselves. I’ve put in photos from our wedding and honeymoon, and I’m thinking of making it a scrapbook—pasting in the receipt from our car, your acceptance letter, things like that. What do you think?

  I’ve told you how proud I am that you’re an astronaut, right? And now you’re on the Moon! I miss you.

  Maybe I should include my job offer letter in the album. Something I can be proud of for myself. God knows I’ve tried to hide my disappointment—

  I stopped, breathed, and leaned my head back.

  “Priyanka, don’t send. Save draft message to my journal, locked to private.”

  The RCEMP, or Remote Control Electro-Mechanical Person, was my first baby. No matter how much we streamlined spacesuits, they remained awkward and risky, but human beings have to interact with their environment to understand it. The subconscious wants all five senses engaged. We needed a way to let our astronauts explore the moon and keep themselves safe at the same time. The RCEMP was our solution.

  One unit went to the lunar base, but like any device sent to space, we had a replica on Earth to help with troubleshooting. A week after the launch, my doctor put me on bedrest. I did what I could from home, but I had to see the machine, to feel it under my hands for my best work to happen. No amount of pleading would budge the doctor’s opinion.

  Before my mechanical baby took its first steps on lunar soil, I snuck out to mission control so I could cheer along with everyone else. I kept out of sight of the cameras. Our project manager personally took me home afterwards. It was worth every minute of risk.

  When I went into labour, my mother stood by my side, pressed washcloths onto my forehead, and massaged my aching back and hips. Mangal could only watch from afar.

  “I feel so useless,” he said via video-link. “Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

  “Hah, now you know how I’ve felt the last few weeks,” I crowed. And then gasped as the muscles beneath my navel tightened.

  We had asked the doctor not to tell us the baby’s sex.

  “I want to name them Chandra,” I’d said before Mangal left.

  He’d laughed. “Come on, isn’t that too obvious?”

  “It’s the project that brought us together. Plus, it will work regardless of the baby’s gender.”

  After a few attempts at terrible name ideas, he’d capitulated to my cleverness and agreed.

  As I breathed through the contractions, he fretted.

  “Kavitha is doing well,” my mother reassured him. She wiped my forehead. “Chandra will be okay, too.”

  People tell you all kinds of things about babies, but they rarely
disclose the indignities of labour and its consequences. Only after you’ve experienced it are you allowed into those conversations, though by then it’s often too little, too late.

  I held Chandra in my arms as my mother brought the camera in for a close-up.

  Mangal blotted tears from his eyes. “You’re amazing.”

  “So are you,” I choked out.

  “I wish I could be there right now.”

  Exhausted and crashing from hormones, I would’ve traded places with him in a heartbeat. Chandra was gorgeous, but millions of people gave birth to babies every day. How many have stood on the moon?

  Will I ever forgive you for missing the birth of our child?

  Yes, of course I will. I’m not that much of a hypocrite, to wish I could trade places with you in one minute and hate you for your achievements in the next. But damn you for skipping the worst of it. The soreness. The uncontrollable crying jags. The messes—mine and the baby’s.

  Maybe you’ll be around for the next one, if that happens, but there’s nothing like the first time. When she opens her brilliant eyes or grasps my thumb with her mighty little hand, I go dizzy with wonder. You’re missing all of that, too.

  I watched Sahana Agarwal’s space news channel on the hospital’s TV. She showed a clip of the RCEMP in action, side-by-side with footage from inside the lunar base. She explained that the unit had a shape and size similar to an average human and a lunar weight between that of an average male and female on Earth. It provided three sensory modalities: sight, sound, and touch.

  My contribution had improved the third—a novel material with a large dynamic range that could sense pressure differentials from fine textures to bulk weight. She didn’t mention that technical detail.

  Mangal piloted the unit. A virtual reality helmet covered his head. A special suit wrapped his body almost like an EVA suit, and an omnidirectional treadmill moved beneath his feet. On the split screen, when he knelt, the unit knelt. When he grasped at an invisible pebble and lifted it gently, the RCEMP picked up the real object from the moon’s regolith.