The First Fracture: Móin & Marrow Peek
Below is Chapter Six of the book Móin & Marrow. I’m posting it because I can’t help myself. Bréaca is gloriously herself in this chapter… but it is also when she starts to learn more about consequences and maturity. Or is that just containment?
October 8 (yesterday) marked the end of Week Two for writing this story alongside Storymere. Over three days, 10,346 new words written for Móin; the book stands at nearly 35K words and 10 chapters. Section 2, which I will start Monday, sees the erasure of this beautiful girl being this beautiful girl.
Mist hangs low over the hills and a black bird flies toward the river, but I don’t smell rain. Today’s the day. Even when the sky was as black as the deepest part of the sea, I lay awake, practicing what to say to Athair. I know the currents, I’ll say, and when it’s safe and when it’s not safe to travel. I won’t climb too high; I’ll stay where Éogan wanted me to. I’m older now and you can trust me with more. And, if none of that works, I’ll purse my bottom lip out, fold my hands and beg. Please, please, please. The egg season will be over soon and I’ll have to wait another year.
I fell asleep before the first blush of dawn and, when I awoke, there were voices outside. The travelers. Dew clings to the grass and tickles my feet as I step out into the early morning. Athair and Éogan are walking toward the hill that leads to the gathering place, but I don’t see Máthair. We have to see the travelers off.
Lugaid tends to a low fire, but I only see one of the travelers and the brehon. I start to call Athair, but he and Éogan disappear into the metalworker’s hut and my shoulders drop. He won’t listen to me now.
“Bréaca. Have you seen your mother?” Ailbe appears, carrying a small pouch and turning her head one way, then another.
“No.”
“Well, here. I’ve got to get breakfast on. This is something your mother asked me for; she needed it to make something for the traveler. If you see her, pass it on.” The bundle is warm. Small hard shapes roll and shift against one another beneath the cloth; a crisp, nutty scent rises. Hazelnuts. We gathered them before the cold came, and I thought ours had been gone since winter. Ailbe turns, scolding the little one as she catches him trying to escape the hut.
The rí says good morning to me, sipping from a mug. Another of the travelers appears from within a tent. Maybe Máthair’s gone for water? I take the path between the huts that leads to the travelers’ horses, waving when I see King lifting from a branch. He’s the smallest of birds, but the river belongs to him.
The sound of a quiet male voice slows my feet. There, on the other side of the alder. Instead of rushing forward, something makes me slip behind the alder when I see my mother and Cáelán. Máthair stands in front of him; I can’t see her face. I hear Cáelán’s voice but it’s too quiet for me to make out the words. He nods, lifts his head to look above Máthair.
Máthair lifts a hand, holds out a pouch that looks like the one Ailbe gave me. The clinking pots. The fire popping before dawn. I heard them while half asleep. She must have found some and used those. Cáelán’s head tilts, his hand taking the pouch. He speaks again and they both laugh in the quiet way Mugain, Muirenn and I do when we don’t want anyone to hear us.
Máthair’s hands move in front of her, braiding, then unlocking to fall to her sides. The sound of villagers turns her head. While she’s still watching for others, Cáelán steps closer, taking her arm. He’s bigger than he looks from a distance. When both his arms go around my mother, one hand resting against the back of her head, it’s as if she disappears. His head bends to rest against the top of her head, but only for a moment before pulling away.
Máthair sways; she wraps her arms around her waist, nods at something he says. She turns as he steps around her and watches as he strides toward the village’s noise. I see him tuck the bundle Máthair gave him into the leather pouch slung across his chest.
I wait until she, too, walks away before breathing.
We were children together… we thought we’d always be together.
Unwrapping the pouch, I steal one. It’s still warm, toasted dark at one edge, and it crumbles against my tongue. More villagers have gathered and the mist thins when I return. All four of the travelers have mounted their beautiful horses and Mugain stands beside Lugaid.
Athair.
He stands near my mother but doesn’t look at her.
“He hasn’t said a word to her this morning,” Ailill says, walking up behind me.
My nose scrunches.
The rí wishes the travelers safe journeys and villagers call farewells. Máthair says nothing, but I notice Cáelán tips his head to her as the horses move. Athair is the first to move, spitting to the ground as he heads alone back toward home. Máthair is the last to turn from watching the travelers’ backs; she only does so because Ailbe calls her name and, when Máthair looks, Ailbe gives a quick, small shake of her head. Máthair’s shoulders drop. Then, she rubs her palms together and asks where Rónán is.
She’s back.
I race away from the village.
I need Athair.
“But, Athair, I know I can do it. It’s not going to rain today; do you smell rain?”
“That’s not the point.” Athair lifts the spoon to his mouth.
“I know the river; I do. Éogan said I was better than he is at navigating.”
“Bréaca.”
“I know it, though. And I’ve rowed to the landing plenty.”
Athair quirks a brow. “That’s not nearly as far as the cliffs.”
“I won’t stay long; I’ll just gather a few eggs and come straight back.”
Stirring the porridge in her bowl, Máthair says, “She is older now; more freedom might teach her some things.”
The clinking of the spoon against Athair’s bowl is loud. Lifting only his eyes, he stares at Máthair. “What kind of freedom, Eithne?”
The air drains; the room feels cooler.
Máthair’s chest rises as she breathes in deeply. “I am here.” Her voice is quiet and her eyes never leave my father’s.
“So can I go?”
Athair exhales harshly. Pushing his bowl away, he stands. He leans down for his leather strap and pauses, looking at me hard.
“How will you know the river’s changed?”
“Water will run faster around stones. The marks on the bank will disappear. Things floating past will move quicker.”
“And if it has?”
“I wait.”
He studies me. “Cliffs?”
“I don’t climb wet stone. I don’t go higher than Éogan told me.”
His eyes slide to Máthair, who watches without words. Finally, he nods. “Alright.”
And my heart soars.
Máthair smells faintly of horse and dust when she hugs me. “Be careful. Be smart.”
“I will.”
Athair reminds me, “Watch the river. Come back before it gets too fast.”
“I will.” Suddenly, I throw my arms around him, too. He chuckles, surprised, and pats my back. “Gather your mother lots of eggs, Bréaca.”
As I push off from shore, I wave, swaying as the boat rocks quietly side to side. Dipping the curved edge of the oars into the water, I watch the ripples spread outward and laugh when I see a flash of silver breach the surface. Standing in the boat, resting the oar across its edges, I wave at the trees. “Hello, sallies!”
The water laps against the wood, and it sways with my weight. Sitting again, I hear the cattle lowing nearby and mimic them, then purse my lips together and blow through my teeth.
A robin answers.
Dragging my fingers through the water, I watch as it swirls. Ripples are the river whispering secrets. Most people never learn what they are but I speak River. Ripples are secrets; splashes are laughter; currents are shouts. I can’t tell you all of the secrets, but I can share one: secrets go out. Ripples move away from me.
I pull the oars, leaning back, turning my head, careful to give plenty of room to the boat sitting in the middle of the river; a villager has a line cast. He tips his head at me as I guide the boat around him. The water is quiet; rowing is easy. When I hear my name being yelled, I still, my eyes scanning the shore.
“Lugaid!” I say, waving.
“Bring me one from the highest ledge!”
“Where are you going?”
“To get a bull!”
“You got one?”
“I traded for one! My father doesn’t know yet!”
Ripples stretch outward as the boat glides past him. Pushing the oar beneath the water, I tell the river, “I have one of his secrets now, too.”
My chest swells. Pride feels like a wave: it grows bigger and bigger until it curves inward, spilling its warmth everywhere. When I see a large stick, forked at the top with a few leaves still clinging tremulously to its thin branches, I reach over, the boat leaning to the left as I use the oar to drag the stick closer.
This could be a lance that saves me from the river monster. I promise: I will not be taken. Curving around the bend, the river thickens as it widens. The banks fade and the river expands. As the sun rises higher, sunlight dapples across the water, creating tiny stars that float, and the sky, no longer hidden by mist, becomes a bright blue, the color of the blue tit’s wings.
My breath catches as I see the furry head of an otter floating on its back, holding its prey: a small, scaly fish. I row close enough that I see the silver whiskers of the otter. His wet, black eyes watch me, but he does not swim away. “That,” I say, raising my voice as loud as a river promise, “will be the most delicious meal ever.”
The current doesn’t rush all at once.
First, I feel it: the oars need to go deeper to keep me straight; the boat tilts faster, one side lifting farther than the other; the wind becomes cooler against my cheeks. Wings flutter in my chest; it feels like I might start flying. The river carries me home, to the place in my dreams where nothing tethers me.
Then, I hear it: the slapping of the current against stones, the oars knocking against the wooden slats of the boat, the birds getting louder. I see it, too. Green fields give way to golden sand and the sky; the bank creeps backward; instead of trees, there are thin reeds and patches of saw sedge; and the sky becomes as big as hope.
The wings flutter faster inside.
I don’t dare set the oar down; it might slip. But I hold one arm out to the side, letting the wind lift the thin hairs along my skin. It’s just me. I am strong enough. I am big enough. There was once a woman who lived on the water because the land couldn’t hold her. She slept and ate in a small wooden canoe that no one can remember being built. She caught fish with her hands, almost as though the river gave them to her, and she sang songs with words no one except the birds understood. Wind whipped her stringy hair, tangling it, but everyone who saw her said there was a fullness to her face, something about the way she moved that made her the most beautiful woman they’d ever seen.
I will tell everyone when I get home that they don’t have to look for her anymore—because I am her! When the river rises and I catch sight of the first guillemot, I am laughing. My shoulders are warm and tight as I lean back, pulling the water with me. Soon, the air feels different: cooler and stronger and the wind carries salt.
There were only three birds; now there are many circling ahead, diving into the sea, and singing. Between the thunderous roar of the ocean and the many cries of birds, it’s the noisiest place. The cacophony is beautiful. I scream with guillemots and razorbills and kittiwakes. Then, just past the arch, I see the cliffs move from shadows to stone. Waves crash against the narrow strip of shore.
I can’t row fast enough; my feet want to leap from the canoe and swim the distance. By the time I reach the narrow landing, just beyond the stone arch, I am breathless. Wind plasters strands of hair across my cheeks as the wooden boat skids against the sand. Holding the edge, I jump into the shallow water, scattering a school of fish beneath me. The boat is heavier than I remember, and pulling it ashore is hard, so I run to the back, the ocean soaking the edge of my shift, rising to my calf. The sea is nearly translucent here, clear like glass with blue peeking around the edges.
I finally get the boat higher ashore and tie it tight around the stake someone drove into the sand ages ago. And then I turn. As I stare up at the cliffs, I jump up and down, clapping my hands. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I call up to my friends, “I’m back!”
Sitting on a low rock, I notice the shag first. He stares at me; his black wings spread, a hint of emerald peeking through. He doesn’t even bother folding his wings. Widening my eyes, I say, “I missed you, too.” Looking up again, I step closer to the cliff face. It stretches and stretches and stretches. Guillemots bunch together on the shelves, the kittiwaaaake-kittiwaaake is loud, and I see the first fulmar glide past.
I pat the leather satchel secured around my chest. My fingers touch smooth rock for the first time and I start climbing.
Photo by Joanie Tidwell on
Pexels.com The sliver of rock is barely wide enough for my fingers to grip it. Pressing hard, the tip of my tongue touching the corner of my mouth, I squint, pulling myself up and moving my foot to the next small crack. Tipping my head back, I look up. I see a razorbill egg resting on a ledge above me. To get there, I slide to the left. Just as my hand curls around the new lip, a puffin peeks out of a crevice. “Did you steal a piece of the sunset and use it for your beak?” I ask breathlessly. I grunt, bending my leg as I grab for the ledge. My foot shifts and loose rock falls below me.
The puffin waddles out, making me laugh even as I climb. “What are you staring at? You look like bog cotton rolled in dirt.”
The ledge appears; it’s just wide enough for me to rest my elbow. The egg hides beneath an overhang in the shadows. It’s swollen, like the puffin, the color of sand and covered in smudges the shade of footprints. I lay it in the satchel and tell the birds over their racket, “You don’t all need to talk at once, you know.”
Shaking my hand and rubbing my fingers together so they’re not so stiff, I look below me. The sea is far, but not as far as last time, and I still haven’t found a guillemot egg. But I can see one. Looking up, I notice the ledge I went to last time. White streaks of bird droppings paint the rocks and my satchel taps gently against my side.
Guillemots, dark brown heads and backs over white bellies, come alive when I pull myself onto the shelf. They start croaking and the two closest to me stretch their necks. Two burst off the shelf. My hand lands in something wet—guano. One moves closer to the large egg it guards. “Stop it,” I screech when a beak jabs at my hand. When I shift, another takes flight.
I look up, seeing another ledge.
Bréaca, stop.
I won’t go higher than Éogan said.
But I can’t stay here.
A wing beats close enough to my face to make me jerk my head to the side. “Alright, alright. Keep it.” The stone is slick as I push off, pulling myself up. It’s only a little higher.
Along the way, I find four more tucked into lower shelves. I settle each one carefully into the satchel, making sure they don’t knock together.
This ledge is wider than any I’ve been on before.
The egg that rests here isn’t hidden at all. I pick it up, pointed side toward the sky. This one is blue-green, almost like the color of shallow seawater, and has black marks over it, especially toward the heavier bottom end. A few white and tan streaks run toward the point. Like the razorbill’s egg, this one is cool to touch. I lay it in my satchel and then inch back until I rest against the cliff.
The arch looks even smaller from here than it did the last time, and I can barely see the canoe. A raven circles overhead, drawing my eyes upward. Wispy clouds remind me of bog cotton: I blow, pretending to scatter them like the whiteheads. There’s no such thing as time here, or chores, or strange travelers, or air that feels crowded. Here, there’s only the sea and the birds and the eggs. Distantly, I hear a large splash. I can’t tell what it is from here—maybe the river monster, maybe a whale—but something breaches the middle of the ocean, spraying water and slapping down hard. It makes lots of ripple secrets!
Six eggs.
I’ve found six eggs. Really, I found seven, but the guillemots keep one. I found a hundred last year, all on the same trip, but they weren’t as big, and they weren’t as high. Bréaca. Athair’s voice in my head slides my eyes toward home. Something prickles under my skin. Maybe it’s time to start down.
It’s bad luck if I don’t name the eggs.
I’ll climb down after that.
Opening the satchel, I pull out the newest friend. Tide because the tan streaks could be sand pulling away from the water. My favorite one this time is pale and larger than the others. Its scattered marks are lighter, almost grey, and some have white dots in them. Almost like stars falling from the sky. Starfall. Setting it beside Tide, I name the others, making sure they don’t roll anywhere they shouldn’t. Sometimes eggs like to do that.
The light looks different by the time I put the last one back into the satchel. The sun looks like it’s scooted to the west a little. I can almost hear Áed. Now.
When I pass the ledge with the cranky guillemots, I promise, “Just so you know, I’ll be back.”
Leaping backwards off the cliff, I land in the rocky sand, my satchel bouncing against my hip. And I know: something is different. The wind is sharper and, when I turn toward the boat, I’m surprised at how choppy the water is. Frowning, I move forward. The sea isn’t that clear turquoise anymore; it’s darker, almost like the sky before a heavy thunderstorm.
Waves break one after the other near the arch. Beyond it, toward the channel that leads to the river, I can barely see the bank.
“How will you know the river’s changed?”
“Water will run faster around stones. The marks on the bank will disappear. Things floating past will move quicker.”
“And if it has?”
“I wait.”
The edge of my mouth tilts up. The sea doesn’t want me to go; it tells me to wait. My stomach rumbles. Stepping into the boat still on shore, I pull out the pouch Máthair packed for me. As I munch, I notice loose stones at my feet. I pick them up, toss back the black ones, and keep only the special ones.
I wonder if I can find one like Máthair’s, one that holds the sea in it. The thought gets me to my feet and out of the boat. If I want it to have the ocean, it should come from the water. But the waves are so rough right now that they drive me back, and I stick to choosing ones near the cliff.
Every so often, I look west, toward the sky.
The sun keeps slowly moving downward.
I chew on my bottom lip, turn to see the channel again.
Maybe it’s a little better.
But maybe I just think it is. Waves still batter the shoreline and I can see them knocking against the arch, too.
Just a little longer.
I wait until streaks of yellow and orange stretch across the sky. I won’t be able to see the river if it gets dark. And Athair is probably going to kill me already. I hear him in my head; his voice keeps getting louder.
Taking a deep breath, holding it only for a couple moments like Máthair does, and then blowing it out, I untie the canoe. When it finds depth, waves try to push it back to shore. By the time I pass the arch and head for the choppy channels, I am soaked. “You’re shouting now,” I tell the river as I head in.
The current pushes me; I row harder. Splashes land in my eye, along my neck, drenching me. Soon, I shiver. By the time the salt leaves my tongue, my arms burn from rowing, and the sky carries darker blues and purples. Banks crawl closer; reeds bloom into trees; shadows play against fading light; my chest closes.
I am still pulling the canoe onto shore when I hear my name. “Bréaca.” Éogan’s voice is harsh. “I’ll get this. You get home right now.”
I swallow, nodding.
I should run; they’re worried. There’s nothing to worry about; I’m home.
Máthair sees me first; she runs from the hut, calling my name. Before I can say a word, she’s wrapped me in her arms, holding tight.
“Let her go.” Athair’s voice is harsh, deeper, and there’s an edge about it that pokes something in the corners of my mind. Máthair steps back, but she keeps me within reach. Athair shakes his head, his eyes narrow and dark. “Get in the hut, Bréaca.”
My legs quiver when I walk past him. Gooseflesh rises on my arms and I try to remember when the canoe rounded the last bend and the cliffs rose like mountains from the sea. I thought I might fly.
Ailill and Rónán watch from behind the corner as Athair stares at me without speaking for what feels like ages. When I can’t take it anymore, I say, “It was too choppy. I remembered to wait.”
“And how high did you climb, Bréaca? If it wasn’t so high, you should have been done in plenty of time before tide.”
I bow my head, my shoulders slumping.
“You will not go to the cliffs alone again. You may not go again this season.”
I swallow.
“Give me that satchel,” Athair orders, holding out a large hand. When I hesitate, something snaps and his voice rises. “Now.”
I pull it off slowly and he snatches it from me.
“The entire village was organizing a journey—at high tide—to find you. We will give these eggs to the villagers who were planning on searching for you!” He leans forward, his face moving closer to mine. Like a bolt of lightning, an image of thick brown hair flashes across the back of my mind. I blink, and it’s gone.
Tears fill the rims of my eyes; my head tucks into my chest; my lip quivers.
Silence fills the space. He stomps outside, his steps heavy and loud. Máthair closes her eyes; a thin breath escapes through her lips. Quietly, she returns to the low stool and tugs Rónán’s grey fabric toward her to mend. Ailill mumbles he’s going to help with the cattle and steps quietly outside.
I feel like the river woman just stepped on land for the first time. My eyes snag on the shallow bowl of grain. Máthair’s eyes follow me as I kneel and lift it by the edges, swirling it. When the world turns blurry, I blink the tears away.
There are quiet murmurs in the house. Bodies shift. I want to go to the bogs, but I cannot. Searching in high tide for you! Twinges of guilt burn the edges of my heart, keeping me still when I want to go. Against the cotton mat, my head rolls. My eyes squint. In the black space between the thatched roof, a small white circle pulses. It looks like a star filling its belly with whiteheads.
My lips move, forming words I don’t give a voice too. Their shapes lull me to sleep.
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