Summer returned to Ancilar on the back of an unexpected gale that launched the Gray far onto the shoreline and snapped trees under its might. In the aftermath, the villagers crept out of their battered houses to survey the damage and thank the gods the sky was once more blue, the sea calm, and the temperatures warm.
Brida joined the rest of the villagers as they gathered at the shoreline with their wagons, clearing away the debris strewn from one end of the beach to the other. Most would be taken back to the village for sorting and salvage. All the effort went toward clearing the area for the safety of the horse shrimpers who planned to start the trawling season in a few days.
Norinn helped Brida throw pieces of driftwood into the dray. “Why is it all we ever do on this beach is work?” she said, encompassing the length of sand and dunes with a sweep of her hand. “Why not have a gathering? Build a fire. Bring food, play music, dance. Lord Frantisek is always borrowing you and the others to play at the castle. Why not play here for the neighbors?”
Those who overheard her comment embraced the idea, and Brida was swiftly conscripted to play at the impromptu celebration that evening. She didn’t mind. Winter had been a lonely season, punctuated by bouts of melancholy that gave way to brief cheerfulness at the thought of summer’s return. Brida missed Ahtin, missed him even more when she played her flute. She worried as well. His world was far more dangerous than hers, at least in her opinion, though hers didn’t lack its share of evil men like Ospodine.
No one seemed to care that he hadn’t returned from Madigan’s Teeth, though his lordship had asked her twice if she’d seen him there. That somber gaze, deep as the Gray itself, had settled on her for a long moment until he finally said “Sometimes the sea takes what it wants with no apology for the theft.”
At the memory of the great fish snatching Ospodine off the rock ledge as if he were a seal, Brida couldn’t agree more.
Once the sun set, all of Ancilar gathered around bonfire stack they’d built. When two of the men set the kindling aflame with torches and fanned the flames to flare up the heap, everyone cheered. Children raced along the beach, chasing and being chased by pet dogs. The ale flowed, along with the gift of a cask of wine from his lordship on the bluff. No one worried about an obluda, especially after Zigana Imre dipped her hands in the shallow, then stood up with a smile and shake of her head. The Gray this night offered no threat to those who remained on the shore.
Brida played alongside a large group of musicians with various instruments and skill levels spanning from beginner to expert. She’d brought her bone flute, her most treasured possession now, and played all the songs the villagers knew by heart. Her lips tingled with the urge to play the two-note siren song: Edonin’s name and so much more, but she resisted the temptation. That wasn’t merely a tune. It was a spell, and a powerful one at that, and had no business at this gathering.
She did slyly incorporate the whistle that was Ahtin’s name into three of the songs. No one noticed, but Brida stared beyond the crowd of villagers and the bonfire with its blaze of light, to the dark sea.
Was he out there? Had the merfolk returned? And if they had, had Ahtin forgotten her? Brida prayed he hadn’t.
As the evening wore on, the women gathered sleepy children and rode back to the village. Some of the men went as well. Those who stayed sat around the slowly dying fire, swapping stories and boasts, all growing exponentially more outlandish in proportion to the ale imbibed.
Brida returned with Norinn to help her put her large brood to bed. She declined an offer of tea, claiming exhaustion and an aching back from a long day of cleaning up the beach. She returned home, and just like more than a half year earlier, she sneaked out her back gate, taking a path that avoided the bonfire and its admirers.
Ixada Cave no longer frightened her. She now welcomed its rumors of hauntings and doorways to dead places. It kept others away while Brida sat on the sand not far from the flooded entrance and serenaded the Gray with her flute playing. She did the same tonight, hoping against hope that she might hear an answering whistle.
The crescent moon, though bright in a clear sky, offered little illumination, and night settled heavy on the Gray and its bordering shoreline. Brida played a few more tunes, stopping mid exhalation during one as a sound drifted above the surf’s rumble.
She didn’t move, certain that if she did, the sound would disappear. The flash of a pale fluke striking the water made her heart leap. Streamers of seaweed hair glistened under anemic starlight, and a webbed hand rose in greeting.
Brida stood, laughing and sobbing at the same time. She brought the flute to her mouth with shaking hands and blew into the mouthpiece, playing a song of salutation and pure joy as she waded into the shallows.
The whistle came again, short and sharp, followed by a series of clicks that made her breath catch.
“Brida. Beautiful Brida. Did you keep my heart safe?”