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‘Come on, love. It’s a beautiful day. Won’t you come out? I’ve made you a cup of tea. We could sit together. Soak up some sunshine and fresh air.’
Myna opened her bleary eyes. She blinked once, and buried her face in the pillow, pulling the blanket above her head.
Ronan wasn’t even sure she’d seen him.
It had been months now since he’d handed the baby over to the midwife to deal with; months since he’d felt the heart-wrenching emptiness in his arms as he realised that the baby they’d so longed for was gone.
He’d returned to the room to find Myna sleeping. Oulde had given her a tonic to help her rest while he and Oulde cleaned the room, removing all trace of the birth, anything that might remind Myna of what she’d been through.
‘It’ll take some time,’ Oulde had said. ‘But if you don’t speak of it, she’ll forget soon enough. Then things can go back to the way they were. No use pining over things that weren’t meant to be.’
Ronan had nodded. He remembered that he’d nodded, taken her words to heart, trusted that she knew best.
But spring had turned to summer had turned to autumn, and Myna still cried herself to sleep every night, and hid herself from the world every day. Ronan went through the motions: cooking, cleaning, gardening. Every morning he hoped for improvement and every morning Myna’s sorrowful eyes tore holes in his heart.
He set the tea on the low table on Myna’s side of the bed.
In the kitchen he drank his own tea, ate the bland oats that served as breakfast and hauled the case onto his back. The trip into town wasn’t long, but it was arduous. A steep slippery descent was the path to the village, the scree apt to jump free under your feet and send you hurtling down the cliff face to the jagged rock below.
It took sturdy boots, a sure foot, and the blessings of the gods to ensure a safe descent, and even then there might still be a scrape or scratch, or even a twisted ankle.
Today it seemed the gods smiled at him, or else they thought his wife’s misery enough punishment for the heavy weight of guilt he carried. Their baby had lived, after all. It had not died at birth as he and Oulde had told Myna. Perhaps they should have shown her the child—let her see why it could not live—before taking it away. Perhaps Myna would have felt the revulsion he’d felt and would no longer be mourning the daughter who still visited her dreams.
Ronan shook his head. If he felt guilt and revulsion both, then she would have felt that guilt triple-fold. She’d probably have insisted on keeping it, and then where would they be? An image came to mind of the deformed torso, the arms moulded to the body, the legs fused together. He shuddered. No. It was better she hadn’t seen it. Better than face the horror that had grown inside her.
‘Ronan!’
He looked up. ‘Alfred.’
‘Myna still not improved?’
Ronan shook his head, blinking away the tears blurring his vision.
‘Take this.’ Alfred held out a large fish by the gills.
‘We can’t take that—’
Alfred held up a hand. ‘I blame meself. I should’ve said something a long time ago.’
Ronan frowned. ‘Sorry?’
Alfred shook his head. ‘The fish, lad. I should’ve had someone bring the fish, when me leg gave out. Maybe she wouldn’t be suffering as she is. Maybe—’ He shook his head again. ‘That wife of yours has been an important part of my life. You take this. There’s good oils in fish. They’ll help her get better.’ Alfred’s voice was gruff. ‘Besides, the fish have returned to the bay. The fishin’s good again. I’m catching too much to manage myself.’
Ronan took the fish. ‘Thank you, Alfred.’
Alfred kept a hold until Ronan caught his eye.
‘You come and get a fish from me anytime you come into the village. I can’t get up that hill no more, but you come see me, and I’ll give you a fish. Anything to see that girl back on her feet.’
‘Thank you, Alfred. That means a lot.’
‘Just make sure you do it, lad. She needs to get better. Losing a child’s a terrible thing, but we can’t have her joining it.’
Ronan swallowed back the lump that formed in his throat. ‘No. No, we can’t.’
