The Sea's Dead
by Katharine Tynan
In Achill it was dreary wet weatherone of innumerable wet summers
that blight the potatoes and blacken the hay and mildew the few oats
and rot the poor cabin roofs. The air smoked all day with rain mixed
with the fine salt spray from the ocean. Out of doors everything
shivered and was disconsolate. Only the bog prospered, basking its
length in water, and mirroring Croghan and Slievemore with the smoky
clouds incessantly wreathing about their foreheads, or drifting like
ragged wisps of muslin down their sides to the clustering cabins more
desolate than a deserted nest. Inland from the sheer ocean cliffs the
place seemed all bog; the little bits of earth the people had reclaimed
were washed back into the bog, the gray bents and rimy grasses that
alone flourished drank their fill of the water, and were glad. There
was a grief and trouble on all the Island. Scarce a cabin in the queer
straggling villages but had desolation sitting by its hearth. It was
only a few weeks ago that the hooker had capsized crossing to Westport,
and the famine that is always stalking ghost-like in Achill was
forgotten in the contemplation of new graves. The Island was full of
widows and orphans and bereaved old people; there was scarce a window
sill in Achill by which the banshee had not cried.
Where all were in trouble there were few to go about with comfort.
Moya Lavelle shut herself up in the cabin her husband Patrick had
built, and dreed her weird alone. Of all the boys who had gone down
with the hooker none was finer than Patrick Lavelle. He was brown and
handsome, broad-shouldered and clever, and he had the good-humoured
smile and the kindly word where the people are normally taciturn and
unsmiling. The Island girls were disappointed when Patrick brought a
wife from the mainland, and Moya never tried to make friends with them.
She was something of a mystery to the Achill people, this small moony
creature, with her silver fair hair, and strange light eyes, the colour
of spilt milk. She was as small as a child, but had the gravity of a
woman. She loved the sea with a love unusual in Achill, where the sea
is to many a ravening monster that has exacted in return for its hauls
of fish the life of husband and son. Patrick Lavelle had built for her
a snug cabin in a sheltered ravine. A little beach ran down in front of
it where he could haul up his boat. The cabin was built strongly, as it
had need to be, for often of a winter night the waves tore against its
little windows. Moya loved the fury of the elements, and when the
winter storms drove the Atlantic up the ravine with a loud bellowing,
she stirred in sleep on her husband's shoulder, and smiled as they say
children smile in sleep when an angel leans over them.
Higher still, on a spur of rock, Patrick Lavelle had laid the clay
for his potatoes. He had carried it on his shoulders, every clod, and
Moya had gathered the seaweed to fertilise it. She had her small garden
there, too, of sea-pinks and the like, which rather encouraged the
Islanders in their opinion of her strangeness. In Achill the struggle
for life is too keen to admit of any love for mere beauty.
However, Patrick Lavelle was quite satisfied with his little wife.
When he came home from the fishing he found his cabin more comfortable
than is often the case in Achill. They had no child, but Moya never
seemed to miss a child's head at her breast. Daring the hours of his
absence at the fishing she seemed to find the sea sufficient company.
She was always roaming along the cliffs, gazing down as with a fearful
fascination along the black sides to where the waves churned hundreds
of feet below. For company she had only the seagulls and the bald eagle
that screamed far over her head; but she was quite happy as she roamed
hither and thither, gathering the coloured seaweeds out of the clefts
of the rocks, and crooning an old song softly to herself, as a child
But that was all over and gone, and Moya was a widow. She had
nothing warm and human at all, now that brave protecting tenderness was
gone from her. No one came to the little cabin in the ravine where Moya
sat and moaned, and stretched her arms all day for the dear brown head
she had last seen stained with the salt water and matted with the
seaweeds. At night she went out, and wandered moon-struck by the black
cliffs, and cried out for Patrick, while the shrilling gusts of wind
blew her pale hair about her, and scourged her fevered face with the
sea salt and the sharp hail.
One night a great wave broke over Achill. None had seen it coming,
with great crawling leaps like a serpent, but at dead of night it
leaped the land, and hissed on the cottage hearths and weltered gray
about the mud floors. The next day broke on ruin in Achill. The bits of
fields were washed away, the little mountain sheep were drowned, the
cabins were flung in ruined heaps; but the day was fair and sunny, as
if the elements were tired of the havoc they had wrought and were
minded to be in a good humour. There was not a boat on the Island but
had been battered and torn by the rocks. People had to take their heads
out of their hands, and stand up from their brooding, or this wanton
mischief would cost them their dear lives, for the poor resources of
the Island had given out, and the Islanders were in grips with
No one thought of Moya Lavelle in her lonely cabin in the ravine.
None knew of the feverish vigils in those wild nights. But a day or two
later the sea washed her on a stretch of beach to the very doors of a
few straggling cabins dotted here and there beyond the irregular
village. She had been carried out to sea that night, but the sea,
though it had snatched her to itself, had not battered and bruised her.
She lay there, indeed, like that blessed Restituta, whom, for her
faith, the tyrant sent bound on a rotting hulk, with the outward tide
from Carthage, to die on the untracked ocean. She lay like a child
smiling in dreams, all her long silver hair about her, and her wide
eyes gazing with no such horror, as of one who meets a violent death.
Those who found her so wept to behold her.
They carried her to her cottage in the ravine, and waked her. Even
in Achill they omit no funeral ceremony. They dressed her in white and
put a cross in her hand, and about her face on the pillow they set the
sea-pinks from her little garden, and some of the coloured seaweeds she
had loved to gather. They lit candles at her head and feet, and the
women watched with her all day, and at night the men came in, and they
talked and told stories, subdued stories and ghostly, of the banshee
and the death-watch, and wraiths of them gone that rise from the sea to
warn fishermen of approaching death. Gaiety there was none: the
Islanders had no heart for gaiety: but the pipes and tobacco were
there, and the plate of snuff, and the jar of poteen to lift up the
heavy hearts. And Moya lay like an image wrought of silver, her lids
kept down by coins over her blue eyes.
She had lain so two nights, nights of starlit calm. On the fourth
day they were to bury her beside Patrick Lavelle in his narrow house,
and the little bridal cabin would be abandoned, and presently would rot
to ruins. The third night had come, overcast with heavy clouds. The
group gathered in the death chamber was more silent than before. Some
had sat up the two nights, and were now dazed with sleep. By the wall
the old women nodded over their beads, and a group of men talked
quietly at the bed-head where Moya lay illumined by the splendour of
the four candles all shining on her white garments.
Suddenly in the quietness there came a roar of wind. It did not come
freshening from afar off, but seemed to waken suddenly in the ravine
and cry about the house. The folk sprang to their feet startled, and
the eyes of many turned towards the little dark window, expecting to
see wild eyes and a pale face set in black hair gazing in. Some who
were nearest saw in the half-lightfor it was whitening towards daya
wall of gray water travelling up the ravine. Before they could cry a
warning it had encompassed the house, had driven door and window before
it, and the living and the dead were in the sea.
The wave retreated harmlessly, and in a few minutes the frightened
folk were on their feet amid the wreck of stools and tables floating.
The wave that had beaten them to earth had extinguished the lights.
When they stumbled to their feet and got the water out of their eyes
the dim dawn was in the room. They were too scared for a few minutes to
think of the dead. When they recovered and turned towards the bed there
was a simultaneous loud cry. Moya Lavelle was gone. The wave had
carried her away, and never more was there tale or tidings of her body.
Achill people said she belonged to the sea, and the sea had claimed
her. They remembered Patrick Lavelle's silence as to where he had found
her. They remembered a thousand unearthly ways in her; and which of
them had ever seen her pray? They pray well in Achill, having a sure
hold on that heavenly country which is to atone for the cruelty and
sorrow of this. In process of time they will come to think of her as a
mermaid, poor little Moya. She had loved her husband at least with a
warm human love. But his open grave was filled after they had given up
hoping that the sea would again give her up, and the place by Patrick
Lavelle's side remains for ever empty.