1871

The fields met the coast before long, merging seamlessly with the rolling sand-dunes and the beachlines’ thick marram grass. A well-trodden track was beaten into the land by the side of  the dunes, which stretched endlessly north and south along the shoreline. Marred with the shapes of hooves and boots alike, Quinn hoisted the child up and onto her shoulders and followed it. To her right now, over the dunes, she could hear the grinding swell as the ocean hissed along the beach and the waves, choppy on this day, cascaded atop each other. The child made a noise and pointed towards the beach - she could see over the dunes now from the dizzying height of her sister's shoulders. The water as blue and unobscured as the sky above and, further out again, the sea stack of limestone that rose from the waters’ surface as the heavenward finger of some great ocean deity. Waves thundered and erupted against its narrow base and sent sprays of saltwater so high it seemed dismissive of nature's own limits.

Would you like to walk? Quinn asked, craning her neck to look back at her younger sister.

The child did not answer.

You want to walk.

She brought the child down slowly from her shoulders and set her feet on the sandy path. For a moment, the child did not move, but wobbled on the spot. 

Quinn pointed to the dunes. Shaded from the wind here, she said. You ain’t got no excuses.

The child tilted her head, listening to the words, unsure, but smiling. 

One step forward, the little arms shot out for balance. Then another step. And the child was laughing. It tottered clumsily along the track and Quinn walked behind her, smiling. There you go, she said.

Overhead, crows skimmed the sky. Pulled into a point, the flock glided effortlessly as if pulled and shot from the bow of a skilled archer.

The track turned away from the coast eventually and its sandy surface turned to dirt as it snaked through the woodland. Quinn scooped the child back into her arms and carried her now through the trees. Somewhere close, the sound of running water. 

The river ran through the forest and towards the sea. Its banks were steep and littered with fallen pine needles and cones. Quinn took off the child’s clothes, and then her own, and shuffled on her bottom along the bank to the riverside. 

It’s going to be cold, darlin, she told the child.

Already, an array of goose pimples had broken out across the child’s skin. She looked at her older sister reluctantly. 

We’ll be quick, Quinn said. In and out. 

With the child in her arms she stepped forward into the slow moving current. Since she was a child herself, she’d used this spot to bathe, and the shock of the cold water had never become easier. When the water had reached her hip, she asked the child if she was ready. Rhetorically, of course, for a moment later she lowered herself and her sister beneath the surface. The water came up to their shoulders. The child’s arms and legs began to flail and kick in every direction, splashing, her eyes stunned as if electrocuted from the frigid drift. As usual, she began to cry. As if from betrayal. As if no loving family could ever do this to her. 

Soon enough, they emerged onto the banks. Quinn draped the gown over her naked body and wrapped the child in her own clothes. The child looked at her sister and, if looks could kill, Quinn would be dead. 

Old Sullivan's house was not far. Back the way they came, it was a cobblestone croft propped on the treeline, where the forest meets the coast. The pair made their way back along the path, over the fallen oaks and between the narrow brush until the light of day, which the forest had suppressed through its canopy, flooded through the trees again.

Sullivan. That’s what they called him. Quinn knew it was only his surname but had never asked his first name, for Sullivan was all he had been since she’d met him. He sat outside of his cabin, choking on smoke from his pipe, looking out over the bay. A fishing boat was idly passing by. By his side, his wolfhound lay in slumber. 

Mornin, Quinn said.

Sullivan startled and looked around, saw the woman and the child coming from the gloom of the forest. He blew smoke out from the side of his mouth with a whistle. The wolfhouse raised its head.  Morn, Sullivan said.

Thought we’d call by, Quinn said, her sister resting on her hip. 

Sullivan’s face was lined and pockmarked and told a thousand stories. Eyes sullen and beady and his eyebrows as thick as a bundle of steel wires. Had she not known him, she’d have thought him as a right old grumpy bastard. Although she guessed he still was.

Hair’s soaked, he said, looking away and taking another pull from his wooden pipe. 

What?

I say your hair’s soaked, Quinn. You’ll catch a fever quick. 

I’ll be alright.

Go grab a towel, he said, tilting his head behind him towards his stone dwelling. 

Quinn tutted. She set the child at the old man’s feet and turned towards the front door. 

The child looked up at the strange, withered man, and darted her eyes nervously towards the wolfhound which lay just feet away. To her small frame, the dog sat there amidst the underbrush as some unearthly creature. Some monster. 

Remind me your name? Sullivan asked the child.

The child, startled by the gravelly voice, turned and looked up at him. 

Your name, what is it again? 

The child stared back at him, then towards the dog, then towards the house.

Christ, Sullivan said, ye still can’t speak.

 Inside, Quinn grabbed a towel from the rack by the hearth. It had been hardened to a crisp by the heat. The house itself was cold, for the great basalt boulders which made up its body were ill-set and muddled, allowing the seabreeze to find a way inside through narrow cracks and gaps between them. She figured this wouldn’t bother Sullivan much, for nothing bothered him. 

There was no bed frame in the place but only a mattress, tossed askew in the corner and damp-smelling. By it, on the ground, was a silver pendant. She knew he kept a lock of his wife’s hair in it.