He lowered the dinghy upon the davits, working the block at one side, then the other till the little boat was in the water. Climbing in, he stood gazing at the bold, scrolled "The Singing Selkie" upon the transom. Some two years ago he had painted that himself, so proud he was to be the owner of this beautiful boat. Now he whitewashed over it; later in the day he added a second coat. The following day, he was back in the dinghy with a small can of black paint. He thought for a moment, staring at the blank white transom, then shrugged. He painted "Grace" where the other name had been. "You'll be my
Selkie
again someday, me girl," he promised the boat.
As he worked, he kept a close eye upon Anya. She continued in her trance-like state, listless, gazing off into the distance with her big eyes. For most of the waking hours, she sat upon the cabin top with the Audubon book he had given her --- sometimes looking at it, most mostly just hugging it to her chest. At his urging, she had put her trousers on over his long drawers, such that the too long, flapping legs covered her bare feet to keep them warm. "We'll get ye some boots at the first port we come to, so we will," he told her. Upon several occasions, he asked her for help in his work, and she responded readily, albeit mutely, holding a board here or a tool there as directed.
They spoke little. 'Twas not till the second night when she retired to the forward cabin that Liam heard her voice again --- when she thanked him in a soft whisper for his offer of hot water for bathing --- and realized that her voice be as impaired as his, hers from screaming.
Liam made hearty meals to fortify their recuperation, starting with the perishable provisions, but Anya ate little, despite his repeated encouragement to "nek it, lass" as she stared at a forkful of food. His worry mounted at the sight of her increasingly pale and haunted face.
Her nightmares returned the second night she slept in the forward cabin, and Liam, woken by her screams, again shook her awake and soothed her --- again brought her back to his berth and held her hand --- held her hand for she struggled and whimpered when he tried to take her in his arms. He sang softly to her in Gaelic --- songs his grandmother used to sing to him when a wee lad --- till she fell asleep. After the third time it happened, she stayed in his cabin. The nightmares did not stop after that, but seemed to come less frequently. On a few occasions, 'twas he who was shaken awake by her as he kicked and swung his fists in his sleep; he sat up, sweating and gazing at Anya in relief.
But although she now shared his cabin, she remained shy of him, retreating to the forward cabin to dress, undress, and bathe. Moreover, when he undressed, she would turn away in the berth, or, if standing, would avert her eyes and slip from the cabin.
In the meantime, their physical wounds were on the mend. The bruises were turning from blue-green to yellow, and the open skin had sealed. Liam was glad to see the swelling abate in her lip and the marks upon her wrists start to fade. He knew not the status of the cane marks, as she be so guarded now about her modesty. As the pain in his chest lessened, Liam started to test himself upon the halyard: the mainsail was the heaviest and he attempted to raise it first. The first several days, the pain thwarted him, but upon the seventh day after he had woken in the little cove, he was able to hoist it to the top of the mast. They sailed out onto the lake that day.
Heading east, they sailed every day for as long as the sun was up. When the sun set, Liam would find an anchorage in which to stay the night. He saw several other boats upon the lake, and inspected them through the spyglass. They appeared to be fishing boats, and certainly made no attempt to approach or follow the
Selkie
. As he outlined to Anya, the plan be to leave Lake Ontario, lest they be caught in the winter freeze; they would head out to the Atlantic via the Saint Lawrence River.
Liam brooded over Anya's continued melancholia --- nay, that be not the proper term. True enough, she was not happy, but none could say whether or nay she be sad. The lass he knew simply was absent from the shell of her body, and the ghost that silently traveled with him weighed heavily upon his protective heart. He faulted her not: he ken that the shock to her mind that terrible night was likely incalculable. He had to remember that she was not like him. Growing up in a county in Ireland rife with sectarian violence, and seeing his share of combat in the navy --- both on duty and ashore --- he was a man acclimatized to violence. Anya, on the other hand, be a wee lass raised in a sheltered environment, who very suddenly and brutally had been confronted with the depth of depravity to which men's lust could drive them.
He began to wonder if he had done the right thing --- taking her with him from Toronto. Should he have delivered her and Nicholas into the care of their aunt and uncle, after the danger from Strachan and the stepfather existed no more? Let her recuperate in comfortable, familiar surroundings, then someday, fate willing, return to pursue her affections? His mind reacted defensively to this train of thought, for deep down, he ken that his motives were not entirely devoid of self-interest. Underneath the veneer of domestication, he be a virile male animal, hungry to claim this prize female for himself. That didn't put him on par with Strachan and her stepfather, did it? By Christ, he be a better man than that!
And what kind of man would he be if he had fled Toronto and left her there to face the interrogations of the police on her own? Or should they have not fled at all, but have gone together to the police to explain the events of the night? Not bloody likely! Being whelped an Irishman, he had no confidence in the integrity of the police in general, and the Toronto force in particular had amply validated his opinion. Nay --- he be convinced he had made the right proper decision.
Thus it was that three days after departing the hidden cove, the
Selkie
arrived in Kingston. After breakfast, they made ready to go ashore. Liam looked at Anya: she was dressed in the lad's kit with his pea coat and a pair of his socks covering her feet. Her lip had full healed. "Here, put your hair up in this," he said, his voice box by this stage now recovered. He gave her his wool cap. He ken not what to expect ashore --- whether there might be police searching for them --- a lass in trousers might draw too much notice. Obediently she pinned her hair up and donned the cap, looking as she did the day he met her.
He rowed them in the dinghy from the anchorage to the town landing, where he helped her onto the dock. Turning round, he crouched slightly and bade her climb upon his back. "Ye canna walk about in just socks. Ye might hurt your foot." Her hesitant hands touched his shoulders. "Aye, that's it. Hold fast round my neck." He scooped up her legs under the knees and carried her piggyback. His ribs twinged a bit, but 'twas well worth it to once again feel her body against his, albeit against his back. He could feel her warmth, her breath upon his nape, and the squeeze of her arms and legs round him. As he walked, he imagined that with her thighs thus open, her little mound might be bump-bumping against his back, and the thought gave him a happy thrill.
The first stop was the general store. Here he found stockings and boots for her; she sat wordlessly as he knelt before her and laced them up. Next he guided her over to the clothing. "Which will it be? Lad's clothes or lass's?" He looked down at her wan face. Her eyes went from one rack to the other, seeming lost. "'Twill be easier to move about the boat in lad's clothes," he suggested. In the absence of a reply, he went to the men's and boy's rack. Two pairs of trousers and two shirts he selected, less oversized than her current garb.
Going over his mental list, he paused and addressed her in a soft voice. "Do ye...do ye want anything for under?" He was uncertain; he doubted she would want a corset, given that she had gone without when she'd had the opportunity to do so during the voyage to Toronto. But the cloth of the shirts be a little rough --- would it rub too harshly upon her nipples? He tried to clarify. "For under, to protect your..." he waved his hands vaguely in front of his chest, his face starting to turn red. Small spots of color appeared upon her cheeks too. He quickly ushered her to the ladies' clothes. His large fingers fumbled as he picked up several flimsy white cotton garments from a shelf and held them up for her to see, till she nodded slightly at a camisole. He grabbed a couple and added them to their pile.
As they were heading for the front counter, he spied a coat that seemed perfect for her. Both of his coats, pea coat and ulster, were so large upon her as to hamper her movements. This be a coat for a lass --- warm grey wool, nipped in at the waist and flaring in a short peplum below. Black braiding formed decorative scrolling upon the front, forming loops for two rows of shining brass buttons. "Try this," he urged. Happily it fit. How comely she looked, like a wee maid army officer --- it made him grin.
