Beyond the Sea Read Online Free
Author: Melissa Bailey
back, across her skin, over her hips. She turned towards him and opened her eyes. But she couldnât see him, couldnât find his face.
âJack. What are you doing?â She always said this, even though she knew exactly what he was doing. The rote phrase was always followed by a smile. âWhat
are
you doing?â she gasped, as his fingers slid between her legs.
She closed her eyes again and surrendered to his touch, feeling the gradual rise of pleasure deep within her, growing, until it burst, shattering the comfort of sleep once and for all.
Freya opened her eyes. She was wide awake but it took a moment for her to place the strange familiarity of the room, the pale blue walls, the whitewashed floorboards, a wooden dresser covered in rocks and seashells which stood opposite the end of the bed. Sunlight was streaming through the windows, there was the raucous call of seabirds close by and, faintly, in the background, the sound of waves breaking upon the shore. The next instant it fell upon her â the shattering remembrance. For a second, as ever, she tried to delay the flood of knowledge, the spill of darkness and death. She closed her eyes and turned onto her side. But the knowledge bubbled upwards, per-meating every nook, every space inside her, moving through her veins like swift, slick poison. She opened her eyes again and looked at the cold, empty side of the bed. She thought of Jack, of the dream, always so vivid, so real and intoxi-cating, memory alive with desire. She thought of her son, of the empty bedroom next to the one in which she lay. And she remembered, as the tears began to fall, that they were both gone, both taken from her.
The sun was shining, the sky cloudless, but the air was cold. It was spring, after all, and summer was still some way off. But when the weather was like this, bright and clear, the sand glowed white and the sea was vivid blue and brilliant green. Freya walked along the beach at the southwest tip of the island, close to the waterâs edge, breathing in the salty air, meandering amidst the driftwood and seaweed. From time to time she bent down, her eye catching upon something in the sand, but mostly she gazed towards the horizon, across the sea. From this point on the island, if you sailed directly west, you would not meet land again until America. The thought of such remoteness, such splendid isolation, was both thrilling and terrifying. When it became too much, the other side of the island afforded a more reassuring view. Mull could be glimpsed to the northeast and a spattering of land beyond and to the south. Today, however, Freya was content to stare out into the wildness of the Atlantic.
At this moment, it did not look as savage as she knew it could, neither dangerous nor threatening. She ambled along the beach, her pace unhurried, familiarising herself with the land and its watery borders, hazy, forgotten. She bent down and tested the water, but it was cold, too cold still for swimming. As she reached the giant stack of rock at the southern end, she paused momentarily. Then she began to scale it. She was tall, five feet nine inches, and svelte, thinner than when she had last been here. Yet it still took her twenty strenuous minutes to get to the top. From there you could survey the island in its entirety, in all its diminutive glory. It was roughly half a mile from here to the northern tip, a quarter of a mile from east to west at the broadest point. But Freya did not want to study it all, the shingle beaches, the wild machair, the glistening burns catching the sunlight as they drained into the sea. For now she was content to see just one thing. It had been dark the previous day by the time she arrived. So she hadnât seen it properly. As she reached the summit of the rock, stood and turned inland, there it was, towering before her, majestic on the northern cliffs. The lighthouse.
It had been built over the course of two years in the mid-1800s from
âJack. What are you doing?â She always said this, even though she knew exactly what he was doing. The rote phrase was always followed by a smile. âWhat
are
you doing?â she gasped, as his fingers slid between her legs.
She closed her eyes again and surrendered to his touch, feeling the gradual rise of pleasure deep within her, growing, until it burst, shattering the comfort of sleep once and for all.
Freya opened her eyes. She was wide awake but it took a moment for her to place the strange familiarity of the room, the pale blue walls, the whitewashed floorboards, a wooden dresser covered in rocks and seashells which stood opposite the end of the bed. Sunlight was streaming through the windows, there was the raucous call of seabirds close by and, faintly, in the background, the sound of waves breaking upon the shore. The next instant it fell upon her â the shattering remembrance. For a second, as ever, she tried to delay the flood of knowledge, the spill of darkness and death. She closed her eyes and turned onto her side. But the knowledge bubbled upwards, per-meating every nook, every space inside her, moving through her veins like swift, slick poison. She opened her eyes again and looked at the cold, empty side of the bed. She thought of Jack, of the dream, always so vivid, so real and intoxi-cating, memory alive with desire. She thought of her son, of the empty bedroom next to the one in which she lay. And she remembered, as the tears began to fall, that they were both gone, both taken from her.
The sun was shining, the sky cloudless, but the air was cold. It was spring, after all, and summer was still some way off. But when the weather was like this, bright and clear, the sand glowed white and the sea was vivid blue and brilliant green. Freya walked along the beach at the southwest tip of the island, close to the waterâs edge, breathing in the salty air, meandering amidst the driftwood and seaweed. From time to time she bent down, her eye catching upon something in the sand, but mostly she gazed towards the horizon, across the sea. From this point on the island, if you sailed directly west, you would not meet land again until America. The thought of such remoteness, such splendid isolation, was both thrilling and terrifying. When it became too much, the other side of the island afforded a more reassuring view. Mull could be glimpsed to the northeast and a spattering of land beyond and to the south. Today, however, Freya was content to stare out into the wildness of the Atlantic.
At this moment, it did not look as savage as she knew it could, neither dangerous nor threatening. She ambled along the beach, her pace unhurried, familiarising herself with the land and its watery borders, hazy, forgotten. She bent down and tested the water, but it was cold, too cold still for swimming. As she reached the giant stack of rock at the southern end, she paused momentarily. Then she began to scale it. She was tall, five feet nine inches, and svelte, thinner than when she had last been here. Yet it still took her twenty strenuous minutes to get to the top. From there you could survey the island in its entirety, in all its diminutive glory. It was roughly half a mile from here to the northern tip, a quarter of a mile from east to west at the broadest point. But Freya did not want to study it all, the shingle beaches, the wild machair, the glistening burns catching the sunlight as they drained into the sea. For now she was content to see just one thing. It had been dark the previous day by the time she arrived. So she hadnât seen it properly. As she reached the summit of the rock, stood and turned inland, there it was, towering before her, majestic on the northern cliffs. The lighthouse.
It had been built over the course of two years in the mid-1800s from
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