The Black Tulip

Fishing

Ronnie Robson set a course from Milnholm Pier seaward of Pan Bush and Milne Island. He’d fished the East March Waters since he was a boy, been out when the waves forced themselves over the sides of the coble and was flung by one rolling surge then another. But today was different, he’d never seen it quite like this afore. The usual landmarks appeared smudged and everywhere was a mass of grey. It was as if the sea and sky had formed a vanishing point and rubbed out the horizon. Without the horizon line and the usual landmarks, Ronnie suddenly felt quite alone as he sailed from the safety of the harbour into the open sea.

He was thinking about the salmon licenses. Wi’out them it would all end. The French started it wi their big trawlers all kitted oot with radar. Generations of Milnholm fisherfolk gone. They hadn’t seen that coming. But would Elizabeth Armstrong set about changing the fishing? Meybe. After all, she’d been out in his coble, made her propa sick mind. Aye, meybe her New Scotland would revive the auld fishing ways. You could trust Elizabeth Armstrong, if she said she would do something she would. But William Armstrong, just like all the other Armstrongs was not to be trusted.

Ronnie sighed, it wasn’t the Armstrongs or the salmon licenses that was really bothering him. It wasn't the gloom that weighed him down, it was something else, there was something odd in the mist. He let out a heavy breath hoping to let go of maudlin’ thoughts, but the murk of the day edged in a little closer promising to swallow him whole. He’d been out in wuss. But an angst pained him, just like it did for his fayther and grandfayther, they called it the black dog. Even today, he avoided black dogs, just in case.

As he headed into the open sea the icy spray lashed his face making his cheeks sting, he was hoping the wind would get up and clear the fret. But it didn’t. Rolling on the high seas almost in slow motion, the salt spray seemed to cling to him. He looked inland to where the sky was clearing but the hard-pressed clouds from the east were edging for a fight. Something had shifted. Autumn was coming, all the signs were there, he could smell the decay. He looked at his watch wishing the morning would pass away. He wanted to be back in the harbour. He wanted to be in front of a roaring fire with a fish in the pan. He wanted the day to pass into night so he could enjoy a few tots of rum in The Miln. But time seemed to be sluggish as his thoughts turned to her, The Sea Mistress.

Even though the East March Waters were in Ronnie’s blood he was still wary of The Sea Mistress. She could be your friend or foe and depending on her mood would lead you to safety or entice you to your death. Aye, she could turn on you when you least expected it, especially when you were exhausted from the cold or battling rolling seas. Ronnie knew she was just a fisherman’s tale, but he was too afraid to deny her existence. It was still shit scary knowing that you might be minutes away from drowning or catching your death from hypothermia. He moved the tiller slightly, sensing the strength of a cross current as the sea heaved him sideways, and thought he should turn back. But he didn’t. Instead, he focused on fighting the choppy waters and set a course passing by Buggy Pit using the lighthouse as a navigation point. Staring into the grey sea his thoughts drifted and for some reason Stanley’s weather worn face came into his mind along with the usual singing,

‘Farewell merry maiden to song, to laughter, Al a singing the fisherman’s lament….’

‘Nah, that’s nowt but the wind playing with an echo,’ he said, peering over the side, wishing his kin were still in the harbour waiting for his return. It was a canny place when the herring curers with their long troughs and wicker baskets worked the quays and oaky smoke filled the air. The smell of seasoned logs burning allas welcomed you hame, and he longed to hear the yammering voices of the women as they gutted fish. All those lasses, twas as if they’d never existed. Wiped clean away and the auld fishing boats upturned and made into chip shops.

He rubbed a tear from his eye wishing Stanley, his grandfayther, was still alive. Peering into the heaving sea, waiting to release the nets, suddenly from out of the cold grey waves, Stanley’s leathery hands reached up to him.

‘All the things you have, you’re losing minute by minute and will ne’er get back, there’s nowt you can do to stop it laddie.’

Ronnie’s mouth fell open, he scrunched up his eyes then opened them again looking at where the hands had been, but all he could see was grey water and it reminded him of that fateful November day many years ago. He was just twelve-years-old, he was out with Stanley in the old coble. It was sturdy enough and it didn’t matter that the radio was dead. The wind suddenly picked up, and as they entered the choppy waters of Old Passage, Stanley handed the tiller over but there was something our of kilter. Stanley's face was like stone and his eyes had carried a faraway look. Then as he leaned right over the side a huge wave from out of nowhere crashed over Stanley like an explosion. He musta known it was acoming. For just like a rag doll, he was plucked off the side and tossed into the sea.

Even though he was only in the water for a few minutes, Stanley’s body was limp and hands blue when Ronnie hauled him back into the Coble. It was strange, a strange happening alright, especially when Stanley twisted his lips into a snarl and howled like a baby all curled up in the bottom of the boat. He thought the Sea Mistress would claim them both and that was the first time, Ronnie heard the singing. It cheered him at first but as the same chorus echoed around him, he’d felt propa spooked. Stanley had taught him to count when he was scared and that’s what he did as he struggled to turn the coble about.

Ronnie shook his head, recalling how close to the rocks and disaster they’d been. The breakwaters had smashed over the sides as he frantically tried to bail out the water with a plastic bottle, feeling sure Stanley had died and he was in the shit. He’d never lit an emergency flare, but after struggling with it, eventually it spiralled into the sky leaving a fiery trail. He recalled the relief then the joy he'd felt when the Milnholm Lifeboat came speeding towards them. They wrapped him up in a blanket and gave him a bar of chocolate; he'd wept like the bairn he was when Tommy Charlton held him close as they gave Stanley a reviving tot of rum.

‘The Sea Mistress didn’t get you that day, did she Stanley?’ said Ronnie, still looking into the waves. ‘No, she came later, when we least expected it.'

Sighing, Ronnie picked up the old spyglass which Stanley had given him the week before he slipped off the quays at high tide. He ran his numb fingers along the worn stitching of the barrel. That felt comforting. The haar was starting to clear and looking through the spyglass, he could just make out the run of the dunes. As the mist swirled back on itself the shoreline was looking more solid too. He could see that The Sea Mistress had left her mark in the furrowed lines on the beach, and it looked just like a perfectly ploughed field.

‘She’s full of power this morning.’

‘She’s full of wrath,’ whispered a voice into Ronnie’s aching ears.

I should turn back, Ronnie thought.

‘Turn back,’ the whisperer echoed.

Instead, he slowed the engines and released the nets then took up the spyglass again. He was checking the outline of Killiecrankie Rocks when something caught his eye in the breakwaters.

‘Dead seal,’ he said, as he watched it roll, but it was unusually long with stringy bits stretching out from one end. He fancied they were tentacles beckoning him like fingers, so he wiped his eye and looked again wondering what type of seal it was.

‘Mind it’s not The Sea Mistress come a courtin,’ said the whisperer.

The coble suddenly rocked, catching Ronnie off balance and he staggered trying to regain his thoughts. ‘Is it her, the Sea Mistress? Nah, probably a bit of driftwood'.’ But he began to wish he’d called it a day. He should take in the nets and turn back. But instead, he set the tiller to port and headed towards the creature, stretching the nets out behind him as he went. He moved in as slowly and as close as he dare. The next few breakers pushed the coble towards the rocks but Ronnie steadied his position as a huge drag sucked the seawater away. Screwing up his eyes, he hoped to catch sight of it again. When the next big wave rolled under him, he caught a glimpse before it disappeared below the foaming surf. Then, as if it was teasing him, it popped up again.

‘There it is, an it's a swimming towards us,’ he said pointing. ‘Shall I turn it with the docking pole?’

‘That devilfish ull drag you down to Davy Jones’s locker.’

Ronnie was still debating what to do when he heard a faint clawing and then a loud scraping from the stern. A mixture of fear and dread gripped him. It was her; it was The Sea Mistress come to take him. The coble rolled and above Ronnie’s head, black jagged rocks appeared menacingly close and the scraping from the bow became louder as the engine juddered.

‘We’ll smash up!’ he yelled, grabbing the tiller.

The Sea Mistress had been playing them all along and as he fought to steer the coble away from the rock shelf, without warning a wave rebounded over the bow and something shot upright out of the water right in front of him. Ronnie’s eyebrows lifted into a stretched arch as his eyes opened wide and mouth dropped open. A bloated face with eyes that looked right through him was bobbing in the sea like a football. It was ugly, not at all beautiful like Stanley said she would be, and he found himself staring into two soulless eyes. The more he looked, the more he realised there was something familiar about them. Then with what felt like a hot needle passing through his heart, he was suddenly on fire, sweat dripping off his chin. The head sank below the waves leaving Ronnie paralysed with fear.

‘Ten, twenty, thirty……’ All the time he was hoping he was dreaming, all the time searching beneath the waves.

‘Those eyes, I know those eyes,’ he said, gripping the tiller tightly. ‘Seals don't have green eyes.’

Then, there it was again, this time face down, red hair floating in the swell. He stopped the engine and began to haul in the nets, watching her roll towards then away from him, until a wave like a welcoming pair of hands took her. It was then he felt the drag on the nets.

‘God! Haud steady, I’ve caught a dead un.’

And Stanley’s voice was heard singing above the breakwaters,

‘Al singing the fisherman’s lament

Farewell merry maiden, to song, to laugher,

Al a singing the fisherman’s lament…

Gatherings

The police finally released Ronnie, having questioned him over and over about how he’d found and landed her body onto the beach. They gave him a cup of tea but he’d refused the toast. He couldn't eat anything with pictures of Joy in his head. He hadn’t wanted to leave her tangled up like that in his nets. But the woman in a white suit had spoken very nicely to him. It wasn't that the police had mistreated him, they were just doing their job and he wanted answers too. It was good of Muriel Moffatt, the vicar’s wife, to collect him from the police station, she would have taken him straight to the prayer service but that wouldn’t be fitting. It had all been arranged so quickly, Bob hadn’t even identified her body but it was definitely her and he knew folk would be shocked.

As Ronnie washed the seawater from his face and arms it felt like he was washing her away. His mother would have called it a ‘miner’s wash’ and she wouldn’t have approved. He should shave, but there was no time. Drying off, he began to think about the tides and wondered how Joy could have ended up on Killiecrankie Rocks, her beach house was a fair walk from there. But he couldn’t think straight because a pair of soulless eyes kept flashing into his mind, they were not the eyes of the Joy Reid he knew.

He left Howlett Cottage and made his way along the river towards Milnholm. When he arrived at the Kirk it was all locked up so he decided to wait on a bench overlooking the river. It was usually a tranquil place but this morning the sound of slamming doors and helicopters whirring overhead splintered the peace. Ronnie looked towards the sky as a low rumble vibrated along the banks of the Holm.

‘Sounds like a thousand lang spears are battering the ground,’ he said, observing the cottage windows of Castle Row quivering as the heads of black tulips rolled along the pavement.

‘Tis the enemy a gathering,’ Stanley whispered.

‘Aye an all because of Armstrong,’ said Ronnie, aiming his spit at the earth.' Puffed up like a peacock, allas creeping about. Joy new a thing or two about him.’

The thoughts churning in his mind fired up a deep-rooted anger and he couldn’t stay seated, so he walked around the corner hoping to steal a few moments in Kirk before the rest of the village arrived. Turning into Mill Square, he encountered numerous broadcasting cameras, vehicles with satellite dishes and was bewildered by the number of outsiders speaking into microphones.

‘You folks have no business here,’ he shouted, hoping they wouldn't be allowed inside the Kirk. Surely Reverend Moffatt wouldn't allow that?

As Ronnie pushed open the Kirk gate an overwhelming sensation of sadness seemed to strike him down. He paused, to look at the trees, they’d been trimmed again, and the path was looking messy, that wouldn’t do, people might slip. He’d come back to clear it up later. As he approached the heavy oak doors, he could hear the sombre notes of the organ and stepping inside, he swallowed back his tears as he nodded to some of the familiar faces already seated in the pews. Taking his usual place, he found himself agonising over what he should have done. He could have watched over her more closely. She’d been mixing with a right bunch of vagabonds, and involved in all those protests. He should have persuaded her not to go to the last one, she didn’t look well. This didn’t have to happen. He sighed, then bent his head and clasped his hands in prayer.

Lord, what do you do when someone you have known all your life ends up floating in the sea like that? It’s like being cut in two all over again. Just like when I lost my Brenda. The same blistering pain.

Unable to calm his mind Ronnie’s thoughts turned to the questions the police had asked him. Did he know where Joy had been all week? What were her relationships like with the nephew and the Armstrongs?

He took out a clean pressed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes as the tears continued to roll down his cheeks and dripped onto the cold slab below. Why Joy, and not me?, he thought.

‘The Clans are agathering so the Celtic Veil can be lifted,’ whispered Stanley, but Ronnie was lost in the agony of guilt, all he could think was, The Sea Mistress should have taken him.