The Moon's Embrace

It was a blustery spring, that year.  Sylvia stood on the shore, watching the waves make their angry way up the beach as the tide came in.  The sun was low behind her, casting an accusing shadow in front of her that her eyes would not meet.  Thick clouds lined the sky at the horizon, leaving only an occassional glimpse of blue sky.1

The beach was quiet.  A man and boy, small and far away, threw sticks for an enthusiastic black dog, and Sylvia heard the boy's shrieks when the dog emerged from the sea, stick clutched triumphantly in its mouth, and shook itself near him.  To her right, a young couple strolled hand in hand along the soft sand, laughing and talking.  For a moment, Sylvia watched them, heartbreak in her eyes, and she gently touched her swollen and painful lips.  Regret and helplessness fought in her heart as the silent, cold tears ran down her cheeks.2

She made her way along the sea front to her accustomed place, a small and grassy sand dune facing the sea, and she sat down and stared at the horizon, hunched into her jacket against the strong sea-wind. Gradually, the rhythm of the swollen waters calmed her, and the power and depth of the ocean soothed her aching heart.  Silently she sat and watched as the sky darkened, and between the clouds, the stars peeped out at her.  3

Finally, she stood up and stretched her cramped muscles.  Resolutely, she turned her back on the call of the sea, to see the last remnants of the sunset.  She had to be getting back.4

*        *        *        *        *5

It was harder to get away in the summer.  More and more, Sylvia found that her quiet place was no longer quiet, as the summer visitors filled the sea shore.  She took to coming in the early morning, when the sun rose from the sea.  She would sit in that same spot, feeling the morning chill melt away in the bright sun.  The beach was deserted, the ocean calm.  Day after day dawned bright and crisp, and while the afternoons were often grey and gloomy, the mornings were little droplets of molten gold, times of silence and solitude to be treasured.  6

Sylvia watched the horizon, marvelling at how something that is never still can remain so constant.  Sometimes she would say a wordless prayer to the ocean, wishing she could draw on its strength and calm.  Sometimes she would cry, but that happened less and less often as the year drew on.  7

Every morning it would end as the first tourists arrived, when she knew he would be wakening.  She would stand and wince at the pain in her fractured rib -- hah, from an "unlucky fall", she'd said -- then she would turn her back on the beguiling ocean, and make her way home.8

*        *        *        *       *9

As much as she loved the sea, when autumn came, it was trees that Sylvia longed for.  The village had few of them, and those were sturdy evergreen shrubs.  Sometimes she remembered the street where she'd grown up, where her bedroom looked out over a wide, tree-lined avenue.  She remembered the fire of the trees in autumn, and conjured the memories of better times.10

From the top of her sand-dune, she could see the curve of the coast, green in places and rocky in others, sweep around, defining the curve of the bay.  Sometimes she wondered where it would take her, if, one day, she simply started walking.  She knew, of course, that this was an island, and that walking long enough would simply bring her back to where she'd started.  She knew that she couldn't escape her life on foot.11

He was working again, for a few weeks at least, and she could come to the shor in the daytime.  There were still tourists there, enjoying the long and bright autumn days, but most had long since returned home.  Sometimes she wondered about them, the people who came and went.  What sort of lives did they have? Did they have families and loved ones?  What sort of work did they do?  One family in particular were often at the beach that September, three children, all under twelve, with their mum and dad.  Every day Sylvia saw them they had a new game to play: rounders and cricket and frisbee and catch and dodgeball and games that Sylvia had never seen before.  The children fought and argued, because that's what real-life people do, but they were nice kids and the bigger boy looked out for his younger sisters.  12

Sometimes, Sylvia forgot to contemplate the sea, watching them play.  Other times they awoke an old longing she'd thought long dead.  She no longer cried for the life that she'd lost control of.  Her bruises had lost the power to upset her.  But that longing, sprung from a call that was much older than she was, occassionally invoked the tears, and in an odd way, she was grateful for that.  She could still feel the pain, and that meant she was still alive.13

*        *        *        *        *14

He lost his job again.  Still, his brief attempt had provided a little money for them, and Sylvia carefully put a little away for Christmas.  She wanted to get her niece and nephew something nice this year; something to tell them that she missed them.15

He remained in the house, and Sylvia could not get away.  Every night, she heard the ocean calling to her, but she didn't dare answer.  She cursed her own cowardice, but still, she stayed away.  There was much to keep her occupied.  Aside from the housekeeping, there was Christmas to be prepared for, cards to send.  And there was always him.  The days grew shorter, the nights colder.  At last, it seemed amazing that the sun ever made it above the horizon at all, so short were the days.16

It was just as the nights reached their longest that Sylvia found time to visit the shore again.  It was one of those cold, clear winters nights when every sound seems magnified and each breath tinkles into ice.  Even the sea seemed calm, and everything was still.17

From the ocean, the moon rose, enormous and full, trailing a path of light behind her.  Sylvia watched, mesmerised by the sheer size of the moon, by its gentle light.  Slowly, the moon crept above the horizon, swelling in form.  Sylvia watched for what could have been an age, or could have been mere minutes.18

She never made the decision -- her body moved by itself, as though something, or someone, else was powering it.  Her gaze, her attention, her soul, was held by the smiling glow from the moon, and by the shimmering path on her beloved ocean.  One step after another, she moved closer to the sea, shedding a garment with each step.  Had she thought about it, she would have been cold, walking naked on the sand in the winter's chill, but it never occurred to her.  She was bathed in the protection of the moon's light, and that was all she could see.19

She reached the sea, and the froth seethed around her ankes, cold and tingling aganist her skin.  Locked in the white gaze, she walked deeper, untill she found the moon's path.  There, she reached up her hands to the moon.20

Hands gripped hers, helped her on to the path, and Sylvia found herself walking side by side with a very beautiful woman, solemn and powerful and calm, and yet friendly and almost familiar.  Her bruises were gone and she walked proudly without limping.  Elation filled her soul, until she felt like singing, but she had no song to sing.  Gradually, the path left the ocean behind.  She did not look back.21

Behind her, the deserted trail of women's clothing lay scattered on the beach for someone else to find.  Her body was never found.22