1: Smugglers' Tunnels and Sea Dragons

Chapter 1 of "A Grail for Eidothea"

I shared how I found this journal in a trunk in an attic.

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(Note: I read aloud the visible journaling on the first few pages but decided to only transcribe those bits that are relevant to the story as opposed to Eidothea’s opinions on whatever ladies magazine she’s reading.)

This is the journal of a lady, just as you would expect, to reflect upon manners and morals. May it seem such a journal for all who read this.

17th March, 1814

My journal is gone, burned.

I have been given this journal to help me become a respectable woman of this world, to leave behind the fairytales that I lived as truth, which I believed as real as my own flesh. This is not so.

No more stories of wild imagination. I will write instead of small day-to-day matters and the lady like guidelines, so that they may be inscribed on my heart to know and live these precepts.

If you have found this, know that the words that cover this are lies. All of it.

I panicked, made a horrible mistake, and nearly revealed the man I have hidden in the tunnel below the house. I will do my best to re-tell the important parts of what has happened thus far, but none of this is fairytale or wild imaginings.

This is my truth, and I will tell it.

18th March, 1814

How was I so careless in getting caught? I was in a state of shock. What I had seen shook me to my very core.

In short, I was tending to a man I had known since childhood, who’d washed up on the beach situated below our house. A tunnel, created by smugglers, connects the house via the cellar to the natural sea cave that opens onto the beach.

I changed his bandages, applying poultices to his inflamed wounds. My fingertips brushed over the wine-red birthmark on his upper shoulder.

I froze, unable to move, as my vision filled with something otherworldly, not of the cave.

I saw the oceans foam, a bilious beige that didn’t dissipate but clung to the water’s surface. Dead fish, already rotting, floated in the hundreds, each wave bringing more corpses. Seabirds that loved to wheel and cavort and dive floated dead alongside them, blackened with some inky slickness that looked like silk but turned their feathers to sticks.

The sea itself no longer sparkled but had turned grey, murky, devoid of any life. The vision plunged me below the surface, into a world I had never seen before but yet I knew devastation had come here too. Black sludge drifted through the water. On the sea bottom lay bare sand — no, not even rocks and sand, but mud, a mud that flickered a hideous green iridescence.

No seaweed, no crabs, nothing moved. Skeletons of serpent-like creatures lay half-buried in the muck.

The vision propelled me upward, out of the water and into the sky. Or what should have been sky. Instead, I choked on smoke, tasted ash on my tongue. I looked to the shore and it was also devoid of life, blackened with swathes of ash, not a hint of green remaining. The cliffs where I had lived my entire life slumped into the sea, leaving only the bare scar of rock.

I looked for people, but couldn’t see any. The vision flung me along the coast at such a speed it stole my breath. I came upon a city, grey box upon grey box, towering over the port and barren land and sea scapes. There, I saw a few people, but they barely moved, huddled against wall and doorway.

I struggled to breathe. I coughed, choking, and the action freed me from the vision.

I stared into the looming dark of the sea cave and drew in a full, clean lungful of air. I sobbed at the salty sweetness.

How could this be true? How could it come to be? What had I seen?

I pushed myself up and ran, up through the tunnel, through the secret door near the kitchen and right into the arms of my aunt.

I must have been gibbering about what I’d seen for I was dispatched to my room, my journal containing the dreigiau môr stories burned. I was refused permission to access the smugglers tunnel, although my father managed to prevail against Aunt Norah and it was not boarded up.

I gathered from my father, during his reprimand, that the cave had been found empty and the cot considered the location where I’d had these fantastical imaginings. Father even called them ravings.

But this vision was no strange imagining. It had purpose and I would know more.

19th March, 1814.

My connection to the wild and fanciful has a long history, but let me start, not at the beginning, but with recent history. I will retell it as it happened.

Beneath our house, which sits back from the sea cliffs, the previous occupants ran a tunnel from the cellars down to the natural sea cave at the base of the cliff. There is a small rocky beach with the only other access being a narrow footpath winding down the cliff face, or walking from the neighbouring beach when the tide is at its lowest.

I vary my approach to the beach, and that day as it was low tide, I walked over the rock-pools to get there. This part of the Welsh coast is isolated. It should feel like early spring but the brisk winds keep everyone close to their homes.

At first I thought the tangled white form was a large branch tossed up by the previous night’s storm. As I drew closer, the shape softened, became recognisably human.

I hurried over, unfastening my cloak as I neared. He was naked, lying face down with long black hair extending to the small of his back and fanned out across the sand.

Kneeling beside him, I pulled away the drapery of hair and felt for a pulse at his neck. I moved the hair off his face, bending close to check if he breathed.

He did. Fresh gashes and blood-red bruises criss-crossed his body. None of the open wounds bled much but it was a miracle he had not already succumbed to the cold.

I managed to wrap him in my cloak. He stirred, as I hauled him into a seated position. He canted his head, one eye blearily trying to focus. The gold but not quite brown of his iris startled me, beautiful and strange.

“Can you walk?” I murmured.

His head fell forward and I accepted it as a nod. I felt him gathering strength to rise. We struggled up and staggered toward the cave, where he would at least be out of the elements. I settled him against the cave wall. I remember hoping I had the strength to lift him again.

“I will go for help, my house is not far.”

“No,” he croaked, the single word broken, gritty. “No.”

The cave had become a child’s veritable treasure trove over the years.  I found a lamp first and used it to delve into the cave’s interior. I knew exactly where to find the broken wooden cot and the piles of split and coarsely-woven bags. I set the lamp to one side and fashioned a bed out of the found materials. I relieved a wooden chest of its holey blankets and a sail acted as a final coverlet.

We had enough strength between us to complete his transfer to the makeshift cot. His wounds had reopened, blood staining my cloak. He lay, the hem of my cloak draped over the front of him, for modesty’s sake. His eyelids fluttered closed.

I took the opportunity to untie the strings of my skirt and petticoats. I let one petticoat fall to the floor and hastily retied everything. The hem was a bit dusty from my walk, but the rest could be used to bind his wounds. I did so, knowing I would have to raid our stores for poultices and fresh bandages in order to properly treat him.

I sat beside him while he slept — or was unconsciousness. His limbs had been utterly limp as I bandaged his wounds. With my fingertips, I gently combed back the long locks that covered his face.

He certainly was not a local. I had never seen anyone quite like him. His skin should have been pale like mine, but instead it had the palest golden hue. In my ministrations, I hadn’t seen a single freckle or mole, except for the one oddly-shaped wine-coloured birthmark on his upper left arm. His long hair was straight, without a curl. Two thin braids began just above and behind his ears.

Perhaps he was a sailor who had fallen overboard, but while the bruises could have been caused by the rocks, the serrated gashes warned of a more sinister origin. Had he been attacked?

20th March, 1814

It was evening before I could return. I didn’t want to explain to anyone, not the cook, nor my aunt, why I needed such medical provisions. It took me some time to gather them unnoticed. I descended into the cellar, laden with a soft blanket from my bed, ointments, poultices, bandages, and a canister of broth. My father always partook of such before bed and it simmered in the kitchen until he requested it.

I begged off sick for the night, so I knew I would not be missed. From a cellar shelf I grabbed a handful of candles — why I feel the need to document this so minutely is unclear, perhaps so whoever finds and reads this after I’m gone will know it is all real and true.

When I reached him, I found him sleeping. I busied myself with making the space more habitable, taking another sail to hang between the cot and the cave entrance, to block the wind. I finished and turned to find him staring with those strange golden eyes. He shuddered. Was I that repulsive?

His shudders continued and I realised he shivered. I checked his forehead. His dry, hot skin suggested fever. I offered him the still warm broth and he struggled to sit up. I wrapped the soft blanket around his shoulders as he sniffed at the broth, his nose wrinkling, but he drank and lay down again.

He still shivered, even with the additional blanket. I draped my shawl over him as well. Lighting a fire was out of the question. The tunnel acted as a chimney, a fact I had discovered as a child.

I brought the lamp closer to the cot and climbed into the narrow cot with him. I pulled the soft coverlet over us both and hoped my body warmth would help. I embraced him awkwardly, grateful for the several layers between us.

I fell asleep and when I woke, my patient lay awake also.

“Eidothea,” he murmured.

I bolted into a sitting position, twisting to gaze down at him. “How do you—?”

His lips thinned as if speaking hurt. “Do you not remember? We played right here as children.”

Only one little boy played with me in the cave and on the beach. My eyes widened. The long black hair. The wine-red birthmark on his shoulder. How had I forgotten? “Llyr?”

He smiled, such innocent joy, that I matched his smile with one of my own. My breathing relaxed.

“It has been years. Forgive me.”

He reached for my face and I bent forward to make it easier for him to reach me. We weren’t children any more but I trusted him like a child. He smoothed my cheek. “I’m glad it was you who found me.”

I covered his hand with mine, still smiling. “I am too. But why could I not bring you to my home? Or get help? And what happened to you?”

He huffed a chuckle and winced, his hand going to his ribs.

“I tended to what I could see, but if your ribs are cracked…”

“They will mend.” He swallowed. “I am thirsty.”

“There is some broth left, but it will be cold now. I’m sure there is some old Madeira port down here somewhere.” I shifted to rise but his hand on my arm stopped me.

“Broth will be fine.”

I crawled over him, leaving the cot to retrieve the soup canister. I sat on the rock floor while he sipped.

He returned the empty canister with a trembling hand. “I cannot go to your home because It is too awkward to explain where I come from, who I am to your parents, although your mother, I could trust—“

“She’s …. she no longer lives.” It caught in my throat, even though it had been ten years since she’d been buried.

“Your mother stopped visiting her parents so it was assumed she’d died because ….” Llyr trailed off, eyeing me with a furrowed brow.

“Because a sea dragon, a draig môr, cannot stay away from the sea for long?” I covered my eyes. “Her stories were true. I had dreamed, hoped …”

“That she had returned to us? That was our hope as well.”

“You are a draig môr? Like my mother? How have I not connected you with my mother’s people, the dreigiau môr?” I blurted, staring at him in wonder. As a young girl, I had never thought anything odd about him suddenly being on the beach.

Llyr nodded. “Unlike her, I have no family, no connections on the land. Does your father know about us?”

I grimaced. “We do not speak of it. Mother told me stories about the dreigiau môr but told me to keep them secret. I have been writing down the stories she told me as a way of remembering her…” I recalled my mother’s solemn face framed by wavy black hair. She unbound her hair whenever possible, putting it into a neat bun only when she ventured out or had company.

Until my aunt arrived, I had never thought it an odd choice. My aunt would not let me follow my mother’s ways. It was unladylike to run about the neighbourhood with one’s hair a tangled mess.

Llyr waited until my attention returned to him. “You understand now, why you cannot summon help or bring me to the house.”

I nodded. I did not relish the idea of trying to explain dreigiau môr to  my father let alone my aunt. “I will bring you something to wear and more food next time.” I glanced toward the cave entrance. Even screened by the old heavy sail, daylight brightened our dark space. “I should go. Cook will already be in the kitchen.”

Would I be caught leaving the smugglers tunnel? I hastened my pace.

21st March, 1814.

I will write now about the events on the 17th. I have written previously about the terrible vision and some of the consequences of my hasty flight. The worst came upon returning to my chamber after my father’s harsh lecture.

My aunt stood by the fireplace, which blazed merrily. As I entered, she tossed the last pages of my journal into the fire.

I stood in the doorway, dumbstruck.

“That!” Aunt Norah pointed at the papers curling and turning into ash. “That fanciful nonsense of sea dragons, a city under the sea and handsome mermen. No wonder you took leave of your senses!”

I opened my mouth to object to the term ‘mermen’. I would never refer to Llyr or any other as such. He was a draig môr.

“Do you realise what would happen to you if this got out?”

It appeared I was about to get a repeat of my father’s tirade. I sighed, leaning against the doorjamb.

“You have run wild long enough.” She ignored my frown. I hadn’t run wild since she moved in when I turned eighteen. “If you are not careful, you will find yourself in a madhouse or on the streets. You must settle down, girl, stop these fancies—and I do not care if your mother—God rest her benighted soul— told you those tales or not. I cannot imagine what my brother saw in her, outside of her beauty—“

Aunt Norah coughed, catching herself, and continued in a calm, icy tone. “Instead of fairy tales, you will bend all your efforts into studying and practicing ladylike behaviour. I will not have you shame the family name before you are married. You are not to leave the house for any reason until I see some improvement in your behaviour.”

And so that is what I have been doing, lucky to beg a fresh journal from my father, who demands to read it every night. These words remain hidden, thanks to a dissembling spell Mother taught me.

22nd March, 1814

Father has removed the unsightly board that blocked the smugglers tunnel. As it acts as additional storage and a cold room, it seems Cook has prevailed.

Nobody kept watch in that hallway I noticed in the half a dozen times I found excuse to traverse in that direction.

After all had retired for the evening, I snuck down to check on Llyr. It has been a week since I fled and even though the servants did not find him when they searched the cave, I hoped he would return to make use of the sea cave as a sanctuary until he healed.

The cot had been tidied, blankets neatly folded, the sail torn down. Behind a rock near the cave’s entrance, I found the clothes I had brought for him. Does that mean he plans to return?

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