Ireland 1769

The sky was grey with clouds stretching to the horizon, threatening to pour down upon the coastline. A fierce wind was blowing in off the shore, its power evident in the lack of vegetation in the area. Nothing more than common sea grass grew amongst the rocks here, coarse and abundant, all matted and bunched from the constant breezes that made this place their home. Out on the sea, the day was about to turn cruel as fishermen struggled amongst the waves to return to shore before the storm descended. Twas a brave man truly, who chose to stay and risk body and boat, reaping the rewards alone rather than pulling for home to seek another sunrise. The most seasoned man could tell which storm was worth bracing and which was not but many had sunk beneath the waves, believing in arrogance that they were the master and the sea the servant. Only true sailors knew the truth, every moment at the mercy of the waves, there but by the grace of God and such superstitions as had survived down the ages.

Today every boat was manned by a sailor with a brain in his head, pointed to shore, oars out, sails up. The warning of what was to come evident in the violence of the water, white froth beating up against the rocks, frenzied and unrelenting.

Killian Jones was among them, awkwardly hauling for shore, his wooden hand hastily tied round an oar. Despite his sail flushed full with wind he was falling behind. Without the full benefit of two strong hands, rowing evenly was a pressure, needing continuous correction as he twisted in his seat, reorienting the boat toward land. And it was no help that facing the horizon he could see the storm's approach, rolling in from some unknown place, loud and angry. A spike of lightning brightened the gloom as he felt the muscles in his arms begin to ache. Normally he would have found the rhythmic dip and pull of the oars a soothing exercise but today was another matter. Storms at this time of year were not to be ignored. More fool he that disregarded the sky.

He flinched at the distant crack of thunder, booming off the surrounding hills, echoing away from him. There had been a time when storms brought a smile to his face, but that was another life, one he preferred to forget. As the surrounding boats drew farther away from him, he fixed his eye to a point on one of the many clouds coalescing in the distance, digging his heels into the hull, praying he would not falter. When it seemed his luck would hold though, the sky opened up with one long sheet of water, cold and sharp, pouring down over him. He clenched his teeth against the shock of it, felt the deluge soak into his clothes. Turning he found he could barely see the coastline and the boat was beginning to fill with water. Cursing all the devils of hell under his breath he sped his actions to a point where every part of him fell into discomfort. Fire lanced up his back, along his arms and down his legs. In contrast his feet, now submerged, were growing colder with every stroke.

Would that I had a zephyr to blow this tempest back out to sea.

Panic threatened to overtake him when he realized all points of reference had disappeared, hidden behind the weather, leaving him blind to the location of the docks with the full onset of the storm not yet upon him and a steadily filling boat. Fortunately years of training forced him to shackle any worry to the back of his mind. Knowing he pulled to the right because of his hand he did best to row with equal measure on both oars. Often he would be forced to pause and bail as much water as he could manage, his calves now immersed in what could only be termed an icy bath. The wind too, had accelerated in intensity, whipping hair into his eyes, threatening to rend the sail from the yardarm as the waves battered against the boat, almost knocking him from his seat. There was little sense in trying to locate the shore, not knowing if he was even sailing in a straight line anymore. But he was unwilling to wait for the weather to pass. His boat was filling up fast. He would need to find land soon if he hoped to survive.

It was then he felt a scraping under the boat's hull, a grating of wood against rock, forcing him to realize he must be close to shore. Peering behind him he discerned what was little more than a rocky outcropping set against tall cliffs. Looking down he saw his efforts had managed to beach him on Bull Rock, an area known for whale rubbing. It was a goodly distance from Skellig's natural harbour and not where he would have chosen to anchor. Every successive wave however, pushed the boat further out of the water. Forced by no other power than chance, he would have to moor here and pray the sea would leave his boat untouched.

Standing was something akin to a religious experience as he stretched his protesting limbs and flexed his feet, trying to work the blood back into his toes. He slung his measly catch over one shoulder and grabbed the anchor in his hand, jumping down into the water, thigh deep as he made his way to the pebbly shore. Walloped with every wave he was often knocked over and left sputtering, his grip on the anchor never wavering. As water crashed around him, a menace at his back that could suck him under at any moment, he trudged on, shaking from the cold. Upon reaching shore he shucked off the gunny sack and proceeded to haul the anchor towards the cliffs, hoping to find some crevice it could easily be lodged inside. What he found instead caused him to drop the weight altogether.

"Dear God in Heaven."

Lying before him on the ground was a naked woman, eyes closed and still. He swiftly turned about face, but not before his eyes had lit upon every inch of her. Ashamed at his lewdness over a woman so obviously in distress he closed his eyes and cursed himself, hands curling into fists.

Had she been tossed up by a shipwreck? That morning there had only been fishermen sailing about with no evidence of flotsam in the water. There was also the question of her unclothed state but now was not the time to contemplate her origins or her condition. He swiftly unbuttoned his greatcoat and shrugged it off, turning slowly, his eyes heavenward as he knelt and laid it atop her. Holding a hand before her mouth she appeared to breathe, the spectre of death not yet having visited.

Her hair was the colour of the sun, a rare sight for these parts. He brushed aside a blonde lock to get a better look at her face, his fingers fleeting across cold and clammy skin. She was pale and covered in small cuts, her expression betraying no sign of pain or distress. Rather there was a look of peace about her. It would not last long though if she remained out here when the storm hit.

Killian walked back to the anchor, hefted it over his shoulder and quickly found a place in which to wedge it, trusting the strength of the rope would hold. He looped his gunny sack over an arm and then stooped to lift the strange woman into his arms. Limp and pliable, she made no sound as he slowly made his way along the coastline until he found a break in the cliffs. The shore was too rocky to walk along and there was as much a chance of falling in as walking, especially in this wind, especially with his cargo.

The road was muddy and the way dark, with the moon obscured behind low hanging clouds. None of that troubled him though as much as the idea that he was on the wrong side of Broadhaven Bay. In good weather it would take nearly two hours to skirt its length. In bad it would likely take a good deal longer. He knew he could easily catch his death out in this weather but with ample experience in similar aboard ship, he had no cause to fear for his constitution. She however, was such a little thing. He was unsure whether she would survive the journey and the thought pulled at his heart. That she could have been so callously treated by whoever had left her on the shore, only for her to perish, never having opened her eyes again. Grimacing in anger he did his best to double his pace, unwilling to assume it a foregone conclusion that she would die.

An observer noting his passage would have seen a rather large man carrying an oddly shaped bundle, his face set in determination despite the circumstances. Though the wind beat down and the rain poured on, he kept his gait, stumbling and weaving the closer he got to home. It was very late indeed when he finally reached his front door, shivering down to his bones. She had seemed lighter at first but with every step his mind reconsidered the idea. His wet greatcoat had not helped matters. If not for her lack of clothing, he would have tossed its sodden weight aside before leaving the shore. The fact that he was carrying a nude woman, his hands pressed to her bare flesh, was a constant thought and one that he tried to push away.

Trifling with the door a moment he managed to make his way inside without much trouble, striding over to his cot and gently setting her down. He blushed trying to work out how to remove his coat and pull a blanket over her motionless form all while affording her the decency she deserved. In the dark of his cottage the occasional lightning strike flashed through a small window, bathing her face in a strange light. She appeared unaffected by all that had come before while he could not stop shaking, standing in a puddle of his own making, water running off every part of him.

The room itself was quite chilly, the only evidence of warmth being half dead embers from this morning. Slowly he rebuilt the fire, fanning the remnants, setting alight some dried scrub grass he kept as tinder. Usually the cold was no matter to him but as he was soaked clean through and she…she had been like ice in his arms he thought it better to warm the room. There was also the matter of his own clothes. He dearly wished to lay them before the hearth and find something dry and clean to wear. But his sensibilities would not allow him to disrobe in front of a woman, whether she was conscious or not. So instead he sat next to the fire, damp and miserable. He did allow himself one luxury though, removing his wet shoes and stockings. He wiggled his toes next to the flames, wincing as the feeling came back into them in the form of bright pain. It was only in remembrance of his gunny sack that he forced himself to stir, leaving a wet imprint behind on the stone.

His catch had been meagre, likely due to the storm. Bad winds always drove fish to the depths. As he empty the sack on the table less than half a dozen herring fell out, a poor return for hours spent on the water and most certainly not enough to sell let alone live off of. His eyes flicked to the still form on his cot, wondering if she in turn would be hungry when she woke. He unbound a folded leather cloth to pull out a sharp knife. Quickly gutting and boning the fish he threw them into a pan set over the fire. The meat hissed and spat as the fat melted, kicking off flicks of liquid onto the flagstones below. Soon the smell of cooking fish permeated every corner of the room. His mouth watered as he devoured what he could, hunger having set in somewhere between the shore and home.

All the while though, his eyes stayed on her form. Her mouth had a delicate shape and likely a darker shade than it currently held. He watched as his threadbare blanket rose and fell with her every breath. He started when she suddenly moaned in her sleep, turning to face him, hand dangling to the floor. Leaning over he tucked the limb back where it belonged. Her skin was smooth, her hand unmarred by labour, belying her status as a woman of means. But she bore no ring to speak of marriage.

There are no titled men of property here that she could belong to. Perhaps she is still only a daughter instead of wife.

It was a curious thing, her unknown origins and heritage. It was possible she had been waylaid during the onset of the storm but surely she would not have been traveling alone. Where then were her retainers? She must have come far for there were only fishing villages and farms from here to Derry. He was so lost in thought he never noticed her hand come up to brush her face.

When next he looked over he found a pair of green eyes staring back at him. In that moment his words abandoned him and he found he was only able to gawp, wide-eyed at the woman before him. She appeared nervous yet determined, her eyes darting from him to the door beyond, over to the fire and back. With one brisk motion she sat up, the blanket sliding off, exposing her naked torso. Killian blanched and stood, knocking his chair to the ground, hastily turning and squeezing his eyes shut. From behind him he heard her speak.

"Who are you and what have you done with my skin!"