It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me
Yes! that was the reason
(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

- ?Annabel Lee? by Edgar Allan Poe


After the many oddities of the previous day and especially after the harbormaster passed word of a woman seeking Hudson out at the docks, Hudson had picked up one of the broadsheets on his way home from the warehouse. It seemed he hadn?t been the only one to notice odd things happening. He?d arranged with Rhys to come in early, and now with the afternoon half-done he was finished for the day at the warehouse; he could seek out the woman at the docks.

?A looker, ya know? Slim, reddish-blonde ? but she talked like ya, ya know? All twisty and rough.? The harbormaster?s words ran through Hudson?s head, over and over, during the short carriage-ride to the docks. To a man used to walking everywhere and a high activity level, his injury was frustrating; it also gave him too much time to brood. Dismounting from the carriage and settling his weight onto the cane he was forced to use, Hudson started through the docks toward the building which housed the L?ir Mothan.

If the woman had come around again, the harbormaster was going to send her there. Step-swing-thump was lost beneath the lively sounds of the docks, with the fishing boats just getting in. Hudson paused to look out to the sea wistfully; it had been weeks since he had been able to go on the water. Finally with a sigh and another deep inhale of the sharp salt-sea scent, he continued on his way to the building with its wide doors swung open to the water. His knee was aching; he had been putting too much stress on it. It was an absent thought as he paused at the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the darker inside of the building.

And then there was no thought at all. His breath caught, and he could almost feel his heart stutter. There was a woman standing by the nameplate of the Mothan, her delicate hand stretched up to touch it, tracing the flowers which Juliane had painted on it so well. Slim, reddish-blonde? he knew what her voice would sound like before he heard a word. Knew, even with her back to him, who it was. How not, when they had been married for some sixteen years? But this was not his Moira ? could not be. His Moira was dead and buried, and even before that she had not been able to leave her bed for almost two years as the illness ate her away.

?I ken ye be there, mo dubh fuirbidh. Dae ye think I dinnae ken th? way ye breathe, even?? Her hair, strawberry blonde, caught light from the doorway and sparkled as she looked back, over her shoulder to Hudson. Her voice was the same warm alto he remembered so well. His breath that she spoke of caught in his throat with a half-sob, and he limped forward slowly, unable ? unwilling ? to believe in the sight of her.

?Yer nae here ? cannae be here, cannae be her. I saw ye buried!? It wasn?t an entirely coherent denial; there was too much conflicting emotion. Desperate hope lurked beneath the harsh reality that was his memory of her in her winding clothes, being lowered into the ground. Black eyes were somewhat wild, even as scarred hands clenched hard into knotted fists. His cane had fallen away, forgotten.

Moira?s mouth ? a little too wide for the rest of her face, with the dimple in one corner ? curved up in a smile. He could see now that she was too young, as well. It was Moira as she had been ten years earlier, before the illness that would take her life had begun to show its ravages on her. His left hand lifted, and he watched it take a curl of her strawberry blonde hair in gentle fingers; it seemed to be the hand of a stranger. How odd, to see the scarring of his hand against the smooth skin of her cheek. Her mouth shaped words and it took a moment before the sounds translated into coherence in his mind. ?And yet here I be. Ye look sae careworn, mo bailceach. Ha?e ye been well enow in yerself? Ha?e ye forgotten me yet??

?Nae.? It was a whisper into the gloom, but his hand fell away from her then. ?Nae, ye be nae here. Ye be a fetch or a haunt, but nae th? woman I loved, th? woman I married. I cannae forget that woman. Oh, Moira, mo ?r, is cia liobh thu bheilcha di-chuimhnich thu*. But ye be nae here!? Desperate, painfilled, the note in his voice as it rang through the open building. Unthinking he took a step forward, forgetting the binding that held his leg straight; he almost fell and caught himself with his hand splayed over the nameplate of his boat. Over the elegant simplicity of two words, L?ir Mothan, that meant Eyes of Violet.

Her skin was smooth and cool as her fingers laced over his to touch the painted words beneath. ?Ye ha?e gray in yer hair, mo duine-dubh, and yer hands more scars. Has it been sae long? Long enow for ye tae name yer bonny boat for another woman? Tae put me out o? yer mind?? The gentle alto voice that held no hint of reproach was a whip, flaying strips off of his heart and soul. But he had given her, so long before, the same promise he had given to Sylvia ? honesty between them.

Hudson?s voice broke as he answered. ?Nae out o? my mind or heart, mo croidhe, but aside. Ye be nae real, now, and I saw ye buried. Aye, my Mothan be named for another, and I?ll nae gi?e that up for a fetch. I?ll nae? I?ll nae gi?e that up for what cannae be.? His expression was as ravaged as his voice, but he did not move his hand from beneath hers. He simply waited until she did what he had known she would; she drew back her hand, brushed it over the brooch on his shoulder, over his lips, and then to her own mouth. A gesture of parting between them, given every day he had set out onto the loch for sixteen years.

Sunlight sparkled in her hair, caught in the strawberry blonde, and as she walked into the sunlight and looked back, he could see the blue-green of her eyes that held the loch and the sea in their depths. A last smile from that too-wide mouth with its dimple in the corner, and then she was gone into the crowd. Leaning against the side of the dory on its blocks, he wept.


*My gold, I who love you will not forget you.