Salt, Water and Air

Salt, Water and Air

The starfish looked dead. Its pale limbs were splayed at awkward angles, curling at the tips in the salty air. Two others lay near it, resting on the shell-studded sand. The foamy edge of the tide crept closer, threatening to capture them at any moment. Overhead, a seagull circled in silence. Nia shivered – the breeze had a briny tang. It swept off the Atlantic and tugged at the curls that had escaped her riding helmet, turning them to frizz.

It was her favourite time of day to exercise the horses. Morning, when the world felt fresh and chirping blackbirds were the loudest things around. As she'd left the yard and clopped down the lane twenty minutes earlier, the grass had been glistening with dew, honeysuckle bold against the green tangles of the ditches. And Nia had felt a ripple of peace – that rare kind she’d been craving for months. 

But now this. The starfish. She steadied her breath and put a soothing hand on her horse's neck. Although he was only five, Bracken was brave. He took things like gigantic tractors and crackling motorbike exhausts in his stride. This was different. Nia could feel it in the way he bunched up beneath her, a coiled spring wound tight. She had a flash of what might happen if she didn't keep him calm – reins burning through her fingers, hooves flying, world blurring. 

She pushed the image out of her mind and murmured long vowel sounds, low and soft. It was something she did when schooling young horses – a way to steady both herself and them. On solo hacks, she’d chat to ease any tension that had crept into her shoulders. She'd tell them about her whirlwind life in London, the intensity of her law degree, the part-time job she hated. Usually, it worked. But not today. Looking at the starfish, their stiffened bodies scattered across Hawley Bay, she couldn't shake the dread that had settled in her stomach.

She squeezed her legs against Bracken’s sides, urging him on. But he shook his head and danced to the right, hooves crunching over shells and tiny corpses. Ahead of them, black rocks stretched like witches' fingers into the sea, glassy rockpools glinting in between. She was trying to distract him with a detailed description of her summer plans when his neck went rigid. He froze, snorting – ears straining forward, then flicking back. Nia scanned the horizon, but there was nothing there. At least, nothing she could see. 

“This is not good.”

A voice, low and smooth, cut through the fizz of the waves. Bracken jumped with a violence that sent her slipping to one side, forcing her to jam her heels down in the stirrups for balance. 

A man was standing a few paces behind them. He was wearing a black hooded jacket and heavy-duty boots – both of which seemed like overkill for a morning in early June. She wheeled Bracken around to face him. The man’s gaze flicked to the starfish, then back to her. There was something about him, maybe the way he was dressed or the pitch of his question – she could tell he wasn't a local. 

He pulled down his hood, as though aware of the intimidating edge it gave him. Tattoos crept out from under his sleeve, delicate designs that looked like they'd been sketched on his olive skin with a pencil. He didn’t smile. And when he spoke, it was careful and deliberate – each word shaped by the rhythms of another language. An accent she couldn't place. 

“It happens sometimes,” he said, grey eyes narrowed against the sun. “After a storm.”

No pleasantries. No wading into the shallows of the conversation with a soft West Cork introduction. It took her a second to gather her words. 

“There hasn’t been a storm for ages,” she said.

The man breathed out – a long, slow exhale. “I know. That is the problem.” He drew a line in the damp sand with the toe of his boot. “I have seen this before.”

“Here? In Cuanbeg?”

“Romania.”

His sharp cheekbones and slate-grey eyes made sense now. He moved towards her, and Nia’s fingers curled tighter around the reins – an instinctive movement that sparked guilt. 

“I come from a village on the Black Sea,” he said. “My dad was a fisherman.”

“My dad’s into fishing, too.” She smiled. A sliver of common ground. 

“One spring, the tide washed in waves of dead fish. There were so many…meduză, we call them. Like jelly.”

“Jellyfish?”

“Yes,” he said, “and big ones. Long and silver?”

Nia shook her head. “No idea. I’m more of a horse girl.” She said it with lightness in her tone. But she’d never had this urge before, to get away from the beach. “What killed the fish?”

“We do not know."

“Surely they tested the water.” 

The breeze rippled through his blue-black hair, making it dance. “Scientists came. They said there was no proof of pollution.” He paused. “But we didn't believe that. My dad said it was a curse.”

Nia forced an uncertain laugh.

“He told me the sea gives and takes,” the man said. “That it was payback for humans’ lack of respect.”

A silence settled between them, sending the usual flicker of panic through Nia’s chest. So, she snatched up the first words that came to her. “Sounds like folklore. There’s a lot of that around here, too.” 

“Maybe.” The man tilted his head. “Or maybe the truth is in the middle.”

There was something sharp in the air now, a sour scent that caught in Nia's throat. She tried to ignore it.

“So, how did you end up in Cuanbeg?” she asked the man.

“Work,” he said. “And life.”

She waited for him to tell her more. Instead, he looked up at her, eyebrows raised.

“And you? Where are you from?”

She stiffened, felt the familiar rush of heat to her cheeks. She hated that question.

“Here,” she said. “I’m Irish.”

Her words came out too sharp, too fast. She braced for the flicker of doubt, for the inevitable follow-up. But his gaze didn’t waver. Instead, he accepted her statement with a nod and stepped forward, laying a hand on the horse’s neck. That was something strangers never did – they'd smile and give the horse a wide berth, but never approach. This man was different.