PEARL 2020-03-11 PEARL On board a ship you have a lot of time to think. I was on a sailing ship heading for Ireland; the weather was fine, blue sky and a slight swell, the perfect situation for daydreaming. And I had a few things to daydream about after what had happened at our last part of call, the Isles of Skry. These islands have a reputation for being a shipwrecker's haunt, but we had survived. The captain was pleased with his trading and the sailors had enjoyed their time ashore. I was the only one who had a puzzling problem to ponder about. I had met her in a pub. She was speaking to the barmaid. There weren't too many people and I could not but notice that she was different. She had regular features, but it was a matter of style, call it class if you will. She was dressed in black, with a pearl necklace, dark hair, dark eyes, contrary to most of the natives. I felt it coming slowly. After a few minutes, the vibrations of attraction came with all their strength. She did not seem entirely indifferent. So we started to talk. She told me about her life in foreign lands, about her job and the usual things, all in a somehow unusual way. More people arrived. There was the background noise of conversations, a useful thing to create the feeling of a more intimate dialogue between us. I kept looking at her face with more than just the curiosity you feel when you meet interesting people. I was almost out of place with my sailor's outfit, but it did not really seem to matter. I t was not difficult to see we shared common interests. We had got a little closer to each other; invading somebody: personal space is easier when the pub gets more and more crowded. She had no children, was not married and had a friend called Jack. That is also my name by the way. Hers was Veronica. The pub was outside the village and when time was called I asked her to walk me back to my ship on the other side of the island. We started quietly along the footpaths lined with heather and fern. There were white goats in the fields and the breakers pounding on the bay. The wind had died down. We were talking as if we had known each other for a long time, or rather as if we wanted to know more about each other. I was holding her hand and that was when she told me about the necklace. One evening as she was walking along the shore on the smugglers' path, she came near a cairn, not far from the sea. She heard a wailing coming through a crag where the waves send a pluming blower in winter, when there is a storm blowing. She was not afraid and decided to investigate. (I knew she was a courageous woman). As she reached the outlying ledge, she saw the entrance to a cave, and in the cave the strange sounds originated from a dark pool of churning water. A little dolphin was sending a prayer, moaning to the shadow coming in its direction. It had probably been wounded or stunned by shock; it was now trying to go back to sea. Veronica managed to catch it and hold it, but doing so she slipped on seaweeds and fell into the breakers. Her head hit a rock and she lost consciousness. When she came to she was back on the rocky ledge but did not remember anything. May be she had been able to climb back on her own, unlikely as that may seem. She was all wet and cold and hurried back to get changed, feeling that in the future her goodwill should not endanger her life and that she should not be so reckless. And that was all. But a few days later, she noticed a weird pearly colour on her little toe. It was not nail varnish either. Her toe nail was turning into a pearl, a beautiful round pearl which, after seven days came off, leaving things back to normal. The process repeated itself a number of times and after a while she had enough pears for the necklace I had noticed. I am convinced it attracted my attention because it was a magic one. It was a necklace of love, of communion. Not everybody could wear such jewels. I knew there was trust between us. I had no reason to doubt her word as we were walking in the night. Being naturally sceptical, I did not really believe her either, but I kissed her nevertheless, to thank her for a good story. Island people are very often good at story-telling. It was a delicate kiss. Being a sailor I could not offer my everlasting love or a steady home with children and all that. So we parted and the memory of her sweet face kept coming back to me during those days at sea. That was probably a normal situation, nothing to write home about, specially if you have no home worth mentioning. What got me thinking more seriously was when my little toe began to take a rather pearly colour. Pascal Legrand Visiteurs : 154 Back to home