Page 4 of A Castaway in Cornwall
“What is it?”
“A coin purse. See the embroidery there?”
The old woman squinted. “Pretty. Now if only I had a farthing to put in it!” Mary giggled like a girl. “Did you find it today?”
“No. That one is still wet. This one I found a year and a day ago.”
Mary gave her a crooked grin. “You’ll have to become less exacting if yer ever to be a Cornish lass.”
“If I have not become one by now, I doubt I ever shall.”
“Well, there are worse things, though I can’t think of any at the moment.” She cackled again.
“I also brought you some cake.” Laura handed over a napkin-wrapped bundle.
Mary’s eyes widened. “Wenna sent me cake?”
“No, I saved mine for you.”
“I can’t eat yer cake.”
“Of course you can. You like it more than I do. But it will cost you.”
Mary’s wiry brows rose. “Oh?”
“Another tale.”
The blue eyes twinkled. “I’ve already told’ee about the merry-maid’s curse, but have I told’ee about the jealous piskies?”
Laura shook her head, eager to listen.
The old woman nibbled the cake, and then began the tale. “One night, during a harvest moon, the captain of a schooner calledSpritesaw lights dancing on the waters and followed them to his demise. You see, those naughty piskies were jealous of the ship’s beautiful figurehead, so they gathered a big jarful of glowworms to lure the unsuspecting mariners onto the Doom Bar. By morning, the sailors was drowned and all that remained of the ship was that figurehead, scarred by the rocks and no longer beautiful. It now marks the grave of all those lost on the ill-fatedSprite.”
When Mary finished, Laura asked, “Is any of that true?”
“’Course it is! Have’ee not seen the grave along the coast?”
Laura had. But like most of Mary’s tales, a liberal dose of fancy was woven among the facts.
Laura rose and put the kettle on. A few minutes later, refreshed by tea and shared cake, Laura urged, “One more?”
Mary smiled. “What shall it be this time? Smugglers? Pirates? Shipwrecks?”
Laura nodded. “Yes, please. All three.”
Outside the wind continued to rise, and Mary began another story.
“One night, a large three-masted ship was drove under Trevose Head. Her lading was all sorts of warlike stores—muskets, bayonets, boarding pikes, and the like. All hands were lost except for three men. What country these men belonged to was not known.” Mary leaned nearer and lowered her voice to an ominous pitch. “They was supposed to be pirates, and—”
The back door flew open and Laura started. Jago came in, a load of driftwood in his arms.
“Meur ras, Jago,” Mary said. “Close the door dreckly, please. It’s mizzling. I can feel the damp from here.”
The tall, broad-shouldered young man dropped the wood near the hearth, then retreated into the kitchen to shut the door.
When he returned, he bent to build up the fire.
“Say good evening to our friend Laura,” Mary prompted.
