1919

Saoirse had seen enough death the past five years to last her a lifetime. The war to end all wars had also ended her tears, which no longer flowed even as she held her aunt's ashes in a tin box to her chest.

Her faith had ended, too, buried in the Belgian trenches. Of late, however, Saoirse had begun questioning whether she'd ever had it. Kindness and compassion had been instilled in her from childhood, by her wise, loving parents, rather than some irrational fear of unseen divinity.

And so, she had remained kind and compassionate throughout the most brutal catastrophe humanity had ever witnessed. Shellshocked and severely wounded, soldiers abandoned their souls on the frontlines, repudiated divinity and spat on its teachings. Refused to believe in anything good anymore because they had seen the very worst.

But not Saoirse.

Saoirse kept a cool head and a kind heart as she cared for the injured, any injured, regardless of allegiance – even when the devastating news arrived that her husband had perished from the gas at Ypres.

She had cried then for the last time, alone in her little billet room, after reading the letter. She'd crumbled, screaming, to the floor and sat there, hunched over the narrow bed, as she wailed and wept and swallowed her sobs.

Though as abruptly as they'd come, the tears stopped. The light faded from her pale blue eyes. Her thoughts seeped out of her mind until it buzzed empty. Saoirse blinked and it was over. Life was over. Only the war endured, right here and right now, an amalgamation of pain greater than her own.

Men less fortunate than her husband waited for her to amputate their gangrened limbs, to save their lives or comfort them as their suffering ended forever. Duty called and Saoirse answered like an automaton, mechanical and methodical. It helped that she did not have time to think.

It had helped – now all she had was time to think.

"Slán go fóill," Saoirse whispered to the wind and the waves, opening the box. As if to add his own farewell, her horse Danny whinnied nearby.

Saoirse upturned the biscuit tin into the sea – aunt Aoife's peculiar sense of humour had not been dulled by illness – then rinsed it of ash in the water lapping at the grassy shore. The full moon had the tide at its highest, covering the entire swathe of Seacliff beach and risen to reach the earthy edge of the woodland.

Drifting clouds obscured the brightness of the pearl in the sky but the inky sea still glinted silver where the moon touched it. Darkness stretched above and below, seamless save for the blacker-than-night shadow of the Selkie Stone profiled against the horizon. At regular intervals, flashes of man-made luminescence pulsed from the lighthouse perched on its haunches.

Saoirse shook the excess seawater out of the tin and grabbed a cloth to wipe it dry. Barking dogs distracted her from the task. She turned to look and saw...

Waves swelled and sank like liquid obsidian that caught glimmers of moonlight and glittered. Saoirse frowned. There was something in the water that did not glitter. A lump that seemed to rise and fall, carried by the surging tide.

Saoirse didn't stop to think about what she had to do. The automaton nurse kicked in and her body just did it. With her skirts knotted on her hip, she rolled up her sleeves and waddled into the sea one cautious step at a time. The tide had piled slippery rocks just below the grass-lined shore and one misstep could be fatal.

Adrenaline kept her going through the numbing cold. Sheer willpower she'd attained in France. It became clear, as she advanced, that the lump was a human body, naked and floating face-down. If she could only save one more life, just one more –

Briefly, she was up to her knees in mud again. Gunshots echoed in the distance. Men shrieked and cried. Her hands burgundy from the blood.

"You're all right," she'd told the soldier cradling his spilled guts, "I've got you, you'll be all right. You're with Sister Saoirse now and you'll be safe. Upon my word, you will be safe, if it's the last thing I do."

A chant she'd learned to utter with utmost conviction. The boy had believed her. Trusted her like he would his mother. And as he'd slipped away, trusting her still, she'd held on until his eyes had lost their lustre and his body had gone slack in her arms.

Peace, at last.

*

The stranger slept soundly by the fire-screen in the front room when she opened her eyes the next morning. Her muscles ached from the overnight exertion. Yawning, she stretched on the settee and struggled to remember what had nudged her into consciousness.

The doorbell rang again.

Saoirse rose to her feet and crawled to the front hall in a sleep-deprived daze. Paying no mind to what she wore or how she looked, she pulled the door open and squinted.

"Good morning, Mrs Quinn," Dr Mortimer greeted cheerfully. He smiled until he noticed the unkempt state she was in and averted his gaze. "I do apologise," he mumbled, "shall I return later?"

Saoirse glanced down at the chemise and knickerbockers she had on. No undergarments whatsoever, which must have shown through the thin cotton clothing her torso. Her hair was in disarray, also, soaked in seawater from last night's efforts and now untamed fresh off the pillow.

"No, not at all." She stepped aside and invited him in. "In fact, it's quite good you're here. I'd like to show you something."

The doctor hesitated.

"The knickerbocker nurse, they used to call me," Saoirse said. "Or Sister Saw, but that's too grim a tale for this early in the morning. Come in, Dr Mortimer, please. I'll put the kettle on and make myself presentable while you take a look at what I wanted to show you."

He removed his hat, crossing her threshold. "I did not mean to offend you, Mrs Quinn, I only thought – "

"Oh, Saoirse, please!"

Would she ever reacquire civilian manners? Thankfully, Dr Mortimer was a good sport.

"Then I must insist that you call me James in return...Saoirse."

She beamed, pleased. "Come along, James."

James followed her into the front room as she took his hat and coat for him but stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted the unconscious man on the floor.

"I'll be damned!" he exclaimed. "Is that Sorley?" He rushed over to the stranger, dropping to one knee beside him.

"Sorley who?" She left her guest's belongings on the nearest armchair and proceeded to pin up her curls in a tangled bun. "Do you know this man? I fished him out of the sea last night." Saoirse sat on the settee. "It was a devil of a job getting him here and patching him up..."

Worry creased the young doctor's features. James kept two fingers on the man's neck, under his jaw, looking at his pocket-watch at the same time. Then he felt the stranger's forehead.

"Is he still very warm?" Saoirse asked. "Odd, isn't it? His skin was warm even last night, right after I dragged him out of the sea." She sniffed at the air in the stranger's direction. "No foul smells. His wound must be fine, I don't think he's running a fever."

"No, he's not," James confirmed and stood up with a sigh.

She frowned. "What's the matter, then? Do you know him, really?"

"I wouldn't say I know him... has your aunt not told you about her summer wanderer?"

Saoirse's eyes grew wide as saucers. "That is Somhairle?"

Aunt Aoife had, among others, left her niece extensive notes on how to care for the 'poor orphan' with the waist-long hair and a penchant for running around naked on the beach, who might visit her during the summer months – hence the moniker, which meant 'summer wanderer' in Gaelic. His real name remained unknown

"Yes, Sorley," James repeated the sobriquet's English equivalent. "He won't be very happy you've cut his hair."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to be alive," Saoirse countered.

A nasty gash on the back of Sorley's head had needed stitches and she'd cut as much of the hair around it as she could. The rest of his seaweed-streaked tresses, clumped with filth and blood, she'd trimmed short to ease their washing. They now only reached his broad, brawny shoulders.

"Has he always been uncommonly warm?" Saoirse wondered aloud, watching the man sprawled on the carpet, immovable under the duvet she'd draped over him.

"He has always been uncommon, yes," came the evasive answer. "Your aunt was extremely protective of him, so I never learned too much."

Aoife had specified in her letter that, should Somhairle visit her again, no one was to know of his existence, except the bright young Dr, who needs your guidance and protection as much as my darling wanderer does. They are both precious creatures, Saoirse recounted her aunt's words to herself, too sweet and tender for this cruel world to understand and you, my dear, so loving and sensible, so fierce and tenacious like an Amazon – tusa atá gcuid Saoirse.

You are their freedom, her aunt had written. Saoirse had taken it to mean that she ought to be their friend, rather than allow herself to become a hermit. Now she felt there might have been more to her aunt's poetic turn of phrase and she could think of one way to test her suspicions.

*

[note: my Irish is google translated so if you speak it, please do correct me]