Title: The Moth and Moon
Author: Glenn Quigley
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: March 19, 2018
Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 63000
Genre: Alternate Universe, Historical, LGBT, historical, gay, friends to lovers, sailor, baker, pirates, family drama
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Synopsis
In the summer of 1780, on the tiny island of Merryapple, burly fisherman Robin Shipp lives a simple, quiet life in a bustling harbour town where most of the residents dislike him due to the actions of his father. With a hurricane approaching, he nonetheless convinces the villagers to take shelter in the one place big enough to hold them all—the ancient, labyrinthine tavern named the Moth & Moon.While trapped with his neighbours during the raging storm, Robin inadvertently confronts more than the weather, and the results could change everything.
Excerpt
The Moth and Moon
Glenn Quigley © 2018
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
Mr. Robin Shipp pulled his cap lower as
he took a deep breath of salty morning air and watched the sun emerge from
behind the headland. Stepping from the pier into his little boat, he ran his
heavy hand across the prow, catching his coarse fingers on the loose, chipped
paintwork. He picked a jagged flake off the wooden frame and held it up to the
light, the vivid scarlet catching the pinks and oranges of daybreak. He let go
and it drifted through the air, carried away on the gentle breeze, before
settling on the soft, lapping tide. Most of the paintwork was in some state of
distress. Deep cracks marbled the entire hull, belying the fisherman’s profound
affection for his vessel. Bucca’s Call had seen better days.
“I’ll paint you tomorrow, Bucca, I
promise,” he said.
He made this very same promise every
morning, but every day, he found some reason to put it off. Before too long, he
was humming to himself and hauling his well-worn oyster dredge over the stern
of Bucca’s Call.
“Beautiful!” he said as he emptied the
net into a nearby tub. The shells clattered against one another as they fell.
The boat bobbed about gently on the waves while gulls screeched and circled
overhead. Her nameplate was missing a couple of letters and her white sails
were truthfully more of a grimy beige these days, but she was as reliable as
ever.
He was close to the shore and could see
the whole bay—from the headland to the east, down to the harbour, past the pale
blue-and-white-striped lighthouse that sat out at sea on its desolate little
clump of rocks and scrub, and over to the beautiful sandy beach curving around
and out of sight to the west.
The little fishing village of Blashy
Cove sloped up the hills beyond the harbour, and with his gaze, he traced the
low, stone walls lining each cobbled road. It was the only significant
settlement on the tiny island of Merryapple, the southernmost point of a little
cluster of islands nestled off the Cornish coast. The village had everything
one would expect to find, except a place of worship. No lofty cathedral had
ever been built there, no church of granite and glass, not even the smallest
wooden chapel. When the empire of the Romans had fallen a thousand years
earlier, its church had fallen alongside it. The invaders hadn’t lingered long
on the mainland, and had never set foot on these islands. Once they were gone,
the people picked through the remains, seeing the value in certain aspects and
thoroughly disregarding the rest, scouring the regime clean from the face the
world and consigning it meekly to the tomes of scholars and students. In its
absence, the old gods returned to their forests and deserts, their mountains
and streams, their homes and hearths. Spirits of air and land and sea. Woden
and Frig, The Wild Hunt and the Bucca, piskies and mermaids, the Green Man and
the wights, all were changed, made kinder and gentler by their brief exile. On
these islands, the old ways had been the only ways, but even these had mostly
died out, sloping into traditions, superstitions, and habits. It was now August
in the year 1780, and people believed in themselves.
At this time of morning, sunlight hit
the brightly painted houses and sparkled on the gentle, rolling waves. The
village’s livelihood mainly revolved around the sea, but there was more to life
than just luggers and lines and lobster pots. The Cove had long been a haven to
those of a more creative bent. Painters and sculptors, engineers and inventors,
they all found their home there. Some of them had come from the nearby
Blackrabbit Island, which wasn’t known for its love of the finer arts. This
abundance of skill, and the nurturing of it, meant Blashy Cove had adopted some
innovations not yet common in the rest of the world.
Robin had been out for some time by now
and, as usual, had already eaten his packed lunch. Soon, his substantial belly
rumbled and he decided it was time to head back to port. Packing away his nets,
he heaved in his empty lobster pots, secured the tub filled with this morning’s
catch, and sailed the small craft homeward. As he did, he noticed a thin, grey
line on the horizon.
“Looks like some bad weather on the way,
Bucca,” he muttered to the little boat.
The stern of the curious little craft
sat low in the water, due equally to the weight of the morning’s catch and the
significant heft of Robin himself. While at first it appeared to be a
traditional lugger, the kind of boat used by most fishermen in this part of the
world, Bucca’s Call was actually much smaller and faster, a one-of-a-kind built
many years previously.
Huge ships from the mainland drifted
past, their enormous sails billowing in the breeze. Merryapple was part of a
small group of southerly islands, and the last sight of land some of the mighty
vessels would see for weeks, or even months.
Merryapple Pier was the oldest one
anybody knew of. The brainstorm of a local fisherman many years earlier and
copied by many other villages since, it might well have been the first of its
kind. This clever fisherman realised if there was a way for larger boats to
offload their cargo directly, rather than having to put it onto smaller vessels
to ferry back and forth between harbour and ship, it would increase the traffic
through the little port. The pier stretched out past the shallower waters near
the coastline. Little sailboats like Bucca’s Call could dock right up close to
the beach or even on the sand, if need be, while bigger fishing vessels could
use the far end, in deeper waters. The pier was constructed from huge boulders
hewn from the island’s cliff face and supported by a framework of long wooden
poles from the woodlands. In the evening, bigger boats from the village fleet
usually dropped anchor in the bay, while smaller vessels stayed moored to the pier.
At the shore, some children were chasing
each other around a pile of crab pots, hooting and hollering while May Bell
finished her deliveries for the bakery. May was around the same age as the
other children, but she was of a more industrious bent. She saw Bucca’s Call
approaching and ran to help Robin secure his mooring line as he lugged the tub
of oysters onto the pier. When he clambered up the weathered stone steps, he
steadied himself with a hand against the wall. The steps were wet and slippery,
with dark green mould threatening to envelope his heavy boots should he linger
too long.
“Morning, Mr. Shipp,” the girl called as
she finished tying the worn rope around an old, pitted stone bitt.
“Mornin’, May! Thanks for your ’elp,” he
called back, waving to the girl as he lumbered past. Taller than any man on the
island, he dwarfed the little girl, drowning her in his shadow.
“Time for food already?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” replied Robin, “an’ I know
just the place to get some!”
His legs were stiff from sitting in the
boat all morning. He knew he was supposed to get up and move around a bit every
once in a while, but when he was out on the water, the chatter of the gulls,
the lap of the waves, the smell of the sea air, it was all so relaxing he just
didn’t notice the time going by. Only his stomach growls marked the hours.
Mrs. Greenaway, wife of the village
doctor and a friend of May’s parents, happened to be passing by on her way home
from the market. Seeing their exchange, she scrunched up her face, adjusted the
bow on her bonnet, and seized the little girl by the arm, leading her away from
the pier and avoiding Robin’s disappointed gaze. He knew May from the bakery,
as the master baker was one of his very few friends, but it wasn’t uncommon for
people to avoid him.
Robin heaved the awkward tub full of
oysters up and marched towards the bustling market, which was a collection of
simple wooden stalls selling everything from food to clothes to ornaments. He
edged his way through the crowd, past various stallholders and shoppers as he
struggled with the heavy container. Finally, he reached the largest stall,
which sold all manner of fresh seafood, all caught in that very cove. Robin
specialised in inshore fishing, whereas the other boats concentrated their
efforts farther out to sea. He was one of only two oyster fishermen in the
village. The other, Mr. Hirst, was ill and hadn’t been out in his craft for
almost two weeks. He was married, with a young family to feed, and the village
had rallied around to help and make sure they didn’t go hungry. The lack of
competition, however, meant Robin was securing a bumper crop.
A tall, thin man in a white coat was
scribbling notes onto a wad of yellow paper. In front of him lay a collection
of various local fish, in everything from buckets to barrels to battered old
copper pots.
“Got a nice batch for you this mornin’,
Mr. Blackwall.” Robin beamed, holding up the tub so the fishmonger could get a
good look.
“Yes, these will do fine, I suppose, Mr.
Shipp. Put them down at the front.” Mr. Blackwall was notorious for not getting
too hands-on with the product or with much of anything, really. He kept his
distance from the beach and fairly resented having to be even this close. Wet
sand upset him greatly, as it had a tendency to cling to his shiny boots and
sometimes it even marked his pristine coat. He didn’t do any of the actual work
with the fish, instead leaving it to his assistants. He’d often said he didn’t
see the point of having a stall at all when he had a perfectly good shop on
Hill Road. But the market was a tradition in Blashy Cove, and so he had no
choice but to participate or lose out. He jotted some numbers down on his paper
and then chewed the end of his pencil as he tried to add them up. He always did
this, and he never did it quickly. Robin stooped and laid the tub on the ground
as instructed, grunting as he straightened.
“Joints sore again?” the fishmonger
asked out of sheer politeness, not looking up from his calculations.
“No more’n usual,” Robin replied,
rubbing the small of his back and rotating his shoulder. Working the sea wasn’t
easy, and it had taken its toll over the years.
Ben Blackwall reached into his inside
pocket and produced a fistful of polished coins, which he delivered into
Robin’s large, callused hands. Robin nodded appreciatively and stuffed them
into the pockets of his calf-length, navy-coloured overcoat. Tipping his
floppy, well-worn cap to his long-time buyer, he turned and headed away from
the dock.
He passed by other villagers going about
their morning routine and jumped out of the way of a horse and cart loaded with
apples from the orchard over the hills as he headed straight for the immense
building dead ahead. It was a massive, ungainly lump, set in the centre of a
spacious courtyard, all crooked wooden beams and slanting lead-paned windows.
Every now and then, a shabby bay window or wonky dormer jutted out at funny
angles. It was hard to tell exactly how many floors it had. Five, at least, the
topmost of which sat like a box that had been dropped from a great height onto
the rest of the structure. Rumpled, uneven, and crooked, this odd addition had
one large, circular window on each of its four walls. On the ground outside,
wooden tables and chairs were arranged, and heavy planters overflowed with
hardy, perennial shrubbery. A couple of fat seagulls noisily argued over a few
crumbs dropped near the windbreakers. This pair were here so often, they seemed
to be part of the building itself. The locals named them Captain Tom and the
Admiral. Captain Tom was the leader of a particularly noisy and troublesome
band of gulls, and the Admiral was his main rival. They would often fight over
even the tiniest scraps left on the ground, and both were marked with more than
one battle scar.
As he pulled on the heavy oak door, the
sign hanging overhead creaked and groaned in the wind. Painted on chestnut from
the nearby wood, the bulk of the sign was older than the village itself, but it
had been modified many times. Formed of several expertly carved layers, it now
looked more like a child’s pop-up book rather than the simple plank of wood it
had once been. The overall effect was of peering through a forest, out over the
cove at night. The outermost tier resembled a ring of tree branches, gently
moving up and down. Behind that layer were the turbulent waves, which clicked
from side to side. Finally, there was the static crescent moon with a single
cerulean moth flying slowly around, completing one revolution every hour. The
whole sign ticked and whirred endlessly as its springs and cogs went about
their work, and had to be wound up twice a day using a long, metal key kept
tucked behind the tavern’s main door. The name of the establishment was weaved
around and through the artwork in gold.
This wasn’t simply a place to drink or
gather with friends; it was a place to conduct business, a place where people
married, and a place where people mourned. It was a refuge from bad weather and
jilted lovers. This was the heart and soul of the little village.
This was the Moth & Moon.
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Meet the Author
Glenn Quigley is a graphic designer originally from Dublin and now living in Lisburn, Northern Ireland. He creates bear designs for www.themoodybear.com. He has been interested in writing since he was a child, as essay writing was the one and only thing he was ever any good at in school. When not writing or designing, he enjoys photography and has recently taken up watercolour painting.Website | Twitter
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