Excerpt: Seahawk

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SEA HAWK

By

Michael John Walsh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© 2025 by Michael John Walsh

 

 

 

 

 

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CONTENTS:

 

Prologue: A Dark Night of the Soul

1. The End of the World

2. Ghostly Artifacts

3. Learning to Fly

4. Death & Rebirth

5. Pirates and the Serpent of Gatun

6. No Land In Sight

7. The Mark of the Beast

8. The Witch and the Way Home

Epilogue: Not All Who Are Lost Wish to Be Found

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Prologue:

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     Before she was a myth, Laura Barrett was a woman gripped by despair. In her darkest moment, she chose to be cleansed by the sea - reborn of salt, wind and sails.

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     “The soul is conscious of a profound emptiness in itself, a cruel diminution of the goods which are ordained for its comfort. It finds itself in the midst of opposing evil, miserable imperfection, dryness and emptiness of being, leaving the spirit abandoned  in darkness."    

– St. John of the Cross, OCD

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     In 1579, from his prison cell in Toledo, Spain, a counter-reformation Carmelite friar named Juan de Yepes y Álvarez wrote a treatise describing the transformation of the tortured soul. In it, he described a stage of purification which involved the celestial congress of the inner spirit with the source of all creation. Through this purgation, the soul is cleansed—and, through suffering, achieves peace in communion with nature.​ In his seminal works, it was known as: “The Dark Night of the Soul.”

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     Laura Taylor Barrett simply called it… “Freedom.”

 

     In the human condition, nothing is more profound than the cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth. Laura’s story is one of painful tragedy, self-discovery, spiritual growth, and supernatural destiny. With only her passion and sheer force of will she redefined herself in the role of a modern promythic mariner. As she faced the enigma of the abyss, what stared back at her is the stuff of legend.

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1. The End of the World
    

     Her story begins on a dark and dreary day. The sky above is swollen and saturated. Almost brooding. Heavy gray clouds weep over the landscape soaking everything in melancholia. The air is choked with the malodor of death as it pervades every acre of the Barrett Estate – like Mother Nature herself is mourning her loss with a thunderous reprise.

     The Cape Fear River, normally rustic and refreshing, presents a dull and gloomy backdrop. Its typically languid current is confused and choppy. The land that rises from the banks is damp and hushed – discordant. No birds can be heard lilting from their treetops.

    No one notices the murmuration of blackbirds roosting on the dormers. Their dark vigil tacitly aware. Or, the illusory figure that stands at the upstairs window. Laura has not left her room in days. A shadow peering through the glass – frail and distorted – vaguely womanlike. Watching as the doleful guests arrive.

    A long gravel driveway snakes its way toward the house – situated on a knoll overlooking the property. A dreadful arrangement of limousines and attending vehicles can be seen forming the funeral motorcade. All dutifully lined up along the driveway of the stately home where the mourners are gathering to pay their respects.

     Down below Laura’s mother, a grisled and stoic woman, stands alone on the front porch in a black dress. Her mood is on edge. Her hands shake uncontrollably as she fiddles with a lighter desperately trying to ignite a cigarette. The quiet muttering and stifled sobbing have driven Lillian outside in a fit of anxiety. The scrapping of flint and the clanking of dishware from inside combine with a maddening consonance.

     She succeeds in fixing her addiction amid a shower of sparks and muffled expletives. She exhales the smoke gratefully when the nicotine finally seeps into her bloodstream. Tremors abated, she crushes the butt with a classic black Louboutin pump. Then, straightens her DVF dress, teases her coif, and turns on her heel to go back inside. It is going to be a grueling day.

    Lillian botches her entrance struggling to get the massive portico door open. Everything feels heavy today with the added burden of Martin’s death. The ornate portiere with its engraved floral design was carved out of a single plank of French oak. The monolithic slab was said to be over two hundred years old. To her daughter Laura, and her husband Martin, it was a point of pride – a preview of the harmony within. To Lillian it is more like a portcullis meant to repell barbarians, carpetbaggers, or the occasional wide-eyed missionary. Did she hate it because it stood rigid and unyielding? Or, was it simply a keen reminder of her own uncompromising nature? Who knows?

     Once inside, Lillian looks quickly around the living room for Laura, but she has not yet come down. She slinks toward the staircase, heading upstairs when she is intercepted by a distinguished looking gentleman in a smart black Italian suit. Custom cut. Very expensive. Charles is an older man who carries himself with the style and prowess of a man accustomed to being obeyed. He is the managing partner at the lawfirm, Coleman-Barrett, and Associates, where Martin Barrett spent his formidable years. He is the extempore patriarch of the organization, and a keen meddler in the affairs of his staff.

When he spots Lillian trying to avoid the gathering, he seizes on the opportunity to corner her.
     “Lillian, my dear – how are you holding up?” His tone dripping with pretense. She is caught off-guard–which Charles savors with exuberance. He cherishes these moments when he can put her on an unsteady footing.

     She freezes in her tracks–hackles raised. In a reflexive act her claws come out, which she immediately balls into fists. She meets his advance with tired skepticism. “Christ, Charles! You’re hovering!”

     He dodges her barb and counters with one of his own. “Come now, Lil.’ Don’t you think we’re both getting a little long in the tooth for these games?” She gives him an icy glare. “Besides, someone’s got to look after you girls now that Martin is gone.”

     She bristles at his inference. “Really? And who would that be, Charles? You? Alan, or one of your other turgid proteges?” Her jab lands hard. “How many potential surrogates have you already recruited from your stable at the firm?” Then, the one-two punch, “On Laura’s behalf of course!”

     He covers. “That’s not fair, Lil.’ You know I cared very deeply for Martin. I loved him like a son! And, when he married your daughter, Laura, I came to love her too.” Counter punch. “Even if she is a chip off your ‘old’ block!” This was surgical sparring aimed right for Lillian’s most sensative spot. Her age. However, she is undeterred.

     She expected a cheap shot from him, and returns with, “Yeah? Well, this ‘old pugilist’ is going upstairs to see if my grieving daughter is in any shape to do this rope-a-dope right now.” She gestures around the living room at the odd collection of sycophants. Then, in a humbler tone, “She hasn’t come downstairs all morning.”

     Charles can see the exchange taking a serious turn. He shifts to a more subtle form of gaslighting. He lays it on thick, “Is there anything I can do my dear? Do you want me to come up?”

     There it is – her openning! She takes a quick look around to make sure nobody can overhear her poke this bear. Then, she aims true and sinks the dagger where it hurts. In a staged whisper she breathes, “Don’t worry ‘Cubby.’ When I want you to come, I’ll let you know!”

     His jaw goes slack at her insinuation. Beads of sweat begin forming on his upper lip. “Jesus, Lil’! Keep your voice down!” He rasps. He shoots a look over to his wife, who is otherwise engaged with her ilk playing tittle-tattle. “My wife might hear your sordid assumptions!” He shakes his head in mock concern. “I can just imagine what she would say…”

     Another dagger. “Probably what she always says, Charles!”

     The corners of his mouth turn up. There she is. He enjoys these moments with Lillian. She is a wily adversary who never seems to disappoint. “Why, my dear, if I could service myself there would be little left for you to do!” He pauses to let that sink in. “Then again, you’re a clever ‘old girl.’ I’m sure you could think of something!”

     Lillian reveals an ironic smile. Victory is hers. “Yes, I do like to play my part, darling.” She leads a look down at his crotch. “Even if it is a small one!” She leaves him scrambling for a remark, but he is stymied by her touché comeback.

     He leans on the bannister, as he fishes through his suit pockets looking for a handkerchief. The engagement has left him with a furrowed and sweaty brow, and a faint but unmistakable bulge of tension below his belt.

     Charles’ wife, Judith, spots the exchange from across the room. She comments to the delight of her group, “It looks like his ego isn’t the only thing inflated.” Then, sighs, “I don’t understand his infatuation with that woman and her progeny.”

     Lillian bolts upstairs, but stops short at the top. The air is heavy with the miasma of grief. The door at the end of the landing is ajar. A warm light emanates from inside. Beyond, her daughter’s life is unraveling. She feels ill-equipped to deal with this level of honesty. She considers turning around to go back down. At least trading insults with Charles is less emotionally taxing than this promises to be.

     She decides to press forward. Her daughter needs her now. She stops to check her reflection in the hallway mirror. The face staring back looks played out. Gathering her composure, she draws one final deep breath. “Time to play mother.”

     She raises an elegantly withered, yet diamond-encrusted hand. Producing a barely audible knock at the door. She strains to listen, but there is no answer – Laura does not respond.
     Inside, Laura sits at her vanity dressed in black taffeta, teasing a black gauze veil. Absently clasping a pearl earring, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her face is composed, but her eyes betray exhaustion. She pulls off the veil in frustration.
     She examines the lines on her face, the way crow’s feet, laugh lines, and dark circles under sunken eyes carve her complexion. She pulls at the sides of her face in a mock facelift. Morbidly frowning at the mirror. A heavy sigh reveals her disenchantment.
     The crow's feet are the evidence of years spent lying in the sun at the beach. She longs for those simpler days at the Cape. The laugh lines are deep, but earned. And the bags–ugh! The bags! She glares at her own reflection. A hardened betrayal of everything she has been telling herself.
     How long has it been since she laughed? Days? Weeks? Her reflection feels old. All the grief and constant crying have left her depressed and emotionally drained. Her thoughts drift to Martin’s final days before he left – never to return. His mood was crestfallen with the need to go out of town on such an unavailing and last minute trip. He had promised to take her to the ‘Vinyard’ for a respite when he returned. Then, the unthinkable. The plane crash that crushed her heart. Never to be made whole again.
     She glances out the window at the gloom. The weather matches her mood. From her seat, she can see the barn that was her husband’s separate peace. It looms ominous, appearing sullen in the gray morning light. She can almost see Martin in there, working on his labor of love. A vintage wooden sailboat he was restoring and refitting by hand. A memory stirs from deep within. In a flash, she is transported back in time.

     In her vision, the gloom abaits giving way to an early morning last spring. Before any of this…
     Golden sunlight bathes the barn. Martin stands beside the unfinished hull, his hands running over the smooth wood. He looks up at the house, and gives her that boyish grin that had always captivated her. She is watching him intently from their bedroom window. She scratches her most intimate thoughts in her personal journal. It is a ritual that both grounds her, and adds a certain acuity to the moment. 

     He calls up to her. His voice echoing across time. “I see you! Come down here, I want to show you something!” 

     In her confused imagination, she hesitates then smiles back – absently. When she moves to rise, the memory quickly fades. She blinks and slips back to the present. What was golden morning light dissolves into a flat and colorless gloom. Lifeless. Cold. Out the window, the barn door is ajar revealing darkness within. No Martin, only an edgy stillness. Then…

     Dissonant voices return to her senses – emanating from downstairs – reminding her what day it is. Everyone has gathered, waiting to depart for the funeral service. They are Martin’s former colleagues. Acquaintances from his work life, not Laura’s. She hates them. 
     She stares at her tired visage in the mirror. Her mood is smoldering. Hollow. Murmurings of conversation reverberate in her ears. She can make-out the conversations. “Distraught,” one was heard to say. “Disfunctional,” or “Pitiful,” declares another. And her favorite, “Intractable grief – unbecoming for a woman of her upbringing!” She’s heard them all. 

     She knows she should go visit among them but she dreads having to face their scrutiny. Some of them have come out of their way to attend the funeral. Not out of devotion, but out of expectation. Even their condolences are transactional. They grouse amongst themselves about the food, about the weather, and how they should all be leaving for the cemetery soon to avoid the rain. It’s all so tedious she cannot bring herself to abandon the confines of her room.
     An untouched breakfast tray sits idly by the door. Her clothes litter the floor. The vanity is piled with makeup and creams. Beside her diary, a set of silver combs and an antique mirror clutter the table. All along the back-stop are a collection of pill bottles. Some were Martin’s, but the majority belong to her. A pharmacy of false countenance. Pills to help her mood. Pills to help her sleep. Muscle relaxers for pain. Valium for anxiety, along with Zanax and something else she cannot pronounce. Her precious opiates.

     She studies the containers while her mind revisits a dream she had last night. Or, was it an eerie sort of premonition? It’s hard to tell at this point. Her prescripted mind is foggy – plagued by misery and a lack of sleep.
     She dreampt of being jostled around by the violent pitching of a boat. She could hear raindrops on the outside of the hull. Lightning flashes cut through the window coverings in the salon. The companionway doors flying open, then slamming shut with the motion of the boat.

     She jumped out of the passage birth, fumbling around for the light. Struggling to put on her harness and raincoat as she scrambled up the ladder. In her haste to get topside, she failed to clip her safety lanyard to the jack line. A small but critical detail.
     Outside, a tremendous gale has engulfed the boat. Waves four to six meters high are cresting over the bow, bathing the deck in seawater. Straining her eyes in the dark, Laura attempts to make out the extent of the storm with little success. Although, brief flashes of lightning do reveal the condition of her vessel.

     She makes her way, slipping and sliding along the bulwark moving forward. Grabbing the nearest rigging as the bow heaves out of the water like a breaching whale. The rain is driving hard, pelting her face like a sandblaster. Stinging and cold.
     Overhead, the full moon has emerged from behind angry clouds, bracketed by three brightly shining stars. Then, like ripples on a pond, the vision fades and the weight returns. Pressing down upon her head, and chest – her breathing is shallow.

     She shakes her head – her skin prickles. Is that the faint smell of seawater on her hands? She grips the edge of the vanity, trying to clear the nightmare from her mind. She cannot make sense of the images in her head. She turns to focus on the Valium container. Her hands grip the bottle desperately, as she removes the cap. Depositing one modest little tablet into her hand. She scrutinizes it closely, then closes her eyes and gulps it down.

     She swallows hard to get the pill past the lump already in her throat. She shakes the entire bottle onto the table running a morbid, quivering finger through her stash.

     “A handful of these could stop the nightmares. Could stop …everything.” She gives the idea unwholesome consideration. “And why not?” She asks her reflection. “It wouldn’t take long for the vultures downstairs to pick my bones clean.” She sits with that thought for a moment. “Besides, it was Martin they all favored anyway. He was one of their own. I was just a spouse to them. A trifle – a wifey.” She gazes into the mirror, as if expecting a response. “Well?”

     Laura regards her reflection with a combination of self-pity and contempt. Martin knew her for who she truly was. Now that love is passed, and she is left alone. A shell of a person. Hollow and unfamiliar. Could the clique’s denigration be any less painful?         “Poor wretched…widow!” The words stick in her throat. Then, a shift in temper, “Don’t do this to yourself. Not now – not with them around…,” she bolsters herself. “Buck up, Laura!” Pessimistically chiding the mirror, “ Make your mother proud.”

     She stands, adjusting herself for the slings and arrows that will riddle her if she leaves herself unguarded. She finds the sordid politics of the firm, and its gossip, despicable. Then, as she grapples with the veil for a second time, detecting a faint knock at the door. Her mother Lillian is checking up on her.

     “Laura darling, people are waiting to pay their respects, dear.” A long silence. “Please come downstairs?” Lillian’s plea feels desperate. “They’re growing impatient.”
     Laura curses under her breath, “To Hell with them.” Then, she thinks better of it. “Coming, mother.” Her tone is thick with resentment. “Mustn’t keep them waiting…” Years of conditioning has taught her to obey, when Lillian demands decorum.

     She makes her way downstairs. Moving ghostly through the dining room and into the hall where she passes mindlessly through the gathering in the living room. Charles has rejoined his wife, who comments on Laura’s appearance.

     “Laura, dear! Don’t you look lovely!” Then, “Charles and I are very proud of how well you are holding up.” Charles nods and mumbles something in agreement.

     Lillian appears, managing her daughter’s attendance, “Yes, she comes from good stock!” That dagger aimed directly at Charles, who winces from the coded attack.

     Without acknowledging anyone, Laura proceeds to the front door, opens it wide, and walks out without closing it. Her breath crystalizes in the chill air, as she walks across the lawn toward the barn – drawn by something unseen. Her heels crunch against a blanket of fallen leaves, the breeze cold against her skin.
     She steps inside the doorway, inhaling the lingering scent of teak, linseed oil, and sawdust. The air is heavy and thick in her nostrils.

     The wind billows eerily through the structure, creating ethereal sounds. Wisps of sawdust dance along the rough hewn timbers that lay unfinished. The vessel is in there lying still. A hulk unrealized. Speaking to her. Waiting… just like her. 

     In the unsettling silence, she imagines a faint whisper calling to her – haunting – distant. “L a u r a…” A chill runs through her, giving her goosebumps. Her thoughts race as she recalls that eerie dream. The vision is strong. Lingering in her mind’s eye. And there is something else. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. Something resonant–visceral. Again, the voice calls from beyond, “N o t… y e t…”

     She speaks the message back to herself, “Not yet…” She repeats it over again, as if the retelling will clarify some meaning. “Not yet? For what?” The voice is criptic, surreal. “Who’s there!” Her fractured tone shatters the ambiance. Then, someone can be heard calling out. She pauses – listening for the connection.

     One of the guests has spotted her, “Not yet. She’s out in the barn.” Suddenly, Laura becomes aware of her surroundings. They are looking for her. Inside, the house, the guests are getting restless.

     Lillian emerges on the front porch. She is pensive, concerned. She does not understand her daughter’s odd behavior. Laura’s figure is wraithlike. Forelorn. She moves with no apparent purpose, inexorably drawn toward the boat in the barn.

     Lillian watches as her daughter stands expressionless in the grip of her suffering. Alan, an associate of Martin’s, comes out to stand next to Lillian. He cannot reconcile this odd behavior either. Lillian turns to acknowledge him. They give each other knowing glances that confirm their conspiracy. Then, Lillians voices her obvious trepidation.

     “Jesus! I hope there isn’t another psychotic break coming.” She motions for Alan to go see what is the matter. Obediently, he glides toward the barn with the movement of a predator. His wounded and unsuspecting prey defenseless inside.
     In the barn, Laura stands beside the sailboat, tracing its unfinished hull. A monstrous vessel that lay nestled in its jacks. Alan’s footsteps come crunching up behind her. She checks her emotions sensing an awkward moment in the making.

     Turning she sees, Alan, hands in his pockets watching her carefully. “You won’t leave me alone, yet none of you seem equipped to deal with my grief.” She repells him, instead returning to her examination of the relic.

     For years it has laid there in measured stages of reconstruction. Its timbers still rough in some places. The teak reeking with the rancid smell of hardwood soaked in oil. Chisel marks and curls of plane shavings still litter the decks and the surrounding floor. Every joint and abutment is fitted with precision and care. A telltale sign of Martin’s dedication, mixed with a dram of Heidegger’s hammer.
     Alan observes her uncanny fascination with Martin’s ‘other’ passion. A 40ft. masthead sloop. Little more than a gutted hull. Laura was Martin’s beloved, but this hobby bore deep significance. The boat represented a more tactile form of expression. Focused creativity – albeit, a somewhat costly one. Still, a quietly spiritual means of escape from the demands and pressures of his career.

     Laura channels his desire loud enough for Alan to hear, “He longed for the sea!” Her hands tremble as she connects with the energy trapped in its form. A palpable vibe that speaks of her husband’s obsession with existential freedom. And something else, something older. More mysterious. In a spooky kind of trance, she stands transfixed…