Hold Back the Tide

by Melinda Salisbury

  When I look up I see my father has begun eating, as though nothing is wrong. And maybe it isn’t. I’m being stupid; I doubt he even realizes what he’s done.

  Pushing down the sorrow in my chest, I sit and lift one of the potatoes from the tray. It drips cream on to the plate, cheese and bacon oozing from the core. This was his speciality when I was little. I used to ask for it at least twice a week, though it was closer to twice a year that he’d make it. He bakes the potatoes in the stove, packed deep in a tray of ashes. When they’re almost done he brings them out and cleans the ash off, then he makes a hole, scooping the innards out. He mixes the potato with cheese and bacon, then crams it all back inside the skin, covering the hole. To serve, he slashes the tops and drizzles cream spiked with garlic and chives, thyme and tarragon over it. They taste salty and smoky and fatty and creamy, they taste like home, but I’m too nervous to take a bite, too frightened of what might come bubbling up to the surface if I do. I take a sip of water instead.

  “Is he courting you? Murren Ross?”

  I almost spit the water across the table. Ren, courting me? As though he’s a gentle laird and I’m a pretty maiden whose hand he seeks in marriage. I half-wish Ren was there to hear it. He’d die.

  I manage to keep a straight face as I reply. “No,” I say. “No one’s courting me. Ren just gets the paper I need for transcribing, cheap from the mill. He came to deliver it because I didn’t go down. The mail cart is due at the end of the week, you see, so I have to finish my work in the next couple of days.”

  My father gives a displeased “hmmm”, then falls silent, as he always does when I talk about my job.

  Which is exactly is why I brought it up.

  It started as another way for me to make myself indispensable to my father, to bring in some money. Being the Naomhfhuil only pays a nominal amount. And that was fine way back when the Naomhfhuil also earned a tithe in meat, cows’ milk, and grain, but those days are long gone, along with my mother’s dowry and my family’s reputation.

  I, on the other hand, earn a decent wage – I’m a lot cheaper than the town scribes, thanks to Ren’s willingness to get paper for me, and my penmanship is exceptional, even if I do say so myself. I’m in demand.

  So much so that I’ve got a job waiting for me, in Thurso.

  See, I’ve been clever – most runaways would head south, to Inverness. But if anyone’s going to look for me, they’ll go there. So I’m heading east. I’ll be working for the clerk at St Peter’s, as an under clerk. He doesn’t even mind that I’m a girl. It’s been four years in the making, four years of planning and squirrelling money away and making enquiries, but now I’m just days from telling Ormscaula to kiss my arse as I ride away from it for good.

  Farewell, judgemental villagers. Goodbye, bad reputation. So long, risk of murder.

  I can’t wait.

  The taste of freedom is enough to wake my appetite, and I dig into my dinner with relish, swallowing memories down with crispy bacon and fluffy potato.

  “So, will he be back?”

  I pause mid-chew and look at my father as understanding dawns. This is why he cooked. That’s why he made enough for three. It wasn’t out of habit. It was in case Ren came home with me. This is a performance, not a supper. Everything’s fine up here, laddie. Just a normal da, caring for his daughter. Won’t you have a potato?

  He thinks that if Ren is someone who is interested in me, then he’s also someone to notice if I’m all right, someone keeping an eye out for me. Someone to tell the village if I pull a vanishing act. After all, losing one family member might be excused as careless; losing two is undeniably suspicious.

  “He’s Liz Ross’s son, isn’t he?” my father continues when I don’t answer. “And he works at the mill, you say?”

  “Of course. Who doesn’t?”

  “Even with his leg?”

  “He doesn’t need his leg for cutting paper.”

  He grunts again.

  We finish the meal in silence, splitting the last potato, as though the reason he cooked so much was so we could have more, and not that he planned for company.

  I’m relieved when we return to the old routine afterwards; I clear the table as my father melts the base of a candle before sticking it to a saucer. He does this every night, even though we have candlesticks, a fine pair of silver ones that came with my mam when he married her.

  As he passes me, making for his study, I’m rocked by a vision of my mother. For a moment she’s there beside me, telling him in a stern voice that doesn’t match the curve of her lips or her sparkling eyes, that we’re not saving the candlesticks for best, that he doesn’t have to worry about using them up.

  Too many memories fighting their way to the surface lately. If I were the superstitious kind, I’d worry.

  I shrug the past off and put the kettle on the stove for tea, listening to the sound of his chair creaking as he settles into it, the thud of the logbook when he opens it, the heavy wooden cover knocking against the desk.

  My father writes in the Naomhfhuil log every night without fail. Even two winters ago, when a fever rendered both of us bedridden and delirious, he still got up and made his checks, meticulously recording what he’d seen before passing out at his desk. He could no more take a day off than he could grow wings and fly over the mountain. That’s what it is to be the Naomhfhuil.

  Naomhfhuil roughly means “holy saint” in the old tongue, a throwback to a few centuries ago when everyone believed a whole bunch of gods lived in the loch, demanding sacrifice and worship, and the Naomhfhuil was the person chosen to act as the liaison between them and us. It was the most important role in the village, once upon a time.

  Until the one true god did his earthquake trick, splitting the mountain and killing the old pagan loch gods, rendering the Naomhfhuil mostly pointless and the loch big enough to drive me around the bend when I have to walk it.

  I light more candles and dot them about the kitchen, lending it a false sense of cheer. By candlelight it looks inviting: the red-and-white-checked cloth on the table, the dresser with its fine china that I dust every week, even though we haven’t used it in for ever. The rack of copper pans, bushels of herbs drying in between them. Nothing has changed in years.

  I catch my reflection in the window as I wash our dishes, blurred by the condensation beading there and distorted by the thick bullseye glass. It rounds out my cheeks, and for a moment my mother looks back at me.

  Spooked, I swipe at the pane, sending rivulets of water trickling down, erasing the image. I pull the scarf from my head and pocket it, running my fingers through my hair to return it to its natural volume. When I check my reflection again, I only see myself.

  Resting my hips on the edge of the sink, I lean forward, pushing the window open to allow the steam out. As I do, the mist creeps in, bringing a chill with it. I still for a while, listening to the faint sound of the loch lapping the shore, and the larger, denser silence around it. I wonder what it will be like to live in a big town, surrounded by the roar of coaches, and people, and whatever else towns sound like.

  Leaning forward once more, I pull the window shut and drop the latch, then close the shutters. I make the tea, holding two mugs in one hand and taking a candle with me, blowing out the others.

  “You replaced the net, you said?” my father asks when I go through. He murmurs thanks as I set down his tea.

  “I did. Oh, and the water level has dropped again. Another five inches since yesterday. It’s so low in the marshes that the bed’s starting to dry.” I pause. “I think it fell even while we were there. An inch, I’m sure of it; I could see by the measuring stakes.”

  He half-turns, stern profile caught by the lamp on his desk. “Did you mention it to the Ross boy?”

  “I didn’t have to. He noticed it himself.”

  My father turns fully to face me. “And is he likely to say anything about it to Giles Stewart?” He sneers as he says the mill owner’s name, spitting it out like pois
on.

  “No, of course not. But Giles will know anyway, once you write and tell him,” I say. When he stays silent, I ask outright. “Da, you have written a report, haven’t you? Because Giles is planning to expand the mill. He needs to know that he can’t; the loch can’t handle what he’s taking from it now.”

  His mouth is set as he replies, “I’ve not written. Not yet.”

  “But—”

  “I said not yet,” he thunders. “Do you think I don’t know my job? I don’t want them all traipsing up here unless it’s absolutely necessary. More fool Giles if he doesn’t realize that mill can’t run day and night like it does without it meaning trouble.”

  He dismisses me by turning back to his desk, and I beat a hasty retreat to my room, berating myself as I go. That was all five rules broken in one go. I’m an idiot. I’m so close to getting out of here; how could I be so stupid as to risk myself now?

  I shut my bedroom door and put my tea and candle on the little stool beside the bed before lying down. My da’s right about one thing – Giles Stewart’s greed is the reason the levels are dropping so fast. He’s the one who’s been increasing the mill’s output all winter, and he’s the one looking to expand and build another pulping tower. There’s no denying it’s because of Giles that too much water is being used, faster than it can be replaced. Surely he can understand that? He must know the loch isn’t infinite.

  I stop myself; I shouldn’t care about this. I’ll be long gone by the time it matters. It’s not my business, and it’s not my problem. My problems lie miles away, in Thurso. That should be taking up every spare bit of space in my mind. Building my new life.

  Pulling a pillow under my head, I try to imagine it. New town, new me. A place of my own. Work. Friends.

  Maybe even—

  The sound of a woman screaming outside tears my fantasies apart.

  I almost knock my tea over in my haste to stand, the switchblade in my hand before I’m on my feet. It’ll be the lugh, I realize. Not a woman. They almost sound the same.

  As I reach my bedroom door my father strides past, a long gun in his hands, the barrel open as he shoves shells into it, snapping it closed with a flick of his wrist.

  He turns to me as he pulls the safety back. “Stay here.”

  Then he’s gone, out into the night.

  I rush to the window but the reflection of the room blinds me to the outside. I pinch the candle out but even so I can’t see more than a few feet ahead, thanks to the mist. There’s no sign of my father, or any cat. I hold my breath, keep myself still, waiting.

  The scream comes again, from the back, by the henhouse.

  Still clutching my knife, I dart from my room, staying close to the walls as I move through the hall to the kitchen. I pull the shutters back and listen.

  It’s silent, but the skin on the back of my neck prickles. Like I’m being watched.

  Something crashes into the front door and I cry out. Then I run towards it, arm raised, knife gripped tightly…

  It flies open and I manage to stop myself just before I stab my father.

  His face is blank, eyes unseeing, apparently unaware how close he came to being the sheath of my knife. I lower it, my heart thundering like a thousand horses racing, but still he says nothing, staring at me – through me. He doesn’t seem to notice the blade in my hand at all.

  My blood runs cold.

  “Papa?” I haven’t said “Papa” since I was a child. My voice is high like a child’s too.

  At last he looks at me.

  “Put that away,” he says, glaring at the knife. I close it and shove it back into my pocket.

  “Did you get it?” I ask, realizing I already know the answer, because I didn’t hear the gun go off. “Do you want to go back out and look?” I offer. “I could come—”

  “No!” he snaps, his eyes blazing. “You’re to stay in the house, do you hear me? And you keep away from the windows. Do you understand me, Alva?”

  I stare at him, fright rooting me to the spot, deadening my tongue.

  “Do you hear me?” he says, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me until my teeth rattle. “You do not leave these walls without my permission.”

  I manage to nod and he releases me.

  Without another word he storms away, back into his study, closing the door.

  I stay where I am, my bowels turned to liquid, too scared to move. I don’t know if I’m going to faint, or be sick, or cry, or worse. So I do nothing, until I’m sure I can move without losing control. Then I go back to my bedroom, closing the door, pausing in the middle of the room, counting my heartbeats. So much for being ready for it. I wasn’t ready at all. I didn’t even try to defend myself.

  I pull the shutters over my window, and when I’m sure my father isn’t coming back, I drop to my knees and push aside the raggedy rug my mother made for me. Digging the knife into the wooden floorboards, I prise one of them up.

  Hidden beneath my bedroom floor is a sturdy canvas bag, a brand-new earasaid – plain, not plaid; a pair of thick-soled boots; two impossibly pretty, lace-trimmed dresses that I could never wear in Ormscaula; a set of carved calligraphy pens, brown, black, red and blue ink; a sheaf of gold leaf; almost two hundred crowns in gold, silver and bronze pieces.

  And the gun my father used to kill my mother, seven years ago.

  FIVE

  I wake early the next morning to find my father has already left the cottage. At first I’m relieved, until I discover he’s taken all the milk with him, the rest of yesterday’s bread, half a block of cheese and some of the dried sausages from the store.

  I break my fast with watery porridge and tea as black as my mood. I could milk the goat – I can hear her bleating outside – but knowing my luck he’d return while I was in the yard and there’d be hell to pay for disobeying him. Better to wait for him to get back.

  It’s when I head to his room to straighten it and I find his bed neatly made, the blankets still tucked with my sharp corners, that I realize he hasn’t slept in it. And when I check his study, I find one of the long guns gone, the box of shells half-empty. He must have left the cottage last night, after I fell asleep, to hunt the lugh. He’s been out all night.

  Back in my room, my own gun hums beneath the floorboards and once again I prise the board up and free it, holding the now-familiar weight in my hand.

  I don’t know why I took it. I don’t know why I still keep it. It’s pretty, if a gun can be such a thing. The flintlock pistols I’m allowed to use belonged to my father’s grandmother. The wood is scratched, the metal dulled, even though they’ve been well cared for; they’re old, and it shows. But the gun that killed my mother is a real beauty.

  The handle is pale wood, inlaid with iridescent abalone shell, and rounded, designed to be cradled in a palm. The barrel is long, elegant really. It takes different bullets to the flintlocks, shiny, silver-pointed things that look nothing like the lead balls the flintlocks use. Most importantly, you can load more than one at a time. Six will fit snugly in the chamber, and it revolves to line them up. And there’s no need to mess around with gunpowder; the whole mechanism is clockwork smooth. I know, because I’ve tried it, though not while it’s loaded. It must be devastating when it is. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Faster than a heartbeat.

  It used to be too big for my hands, but now it fits just fine.

  Sometimes I think about throwing it in the loch, and letting water and time make it into nothing. Other times I fantasize about putting it on the table between me and my father while we’re eating, just gently setting it down, finally there, out in the open. Or handing it to the sheriff, when he next comes through. Telling him what I should have said seven years ago.

  Darker times I imagine using it for retribution, and finding the natural home for those last two bullets.

  If I’m honest with myself, I expect I’ll take it with me and hide it under some different floorboards for seven more years. But at least I’ll have bullets for it. I’ve wanted the
m for so long; just four, to fill the chamber. I can’t shake the feeling the gun wants to be full. Complete.

  Of course, to do that, I have to get down to Ormscaula and find Ren, which is a lot trickier now that I’m forbidden to leave the house.

  You could be down the mountain and back within three hours, a sly voice says in my head.

  I hide the gun away once more, then look out of my window, scanning the loch. No sign of my father. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t come back at any minute.

  He took all that food, the voice continues. That’s a lot of food. I bet he plans to be out at least until supper tonight.

  In the kitchen the clock chimes eight times. We eat supper around six, usually.

  Down and back in three hours… Maybe your last chance…

  Oh hell.

  Before I can think better of it, I find myself outside with a basket in my hand, creeping along the edge of the loch in a plain brown earasaid, eyes peeled for any sign of him. When I make it to the mountain path unseen, some of the fear eases up; the chances of bumping into him on it are pretty remote, unless he has, finally, gone to see Giles. But something in my gut tells me that’s not where he is, and I look north one last time before beginning the journey down.

  Almost an hour later, as I round the last bend on the mountain path, trailing my fingers through the heather, the low hum of Giles’s mill reaches me, disturbing my peace. Then I see Ormscaula; pretty cottages with thatched roofs and white walls, glowing in the sunlight, tiny dots of chickens scratching in neat squares of fenced-off dirt behind them. It’s like something from a storybook; I have to fight the urge to sing as I approach it, with my hair tucked neatly under my earasaid, rosy cheeked from the wind. A simple country maiden, wending her way to the picturesque village she calls home…

  The walk back up the mountain is pure hell on my thighs.

  Still, that’s ahead of me, along with the rest of my troubles, and it’s hard not to feel cheerful under the warm sun. The basket rests in the crook of my left arm, and in my right hand I have a trusty flintlock, half-cocked once more. I like the weight of it, the same as I like the weight of the knife that bounces gently against my leg with each step. What kind of girl – what kind of person – takes comfort in that?