One last look, and then I turn for home. And freeze.
There is a tall, bone-white creature standing between me and the front door.
ELEVEN
It has its back to me, facing the door. It stands seven, maybe eight feet tall, its skin corpse pale. It has no hair at all, its head and long limbs bare, and it wears no clothes or covering; I can see its ribs and every vertebra of its spine, the buttocks flat, the skin tight over the wrists and ankles, as though it’s starving.
When it turns, slowly, I freeze, my rock gripped in my hand so tight it hurts.
Shock ripples through me as I take it in; the eyes are large but filmed over, the nose nothing more than two holes, like a snake. The lips are the same bone white as the rest of its skin, stretching wide across its face. I can’t tell whether it’s male or female; its crotch is completely smooth, its chest flat and unmarked too.
Whatever it is, it’s not human.
My entire body turns to ice as it looks towards me, its head weaving oddly side to side, but its eyes stay unfocused, no jolt of connection with mine. Then it raises its chin. It’s smelling the air, I realize. It can’t see me. It’s trying to locate me by my scent.
I don’t move a muscle, not a single one, locking my knees.
It tilts its head. One long, pointed nail – no, talon – at the end of a slender finger with too many joints taps against its thigh as it sniffs the air again.
I feel the breeze against my face. I’m upwind of it, my scent blowing away behind me, out towards the loch.
But it still knows I’m here. It’s waiting for me to give myself away.
Behind it the cottage goes dark; my father must have snuffed the candles out in the kitchen. He’ll be heading to his study, the other side of the cottage.
If he looked out of the kitchen window, he’d see me. He’d see it.
Look out, Papa. Please. Please look out, I think, a tear escaping my eye.
The creature turns back towards the house, head canting as it listens. Then, fast as I can blink, it turns and runs towards the sheds.
Still I don’t move. Can’t move. For all I know there is a horde of them behind me, for all I know it’s a trap, and the only thing keeping me alive is the fact I haven’t moved.
Somewhere to my left, down near the sheds, I hear a scream. It sounds like a woman being murdered.
It’s the same scream I heard a few nights ago, outside my bedroom window.
It wasn’t a lugh.
The shutters in my window open slightly, drawing my attention. Then my father throws them wide, staring out at me, still rooted to the spot, silvery tracks on my cheeks.
He vanishes and a second later the front door opens. I move then, flying towards it, throwing myself into the house. I collapse to the floor, my legs no longer working.
I can’t take my eyes off the outside, expecting the pale thing to come after me at any second.
My father shuts the door and throws the bolt, and I see a flintlock in his hand, cocked and ready. He walks past me, into the kitchen, and I hear the sound of a chair being dragged over the slate floor, then a cork being pulled from a bottle, liquid hitting the bottom of the glass.
He’s back, scooping me up like I’m a wean, carrying me into the kitchen. My skirts are cold and damp against my legs, and I realize I’ve wet myself. Shame burns through me, but he doesn’t seem to notice, dropping me into a chair near the stove.
He opens the door, releasing a blast of heat that scorches my face, and shoves the glass into my hand.
“Drink,” he says, and I do, relishing the burn of the whisky as it sears a trail down my throat and into my stomach. If it hurts it means I’m alive.
I glance over at him. He’s moved to the sink, leaning over, peering out of the window. I can’t help looking too, terrified I’ll see it again, blind eyes somehow fixed on me anyway. But the only thing in the window is his reflection.
He closes the shutters and walks towards me, topping up the glass up again.
“Slowly, this time,” he says, and I take a sip, and then another, until I notice the glass in my hand isn’t shaking any more.
He watches me. And then he says, “So you saw one.”
I nod.
And then his words sink in.
Saw one. As in, there are more. And he knew about them.
I understand now. His fury when he caught me outside the other night. His forbidding me from leaving the cottage. It makes sense. He knew they were out there. And he didn’t tell me.
“What are they?” I ask.
He is quiet for a long moment.
“You remember why the Naomhfhuil role was created, originally? That the Naomhfhuil’s job was to deal with the gods of the loch?” he says finally, filling a glass for himself and sitting at the table, his eyes in shadow. “What you saw tonight is what our people once believed were those gods.”
For a moment I think I’ve misheard him. “As in, the gods that were supposed to have been killed in the earthquake?” He gives a brief nod. “That was a god?”
“No,” he says immediately. “They’re not gods. They were never gods. It was a word people used to explain things they didn’t understand, creatures they couldn’t comprehend.” He pauses, looking at me over the rim of his glass. “Do you understand?”
“Aye,” I say, the whisky turning me bold. “They’re not gods. Though I can’t imagine why anyone would think giant white bald things with no private bits were gods.”
Da’s mouth twitches and for a second I think he’s going to smile. Then his face becomes stern once more.
“You don’t need to worry about them. They won’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of that. Best to forget what you saw.”
Is he joking? How am I supposed to forget them? I shake my head, questions spilling from me.
“Are they dangerous? How many of them are there?”
“Alva—”
“Where do they live? Why haven’t I seen them before? Did they go away? Do they migrate?”
“Please, lass,” he snaps. “Enough. I’ve told you.” He wipes his hand across his face. “You don’t need to concern yourself. Get some rest.” His tone makes it clear it’s not a suggestion.
I close my mouth, biting my protest back. I still need to play by the rules. “All right. Goodnight, then,” I say, standing slowly.
My father nods, looking away from me to the open door of the stove. The firelight reflects in his eyes, flames dancing there like he’s the devil. It sends a shiver through me.
As I reach the door he stops me. “Wait,” he says. “Are you planning on going into the village tomorrow? To take your work to the mailman?”
“Yes.” I wait for him to forbid me, to order me to stay in the cottage again, but he merely gives a single nod.
“Will you answer me one thing?” I ask. “You say they’re not gods, so what are they?”
His expression is bleak. “Something else. Now off to bed, I’ll deal with it. Trust me.”
It’s the one thing I can never do.
I leave the room on wobbly legs that owe just as much to the whisky as leftover fear. I lock myself in the washroom and strip, rescuing the pine candy from my pocket. I leave the dirty skirts on the floor while I wash myself.
When I close my eyes I see the creature turning towards me again. My teeth start to chatter, though I don’t feel cold.
I wrap my earasaid around me and head into my room. My father is at my window, turning the key in the lock on the shutters.
“For peace of mind,” he says gruffly, stepping around me without meeting my gaze, shutting the door behind him. He’s left his candles on the stool by my bed, three of them welded to the plate with wax.
Crouching down, I peer under my bed. My bag is still there, tucked back in the shadows, and I shove the bag of candy inside before pushing it to the wall again. The morning won’t come soon enough. If I didn’t already have enough reason to flee, the existence of these gods, or whatever they
are, would have made up my mind.
I change into my nightshirt and climb into bed, deciding it won’t hurt to leave the candles burning tonight. Then I tug the blankets up, over my head. The walls feel too thin, not strong enough to keep those things out. I curl up smaller, pulling my pillow down and dislodging the letters I’d written to Giles. I sit up, holding one in each hand. It feels like a lifetime ago that I wrote them.
I’ll need to write another, I realize. I have to warn the villagers there are monsters up here, in case my father doesn’t. They’ve a right to know what they’re facing. Then I sigh. I don’t know what they’re facing. Not old gods, is all I have. Something else.
Like that helps.
I’ll do it in the morning, before I go. Hopefully things will be clearer then. That decided, I push the first two letters back under the pillow, and hunker down under the covers.
Fear is a funny thing. Moments ago, I worried the walls wouldn’t keep that thing out. But now, whisky warming my veins, my heart beating at a normal pace again, covered in the blankets I’ve had since I was little, I feel … if not safe – because I haven’t felt safe for a long time – then steady. Even the sound of my father in the kitchen is comforting, for the first time in years, because it means I’m not alone. I’m glad he was here tonight, and that he looked outside. If he hadn’t… I turn from that thought. He did. And he came for me. I’m grateful.
I still shiver when I think of the creature’s face, and hands, and I expect it would be a whole other matter if I blew the candles out and lay in the dark – but my fear feels manageable now. It helps that it’s quiet outside, except for the familiar sound of the loch hushing and shushing. I let myself sink into the floating feeling the whisky has given me. I leave the flames burning and I don’t think of the thing, even as my eyelids grow heavy.
I sleep.
*
The room is dark when I wake, except for a thin golden line of daylight between the shutters.
And it all comes back to me.
I sit up, gasping for breath like I’m breaking through water, my hand clutching my nightshirt.
Bone-pale skin, hairless, blind. Wide mouth. Those terrible, terrible fingers.
Within a blink I’m out of bed, throwing open my bedroom door.
“Da? Da?” I call.
He’s not here.
To be sure, I check every room: the washroom, his study, his bedroom, the kitchen. In every room the shutters are closed, and when I try to open them, I find they’re all locked. I look for the key, expecting to see it sitting in one of the locks, but it isn’t.
By the time I try the front door, I already know what to expect, though it doesn’t stop me from punching it with the base of my fist and swearing.
He’s locked me in.
Whether to keep me safe, or to keep me from running screaming all the way down to the village, he’s made me a prisoner.
I lean my forehead against the door. How am I going to leave Ormscaula today if I can’t even leave the cottage?
TWELVE
By candlelight, I ransack the place, going through every drawer in the kitchen, tipping every cup and jar over and rummaging in the contents, spilling years’ worth of useless knick-knacks on to the table. I find broken clothes pegs, single buttons, rusted nails, a dull penknife, but no key. He’ll have the one for the front door with him, but the spare key for the shutters might still be here; I just have to find it. In my hunt I leave a trail of wreckage behind me, letting everything lie where it falls as I move on.
Into my father’s room, placing the candle on the stool by his bed as I lift the mattress and peer beneath it. I check inside his drawers, turn his shoes out. I pull every item of clothing from his chest, patting down the pockets, tossing them aside when I find nothing. I even try prising up some of the floorboards in case he has one like mine, perfect for hiding things under. But still no key, and my heart beats like an executioner’s drum.
I don’t care if he comes back, I don’t care if he catches me. I have to get out of here today. This is my chance – maybe my only chance. My job, everything I’ve worked for, saved for…
I need that key.
By the time I get to his study I’m in a rage, a human hurricane tearing through the house, not giving a damn what’s in my way, or whether I destroy it. I only stop when I see both long guns and both pistols are gone from his gun cabinet. I check the bullet and powder store and see it’s depleted too.
My father, the godslayer.
I search the room, pulling books out and checking behind them, standing on the window seat to feel across the tops of the bookshelves, going through the drawers in his desk. My heart leaps when I find a leather pouch, feeling the outline of a key inside, until I pull it out and realize that it’s too small for the shutters and the wrong shape; the end is a twelve-pointed star, narrow at the tip, like an arrow, the bow a wide hole I can easily grip. I don’t know what it’s for, but it’s not what I need.
At the bottom of the same pouch I find a cameo of my mam and I pause. I’ve not seen it before. I take it over to the candle and examine it. She’s young, only a little older than I am. It’s uncanny how alike we look; the same wide cheeks and pointed jaw, the same insolent quirk to the mouth. Aside from my dark hair and eyes, I could be her twin. I pocket the cameo, and the strange key, and think about what to do next.
There is a place I haven’t checked. But he wouldn’t dare…
Would he?
I walk back to the hall, candle in hand, and face the closed door to the parlour.
It’s been shut since that night. As far as I know my father hasn’t set foot in there since. Neither have I. It was always my mam’s special room, even before it became her cenotaph.
But it’s the only room I haven’t looked in. The only one he’d never expect me to enter.
Gritting my teeth and pushing my shoulders back, I open the door.
I know at once he hasn’t been in here. The shutters at the windows have been locked for a long, long time; the room smells stuffy and stale. Dust begins to dance as fresh air rushes in, glittering in the light from the candle. I take a deep breath and step inside.
I’d forgotten how pretty it was. Mam had decorated it to her taste; the walls with their fine, floral paper, the long, low twin sofas upholstered in yellow silk patterned with pink roses. The delicate tables with their long, spindly legs, the ornamental boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell. Fine things she brought up here from her childhood home, after her parents died and her brother moved away. Before Giles began building his empire, my mother’s family were the richest in Ormscaula.
Crossing over a thickly piled rug, I open one of the boxes and find pine candies inside, old now. When I lift one it smells of nothing. The scent is gone for ever.
All the fight goes out of me and I put the candy back, closing the box.
Defeated, I close the door to my mother’s parlour and return to the study. I might as well tidy up. My eyes sting and I rub them viciously.
“I will not cry. I will not,” I mutter through clenched teeth as I cross towards the bookcase.
The next thing I know my ankle twists as a pen rolls beneath my foot, my arms windmilling for balance I can’t find. I scrabble to save myself, grabbing uselessly at the cushion on the window seat.
It comes away in my hand with a violent tearing sound, and I hit the floor hard, yelping as the impact jars my spine and my teeth snap together with a loud clack, rattling my skull. With my free hand I slap the floor, biting my lip to keep from screaming. Jesus Christ, it hurts.
When my ears finally stop ringing I slowly haul myself to my feet, rubbing the bottom of my back, and examine the window seat. There are strips of fabric stuck to the bare wooden top where it had been fixed on to it; I’ve ripped it clean off. My heart sinks as I realize I can’t reattach it.
It’s as I lower it back into place, vainly hoping my father won’t notice, that I see a small hole in the top of the seat, th
e exact size and shape of the odd key I’ve just found. My jaw drops as I understand what I’m seeing.
It’s not a seat, but a box, built into the recess under the window. With the cushion on, you’d never be able to tell.
I forget my pain and pull the key from my pocket. As I turn it, the lock releases, and the key becomes a handle. I lift the lid.
And I stare.
There are seven books hidden inside, bound in kidskin and nestled in the softest wool I’ve ever touched. I lift one out: it’s the same size as the Naomhfhuil logs on the shelves, but so old that when I open it the paper starts to disintegrate. I hastily replace it before it’s completely destroyed. The next two are just as fragile, and I leave them alone.
But the fourth seems sturdier, so I sit on the floor, crossing my legs and resting it gently on my lap. The cover is so soft, like chamois, or fine suede. Real fancy stuff. I open it and give the page a careful prod, relieved that it stays intact. So I begin, cautiously, to flick through it.
I can’t read it. The oldest books I’ve seen are written in Old Scots, and I needed help reading those – but they were nothing compared to the book I hold now. It’s all symbols, not even words, either it’s some kind of code, or a language more ancient than Old Scots. I scan a few paragraphs, but nothing makes sense.
And then I turn a page and I see it.
All the fear I felt last night comes back threefold as my fingers clutch at my nightshirt collar with remembered panic.
The artist was skilled, I’ll give them that. The ink has faded to rust, like old blood, but the images are still sharp, the details still true. It’s the thing I saw last night, here in this book, drawn over and over.
As I gaze at the pictures, unable to look away, I can see exactly why the one I saw seemed so wrong to me, out there on the path. So inhuman. Its limbs are too long, making the creature look spindly, almost frail. It doesn’t look as though it should be able to support its own weight, not an ounce of meat or fat on it. Cadaverous, is the word, I think. Or starved. Just sinew and hollow.
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