Hold Back the Tide

by Melinda Salisbury

  I keep looking. The next few are faces, etched with astonishing detail. In the pictures the creature’s eyes look bright and alert, not like the filmed-over eyes of the one I saw, and I wonder if maybe it’s an anomaly, or if it’s much older than those in the book. The ears are high on the head, a little pointed at the ends. The lips are the same, long and thin, the nose two depressions in the centre of its face. Its skin has been shaded – it looks like it would be coarse to the touch.

  Not that I ever plan to find out.

  I flip to the next page and shove the book off my lap, swearing freely.

  Every hair on my body is on end, my breath caught somewhere between my mouth and lungs. I don’t want to look at it again, but I force myself, my hand trembling as I pull the book back on to my knees and find the page once more.

  If it had opened its mouth last night, my heart would have burst. The picture has been drawn as though the creature was frozen, lunging at the viewer, and it’s petrifying.

  Its maw is a gash that stretches across its entire face, two rows of teeth inside it. The back row contains masses of short, needle-thin teeth, all wickedly sharp, crowded together and crossing over each other in places as if they’ve grown in haste.

  The front row contains just four teeth. Two pairs of canines, the same place mine are, except mine are maybe a quarter of the length. The creature’s are so long I don’t know how they fit inside its mouth when it’s closed.

  How could anyone have ever thought these were gods? Demons, maybe, escaped from the pits of hell, but not gods. I can’t imagine how the artist saw it like this, and I don’t want to.

  I’m lost in the image, staring at it, when something batters at the front door and I jump.

  Scrambling to my feet, leaving the book on the floor, I cast around for a weapon, cursing my father for taking the guns and leaving me trapped in here like bait.

  I think of the knives in the kitchen and run into the hallway, my pulse thundering in time with the thumping at the door.

  “Alva?” a voice calls from the other side. It is sharp with fear, but I know it. “Alva? Are you there?”

  “Ren? Ren? I’m here! I’m in here!” I press myself against the door, as if I could push through it.

  “Alva!” he says again. “Are you all right?”

  I laugh weakly. “Well enough. My da locked me in. The shutters and the door. I can’t get out.”

  A moment’s pause. “Do you want me to get you out?”

  “No, I’m happy being held prisoner,” I snap, before I can stop myself.

  I can hear laughter in his voice when he replies. “I’ll just ignore this axe in the woodpile then, shall I?”

  Hope rises, but I think fast. “Not the door,” I say. “The washroom window.” It’s small; easy to board up afterwards. “Around the back.”

  “Meet you there.”

  I follow Ren through the house to the washroom, and remember I’m still in my nightshirt, now stuck to my back where my skin is clammy, and my soiled skirts are still on the floor where I left them last night.

  “Wait!” I cry. I bundle them up and carry them to the tiny mud room off the hallway, dumping them in the laundry basket and washing my hands. Then I dash back to my room and dress, throwing on the only set of clothes I haven’t packed, my hair an untamed black mess.

  “All right,” I shout, when I’ve returned to the washroom. “I’m ready. Aim for the lock.”

  A second later I hear the sound of the outer shutters being destroyed, followed by the thick glass of the window cracking.

  “Keep back,” Ren calls, and I listen as he knocks the glass out of the frame.

  Then the blade of the axe splits a hole in the shutter, at least six inches to the left of the lock.

  “Oops,” Ren says. “I missed.”

  “You don’t say,” I reply, grinning wildly.

  I wait in the doorway, wincing every time he hits the wood, never in the same place twice. When he’s made so many holes the shutters look like the nets, he pushes the axe through and twists it, using the sides of it to pull the splintered timber out. Then his face appears, his cheeks red from exertion, his hair sticking up. He beams, pleased with himself.

  “Good day, fair damsel. I believe you ordered a rescue.”

  “Stop messing about and get in here,” I say. I don’t know if the creatures hunt in the day, but if they do they’ll surely have heard that racket. As will my father, if he’s anywhere nearby.

  I start pulling wood aside, cursing as splinters pepper my hands, and on the other side of the window Ren does the same, until the window is clear.

  “Hi,” he says, pulling himself up to sit on the sill. “Are you all right?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  He folds his legs and jumps down into the room, landing badly on the twisted one. But it doesn’t stop him limping over to me and holding my arms, his face uncharacteristically serious as he looks me over.

  “What’s going on? Why did your da lock you in?”

  I hesitate. I wanted to warn Ormscaula about the creatures before I left. And I am still leaving – of course I am, now more than ever. Staying to fight monsters – that kind of nonsense is for the dying type. The hero type. That’s not me. I’m the surviving type. But Ren – who’s about as trusted as I am by the villagers – wouldn’t have been my first choice of messenger. Needs must, though.

  “Come with me,” I say, leading him back to the study. “I have to show you something.”

  He’s slow to follow, trying to peer into every room in the house. He pauses at my bedroom, and I pull the door closed.

  “Don’t I get a tour?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “You’ll get a smack,” I joke, though my small smile falls when we enter the study. The book is waiting on the floor, still open on the page showing the creature’s vast maw. I lift it on to the desk, then stand back.

  “That’s why my father locked me in. Because of those things. I saw one, last night,”

  Ren looks down at it and grimaces.

  “You saw that?” I nod. He’s silent for a moment, staring at the drawing. “Where?”

  “Outside this cottage. On my way back from the feis I stopped to look at the loch, and when I turned to come inside, it was between me and the door.”

  Ren peers at me. “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Where did you find this book?”

  “Hidden. Locked away. There’s another six of them.” I point to the window seat. “I think they might be Naomhfhuil logs, really old ones. From before the earthquake.”

  I watch him trying to decide if he believes me. He looks between me and the book, chewing his lip while he weighs it up, and I hold my breath, hoping against hope. Because if I can’t convince Ren, I don’t stand a chance with anyone else.

  When his expression hardens I know I’ve lost him. “Listen,” he says. “Whatever they are, whatever you think you saw last night, you’ve got a bigger problem right now. The reason I’m here is to warn you that Giles Stewart is on the warpath. He’s after your father.”

  The back of my neck prickles. “Why?”

  Ren looks grim. “After we left last night the feis was halted, and everyone was sent home. First thing this morning, a bunch of men went out looking for Jim Ballantyne’s horses. They found them in the woods. All dead.” He pauses. “They were completely drained of blood.”

  “Jesus.” I swallow. My gaze falls on the drawing of the creature, and I put two and two together, then pray I’ve made five. Let me be wrong. Please. “I don’t understand what that’s got to do with my father? He was here last night; I can vouch for that.”

  “There’s more.” He pauses. “Hattie Logan and Aileen Anderson never made it home. They walked part of the way back with Cora and some others, then left to go to the Logans’. But they never arrived and no one has seen them since.”

  “They got lost, maybe?” I say. “Or – or Ai
leen’s gone into labour somewhere, and Hattie is with her.”

  Ren shakes his head, expression grim. “They found Aileen’s earasaid out near the bridge. Torn. Shredded, is the word Gavan used. And it was bloody.”

  This time we both look at the book.

  “Gavan and his search party came to mine an hour or so ago, wanted to know if I’d seen anything unusual,” Ren continues. He doesn’t meet my eyes when he speaks next. “Alva, I told him your father thought there was a lugh on the loose. And he told Giles. I passed them all in the square on my way here. Giles was riling up the crowd, telling them there was only one man to blame.”

  I close my eyes, thinking about the noise last night from the feis. The light from the fire, the music, the singing and dancing. The heat we must have given off. The life. We lit a beacon in the middle of Ormscaula and those things came to it, like moths to a candle.

  “Alva?”

  Ren is staring at me. “Did you hear me? Giles will come here. He’s probably on his way right now.”

  Of course he is. It’s the chance he’s been waiting for. He couldn’t get my father for my mam, but he will make him pay, somehow, for Hattie and Aileen.

  And he should pay for this. He knew those creatures existed and he did nothing, told no one. If Hattie and Aileen are dead, then he killed them, as surely as he killed my mother.

  “You look pale,” Ren says. “Do you need some water?”

  I nod, and Ren takes my arm and we go through to the kitchen. I sit and he fills a glass. When I sip from it, the water tastes faintly of smoke and peat, last night’s whisky still clinging to the sides.

  I look at the clock. Two hours until Duncan leaves. And with him my only chance. I’ve waited too long, worked too hard for this not to take it.

  “You should go,” I say, standing up. “Before Giles gets here. And I should clean up. Board that window.”

  “I’ll board the window.”

  “No, best if I do it.” My eyes dart again to the clock.

  Ren follows my gaze. “What’s wrong? Why do you keep looking at the clock?”

  “I’m not,” I snap. “I just think you should go.”

  There is a pause. Then understanding lights Ren’s face. “One o’clock is when the mail cart is leaving, isn’t it? I heard you asking Duncan yesterday.”

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake.” I move, but Ren’s hand darts towards me, his fingers closing over my wrist.

  He scours my face, his eyes narrowed. “Did Duncan offer you a ride? No… You’re stowing away, aren’t you?”

  I force myself to sound calm. “Murren Ross, I’ll say this for you – you have one hell of an imagination. And that’s coming from the girl who saw a monster last night.”

  “You only ever use my full name when you’re lying,” he says, triumphant.

  He releases me suddenly and darts out, heading towards my bedroom.

  I follow, in time to see him awkwardly kneel and peer under my bed. He gives me a wicked smile as he reaches under and starts to pull the bag out.

  “So if you’re not planning to stow away, what, may I ask—”

  We both freeze at the sound of boots outside my window. Our eyes lock, his expression as horrified as mine. And then a key slides into the front door.

  THIRTEEN

  I hiss at Ren to get under the bed, not waiting to see if he obeys as I race to the hall, my heart in my mouth. Da. He will see what I’ve done. His bedroom and the kitchen are ransacked; there’s wood and glass all over the washroom floor. And in his study, the window seat with the forbidden Naomhfhuil logs lies open, one of the books on the desk, there for all the world to see.

  My father enters the cottage, the long guns over his arm, his plaid splattered with mud.

  He starts when he sees me standing in the hall. Then he looks beyond me, to his bedroom, where the drawers are pulled open, his clothes on the floor. When he turns back to me his eyes burn with dark fury.

  He turns and walks to his study.

  “Alva,” he barks over his shoulder. “Get in here.”

  My whole body is screaming at me to run, but I force myself to follow. I hover in the doorway, watching as my father sees the logbook.

  He puts the long guns down on the desk, one by one, bracketing the book, a bag of ammunition beside them. Then he sighs, closing his eyes briefly, a hand rising to rub the bridge of his nose.

  “Why did you have to do that?” he says softly. “Why did you have to look?”

  I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t do anything but watch, as he takes the flintlock pistols from the holster at his waist. He puts one on the desk, and the other…

  The other he hefts in his hand.

  And I know, right there and then, I’m going to die like my mother.

  Everything happens so slowly; my father’s fingers tighten around the handle of the pistol, his head lifting, his gaze meeting mine, eyes cold. My thoughts flicker briefly to Ren, hidden under my bed. I hope he has the sense to stay there until he can chance an escape.

  Finally, this is how it ends.

  It’s almost a relief.

  But the next moment panic hits – I don’t want to die, not like her, without a weapon, without hope.

  I hear a rushing like wings as my death approaches and I bend over, making myself small, covering my head, keening the word no over and over. I want to live. I want to live.

  Suddenly I’m hauled upright, my father gripping my shoulders, lifting me until we’re face to face. The gun he held is on the table.

  “What the hell, Alva?” His voice is rough, shocked. “What did you think I was going to do?”

  “You shot her…” The words fall from my mouth like water.

  He freezes. “What?”

  “You shot her,” I say, my voice louder.

  My father lets me go and staggers backwards, into the desk.

  “I heard you.” Seven years of fear and grief and rage and bewilderment leave me in a torrent, unstoppable as a winter thaw. “I heard you fighting and I heard her screaming and then you shot her. Four times. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.” I spit the words at him, my own bullets.

  He stares. His face is grey. “Alva … I…”

  “I knew it.” We both turn towards the voice in the doorway. “All this time, I was right.”

  Giles Stewart stands in the hall, Jim Ballantyne and Dizzy Campbell the baker just behind him. Giles’s face is maniacal, almost gleeful, his smile twisted, as though he’s caught between laughing and screaming.

  I turn to my father. His eyes are wide and panicked. We both look at the guns on the table, and as he reaches out I dart forward, pushing them aside.

  “No, Da. Enough!”

  Then Dizzy Campbell pulls me away as Jim Ballantyne, muscular from years of hustling giant, log-dragging horses for a living, yanks my father’s arms behind his back and forces him to his knees.

  Dizzy holds me firmly, though his grip is gentle as he pins my arms to my sides. But I don’t struggle. My father isn’t struggling either. He’s docile as a lamb.

  There’s something wrong with seeing my da like this; cowed and silent, his head bent meekly like a man at prayer. For years he’s been my enemy, a waking nightmare that’s hardened my heart and my mind. My entire world has revolved around keeping him happy to keep myself safe. This should be a triumphant moment.

  But it’s not. It doesn’t feel right. This isn’t how I thought it would end. I didn’t think I’d have to witness it.

  Giles enters the room, coming to me. He takes my chin in his fingers and turns my head side to side. “You lied to me, my girl,” he says softly. “I asked you, after your mother disappeared, if he hurt her. You told me no. You told me she’d left.”

  “She was a child,” my father growls.

  “She’s not a child now,” Giles says, and something about the way he says it makes my skin crawl.

  My father hears it too, I think, because his gaze darkens. “Let her be. It’s me you want.”


  Giles turns to him with a crooked smile. “Take him to the gaol,” he orders Jim Ballantyne, who doesn’t hesitate.

  As my father stands, we lock eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I turn aside, wincing when I hear him stumble as Jim forces him out.

  Giles jerks his head at Dizzy. “Go with him. I’ll deal with Miss Douglas. And take the guns – they’re evidence.”

  Dizzy does as he’s bid, picking up all four of my father’s guns and carrying them out of the house, leaving me alone with Giles.

  He looks me over, sizing me up like a man at a livestock market, gaze lingering on my legs, my chest, my face. I half-expect him to open my mouth and inspect my teeth. I’m in danger here, I can feel it.

  “You could hang too,” he goes on. “The two of you could swing together. You’re an accessory, Alva. You lied to me. And to a sheriff.”

  My mouth is dry. “I had no choice,” I say. “I was scared he’d kill me too. I’ve been scared for the past seven years.”

  Giles laughs. “Oh, aye. Do that on the stand. The big eyes, that tremble in your voice. The jury will love it.”

  “It’s true.”

  He hesitates, then gives a single nod. “You’re lucky. I believe you. That’s why I’m not going to arrest you.” He smiles. “In fact, I’m going to take you home with me. No more running wild up here. You’ll be safer that way.”

  I grit my teeth. “With all due respect, I don’t think I will be.”

  “Come now, you can’t think to stay up here alone on the mountain.” He takes a step closer to me and his voice drops low. “I’m a wealthy man, Alva, you know that. You’ve seen my house – all the luxuries a young woman could need. You’ll want for nothing.”

  I scramble for a reason to stay. “What about the loch? Someone has to be here to keep an eye on it.”

  Giles’s expression turns ugly and I realize I’ve made a mistake. “Oh, aye. That’s another thing. Why have I not been notified the loch is so low? The reed beds look half dried out. How am I supposed to run my mill if there’s a water shortage?”

  “It’s your mill using up the water,” I snap before I can stop myself.