Hold Back the Tide

by Melinda Salisbury

  Gavan leads me along a path to a tiny, ramshackle cottage. There can’t be more than one room inside. Behind it I spot an outhouse. The door leans against the opening, clearly long divorced from its hinges.

  If the Logans’ place felt forlorn, the Rosses’ cottage feels like it’s dying. Everything about it is dirty or decaying: the thatch on the roof smells sour and dank, even from a distance; black mould clusters around the tiny windows, one of which is boarded up. There’s a horseshoe nailed above the door, half-hanging off, the silver dulled to black. The plaster around it is crumbling away, exposing the daub and wattle inside. It must be freezing in winter.

  Quite suddenly, I don’t want to be here. I don’t want Ren to know I was here. I didn’t know he lived like this, and he clearly didn’t want me to. I remember how I teased him by the loch about wanting time off from the mill, and I’m ashamed of how it hurt him. I understand now. But Gavan is already knocking on the door, the knock of a person who’s used to being welcomed wherever he goes.

  The door opens and Liz Ross appears. She does not look welcoming. Her stringy hair, the same dirty blonde as Ren’s, falls in her face, her blouse hanging from one shoulder, her underskirt made transparent from the light behind her. An unpleasant smell drifts out from inside: spoiled milk and rot. Oh, Ren.

  “If you’re here for the rent, you can tell your father I don’t have it,” she says to Gavan. “So go away.”

  “I’m not here for the rent, Mrs Ross,” Gavan says gently. “I’m looking for Murren.”

  “He’s not here.” Her voice has taken on a little of the mountain burr, the t dropped.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “I’m not his keeper,” she replies.

  Then she peers beyond him, her eyes finding me and sharpening. “Is he not with you?” she says to me. “You’re the Douglas girl, aren’t you?”

  I nod, surprised to be recognized.

  Liz Ross looks back at Gavan. “If he’s not with her, then I don’t know where he is.”

  With that, she closes the door.

  Gavan turns to me. “Where else might he be?”

  I’m reeling at the fact that Liz Ross not only knows who I am, but expects Ren to be at my side. I think. “Mack’s Tavern, maybe?”

  He’s not in the tavern, though. There’s a sign on the door saying it’s closed on account of the curfew. That explains why the streets are deserted.

  “Who called for the curfew?” I ask Gavan, already knowing the answer.

  “My father,” he confirms. “After what happened to Hattie and Aileen. Keep people inside, where it’s safe.”

  We peer into the pub anyway, but it’s empty. Even the cat is missing from its regular perch.

  “Maggie’s, then,” I say, and we turn towards the store, heading for the door to her private rooms at the back.

  I wait outside while Gavan does the asking, returning after a few minutes with a grave expression. He shakes his head. “She’s not seen him. She asked about you, though.”

  “She did?” I say, surprised, and he nods grimly.

  “Said she saw you with my father. Told me to check on you. I said you were safe.”

  “But no Ren?” I say.

  “No Ren. She hasn’t seen him at all today.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “Ren was going straight to her to deliver the letters, wasn’t he? Odd he never arrived.”

  I shiver. That means he never made it down the mountain. Both of us turn to look at the black mass above us. It’ll be dark before we reach the loch.

  “We should check my cottage,” I say at last. “We have to go up the mountain anyway, to get to the cages. If you still want to catch one.”

  His jaw sets. “I still want to catch one. The one you saw was blind, you say?”

  “I think so,” I say cautiously. “It seemed like it.”

  “Then we move slowly, and quietly. And we pray.”

  The moon is still almost full, waning by a hair, and the sky is clear, so the path is lit well. Above us an uncountable number of stars litter the sky, making me dizzy when I look up for a moment. We move slowly, each step taken with the greatest of care, mindful of any loose stones that might make a sound, or any twig that might snap underfoot. My right hand hovers beside the pocket with the pistol in. I have six shots, if we need them.

  I repeat it in my mind the whole way, a litany of reassurance: I have six shots.

  We make it to the loch path, the last stretch to the cottage, and my nerves tighten again as I recall the night before. Once again, the world is cast in silver and black, but tonight there’s no charm in it. Now the shadows are hiding places for unnatural things, the cold moonlight reminiscent of the creature’s bloodless skin.

  My head swivels like an owl, looking to the scrub on our left, the loch on the right. Ahead of us, I can just make out the shape of the cottage; behind us, the path remains mercifully clear. We see nothing, hear nothing, other than the water, but I can’t help feeling that eyes are on us.

  Hunting us.

  As we approach the cottage, the hairs on my arms and at the back of my neck rise. I hear Gavan’s breath hitch. Without saying a word, we move back to back, turning in a circle so we can see all around us.

  Out on the loch, something screams.

  I grab Gavan’s hand and we race for the cottage door, clearing the ground in a matter of strides. The door isn’t locked, and I pull him inside, slamming it behind us.

  I go to throw the lock but barely a split second later something hurls itself hard against the door, knocking it off the latch.

  Pale fingers curl around the side. Gavan throws his weight against the door too and they withdraw, another screech rending the night.

  I manage to throw the lock and we both back away, horrified, as the thick wood trembles under the attack. If Gavan didn’t believe me before, he does now.

  Suddenly, the banging stops, leaving the hall ringing in silence. I’m grateful now that my father locked all the shutters.

  Then I remember the washroom, with its broken window.

  I pull my bag off my shoulder and draw the pistol, not caring if Gavan sees it, racing to the back of the cottage, finger on the trigger.

  When I open the door, heart pounding, I find the window has been boarded up. Ren must have done it.

  “Oh, Ren,” I say aloud.

  And in the darkness a voice answers. “Alva?”

  SIXTEEN

  I whirl on the spot to find Murren Ross, dressed only in trews, coming from my bedroom. His hair looks rumpled, as though he has been asleep.

  I don’t think. I throw myself at him, flinging my arms around his neck and pressing into him with all my strength. His chest is warm under my cheek; I can feel his heartbeat. Then his arms come around me, slipping under my earasaid, holding me just as firmly. He’s alive. I’m giddy with relief, squeezing him until he makes an undignified squeak, then laughs into my hair.

  “You’re here,” he says, voice muffled. “Why didn’t you go?”

  “Long story,” I tell his ribcage. “I’m going tomorrow. You’ve got one more night with me, yet.”

  His arms tighten around me, and I feel his mouth graze the top of my head. My stomach flips over.

  “Hi, Ren,” Gavan says. Ren and I release each other immediately, both of us taking a step back. “Glad to see you hale and hearty. We were worried.”

  “Gavan?” Ren looks between the two of us. “What’s going on?”

  Suddenly my relief at his being alive is obliterated by fury that he didn’t do what he’d promised. “I don’t know,” I blaze at him, causing him to take another step back. “What is going on? What happened to finding Maggie Wilson and telling her about the creatures?”

  “I…” He stares at his feet. “I wanted to be sure.”

  Fury builds in my chest. “I see. You never believed me, did you?”

  “No, that’s not—”

  A barrage of crashes and screams from outside my bedroom cuts him dead, and
I yank him behind me, raising the gun and aiming it.

  “Do you believe me now?” I hiss over my shoulder, gun trained on the door.

  We hear the unmistakable sound of nails tearing at wood as the creatures try to rip the shutters from the window. But my father never let anything get old or broken. When you live by water, you learn to take care of your home. Any warped or split timber was replaced the moment he saw it, the hinges and locks oiled every few months. Unlike Ren’s house. If they got that far, a single push of the door would probably see it shatter. They could blow his house down.

  I remain focused on the window, the gun steady in my hands.

  Finally, it stops. We all wait, listening to the night, long minutes passing until we’re sure it’s gone. I let out a shaky breath, rubbing my eyes with my left hand.

  When I turn back to Ren his eyes are on the gun, his lips parted. I shove it into my pocket.

  “Trapping one will be interesting,” Gavan says quietly.

  Ren looks sharply at Gavan. “You want to trap one?”

  Gavan nods. “To show the village what really killed Aileen. And what we’re up against. Proof.”

  “I thought the same thing,” Ren says. “That’s the reason I stayed.” He turns to me. “I knew you had cages in the sheds, so I went and set one up. I didn’t think the book and your word – our word – would be enough. So yes, I wanted to see for myself if they were real.” He lifts his chin, defiant. “But I also wanted proof so that I could convince the others.”

  I relent slightly. Only slightly. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Did you bait it?” Gavan asks.

  Ren nods. “I used one of your chickens,” he says to me. “Hope that’s all right. For the cause. And I found a few eggs, so I brought them in too.” He gives me what he clearly thinks is a winning smile.

  “Put a shirt on,” I say. I pick up my bag and take it into my room, ignoring my bed, which has obviously been very recently vacated, a dent in the pillow where a head was resting, the covers thrown back.

  When Ren follows to find the rest of his clothes, I leave and go to the kitchen. The stove is almost out, so I spend a few minutes feeding it, stirring the embers until the flames take hold. Then I head to my father’s study and fetch the Naomhfhuil log. When I return to the kitchen, Gavan is sitting at the table, looking around the room with the same interest as Ren this morning. I place the book in front of him.

  “There are pictures of them in here,” I say. “So you can see what we’re up against.”

  Gavan opens the book and I begin to make tea. Ren comes and leans against the stove next to me.

  “Why didn’t you leave?” he asks quietly.

  “Something came up,” I reply, shooting a warning glance over my shoulder at Gavan.

  Ren raises his brows, and I stare him down.

  “But what about…?” he asks.

  He means my job. My new life. “It’s sorted. I’m off in the morning. Gavan has arranged lend of a donkey to take me down to Balinkeld. I’ll still make the coach.”

  “Good,” he says, turning away, but not before I catch the relief on his face. It stings to know he’s eager for me to be gone.

  Behind us Gavan slams the book shut, and we both turn. “So,” he says, looking pale. “I guess I know what we’re up against. When do we think we might catch something?”

  “The attacks on the horses and Aileen happened at night. Alva saw her one after dark too,” Ren says. “And I didn’t see anything up here all day. My guess would be that they’re nocturnal. We’ll check at dawn, when it’s safer.”

  We all look at the clock on my mantle. Dawn is hours away.

  “In that case, I’m going to rest while I can,” I say. I place a mug in front of each of them, and carry mine out, picking up a candle on the way. It makes me feel strange to think of Ren in my bed, so I bypass my room, going instead to my mother’s parlour, taking my tea and curling up on the sofa. After a few moments the boys pad through with their mugs, Gavan sitting on the sofa opposite me, Ren on the floor between us.

  “I remember your mam,” Gavan says, looking around at the pretty room. “I liked her. Not as much as my father did, mind.” He instantly looks horrified, clapping a hand over his mouth. “I mean … it’s not a secret. Is it?”

  For a moment I stare at Gavan and then burst out laughing. He joins in, leaving Ren looking back and forth between us, utterly bewildered.

  After that we fall silent, the candle burning down while we wait the night out. We doze sometimes, jerking back to wakefulness when we hear the unearthly shrieks of the creatures, though they sound mercifully far from the cottage.

  Just after the clock in the kitchen has gently chimed four in the morning, a volley of shrieks from nearby sends me scrambling to my feet, the gun raised, Ren and Gavan flanking me.

  They are at the cottage in seconds, banging at every window, screaming, attacking the front door over and over. I hear a clang; metal hitting the stone stoop. Then the cries move, coming from outside the parlour window, followed by the frantic sound of bodies crashing into the outer shutters so hard the inner ones shake. They know exactly where we are. Wide-eyed, I turn to the boys, to see their faces stark and pale. Gavan presses fingers to his ears, and I do the same, keeping my gaze on the shutters, praying they’ll hold.

  The whole thing lasts around a minute. Then it stops and the night is as silent as before. I take my fingers from my ears and listen. Nothing.

  “What the hell was that?” Gavan sounds as shaken as I feel, and I lower myself back to the seat, my legs turned to jelly.

  Ren remains standing. His eyes are gleaming. “I think that was retaliation. I think it means we got one.”

  “Should we look?” Gavan asks.

  I shake my head. “No. Ren’s right. Let’s wait for the sun to come up.”

  There’s no chance any of us will sleep now, so we take the candles back to the kitchen, and I start pulling out food, preparing to cook. While Gavan leans over the Naomhfhuil book once more, Ren gently jostles me aside, taking the bacon and eggs from my hands.

  I stand back and watch in silence as he cooks, heating a skillet and adding butter, before laying the rashers in the spitting fat. He takes a handful of chives growing on the windowsill and tears them up, sprinkling them over the bacon, then cracks the eggs in alongside, their yolks cheery and wholesome. It smells amazing: smoky from the bacon, sharp from the chives. My mouth starts to water.

  “Butter some bread,” he tells me, and I find the last of the loaf I made, a little stale now. I slice it, then toast it, spearing it and holding it to the flames inside the stove, working alongside Ren as he tends the eggs and bacon.

  Out of nowhere I remember his suggestion that we run away together, to play at husband and wife. I think of his arms around me, my cheek against his chest.

  Hoping any blush can be put down to the heat of the stove, I sneak a glance at him. His hair is falling into his eyes again. How does he see at all? I think, stopping myself from reaching up to push it aside. His hands are sure as he moves the food around the pan, flipping the bacon and tilting fat up over the yolks.

  “Plates?” he says, and I leave my toast resting on the lip of the door, dashing to fetch plates, returning in time to stop it from burning.

  I balance the plates along the hob to warm them, putting a slice of toast on each and buttering it. While Ren adds bacon and eggs, I butter three more to make the toppers.

  When Ren squashes his down, golden yolk oozes out from the sandwich and he smiles: a pure, joyful smile.

  He carries his and Gavan’s to the table, and I take mine, nudging away the Naomhfhuil log so we are spared the images for a moment.

  We chew in silence, the food fortifying us, taking away some of the horror of the night and giving us fuel for what’s to come. I lick yolk from my fingers, colouring when I see Ren watching me, his usually pale eyes darker. We look away from each other at the same time.

  When I carry
our plates to the sink I see a chink of grey light fighting its way through the gap.

  I look at the clock. Five thirty. “Dawn’s coming,” I say. “We need to decide how we’re going to do this.”

  “You’re the one with the gun,” Ren says.

  “Talking of, do you have any others?” Gavan says.

  “I have the flintlock,” I say. “And now we’re here in the cottage, I have bullets and gunpowder. Have either of you used a gun before?”

  Both of them shake their heads.

  “Then you’re not having one.”

  “How do we defend ourselves?” Gavan asks.

  “We stay behind Alva.” Ren grins.

  “Fine,” I sigh. It is a fair point. “One of you can have the gun, after I show you how to use it. And there’s an axe, wherever Ren left it. But also, yes – stay behind me.”

  In the end Gavan takes the axe and I give Ren the flintlock gun. I make him show me how to cock and fire, over and over, only loading it when I’m happy he knows what he’s doing.

  “You only get one bullet at a time,” I remind him. “So don’t fire too soon. And aim for the chest.”

  “Surely the head would be better?”

  “Aye, if you knew how to shoot it would. But we’re going to have to proceed assuming you’re not a crack shot. The chest is larger, you’ve got a better chance of hitting it, and it’ll slow it down at least.” I shiver.

  “Do we even know if bullets can kill them?” Gavan asks.

  “Of course they can,” Ren says, but he doesn’t sound sure, looking at me for an answer.

  I hadn’t even considered it.

  “I don’t know,” I say slowly. What kind of creature can survive a serious gunshot? “I suppose we’ll find out.” I try to sound confident.

  Neither boy looks convinced.

  We stand at the front door, straining to hear beyond it. I wonder if the creatures are standing on the other side, doing the same thing.