Mermaidia: A Limited Edition Anthology

by Pauline Creeden

  The storm must have washed the dirt and rocks away.

  He began pushing the loose earth around, digging up what he’d buried yesterday. But all he found were stones and roots. And his battle ax. He tucked it back between two of the larger rocks, putting it away once more. That was no longer his life. Warrior, mate, father. He was nothing by a ghost now.

  He moved to peer over the cliff again wondering if the body might’ve slid down to the shore.

  He squinted, but all he could see were the churning waves over the dark rocks far below.

  If the girl’s body had fallen such a length, it was lost to the tide now.

  The idea caused him a strange sense of relief. Relief to be alone again. Even the dead disturbed his peace. Yet, with the relief there was also guilt.

  He should have been more careful with his burial. He should have considered there might be a storm eventually. It was winter after all. And now her soul might never find rest.

  He sighed and leaned back on one of the larger rocks, his emotions churning like the sea below.

  Muninn landed behind him with a flap of its wings.

  Sareck turned to look out at the vast grey of the sea. It was so wide, so endless. He knew that to the west, several days journey in a small ship, was his homeland. His mother’s bones were buried under the oak tree on that distant shore, his wife’s bones buried under a willow. His land was likely over-gown and forgotten, his house likely a pile of stick and ruble now, so many seasons had passed. Perhaps it belonged to the birds and rodents. That would be fitting.

  He watched the distance, amazed at how little he missed the far-off place. And he prayed. He prayed to the gods that he’d not be among the living much longer. And he prayed for the soul of the young woman who’d been lost, who would now call the silver water home for all eternity.

  If it had truly been her spirit that had tormented him the night before, he wasn’t horribly sad to be rid of her. But, still, whoever she was, she didn’t deserve to become the meal for a fish or home to a scuttling crab. She didn’t deserve that.

  “May you have peace in your slumber,” he said to the air. To the sky. To the sea. Hoping that she would hear him and be at ease. Hoping that she was truly gone.

  “Help me,” came a strangled whisper from behind him.

  He jerked to his feet and nearly toppled off the cliff. He gripped the rock and gaped at the sight of her.

  Yes, it was well and truly her.

  The dead girl.

  She knelt on all fours, not ten feet from him, as if she’d just stumbled there. Her features were scrunched in pain, her naked body pale as the moon, splotched with the mud and dirt from her grave; the kelp that had been stuck to her sides and spine was gone, the markings disappeared.

  Her hair was wild and dark around her face, muddy strands hanging down and pooling on the ground. And her eyes . . . they were the most striking blue-green color he’d ever seen.

  Only the slashes on her back remained to prove he’d not been totally off his nut the day before.

  “God’s teeth,” he muttered. Was she a ghost? He looked back down at the grave, at the sunken earth where he’d settled her yesterday. Then back to be sure she was still there, not a figment of his imagination.

  Her arms shook as she tried to crawl to him, unable to hold her weight steady.

  He took hold of the talisman around his neck. “You can’t be real.”

  She grunted, as if arguing.

  “You’re dead.”

  Her eyes met his, pleading. Again, the peculiar color struck him.

  “I buried you,” he said, as if she were arguing with him. He pointed at the grave beside him as evidence. “I covered you in dirt and stone.” He was going insane—he was talking to a ghost. She probably wasn’t even really there in front of him. He was imagining her, more than likely. Or this was a dream . . . yes, it had to be a dream.

  “Please,” she gasped. But the word was barely intelligible, as if she had pebbles in her mouth. She reached out to him, beseeching.

  His throat tightened, his dismay at the sight of her fading into the background as her obvious torment became clear to him. He found himself stepping closer, kneeling beside her. Whatever she was, dream or ghost, it was apparent she wasn’t a threat.

  Her hand gripped his arm hard as she tried to steady herself, real as anything. Her fingers were cold as ice.

  She whimpered, as if in pain. And then she collapsed, limp in the grass.

  His heart stuttered but when he bent down closer he could hear her wheezing breath. Feint but there.

  He cradled her small form, picking her up, and carried her back to the hut. She was so cold, so feather-light and strange in his arms. He must’ve been wrong—had she not been dead at all? Had be buried her alive?

  The idea struck him like a slice to the gut. Horrible.

  Thank the gods he hadn’t truly killed her.

  The fire-warmed air of the hut enfolded him as he entered. He laid her onto his pallet once more and gathered up a pelt to cover her. She was so cold, didn’t have a stitch of cloth on her. How was she not chattering her teeth or shivering?

  He didn’t know what had happened the night before, what strange thing had taken over his mind. But, looking at the young woman in his bed, it was impossible to believe it had anything to do with her. She seemed barely able to take a real breath, let alone become a spirit and cast a storm over his island.

  He watched her sleep for a moment, unsure what to do. He knew nothing of the healing arts. If she needed mending of some sort, she was doomed in his care.

  It would simply be a matter of him waiting to see if she died all over again. If there was a second time, he decided, he’d burry her farther away from the house. As far away as he could, deep in the forest.

  But if she lived . . . well, he had no idea what he’d do with her then.

  He was meant to be alone. He intended to stay that way.

  Chapter 2

  Three days passed with the young woman slumbering, unmoving on his pallet. He checked to be sure she was breathing every morning when he woke, and just before he went to sleep as well.

  She seemed to gain a bit of color in her skin by the third day, and her hair somehow grew thicker, less brittle. Her breathing became stronger. Even her sunken cheeks seemed to fill in a bit. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought she’d just closed her eyes for a quick nap.

  But he couldn’t see how she’d live much longer as she was. It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. How was she not withering away?

  On the morning of the sixth day he decided all the waiting had become ridiculous and he would simply wake her up to ask her what pained her. He was sure any healthy woman wouldn’t be in such a state for so long. He felt foolish just going about his daily life while she slumbered on like a hibernating bear.

  He’d wake her after his hunt and try to feed her—he’d collect two extra conies to share with her for supper.

  Muninn followed close after him, cawing in excitement as they crossed the field, heading for the woods. He signaled to the raven as they came to the tree line and Muninn dove into the shadowed branches ahead, disappearing from view.

  It would signal once it spotted a potential target.

  Sareck stepped quietly into the woods and began searching the underbrush. He’d never had a good hand at fishing, so when he’d first come to the island he’d focused on catching small land animals for his meals with traps, but that soon began to feel like too much. He’d set out five traps, catch four meals, and only have the stomach for one or two before the rest began to rot. Better to let them grow large and fat on grass and have their babies to feed him in the days ahead. So, he started catching them one at a time with a make-shift bow and arrow instead. Unfortunately, it had taken him a solid sennight to perfect his shot with the crud weapon—he’d always been a man of the ax as it was, and before, when he’d hunted with his bow, he’d focused on larger slower game.

  But
his hunts for the small creatures gave him something to do each day besides cut wood and dwell on his loss. And it had done him good to go hungry a bit while he struggled to aim at the scurrying things.

  Now three years alone on his island, he had no problem catching anything. Except fish. He still couldn’t catch a fish to save himself. He’d given up on the slippery bastards.

  He walked down the familiar path he always took through the trees, heading for a deeper thicket that usually promised a catch. Muninn squawked up ahead, a call for direction, not game. Sareck had learned the subtle difference. The bird was sounding out its location, allowing Sareck to catch up a bit.

  The raven had attached itself to him just before he was hired to fight in the battle at Harrow’s Field for an unfortunate king. He knew the presence of the bird was odd, that it was sent by his goddess for some reason, and that it meant something when it stayed with him through the rest of that season, then returned with him when he was called home. What it fully meant he could only guess. But it felt right. Death had always seemed to follow, since he was a boy. His father was killed in battle when he was only eight summers old, his mother and sister both falling ill and dying only a year after.

  By thirteen Sareck had become a boy warrior, joining a chieftain’s raiding band and taking to sea. This is when the Morrígan first found him, in the forests of these foreign lands, she met him in a dream as an old crone and called him to her service. He decided to become the hand of Death. He chose that path, eyes wide open. So that, perhaps, the shadow would pass him over the next time. It wouldn’t catch him unawares again.

  How wrong he was.

  Even after his wife and child died when he was a foul thing to be around on his best day, the raven was a steadfast shadow. He named the bird Muninn. After one Odin’s watchers, Memory. His father had always spoke of the god’s birds, told Sareck many stories of the All Father. But Sareck had felt no connection to this god.

  He’d only ever felt a connection to bloodshed and death. Before his wife, Breanna, anyway. Through her he felt so much more, he felt whole. She was more than a simple woman. She was so much more. A light, a druidess, a seer, connected to the gods in ways he’d never understand. Through her he had clarity for the first time in his life.

  Breanne had tamed him, held his spirit tight. When he wasn’t in battle, she’d shown him what it might feel like to be a true man, to till the soil, live off an honest day’s labor, rather than off of wealth that was stolen. In their little hillhouse he’d found true peace. For a little while.

  When she was lost to him he couldn’t remain in that place. He turned his back on his home and left those lands behind him, once more adrift without a homeland. Munnin followed him across the sea, nearly a dozen days over the silver waters the raven perched on his shoulder, ever-present, until they landed here on these empty shores.

  The Morrígan had lead him here, he knew. She’d given him the raven.

  The fool bird was his only friend.

  Likely would be until the day he died.

  He slowed his pace and paused at the edge of the small thicket, sinking lower into the underbrush, scanning the ferns for movement. He could see Muninn there, perched in an ash tree on the other side of the break.

  He pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it into his bow, settling in to wait.

  It could be hours. It could be moments. But Muninn would signal if something stirred.

  The sounds of the forest surrounded him, rustling mice, tittering birds. A bee buzzed near his head. And the sun moved across the sky, drawing close to midday.

  When Muninn finally signaled, Sareck had to blink and get himself focused. His mind had wandered. He was out of sorts. He’d barely slept for a week, disturbed by the strange new female presence in his hut.

  He concentrated on the clearing again, on his raven. Muninn seemed keyed on the north side of the thicket. Sareck searched the underbrush, spotting a bit of movement in the ferns.

  He lifted the bow, aiming at the area, waiting for clear visibility.

  A brown tuff of fur could be seen through the green.

  Sareck breathed out for three heartbeats, then released his arrow.

  It sang through the air and struck its target, a squeak rising for a brief moment before it was cut short.

  He began to rise, but something shifted in the green just beyond his kill and he froze.

  It was large. It stepped silently out of the shadows, into the clearing.

  A man. Tall and broad-shouldered, chest bare and marked with blue woad. His hair was long and white, braided and tied at the back of his neck. His eyes the same strange blue-green as the young woman who was currently dying in his hut.

  Sareck held his breath, remaining hidden.

  Out of instinct he reached back, pulling another arrow from his quiver and nocking it in one swift movement.

  “Come out, little mud man,” the figure said, sounding bothered. He rested his hand on the pummel of a large dagger at his waist—even from here Sareck could see it was intricate leatherwork across the belt and the smithing on the weapon was unique, the blade curved. The young man was a fighter of some kind. “I smell you well enough.”

  Sareck hesitated, but quickly realized hiding was foolish. The warrior knew he was there.

  He took in a slow breath.

  Then he rose from his hiding place, lifting his bow, aiming at the heart of the intruder.

  “Ah, yes. Mud man,” the young warrior gave him a casual study. “The smell of your kind is always the same—soot and piss.”

  Sareck remained silent.

  “You plan to sting me with your little toy?” He tipped his head.

  Sareck held his aim on the mark, keeping the kill shot in his sights.

  The young warrior smirked. Then nodded to something beyond Sareck.

  A chill worked over him. A second presence seemed to manifest, just out of his line of sight—

  A hand snatched at his bow from behind, ripping it from his grip, tossing it aside. But as Sareck turned, reaching for his dagger, a third figure came from the other side, pulling him off balance and then shoving him hard into the underbrush.

  His face met the ground, dirt filling his nose, his mouth. He twisted and spit, trying to find his footing again. But the control was no longer his. The fists holding him were iron. They lifted him as if he weighed nothing, dragging him in one swift movement across the thicket to the warrior even as he kicked and thrashed.

  There were three of them. Three against one.

  He’d fought those odds before and won. Years ago he would’ve killed them already.

  But now . . . Now he was nothing more than a dulled shadow.

  And these warriors manifested such strength and speed, he could hardly believe they were real men.

  The fists on his arms felt near to snapping his bones as then pressed, manipulated, forcing him low, to kneel before the young warrior.

  “Thank you for being so quick to listen,” the young man said to Sareck as if he’d chosen to comply. He reached out and took Sareck by the chin, lifting his face. “I’ll only ask this once,” he said, his voice hardening. “Where is my wife? Where is Alya?”

  Sareck gaped, unable to keep the surprise from filling him. He remained silent, though, swallowing all of his words with the blood draining down the back of his throat.

  “I smell her all over you, mud man,” the warrior said. “I know you’ve found her body. Where is she buried?”

  Sareck studied the warrior’s face. He should simply tell the newcomer where the girl was. He had secluded himself here alone on the island for peace. He’d come here to die. The last thing he needed was to get tangled in some sort of marital dispute.

  But he couldn’t speak. Nothing about this warrior was good. Sareck knew evil when he saw it, this man wasn’t here for any kind of rescue or out of kindness for the dead.

  The younger man smirked at Sareck’s rebellion. “You would keep my own wife from me?” His
jaw tightened.

  He’d smelled the young woman on Sareck? So, Sareck obviously couldn’t lie. The young warrior wouldn’t hesitate to order his two silent companions to snap Sareck’s neck, he was very sure.

  So, Sareck decided to simply tell the truth. “I buried her on the western cliffs.” He tried to keep his voice steady. “Her body washed away with the storm last night.”

  The young warrior searched Sareck’s face before letting go of him. “I see you believe this. But she isn’t in the tide,” he said as if he knew this for certain. “We followed her scent to the cliff you speak of, but she was gone. And the sea held no remnants of her.” He looked to his two companions. “What should we do with this human, Aram? He pulled your sister from our salt and brine and placed her in his mud. And then he lost her.”

  Sareck felt the danger in the warrior’s accusation; he’d done something horrible. He turned to look at the brother who held tight to his right arm.

  Just a boy. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, though his strength was that of a seasoned man. His hair was in wild dark dark curls atop his head. And his shoulders were colored with the same odd swirls of green and grey markings that Sareck thought he’d imagined on the young woman.

  Scales. Yes, they looked like scales.

  “If she is dead,” the boy said, his voice wavering, “then we should let it go.”

  “So, you’d allow the mud man to deface our beautiful Alya with his foul practices?”

  “Let it go, Sire,” the boy said, nearly pleading. “We chased her down and she’s met her end as you’ve wished.”

  The warrior glared at the boy. “I wished to end her, when I was done with her, in my own time. It was to be my hand that took the last bit of life from her. Not my father’s hand. Not the sea.”

  “And yet, it’s done,” the boy said. His sorrow at the idea was just beneath the surface of his words.

  The silent figure spoke up then. “But she was unique for our kind, blessed by the gods. How could they simply allow her to be destroyed?”