The Wicked Deep

by Shea Ernshaw

  Perhaps this one thing is enough—to fall in love? If love can bind something, can it also undo it?

  On the eve of the summer solstice, Bo passes out beside the fire with an open book on his chest. But I can’t sleep. So I leave his cottage and wander up to the orchard alone.

  From the rows of trees, I can just barely make out Mom—Penny’s mom—standing out on the cliff’s edge, the shadow of a woman waiting for a husband who won’t return. Seeing her out there, alone, her heart cleaved in half by pain, I could easily let the grief buried inside this body rise up to the surface. Not only are memories stored in the bodies we take, but emotions as well. I can feel them, resting broad and deep inside Penny’s chest. If I look too close, if I peer into that darkness, I can feel the gaping sadness of losing her father. My eyes will swell with tears, an ache twisting in my heart, a longing so vast it could swallow me. So I keep it stuffed down. I don’t let that part of the host body overcome me. But my sisters have always been better at it than me. They can ignore whatever past emotions have ruled the body, while I tend to feel the sorrow and grief creeping through my veins, up my throat, trying to choke me.

  I stop at the old oak tree at the center of the grove—the ghost tree, its leaves shivering in the wind. I press my palm against the heart carved into the trunk. I stare up through the limbs, a theater of stars blinking back at me. It reminds me of the night so many years ago, lying beneath this tree with the boy I once loved: Owen Clement. He held a knife in his hand and carved the heart there to mark our place in the world. Our hearts bound together. Eternity pumping through our veins. It was on that same night that he asked me to marry him. He had no ring or money or anything to offer except himself. But I said yes.

  A week later my sisters and I were drowned in the harbor.

  INQUISITION

  A gust blew in through the open door of the perfumery, scattering dead leaves across the wood floor.

  Four men stood in the doorway of the shop, muddy boots and filthy hands. Stinking of fish and tobacco. Against the stark white walls and the air tinged with the delicate intermingling of perfumes, their presence was alarming.

  Hazel stared at their filthy boots and not their faces, thinking only of the soap and water she would need to scour the floor clean once they had left. She did not yet realize the men’s intent or that she would never see the perfumery again.

  The men grabbed the sisters by their forearms and dragged them from the shop.

  The Swan sisters were being arrested.

  They were hauled down Ocean Avenue for everyone to see; fat drops of rain spat down from the sky; muck from the street stained the hems of their dresses; the townspeople stopped to gawk. Some followed them all the way to the small town hall that was used for town meetings, a gathering place during bad storms, and occasionally but quite rarely, also for legal disputes. A squabble over a missing goat, disagreements over dock anchorage, or property lines with neighbors.

  Never before had an accused witch been brought into the building, let alone three.

  A group of selectmen and town elders had already gathered, awaiting the Swan sisters’ arrival. Marguerite, Aurora, and Hazel were brought before them and made to sit in three wood chairs at the front of the room, their hands tied behind them.

  A bird fluttered in the rafters, a yellow finch, trapped just like the sisters.

  Quickly, the women of Sparrow came forward, pointing fingers at Marguerite and occasionally Aurora, telling lurid tales of their misdeeds, their infidelity with the husbands and brothers and sons of this town. And how no woman could be so enchanting on her own—it surely must be witchcraft that made the Swan sisters so irresistible to the poor, unwilling men in town. They were merely the victims of the sisters’ black magic.

  “Witches,” they hissed.

  The sisters weren’t allowed to speak, even though Aurora tried more than once. Their words could not be trusted. Too easily spells could be uttered from their lips to charm those in the room and then they could use their power to demand they be released. They were lucky, one of the selectmen said, that they hadn’t been gagged.

  But there was another voice, one of the elders, a man who was blind in one eye and would often be seen standing on the docks staring out at the Pacific, longing for the days he once spent at sea. His voice rose above the others: “Proof !” he called. “We must have proof.”

  This single demand forced silence through the courthouse, overflowing with spectators. A crowd pushed against the doors outside, straining to hear the first-ever witch trial in the town of Sparrow.

  “I’ve seen Marguerite’s mark,” a man called from the back of the room. “On her left thigh, there is a birthmark shaped as a raven.” This man, who had emboldened himself to speak at the urging of his wife, had shared a bed with Marguerite some months back. Marguerite’s eyes went wide, and fury brewed behind them. She did in fact have a birthmark, but to call it the shape of a raven was the result of a clever imagination. The mark was more of an inkblot, but it made no difference; a mark of nearly any kind was considered the brand of a witch—proof she belonged to a coven. And Marguerite could not wipe away that which she was born with.

  “What of the other two?” the half-blind elder called.

  “Aurora,” spoke a much quieter voice, a boy of only eighteen. “Has a mark on her shoulder. I’ve seen it.” And he had, as he had claimed, seen the collection of freckles on her right shoulder. His lips had pressed against her flesh on several nights previous, tracing the freckles that dotted much of Aurora’s skin. She was like a galaxy, speckled with stars.

  Aurora’s gaze met the boy’s. She could see the fear obvious in his eyes. He believed Aurora might in truth be a witch as the town had claimed, and perhaps she had used dark magic on him, making his heart race whenever she was near.

  “Two honorable men have stepped forward with proof of guilt for two of the accused before us,” said one of the selectmen. “What of the last sister? Hazel Swan? Surely someone has spied the mark of a coven on this enchantress’s skin?”

  A stir of whispers carried through the room and echoed off the steep ceiling, voices trying to discern whom among them might have found themselves ensnared by Hazel, coaxed to her bed unwittingly.

  “My son will tell you.” A man’s deep voice broke through the chatter.

  Owen’s father appeared at the back of the courthouse, and trailing behind him, head down, was Owen. “My son has been with her. He has seen what marks she conceals.”

  The air inside the room condensed, the damp walls stiffened. The yellow finch caught in the rafters fell quiet. Not even the floorboards creaked as Owen was pulled by his father to the front of the courthouse. Hazel Swan looked as if she might faint, her complexion drained of all color. Not from fear for herself, but fear for Owen.

  “Tell them!” his father barked.

  Owen stood stone-faced, eyes locked on Hazel. He would not.

  His father marched up to where the sisters sat in a row, hands bound by rope. He drew a large knife from the sheath at his waist and placed it to Hazel’s throat, blade pressing against her alabaster skin. Her breath hitched; her eyes quivered but did not stray from Owen’s gaze.

  “Stop!” Owen cried, stepping toward Hazel. Two men grabbed his arms and held him in place.

  “Tell us what you’ve seen,” his father demanded. “Tell us of the marks that riddle this girl’s body.”

  “There are no marks,” Owen shouted back.

  “Her spell on you has made you weak. Now tell us, or I will cut her throat and you will watch her bleed out, here in front of everyone. A painful death, I assure you.”

  “You will kill her anyway,” Owen said. “If I speak, you will accuse her of being a witch.”

  “So you have seen something?” the half-blind elder asked.

  Those in the room that day would later say it was as if Hazel Swan was conjuring a spell before their eyes, the way she peered at Owen, forcing his lips to remain silent. But othe
rs, the few who had known real love, saw something else: the look of two people whose love was about to destroy them. It was not witchcraft in Hazel’s eyes; it was her heart splitting in half.

  And then Hazel spoke, a soft series of words that sounded almost like tears streaming down cheeks: “It’s all right. Tell them.”

  “No,” Owen answered back. He was still being held by the two men, his arms tensed against their grip.

  “Please,” she whispered. Because she feared he might be punished for protecting her. She knew it was already too late; the town had decided—they were witches. The selectmen just needed Owen to say it, to prove what they already believed. He only needed to tell them of one little mark; any imperfection on the skin would do.

  His eyes watered, and his lips fell open, the air hanging there for several breaths, several heartbeats, until he uttered: “There is a small half-moon on her left ribs.”

  A perfect freckle, he had once whispered against her skin in that very spot, his lips hovering over it, his breath tickling her flesh. She had laughed, her voice bouncing along the eaves of the barn loft, her fingers slipping through his hair. He had wished on that half-moon many times, silent desires that someday he and Hazel would leave Sparrow, steal away on a ship bound for San Francisco. A new life far away from this town. Maybe if she really had been a witch, his wish muttered softly against her flesh might have come true. But it did not.

  A gasp passed through the room, and his father lowered the knife from Hazel’s throat. “There it is,” his father proclaimed, satisfied. “Proof that she, too, is a witch.”

  Hazel felt her heart sink into her gut. The room echoed with murmurs. The finch resumed its chirping.

  The half-blind elder cleared his throat, speaking loudly enough so that even those outside the town hall with their ears pressed to the doors would hear. “In our small town, where the ocean brings us life, it shall also take it. The Swan sisters are found guilty of witchcraft and sentenced to death by drowning. To be carried out at three o’clock this afternoon, on the summer solstice. An auspicious day for the assurance that their wicked souls will be extinguished permanently.”

  “No!” shouted Aurora.

  But Marguerite’s lips pinched shut, her cold stare enough to curse anyone who dared look at her. Hazel remained quiet, not because she wasn’t afraid, but because she couldn’t pull her eyes away from Owen. She could see his regret, his guilt. It wrenched him apart.

  But he did not condemn her—she and her sisters were doomed the day they arrived in this town.

  The men seized the three sisters before Hazel could mutter a word to Owen, leading them into a back room where five women stripped them naked of their clothes, verified the marks that had been claimed against them, and then dressed them in white gowns to purify their souls and ensure their eternal and absolute death.

  But absolute, their death was not.

  SEVENTEEN

  The cottage rattles from the wind, and I wake, gripping for something that isn’t there. I had been dreaming of the sea, of the weight of stones pulling me under, water so cold I coughed at first but then couldn’t fight it as it spilled into my lungs. A bleak, lonely death. My sisters only a finger’s width away as we all plummeted to the bottom of the harbor.

  I rub my eyes, crushing away the memory and the dream.

  It’s early, the light outside the cottage still a watercolor of grays, and Bo is stoking the fire.

  “What time is it?” I ask, turning over from my place on the floor where I managed to fall asleep. He’s added several new logs to the fire, and the heat sears my cheeks and tingles my lips.

  “Early. Just after six.”

  Today is the summer solstice. Tonight, at midnight, everything will change.

  Bo has been unsuccessful in finding a way to kill the Swan sisters without also killing the bodies where we reside. There is nothing in any of the books. But I knew there wouldn’t be.

  And I know what he’s thinking as he faces the fireplace: Today he will get his revenge for his brother’s death. Even if it means killing an innocent girl. He won’t allow Aurora to keep on killing. He will end her life.

  But I’ve also made a decision. I’m not going back into the water tonight; I won’t return to the sea. I’m going to fight to keep this body. I want to stay Penny Talbot, even if it means she no longer gets to exist. Even if it might be impossible—painful and severe and terrifying—I have to try.

  Each summer, my sisters and I are given only a few short weeks inside the bodies we’ve stolen, making each day, each hour, precious and fleeting. And so we have a habit of lingering inside our bodies until the final seconds before midnight on the summer solstice. We want to feel every last moment above the waterline: breathe in our last gulps of air; peer up at the sky, dark and gray and infinite; touch the soil beneath our feet and savor the feeling of being alive.

  Even when the draw of the harbor begins to pulse behind our eyes, coaxing us back to its cold depth, we resist until it becomes unbearable. We hold on to those final seconds for as long as we can.

  And there have been summers past when we’ve pushed it too far, waited too long to return to the sea. It’s happened to each of us at least once.

  In those times, in those seconds that ticked past midnight, a flash of bright pain whipped through our skulls.

  But the pain isn’t all you feel; there is something else: a pressure. Like being stuffed down into the dark, into the deepest shadows of the body we occupied. When it happened to me many years back, I could sense the girl rising once again to the surface, and I was being crushed. We were swapping places. Wherever she had been—hidden, stifled, and suppressed inside the body—I was now sinking into that very place. It was only when I returned to the sea that I slipped free from the girl’s skin. The relief was immediate. I swore I would never cut it that close again. I would never risk being trapped in a body after midnight.

  But this year, this summer solstice, I’m going to try. Maybe I can fight it. Resist the pain and the grinding force pushing me down. Maybe I’m stronger now, more deserving even. Maybe this year will be different. I haven’t taken a single boy’s life—perhaps the curse will release me, allow me this one thing.

  Just like in the books I’ve read, about the mermaids and selkies who found a way to be human and exist above the sea, I’m going to stay in this body.

  Even if Penny will be stifled indefinitely, I’m willing to be selfish to have this.

  “I need to go into town,” I say, my voice scratchy. Last night, sitting beside the oak tree, I realized that if I truly want to have this life with Bo—if I love him—then I need to let go of the one thing I’ve been holding on to.

  “For what?” he asks.

  “There’s something I need to do.”

  “You can’t go by yourself. It’s too dangerous.”

  I pull down the royal-blue T-shirt that wrapped itself around my torso while I slept, tossing and turning fitfully as I battled my nightmares. “I have to do this alone.” I yank on the dark gray sweatshirt I was using as a pillow then stand up.

  “What if one of those guys—Davis or Lon—sees you? They might question you about Gigi.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “And someone needs to stay here—keep an eye on Gigi.” He knows I’m right, but the green of his eyes settles on me like he is trying to hold me in place with his stare. “Promise me you’ll stay away from her while I’m gone.”

  “Time is running out,” he reminds me.

  “I know. I won’t be gone long. Just don’t do anything until I get back.”

  He nods. But it’s a weak, uncommitted nod. The longer I’m off the island, the greater the risk that something bad will happen: Bo will kill Gigi; Gigi will seduce Bo and coax him into the ocean, where she’ll drown him. Either way, someone will die.

  I leave the cottage, closing the door behind me. And then another thought, a new fear rises inside my gut: What if Gigi tells Bo what I really am? Would he even bel
ieve her? Doubtful. But it might edge a sliver of suspicion into his mind. I have to go quickly. And hope nothing happens before I get back.

  * * *

  The harbor is crowded, fishing boats and tour barges chugging out past the lighthouse. The clouds are low and heavy, so close it feels like I could reach up and touch them, swirl them with my fingertip. But no rain spills from their bloated bellies. It waits. Just like everyone is waiting for the next drowned body to be found—the last of the season. But I’m the only sister who has yet to make a kill, and I refuse to do the thing I know both Aurora and Marguerite want me to do: drown Bo.

  It’s never happened before: a summer where one of us didn’t make a single kill. I don’t know what will happen, how it will change things—change me—if at all.

  I feel the sea already, tugging at me, calling me back into the water. The need to return will grow stronger as the day wears on. It happens every year, a pulse behind my eyes, a twitch inside my ribs, drawing me back to the harbor, back into the deep where I belong. But I ignore the sensation.

  The skiff motors past the orange buoys and through the marina, gliding into place at the dock.

  Sparrow is teeming with tourists. Along the boardwalk kids run with rainbow-colored kites, struggling to get them airborne without any breeze; one is even tangled around a street lamp with a little girl tugging against the string trying to pull it down. Seagulls peck along the concrete for scraps of popcorn and cotton candy. People stroll the shops; they buy saltwater taffy by the pound; they take pictures beside the marina; they know the end is near. Today is the last day. The season is coming to a close. They will return to their normal lives, their normal homes in normal towns where bad things never happen. But I live in a place where bad things surround me, where I am a bad thing.