The Abysmal Sea

by C. N. Crawford

  The Abysmal Sea

  A Memento Mori Novelette

  C.N. Crawford

  Front Matter

  The Abysmal Sea

  A Memento Mori Novelette.

  Published by Gothic Imprints.

  Copyright © 2015 by C.N. Crawford.

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this novelette may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  Isolde gazed out the window at the Innsworth mascot statue, its bronze surface gleaming in the sunlight. Their high school mascot was a fisherman, with hunched shoulders and a rain hat pulled low over his eyes.

  A storm-battered fisherman seemed an odd mascot, compared to a wildcat or an eagle. But it made sense, in a way. The only thing that set Innsworth apart from its North Shore neighbors was its excess of drowned sailors.

  Isolde glanced back at her teacher, Mr. Richard, who read a poem to the class. Couldn’t they at least talk about something relevant? Terrorists had attacked Boston a few days ago. They’d even chopped off a policeman’s head. Isolde had puked in the trashcan after watching the video.

  Mom wasn’t the only one who sounded crazy these days, with all the conspiracy theories about the terrorists. This morning, a freshman in her art class had been babbling on about witchcraft—just like Mom always did. Isolde didn’t believe in insane crap like that anymore, but when they showed heads rolling across a TV screen, a few people were bound to lose their minds.

  She closed her eyes, trying not to think about what Mom had done last Sunday. She’s getting worse. These past few days, she’d been jabbering excitedly about the twin gods of seas and storms. Apparently, they stole the souls of the unworthy from Innsworth’s coasts. Of course, those conversations were par for the course when your mom was psychotic.

  A shudder rippled up her spine. And then there was the gasoline, the flames. She lit the match. Maybe someday, I’ll be the one to—

  “Isolde?” Mr. Richard interrupted her thoughts.

  She straightened. “Yes, Mr. Richard?”

  He raised a hoary eyebrow. “You seem lost in thought. What is your interpretation of Shelley’s sonnet, Ozymandias? What does the message on the statue signify?”

  Isolde swallowed. She hadn’t been paying any attention. While the class waited, someone snickered. Think, Isolde. She really didn’t need to give her classmates another reason to pick on her, as if the stories about her mom weren’t bad enough. And Theo, the captain of the swim team, sat only a few desks away. Theo—with his golden hair and swimmer’s body.

  Scanning the poem, she twisted an auburn braid around her finger.

  My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,

  Look on my works, ye might, and despair!

  Nothing beside remains…

  “Well, the king had a great statue made to honor himself, and he was proud of it. But now it’s shattered, and everything has gone to sh—” She cleared her throat. “—to pieces.”

  She caught a glimpse of Theo’s blue eyes. She wanted to grab his hand and run out of the class.

  Mr. Richard nodded. “And what do you think that is meant to convey?”

  Who cares? The whole world was falling apart, and Mr. Richard wanted to read about broken statues. Is it just me, or do adults always seem to have their priorities in the most bizarre places?

  The bell rang, and she exhaled. Shoving her notebook into her bag, she started toward the door after the other students, but as she approached the front of the room Mr. Richard stopped her.

  “Isolde? A word, please?”

  Mr. Richard half-sat against his desk, pulling up one leg and waiting for the students to file out of the room. The pause left Isolde with nothing to do but stare down at her short floral dress—the sleeves just long enough to hide the scorched skin on her right arm. Oh God, the burns. The thought sent a shudder of panic through her, and she struggled to school her face into normalcy.

  When the last student closed the door, Mr. Richard gazed at Isolde over the rims of his glasses. “Just wanted to check in. Is everything okay? You’ve been missing a lot of school lately.”

  What was she supposed to tell him—that her mom had descended into complete madness? Apparently, the evil sea witches were nearby, and Isolde had sinned by chanting a magic spell. And that’s why Mom had to burn her skin. It all made perfect sense, you see.

  Isolde rubbed the chalice pendant that hung from her neck on an iron chain. She shouldn’t be so hard on her mom. None of it was Mom’s fault—not really. “I’ve been sick. My mother’s been calling in to excuse me.”

  “Sick. Is that why you quit the swim team?”

  She nodded. Illness was a better reason than the truth—she didn’t want anyone staring at the mottled pink burns that snaked around her arm.

  “Is everything all right at home? I called your mom this morning about your missed classes, and she seemed—” He spread his hands wide, probably searching for a euphemism. “—distraught. She doesn’t want you to come to school.”

  He called her? This would only make everything worse. Mom had probably raved to him about undead sorcerers and the blood of gods. Anything unexpected could tip her over the edge.

  “Everything is fine,” she muttered.

  He pulled off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I just would like to make sure that you’re not responsible for looking after someone, at home. There are services available for adults who need help. It shouldn’t be a teenager’s job—”

  “Everything is fine,” she repeated, this time more firmly, before marching out the door. He meant well, but she didn’t want him screwing with her life.

  Mom needed her. Without Isolde, she’d be left to wander Innsworth’s streets, raving about sorcery and magic. Mom had plenty of money in the bank from her inheritance, but without Isolde’s help, she’d never remember to go grocery shopping or pay the electric bill.

  Scowling, Isolde shoved open the doors to the cafeteria, an enormous square room with windows that overlooked the iron gray harbor. Tables stood in regimented rows. Close to the door, three blonde girls in varsity Fighting Fisherman jackets glared at her as she crossed the white-tiled floor to a seat by the windows.

  Isolde yanked out a flattened paper lunch bag, glancing through the glass at the placid Atlantic. She needed to keep it together. If she flew off the handle at every obstacle, she’d be just like Mom. Still, at times like this when the loneliness cut to the bone, she felt a storm roiling inside, dark and powerful.

  Pulling out her sandwich, she shivered.Something was in the air today, something that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. The sky had an almost green hue, and her lips tasted of salt. Mom would say the storm god was coming. Mom said a lot of nonsense, ever since Gil died.

  Before Isolde could take a bite of her brie and apple sandwich, she caught a glimpse of Theo striding toward her—actually looking at her. He flashed a crooked smile before pausing at her table. “Hey, Isolde.” His cheek dimpled, and she hope she wasn’t blushing too obviously.

  “Hey, Theo.”

  “Didn’t see you at the state meet. Did you quit the team?”

  “Yes.” She never could make small talk. Not even with Theo.

  “Why? Your relay time is the best in the state. Did you get injured?”

  “A little. And schoolwork—”

  But she didn’t finish the sentence, because the next thing she heard turned her blood to ice.

  “Isolde!” The shrillness of her mother’s voice was unmistakable.

  Isolde froze, snapping
her eyes shut. Maybe if she closed her eyes, her mother wouldn’t see her. It was the logic of a three-year old.

  “Isolde!” her mother trilled. “I’ve caught a sea-witch! Isn’t it wonderful? The Purgators will reward me. I will drink the blood of the true god!”

  Isolde opened her eyes. The three blondes halfheartedly covered their grins with their hands, turning to giggle with each other.

  Theo smirked. “Dude. Is that your mom? What is she talking about? And what is she wearing?”

  Cringing, Isolde turned to find her mother standing by the cafeteria doors, arms raised above her head. Revulsion rose in Isolde’s throat—and with it, guilt. It’s not Mom’s fault. Gil’s death broke her. It created this monster.

  Her mother wore a crown made of iron, red hair tumbling over a tattered crimson night gown.

  Her mother wanted to drink blood. And Isolde wanted to sink into the sea, never to be seen again.

  2

  Isolde rose, rushing toward the doors. She wouldn’t meet her mother’s eye.

  “Isolde!” Mom trilled.

  Eyes fixed on the floor, Isolde hurried past her mother’s outstretched hands, storming through the cafeteria doors.

  “Don you run away from me!” Her mother’s voice cut right to the bone.

  Isolde broke into a run. I need to get away from this.

  In the hallway, she ran through the empty corridors, down the front stairs, and through glass doors into the parking lot. Frustration gnawed at her. It’s not her fault, but I can’t take this anymore.

  She needed to get away from Mom, from school, from the image of the rolling head that kept flashing through her mind. She needed to get away from the late-night rants, the gasoline, the lit match. But where the hell was she supposed to go? It wasn’t like she had any money of her own.

  Outside the school’s front entrance, a sea breeze rippled over her skin, the air thick and briny. She should be back in the school, helping Mom get home safely, but she couldn’t face her right now. And what would have happened last Sunday if Isolde hadn’t been able to douse the flames? What if Mom kept getting worse? Isolde gritted her teeth.

  Maybe she’d swim out to the old lighthouse, and hole up there for a few hours. It’s what she always did when she needed to get away from the madness. Battling the ocean gave her a strange thrill, and she always felt a rush by the time she crawled her way to the island’s rocky shore. It had always seemed that the sea wanted something from her. Her life, probably. But she wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

  She hurried past the football field to the harbor, jogging by the old Victorian houses that overlooked the water. She could just about see the widow’s walk of her own home, where Mom spent the evenings drinking wine and babbling about her dead son.

  Dread welled up. Everything had changed in that one day—the day Gil had drowned.

  Crossing the street, she clenched her fists. Maybe her mother needed her, but right now, Isolde just wanted to get away before she lost her own mind. An iron fence overlooked the harbor, and she climbed over it. She jumped to the rocks ten feet below, landing hard and scratching her hands on a rough bit of stone.

  The shore was rocky and desolate, not the type of beach where people sunbathed—except, of course, for the old man who always stood at the ocean’s edge, staring at the sky. Old Cratten would make a fantastic companion for Mom. They could get drunk on the widow’s walk together, raving about auras and golden nets that caught sea witches.

  Dressed in his usual tattered wool sweater, the old man shuffled over the stones, his eyes murky and gray. “Storm’s comin’.”

  She looked at the cloudless sky. Sunlight glittered off the dusty green water. The man was obviously nuts—definitely a good match for mom. “Right. Thanks for the tip.”

  She pulled off her canvas shoes and tossed them onto a rock that bloomed with seaweed and barnacles. If I were a better person, I’d be helping Mom. It’s not her fault the world broke her.

  Closing her eyes, she strode into the sea, shivering when it reached her knees. It was probably stupid to go swimming in a dress and tights—even stupider to swim in the Atlantic in March. Then again, the island wasn’t far, and the ocean’s chill had never bothered her—just one more thing that made her a freak. She was more sea monster than prom queen.

  The sea beckoned her onward, and she stared out at the bay. A half mile from the shore, the lighthouse stood on the rocky Ten Guinea Island. Mom said Gil had drowned somewhere near the island. Isolde couldn’t remember anything about that day, and she liked it that way. If she remembered, the memories would swallow her whole. She knew that much.

  Old wooden posts jutted from the water like crooked fingers, and seagulls gathered around them. Black Rock Cove hugged Innsworth Harbor, and the lapping waves quieted her mind.

  When the water reached her hips, she dove into a wave. The bracing water rushed over her, saltwater stinging the raw skin on her arm, washing away the muck of her life. She kicked hard, swimming underwater for as long as she could hold her breath. Rays of sunlight streamed through the surface, and the pearly light shone on seaweed and minnows.

  Isolde paddled deeper into the bay, her body growing warmer. She could’ve turned me to ash, but it’s not her fault, though. Her mind has been warped by grief and confusion.

  She was halfway to Ten Guinea Island now. At least her dress was short enough that it didn’t restrict her strokes.

  As she plunged through the icy ocean, a strange memory popped into her mind. It didn’t make any sense, but she could remember it all the same. Mom would walk Isolde and Gil into the harbor, surrounded by thick mists. While the foghorn droned, they would stand in the shallow waters. And that’s where the memory got really weird. Their bodies would change into something…not human. Selkies, her mom called them. People who transformed into seals.

  That couldn’t be real, could it? She hadn’t thought about it in years, but if her earliest memories involved magic, maybe she was as crazy as Mom.

  Isolde’s arms began to ache, and she thought of turning around. Mist hung in the air, the steely sea blending with the sky, and the water grew choppier. The air thickened with the rolling fog that enshrouded Ten Guinea Island. She could hardly see it now.

  Maybe a late-winter swim to the island wasn’t such a good idea. Taking a deep breath, she turned to head back to the shore. As the waves grew rougher, she quickened her pace.

  Whitecaps formed on the tops of the waves, and the temperature dropped sharply as gray clouds gathered in the sky. Maybe the old man hadn’t been crazy. She couldn’t even see the nearby island in this fog. Frantic, she spun around, trying to orient herself. Where exactly was the shore?

  A foghorn droned, but it was hard to determine its location. Her pulse raced as a large wave rolled under her, and she worked her legs to stay afloat.

  She glanced up, hoping to find the sky clearing, but ashy clouds covered the sun. Their contours almost seemed to form a face—cold and unforgiving. Mom’s voice spoke in the back of her mind. The storm god is here.

  Another wave sucked her backward, pulling her into a deep trough. Her heart skipped a beat. It could only mean one thing—a rogue wave would break next.

  Holding her breath, she looked behind her. An enormous wall of water rose high above, and her eyes widened in terror. She fought against the current, dragged upward in the monster wave. Fear shook her whole body. The storm god is here.

  Maybe Mom had been right. Maybe Isolde needed purification. Thrashing to keep herself afloat, she closed her eyes, mouthing a prayer to her mom’s favorite god. God of blood, save me!

  The ocean seemed to roar all around her when the wave broke. A thousand tons of icy water crashed over her head, forcing her under the surface. Tumbling in the black waters, she couldn’t tell which way was up or down. She kicked wildly, trying to find a way out of the watery grave. Where is the surface? Murky water pulled her deeper.

  Oxygen-starved, her lungs burned. Gil. This is wha
t happened to Gil. There was something about the day Gil died, his legs kicking, splashing.

  She broke the surface, but salty water flowed into her lungs. The sea was heavy now, thick as molasses and dragging her under. Slowly, she drifted down, body twitching. The sea leached each breath from her lungs. Her eyes bulged.

  It was all over now. She was leaving behind the two a.m. wake ups, Mom’s holy rants. Leaving behind snickering classmates, a house full of broken trinkets, Mom holding a lit match to her arm. I’m going to die. Here. Alone.

  And that was when she choked out the words—words at once foreign and familiar. As she spoke, searing pain pierced her bones. Her spine cracked and lengthened; her limbs condensed. Just like in her memory, her body was changing.

  Am I hallucinating? Whatever was happening to her body felt familiar. When the seawater rushed over her smooth skin, it felt just like the game she’d played with Mom and Gil. The selkie game. She no longer struggled for breath.

  Isolde had either lost her life or her mind. What the hell had just happened? She wasn’t human anymore. Was she a seal?

  It was almost impossible to process, and yet she felt free. The water seemed to flow with a low and melodious song, like choral music in a watery cathedral. Cool water rushed over smooth skin, and she took in the view of the crab and lobsters far below the sea’s raging surface. Between crimson sea urchins, undulating seagrass covered the ocean floor. For the first time in ages, euphoria bubbled through her.

  A seal. Somehow, she’d turned into a seal, and her lungs no longer burned. As if her transformed body weren’t bizarre enough, she was starting to see things. Things that didn’t make any sense.

  Up ahead, something glowed amber in the sage-green waters. She swam toward it. It was a golden net, seemingly made of light, and it had captured something dark and monstrous. An octopus. Below the creature hung another form—a human form.