Fear the Drowning Deep

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  Praise for Sarah Glenn Marsh and

  Fear the Drowning Deep:

  “Haunting—gripping—beautiful. So powerful!”

  —Tamora Pierce, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Beka Cooper trilogy

  “Fear the Drowning Deep is gorgeous. Lyrical. Atmospheric. Magical. Sarah Glenn Marsh’s debut is perfect for anyone who’s ever looked out at the sea with awe, and wondered what kind of creatures lurk in the deepest places. Utterly haunting.”

  —Jodi Meadows, author of the Incarnate trilogy, the Orphan Queen duology, and My Lady Jane

  “Beautifully-written with mysteries and love lurking within the pages as dangerously as an ancient evil waits in the drowning deeps of Sarah’s unique setting on the Isle of Man. Don’t miss this one!”

  —Martina Boone, author of Compulsion and the Heirs of Watson Island trilogy

  “Readers will be swept away by Bridey’s love story, every bit as thrilling and mysterious as the Isle of Man’s deep, dark sea.”

  —Tricia Rayburn, author of the Siren trilogy

  “Sarah Glenn Marsh’s debut is a captivating tale of love and loss, fear and doubt, monsters of the sea and inside ourselves, and the strength it takes to endure and conquer them all. Hauntingly written with a richly developed setting of the Isle of Man in the early 1900s, you can smell the salt of the sea with every page you hungrily turn.”

  —Lori Goldstein, author of Becoming Jinn and Circle of Jinn

  Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc®, a Delaware corporation.

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  www.sarahglennmarsh.com/

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  978-1-5107-0348-3

  eBook ISBN 978-1-5107-0349-0

  Cover design by Georgia Morrissey

  Cover art © Shutterstock

  Printed in the United States of America

  Interior design by Joshua Barnaby

  For my sister, Lindsey.

  If you ever have a monster in need of slaying, call me.

  “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.”

  –Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

  CHAPTER ONE

  May 15th, 1913

  Isle of Man, near Peel

  They found her body at dusk, washed up in a tide pool with a handful of sea urchins and a slender green starfish. As they lifted the girl, her dark hair wrapped around her neck like seaweed. Fat drops of saltwater rolled off her body and kissed the cold sand. I shivered in sympathy, though, of course, she didn’t feel the bitter wind tugging at her gown. Her waxy skin appeared paler than the full moon, which had risen early in the lavender sky.

  Old Mr. Gill pushed the girl’s hair back, revealing milky, grayish eyes. I couldn’t begin to guess their true color. Cradled in his arms, the girl looked like a nymph, or one of the mermaids my mam loved to paint.

  A neighbor standing beside me shrieked, sending a chill rippling down my back. Other women sniffed. They reminded me of a flock of guillemots, the way they’d perched themselves on the lowest cliff overlooking the rocky shore. They shared handkerchiefs and made little hiccuping sounds.

  Not one of them noticed me lingering where a girl of sixteen shouldn’t have been.

  Many heads bowed in respect as Mr. Gill and several fishermen carried the girl up the steep incline leading to town. Had she come from the other side of the island, or one of the smaller islands around us? I’d never seen her before, and in our close community that was rare.

  One of the women turned to follow the procession back to town, dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of linen. Her graying hair was pinned on the top of her head, and even with the pervasive air of sadness, she stood tall and proud.

  Before I could consider hiding—a near impossible task on the barren cliffs—the woman’s shrewd brown eyes spotted me. Despite her age, my neighbor Mrs. Gill rarely missed a thing. Folk said she was as clever as Morag, the ancient sea-hag who lived on the swell of land above town. I thought she was just nosy, though I didn’t dare say it. Her husband had been the self-appointed leader of Port Coire for as long as I could remember.

  Mrs. Gill broke from the procession and bustled in my direction, frowning. “Bridey Corkill, this is hardly a sight for young eyes! Shouldn’t you be helping your mam put on supper, child?”

  “I’m not a child,” I protested, though without force behind the words. No one argued with Mrs. Gill unless they wanted everyone else in Port Coire to hear about it. “Mam sent me to buy bacon from Mr. Vondy.”

  “Yet, I see you’re sadly empty-handed.” Mrs. Gill eyed my windswept hair, and I resisted the urge to pat it down. “How’d you end up here, when the market is on the other side of town?”

  “I followed the screams.” I glanced around. The crowd had almost dispersed, but a few curious souls—all young, fit men—were scuttling down the cliffs by way of a narrow, winding path to a stretch of beach flecked with tide pools.

  The Gills’ nephew reached the bottom first. He stared into the pocket of saltwater that had, moments ago, held the girl’s body, as though he might find answers bubbling to the surface simply because he’d willed them to appear. In the early moon-washed dusk, he wouldn’t be able to see anything there for much longer.

  “Wonder if this has anything to do with all the fish disappearing lately,” one boy muttered to his companions.

  “How could it?” the Gills’ nephew scoffed. “Something like this would attract all the sharks from here to Britain.”

  “Bridey?” Mrs. Gill’s voice cut over their muted conversation. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” She sighed. “I know this is upsetting. I can only imagine what your mam will say when you have one of your night terrors after the sight of the poor lass….”

  “I won’t. I swear.” I drew myself up taller and squared my shoulders as the sea breeze crashed into me. “But who do you suppose the girl is? Could she have come all the way from—from Ireland?”

  Mrs. Gill shook her head. “Certainly not. She would’ve made a fine supper for some hungry creature long before she reached our shores.” She pulled her black shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Where are your sisters?” She looked past me as though searching for more errant girls.

  I clenched my hands at my sides, hiding my fists in the folds of my skirt. My sisters’ whereabouts were none of the old biddy’s business. Clearing my throat, I answered sweetly, “Grayse is scrubbing potatoes. Liss is hanging the wash. And Mally’s out with her sweetheart, having a picnic.”

  “Is she still sweet on Adam?”

  “I think so. Or Artur. I can’t exactly recall, but I’m certain his name starts with A.”

  Mrs. Gill pursed her lips. “Your poor da. Sometimes I wonder
how he manages to keep his head in a house full of high-spirited women.”

  “He says most days it’s like treading water. Taking lots of deep breaths, and praying for rescue.” Much like I felt at that very moment. I hoped my tart reply would be enough to encourage Mrs. Gill to go pester someone else.

  “Marta?” Mrs. Kissack, the baker, called from a short distance away. My rescuer. She took a step forward, but paused and licked her lips.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Gill asked.

  Mrs. Kissack gestured to a few waiting neighbors, the last of the onlookers. “We were just wondering what time we’ll be gathering.”

  Of course. The town leaders would want to plan a search for the drowned girl’s kin. Perhaps they’d even make funeral arrangements.

  Mrs. Gill nodded. “Let’s meet in an hour, at my place. Right after supper.” She looked from Mrs. Kissack back to me. “I’d best go.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Now I have to clean the house, on top of everything else.”

  Turning back to the churning water, I took a deep breath. My lungs filled with briny air, and the salt on my tongue made my stomach squirm. I was probably the only islander in existence who couldn’t stand the grit of salt and sand in everything she owned, and who felt nauseated whenever she smelled fish.

  But perhaps it wasn’t so strange, hating the sea’s very existence when it had taken my grandad from me much too soon. Just like the Gills had never quite forgiven the sea for stealing their oldest son many years ago.

  “Bridey!” Mrs. Gill shouted over the billowing breeze. She stood at the top of the cliff, leaning on a weathered post. “I suggest you head straight home after visiting Mr. Vondy’s.” An unfamiliar shadow crossed her face. “You shouldn’t tarry after dusk, especially not here.”

  I nodded and took the path at a run, legs swallowing up the distance between the cliffs and the heart of town.

  “Evenin’, Bridey!” a girl called as I passed the first group of shabby wood and stone houses. Nessa Daley stood in her front yard, clutching a handful of scraggly white-and-yellow flowers, wearing a smile as brilliant as the sun on water.

  She hadn’t seen the men bearing the girl’s body into town, then. Keeping my word to Mrs. Gill, I didn’t stop to tell Nessa about the grim scene by the cliffs. I gave her a halfhearted wave and hurried on.

  As I ran, I pictured Mrs. Gill’s face as clearly as though she still stood in front of me, wearing that unsettling expression. I hadn’t seen her so troubled since her sister passed away five years before. Or since she’d heard my account of how Grandad died.

  Had the sight of the drowned girl bothered Mrs. Gill more than she cared to admit?

  Opening the door of our cottage, I inhaled the familiar scents of home: hearth smoke, the earthiness of dried sage, and the metallic smell of Mam’s paints. The tang of freshly skinned fish wafted toward me a moment later. I wrinkled my nose and fought the urge to gag.

  Shedding my cloak as warmth washed over me, I crossed the main room and entered the bedroom I shared with Grayse and Liss.

  “Bridey? Is that you, bird?” Mam called.

  “Of course,” I answered, lighting the greasy fish-oil lamp on my dresser. By its muted amber glow, I located my sheepskin slippers half-hidden under the bed. Grayse had left her entire collection of ragdolls strewn across our quilt, where a trail of suspicious-looking spots suggested the dolls had been subjected to another tea party with real tea.

  “Well, hurry with the bacon, unless you’ve decided to have fish like the rest of us.”

  Rusty old lanterns rested on every available ledge of the kitchen, creating a bright glow, though none sat too close to the cantankerous stove in the corner of the narrow room. The stove’s innards blazed as it greedily consumed the wood I’d chopped for Da last week.

  “You’re late, love,” Mam chided, turning away from a boiling pot. She swooped down to kiss my cheek. Her lips were dry against my skin, chapped from the cool, salty air. “Where’s the bacon?”

  I thumped the package down on the counter. “Would you fry it? Please?”

  “You’ll have your bacon as I make it. And tonight, that’s boiled with the fish and potatoes. I don’t have extra pots to spare for picky daughters.” Mam wiped her damp brow with a rag and unhooked the latch on the window.

  A breeze ruffled my hair, coiling around my shoulders like an unwelcome embrace.

  I glanced sideways out the open window as the frigid fingers of a northern wind penetrated the hot kitchen. Far below, restless gray waters rolled and crashed, sending up a furious spray. I couldn’t see it through the dark, but the sea crowded in around us, writhing with the pull of the tide like blood pulsing through a body.

  I imagined walking out to the edge of the nearest cliff and diving into the thick sea foam that masked the deadly rocks waiting in the shallows. Would I feel the impact when I hit them? Or would I be too numb with cold?

  Swallowing with a lump in my throat, I tried to banish the sickening thought. I didn’t want to die, truly. But ever since I saw Grandad jump to his watery death, the view from our small window never failed to give me terrible visions.

  Ever since Grandad jumped, I’d turned my back on the sea and all the wicked things it hid below its jewel-bright surface.

  “Hungry, Bridey?”

  I whirled away from the window, grateful for a distraction.

  “Want some?” Grayse smiled around a mouthful of the crusty bread Mam had set out for supper, revealing the dark gap of a missing front tooth.

  “No, thanks, little fish.” I ruffled my sister’s light blonde hair.

  “Don’t do that,” Grayse scolded, smoothing her hair down. She leaned back in her chair, which creaked a warning. Da had fashioned our table from wood left to rot in the harbor, and every time Grayse swung her scrawny legs, I worried she might cause the whole thing to collapse with one poorly placed kick.

  Head still spinning from my vision at the window, I drew out a chair next to her and sank into it with a sigh.

  “What kept you, Bry? Did you see Catreena at the market?” Liss asked from across the table. She held a boning knife in one hand, and the grim remains of a fish clung to the chopping block in front of her.

  Though she was a year younger than me, she looked older. Or at least more respectable. She kept her dark gold hair in two neat plaits that fell past her waist and, despite the amount of time she spent toiling with Mam in the kitchen, her apron was always spotless.

  “Bridey, I’m speaking to you.” Liss frowned.

  “Sorry,” I said, sitting up straighter and focusing on her pale hazel eyes.

  “Well, did you meet Catreena, or were you off in the woods again on one of your adventures?”

  “No.” I arched a brow, ignoring Liss’s taunt. “Haven’t you heard the news?” Most days, gossip traveled between houses faster than I could run.

  Mam joined us at the table, a tiny crease forming between her brows. “What news?”

  “A girl—a stranger—washed up with the tide. Drowned. And not too long ago, by the look of her.”

  Mam’s eyes narrowed. “It sounds as though you saw the body.”

  “Only for a minute. The Gills were there, too.” I dropped my gaze, pretending to study a scorch mark in the floor.

  “Oh, Bridey.” Mam laid a hand on my back. “Are you worried you’ll have nightmares?”

  “She has enough of them already,” Liss muttered.

  I glared, opening my mouth to respond, but Mam spoke first.

  “Enough, girls! Bridey, you’ve told me plenty. I’m sure Marta will tell me the rest later.” She shifted her attention to my sisters. “Grayse Sharlott Corkill, you’re not to repeat a word of this to your friends, understand?” The rest of her warning hung in the air: because everyone in town thinks we’re strange enough as it is.

  Grayse nodded and helped herself to more bread.

  “Good girl. Liss, be a love and help me serve….” Mam and Liss walked to the stove, their voices
fading to murmurs.

  “What killed the girl?” Grayse whispered, leaning in. “Was it … the same thing that took Grandad?”

  My heart swelled with gratitude for my sister’s willingness to believe my account of what had happened on that terrible day, even when no one else in the family would. Even when the past eight years had dulled the memory enough to make me sometimes wonder if I hadn’t, in my nine-year-old mind, somehow twisted the truth of what had really happened.

  “I don’t know, Grayse. Wish I did.” I lowered my voice to the barest whisper. “All I saw that night—or thought I saw—was something white, like a ghost made of ocean mist. And all I saw today was a washed-up stranger, solid as you or me.”

  “All right.” Grayse put down her bread and met my eyes. “But I’m gonna say extra prayers tonight. Just to be safe.”

  “Thanks. You know, you’re quite clever for your seven years.”

  Grayse giggled. “You’re clever, too.”

  “If she were really clever, she’d be eating this delicious cod she used to love,” Liss countered, shoving in between us to set down our bowls. I rolled my eyes and said nothing. Liss only plagued me with such remarks when she really wanted to get under my skin.

  The scrape of our spoons was the only sound as we ate, our eyes fixed on the meal. I swallowed the occasional lump of fish without complaint, focused on thoughts of England, Ireland, France—even America. Someday, I would leave this rock and make my home miles from the sea. Cities or towns, fields or mountains, anything but here would do. I could learn a new language, try new foods, and hear the constant buzz of voices instead of the lonely rush of waves.

  “Mam?” Grayse said, breaking the silence.

  “Yes, little fish?”

  “When’s Da coming home? He’s been gone for two whole days.” Grayse pushed her empty bowl aside and gave Mam her best pout.

  “He’s always gone for a few days at a time, Graysie,” Liss muttered.

  Mam gave her a look, then smiled at Grayse. “He’ll be back tomorrow morning. And hopefully this time, his nets will be bursting with scallops and big, fat lobsters for Mally to sell at the market.”