Fear the Drowning Deep

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  “Nothing’s going to hurt you,” Lugh added. “Not with us right beside you.” He stretched his arms, beckoning me forward while Cat pulled again on my hands.

  “Come on,” Cat urged. “Nothing interesting ever happens in Port Coire. Ever. And now the one time something mysterious happens, you’d rather be home doing chores.”

  She had a point. Washing clothes for Mam sounded much more appealing than going anywhere near the treacherous sea.

  But if there was even the slightest hint of danger here, I needed to expose it. I couldn’t let my sisters wind up like the drowned girl or wake to find they’d vanished in the night like Nessa Daley. Mally, Liss, and Grayse were more precious to me than the largest pearl, than the heaps of gold rumored to be buried with sunken ships off the coast.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the sand; the grains beneath my feet sent a ripple of shock through me. My friends clapped and cheered as I tried to stop my knees from knocking together. I lowered my gaze, hoping Cat wouldn’t see me blush as we approached Lugh.

  “Here we are,” he said, drawing me from my thoughts as he placed a warm hand on my shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice my frown. “Let’s start the hunt!”

  “For what?” I didn’t want to pick my way between tide pools. With my luck, I’d fall in. No, I needed to stay as far from the water as possible.

  “Just look for anything unusual,” Cat suggested. She danced around me as she spoke, kicking up sand. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Bry?”

  I frowned harder. “Back on solid ground.”

  The mirth left Cat’s face. “This is important, though,” she said softly. “What if the sound we heard last night was someone’s boat hitting the rocks? There could be another body, or someone too injured to shout for help.”

  “You’re right.” I grabbed Cat’s hand, thinking of the mysterious girl’s wet hair spread across the sand, and then of my sisters. But not even Cat’s closeness could stop my legs from turning into jelly as we walked.

  “I ran into Eveleen Kinry, from the tailor’s shop, on my way to the bakery earlier,” Cat murmured. “She insists it was a shipwreck. But she looked so troubled, I’m not sure she believed it herself. Some people think it was whales fighting.”

  “Mmm.” I glanced over my shoulder. Lugh was crouching in a damp patch of sand, combing through a bed of shells. Not even his kisses could convince me to get that close to the water. “Maybe Eveleen saw something we didn’t. Shame you didn’t ask her what she really thinks it was.”

  “Nothing good, I’m certain.” Cat knelt beside a large boulder. “Maybe there’s blood on one of these.” She narrowed her eyes, as if closer scrutiny would reveal a crimson river running down the stone. Then she glanced at me expectantly.

  I crossed my arms. “Oh, no. I am not crawling around the rocks looking for bloodstains. Not even for you.”

  Dipping her hand in a tide pool, Cat murmured, “You’d think by now Mr. Gill would have—”

  Lugh shouted, and we turned toward him.

  “Found something?” Cat asked.

  But it wasn’t a cry of triumph. I ran down to the waterline, trying to ignore the fist that clenched around my lungs every time I caught sight of the crashing waves, leaving Cat to scramble after me.

  Lugh sat just shy of the water, his face contorted as he clutched his right foot.

  “What happened?” I demanded, dropping to my knees beside him. He groaned.

  Pushing my hair out of my eyes, I peered at the sole of his foot. A large white shard, probably a shell fragment, was embedded deep in the center. I wasn’t sure I could tug it free, but someone had to try. With a mostly steady hand, I reached for the giant splinter.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” All color had left Lugh’s face.

  “Just taking a closer look,” I answered. “I’ll be quick.” He nodded, and I yanked the shard of shell from his foot. It dropped into the sand as Lugh hissed and jerked away.

  “Dammit, Bry! That stung.” He craned his neck to inspect the blood oozing thickly from his sole, then met my eyes. “But thank you.”

  I started ripping a piece off the bottom of my skirt for him to use as a bandage.

  “Don’t ruin your—”

  “This skirt’s destined for the rubbish heap anyway. I wore it to Morag’s.” I handed him the scrap of fabric.

  “What got you, Lugh?” Cat rushed toward us, frowning.

  “Not sure. Piece of glass, maybe, or …” He trailed off as he scoured the area for the splinter. It was easy to find, smeared with red. “Looks like a shark’s tooth, a big one.” He rolled it between his fingers. “What do you think, Bry?”

  The stained ivory sliver did resemble a tooth more than a shell, but it was straight as a sewing needle and unlike any shark tooth I’d ever seen. My stomach clenched as I wondered what sort of animal had such teeth.

  “We should go before one of us steps on something worse.” I climbed to my feet and offered Lugh a hand. “There’s no sign of a shipwreck here, anyway.” I remembered the dark scales I’d seen immediately after the crash—because there wasn’t one. “We aren’t going to find any trace of Nessa Daley here, either. Mr. Gill and the others have searched this beach over a hundred times already.”

  Lugh frowned and tossed the splinter into the waves. “You’re right. But not because Nessa drowned. She’s in Peel, and all this worry will blow over shortly.”

  As we hurried from the beach, Lugh limping and leaning on Cat and me for support, my thoughts turned to the ivory splinter. Whether it was a tooth or a claw or part of a shell, I was certain of a few things: there was something sinister happening in Port Coire, and no one—not Cat or Lugh or even love for my sisters—could force me onto that beach again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My foot slid out from under me as the pebble-strewn earth gave way. I flailed my arms, clawing at the air. The large tin pail I’d brought sailed out of my hands and bounced down the path to the beach.

  I landed on my backside, staring up at the brilliant morning sky. “Stupid Morag.” I wanted the satisfaction of cursing her while she couldn’t hear it. “Stupid beach.” I brushed dirt off my cloak and skirt. “Stupid eels.”

  I couldn’t afford to lose the bucket. I refused to carry two dozen slimy snigs across town in my dress pockets. Trudging down the path between the cliffs, I took great care with each step. To my relief, the bucket had only tumbled a short distance.

  The ocean flashed and sparkled under the sun in welcome, putting on a show for the girl on the island least likely to appreciate it. My bare feet met the mushy sand, making me cringe, and I picked my way around tide pools in search of the snigs.

  If only Lugh and Cat could see me now.

  As I walked along the shore, I fingered the horrible charm Morag had given me that morning.

  “The throat bone of a Bollan wrasse,” she’d said gruffly, putting the pendant around my neck with oddly trembling hands. “Also known as a Bollan Cross. It’ll keep you from drowning.” The fishbone vaguely resembled a row of human teeth, but I’d seen wrasses’ impressive mouths enough times to know Morag wasn’t lying.

  If only I had the faintest idea of where to look for snigs, I wouldn’t be on the beach long enough to need the bone’s protection.

  When I was quite small, and unafraid of the water, Grandad had shown me a nest of snigs. The silvery eels were no bigger than his fingers. But their nest had been out in water up to my knobby toddler knees, and there was no way I’d ever walk into the sea of my own free will now.

  Inhaling the nausea-inducing scents of brine and stranded shellfish, I hitched up my skirt and knelt shakily beside a deep tide pool. Who knew what was waiting to bite or sting me in there? Still, my conscience demanded I put forth some effort.

  I braced myself for the chill water, rolled up my sleeve, and plunged my hand into the pool. A gray-shelled creature about the size of a coin skittered out of reach.

  Gasping, I withdrew my hand. What wa
s I thinking, coming here? I was too scared to pick up a wriggling eel. I couldn’t even stick my hand in a tide pool for a few seconds.

  Rising unsteadily to my feet, I spotted a long piece of driftwood resting in the sand nearby and grasped it, thinking I might be able to spear a few snigs on its sharper end—even if I lost the contents of my stomach in the process.

  Cold sand oozed between my toes as I paced, scanning the area for kittiwakes. The white and gray seabirds preferred to eat snigs, so seeing their feathers would give me hope.

  Nothing stirred but the breeze tugging my hair. Even the sun appeared to be a distant spectator, refusing to warm the sea and sky.

  I trained my eyes on the ground, searching for anything I could bring to Morag to appease her: a perfect scallop shell, a jumble of sea glass, a smooth lump of lightning-struck sand. I didn’t know what might put a smile on her wrinkled face, but gathering flotsam from the beach was worth the gamble for extra coin in my pocket.

  A flash of emerald green caught my eye. I tossed my driftwood spear aside and grabbed it, expecting to feel the water-rounded sides of sea glass.

  “Mollaght er!” I growled as a razor-sharp edge sliced into my thumb. Someone, probably a thoughtless tourist, had smashed a bottle and left it where anyone might stumble on the broken shards.

  I wiped my stinging thumb on my cloak. Warm, sticky droplets trickled down my hand, but I’d earned cuts this painful from a tangle of briars plenty of times before. Picking up my driftwood, I scaled a hill of sand that didn’t quite pass for a dune and stopped cold.

  At the waterline lay a dark-haired young man, naked and horribly still. Despite the distance, there was no mistaking the crimson gashes on his stomach. Waves lapped at his feet as the tide moved in, and I pictured the dribble of water from the dead girl’s mouth when the fishermen had turned her over.

  This boy could be another victim. Of who or what, I wasn’t yet certain.

  Heart thumping wildly, I abandoned my pail and driftwood to dash across the sand.

  “Please don’t be dead,” I choked out, sinking to my knees beside him. His fingernails were bloody and ragged, as though he’d fought hard against something. “Please, please, please don’t be dead.”

  The wounds in his stomach weren’t bleeding as I’d expected. I ran my thumb between the long gashes. His injuries had been made by something with massive claws or teeth. No Manx cat could make scratches that wide.

  One of the boy’s arms was draped across his middle, preventing me from fully seeing the worst of his injuries. I cupped his wrist and carefully lifted his arm with an unsteady hand. As I touched the deepest wound, my fingers tingled like someone had pricked them with a sewing needle. I jerked my hand back and swallowed hard to avoid being sick all over him, then flexed my fingers as the tingling subsided, taking deep breaths.

  His skin was warm to the touch, perhaps feverish, but his chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm.

  Suddenly, he gave a low groan and shifted on the sand.

  My frantic heartbeat bolted along at an even faster pace. I imagined him hovering between the blissful ignorance of sleep and the fresh pain waking would bring. Mr. Gill would have to send for a doctor from Peel.

  But who was this boy? I studied his angular face, yet nothing about his straight nose or strong jaw reminded me of anyone in town. His curly, dark hair—long enough for small whorls to graze his sharp jaw—could’ve marked him as the son of any number of Port Coire families. But I was certain he wasn’t from these parts. I knew everyone my age in our town and the neighboring villages, and I’d never seen anyone so striking before. I would have remembered.

  I glanced at his chest again, eager to reassure myself I hadn’t just studied the face of a handsome corpse. After noting the continued cadence of his breath, I stared at his tanned skin and the muscles carved into his arms and chest.

  It occurred to me that I should be running back to town for help, but I lingered at his side. Not wanting to see the mess of oozing claw marks again, I skimmed over them and followed the thin line of dark hair trailing down his lower stomach.

  Growing up without any brothers, nothing I’d seen or heard before could have prepared me for that moment. I froze, my face blazing like I had a terrible sunburn, startled by the unexpected sight but unable to rip my gaze away.

  “Where—where am I?” a rough voice asked in careful English.

  I shrieked, scuttling backward across the sand like a nervous crab.

  The naked lad looked around the beach, then at me. He tried to rise to sitting, but from the strain on his face, it didn’t appear he could manage. He rolled onto his side, pushed up, and collapsed on the sand with a groan.

  His dark blue eyes unsettled me. So did the rest of him. Heat crept up my neck, stinging my already hot face. With fumbling fingers, I unhooked the clasp of my cloak and threw it. The cloak landed on his legs, but not high enough to make him decent.

  “What is it? Did—are you hurt, too?” He finally sat up, and pulled the cloak to his chest so the cloth covered his wounds … and other things. If he’d understood my gesture, maybe the gashes looked worse than they felt.

  “Moghrey m-mie.” Why had I wished him a good morning when there was clearly nothing good about it?

  He regarded me with a mixture of pain and confusion.

  “Shooill marym rish tammylt beg?” I wished he wouldn’t look at me. My face continued to radiate heat.

  He kept staring. Either he didn’t know Manx, or he didn’t speak to half-wild girls.

  “Sorry. Can you walk?” I reverted to English with great difficulty. “We should get off the beach. I’ll find you a place to rest while someone brings a doctor. You might have a fever. Those cuts look infected.”

  “I think I’m able.” He attempted a smile, but it twisted into a grimace. He glanced between me and the tide as it continued to creep in, then attempted to claw his way up the sand.

  My stomach ached in sympathy at the thought of his gashes bleeding again, and I rushed to his side. “Let me help you.”

  His large, warm hands covered mine. I sank a few inches in the wet sand, knees buckling as he hauled himself off the ground. Somehow, I remained on my feet and he kept the cloak pinned to his body. He draped an arm around my shoulders and swayed.

  I grabbed him around the waist to help him balance. And to keep the cloak snugly in place. “I’m Bridey.” Warmth again spread across my skin, distracting me—at least mostly—from how near I was to the sea.

  The stranger leaned on me as we carefully made our way down the beach, his breathing becoming more labored with each step. Once or twice, the heat of his gaze made my neck prickle. But each time I turned, he appeared to be watching the waves.

  “What’s your name?” I wanted to keep him alert. If he fainted, I wouldn’t be able to carry him by myself.

  “I don’t know.” He sounded more confused than he had earlier.

  “Do you have family on the island?”

  “What island?”

  If I had woken up naked in a strange place, I would want to know immediately where I was. “You’re in Port Coire. On the Isle of Man.”

  “Oh. No, I don’t.”

  “Do you know who—or what—attacked you?”

  He gave me a long look, then shook his head.

  So much for conversation. Silence returned, heavier than before, as we passed the spot where I’d dropped my pail. I briefly considered claiming it, but another look at the stranger told me not to tarry.

  Worrying at my lip, I considered where to take the naked, nameless lad. My first thought was the Gills’. Mr. Gill always knew what to do in a crisis, but Mrs. Gill would faint at the sight of a nude young man.

  And then I realized I ought to bring him home. Mally had apprenticed as a midwife for over a year, and she knew how to clean cuts and scrapes. She’d done it for Grayse, Liss, and me countless times. And she’d been treating Mam’s headaches as best she could for years.

  “I’m goin
g to take you to my house. My sister knows some medicine. She can make you comfortable until a doctor arrives.”

  He scowled. “No doctor.”

  It was a relief to hear him speaking. “That will be Mally’s decision. I’m not going through the trouble of dragging you off this beach just to watch you die in our parlor.”

  He arched his brows. “It’s my choice.” Judging by his wheezing, he was growing weaker. “I said, no doctor.”

  “We’ll see.”

  It might have been my imagination, but his next hiss of pain sounded more like an angry sigh.

  We neared the tide pool in which I’d stuck my hand earlier. The sight of the path winding through the cliffs reminded me of how I’d fallen. “See there?” I pointed ahead. “It’ll be a tough go, understand?”

  He nodded, looking paler than he had minutes before.

  “We can manage if we go slowly. You’ll have to trust me, you, ah—you’re sure you don’t remember your name?”

  “No.” He must have seen the dismay on my face, as he added, “Call me whatever you’d like.”

  I shut my eyes. The black fin I’d seen in the harbor swam across my eyelids.

  “Fynn.” I opened my eyes. “It’s all I can think of.”

  “Fynn,” he repeated.

  I took this as a sign of approval and guided him toward the path. “When we reach the top, keep my cloak around you as best you can. If we meet someone, you should at least look presentable.”

  Fynn nodded distractedly.

  I tightened my grip on his waist and hoped my feet wouldn’t fail me again. “Ready?”

  While Mam and Mally tended Fynn’s wounds, the rest of my sisters and I were sent to Mrs. Kissack’s house, down the lane.

  At dusk, Mally came to collect us, looking tired but pleased. I kept pace with her on the brisk walk home, the salty wind lifting our hair and skirts as it changed direction. “Is Fynn going to be all right? Did you send for a doctor?”

  “Was he really naked?” Grayse added, eyes sparkling. She’d gleaned her information from Liss, who had eavesdropped from the bedroom when I brought Fynn home.