Fear the Drowning Deep

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  It must have been a serpent tooth.

  Heart hammering against my ribcage, I hurried to the bookcase and cracked open Morag’s book. The serpent had to have an entry. I must have missed it while searching for the fossegrim.

  I flipped the delicate pages at lightning speed, collecting only paper cuts for my trouble.

  No luck. Near the back of the book, however, someone had carefully ripped out the last sheet. Perhaps Morag couldn’t stand to be near the serpent after it attacked her, even in paper form. Remembering the sharpness of the tooth I’d held, I could understand why.

  Casting the useless book aside, I went to wake Fynn. I had to tell someone about Morag and the serpent. Perhaps he could help me decide if it was yet another beast we needed to worry ourselves about. But when I returned to the sofa and gently peeled back the blanket, there was no Fynn. Just a couple of lumpy pillows beaten into the vague shape of a boy.

  What if he’d gone hunting for the fossegrim without me, despite his promise? Or worse—what if staying to celebrate Mally’s engagement last night was his way of saying a silent farewell to us all?

  I rushed outside. “Fynn!” Stumbling toward the road, I called for him over and over.

  Mrs. Gill stopped sweeping her front step to glare. “Young lady, are you aware that everyone can hear you? I thought even you’d have the decency to keep your tongue after the wild things you’ve been saying of late.” She shook her head. “If there are sea monsters in Port Coire, then I’m the queen of Spain.”

  Ignoring her, I forced myself to take deep breaths. If Fynn was leaving, there were many paths he might’ve taken. The harbor, where the tourists’ ferries ran to places like Dublin and Liverpool, seemed a good place to start.

  But as I stood there, breathing deeply, I was hit, again, with the stench of spoiled milk. Fynn had assured me before that it was nothing more than a dead seal, yet the carcass would surely have been picked clean by now. No, the putrid scent had to be coming from something far worse.

  I turned, directing my shout toward the sea. “Fynn, can you hear me?”

  Mrs. Gill dropped her broom with a noise between a sigh and a growl. When she frowned, she bore a striking resemblance to a six-horned Loaghtan sheep. Muttering under her breath about my mam and the dangers of being litcheragh, she banged her door shut.

  I spun on my heel, pausing long enough to scowl after her and call, “My mam’s not lazy!” before hurrying to find Fynn.

  He wasn’t at the harbor. Nor was he on any of the cliffs we’d visited together. It wasn’t until I was trudging homeward, bone-tired and defeated, that I spotted a familiar pair of Da’s old boots dangling from a tree branch.

  I grabbed the biggest rock I could find and hurled it into the tree.

  “Watch it!”

  I crossed my arms, not at all satisfied with Fynn’s reaction. “What in Manannán’s name are you doing up there?”

  Fynn dropped down from his perch. His clothes were rumpled, his hair unkempt, and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. “I could see all of Port Coire from up there.” He shrugged. “I was just saying good-bye.”

  “Why?” I bit down hard on my trembling lip. I refused to cry.

  He lifted a hand, then quickly dropped it as I stepped back. His eyes shone with concern as he studied my face. “You’re so pale. Did you see the fossegrim again, or—?”

  “My mam’s done another painting of that foul serpent. Not that you’d care.”

  The boy in front of me worried me far more than the serpent, though. It could be dead by now, for all I knew.

  “Tell me,” I said, glaring at Fynn, “why are you leaving?” I hated the whine in my voice. “And why didn’t you ask me to come with you? Have you remembered a past that’s calling you home?”

  “Bridey. Stop.” He brushed a lock of my hair away from my eyes, conjuring memories of our kiss at sea. The taste of treacle, the heat of his tongue, the pull of his fingers in the tangle of my hair. I wanted to feel and taste those things again.

  “I promise you, I remember nothing of my life on land before you rescued me.” He shot me a pained look. “But where I’m going, you can’t possibly follow.”

  “I don’t understand,” I whispered. “You came here, completely disrupted my life, and won my—” I took a deep breath and met his eyes. “Won my trust. And my heart. And now, you’re fleeing on a whim you won’t explain?” I stood taller. “Well, I won’t accept it! You’ll have to give me a better excuse than ‘I’m going somewhere you can’t follow.’ I’m every bit as capable as you.”

  Slowly, his frown turned into something I’d seen on his face before. Sorrow, mixed with longing. “I know you are. But—”

  “Has this summer meant nothing to you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Sweat beaded on Fynn’s brow. “You mean everything to me. Only it won’t matter if …” He hesitated, his eyes searching mine. “I want to stay here with you, if you decide that’s what you want. It was my mistake not to let you choose. I see that now.”

  I nodded. “You’ve got that much right. But whatever do you mean? What won’t matter?”

  “There’s something I need to show you.” Fynn’s expression was grim. “Before you decide how you feel about me—”

  “It’s rather late for that.” I grabbed his hands, determined to hold on now that I’d found him again. “Out with it.”

  “You’re sure you want the truth?”

  I nodded. “Positive.”

  “Then meet me on the beach in an hour.” He paused, clearing his throat. “You don’t have to get in the water, and we won’t stay long enough to make anyone worry or put ourselves in danger again. Just come. And know that I’ve fallen for you, too.”

  I wanted to shout, to dance, to sing. Warmth spread all the way to the tips of my toes as I repeated his words. “You—”

  “You say you won’t kiss me again until the witch brings back my memories, but there’s nothing to bring back. I know who I am, and I know who I want.”

  He leaned in and kissed me with a ferocity that made my heart swell, but even his closeness didn’t silence the questions running through my head. What did he mean, he had no memories to bring back? And why couldn’t he show me whatever it was right here, instead of on the blasted beach?

  We shared a second, longer kiss. Then he rushed off without another word.

  “Fynn! Wait! You’ll hurt yourself again!”

  The boughs of the trees hissed softly as he passed them; he didn’t look back.

  When he was no more than a speck in the distance, I touched my swollen lips and stared at the spot where he’d been, far more confused than I was before I found him.

  Fynn paced the sand in Da’s swim trunks, bare-chested but for his bandages, a lone figure on the deserted beach crunching sharp pieces of shell under his feet. He was mouthing words to himself, alternating wild gestures with running a hand through his hair.

  I paused to observe my surroundings. He looked like he might startle if I approached too quickly. The tide pools on either side of me brimmed with new water brought in by the encroaching surf, and the bright day laid all the pools’ secrets bare. If only the sun could illuminate whatever Fynn was hiding from me as easily.

  I crouched in the sand where a red-orange starfish clung to a rock. Within hours, the sun would bake it dry and steal its life. Taking a deep breath, I gingerly grabbed one of its five legs and pried it loose. The star put up little resistance and dropped into my waiting hand.

  Cradling the small creature, I strode past Fynn and waded into the shallows. That would get his attention. Sea foam swirled around my ankles, but I summoned all my courage to ignore it and returned the star to the sea. “Good luck, little one.” The orange creature disappeared beneath a wave.

  “Since when do you care about anything from the sea?” Fynn placed a hand on my shoulder, sending heat through my arm.

  “Since it brought me a boy, I suppose.” I backed away from the waves, expect
ing Fynn to follow. But when I reached drier sand, he was still standing right where I’d left him.

  “I’m going to show you now.” He raised his voice as he stepped into the crashing surf. “I know you’ll be frightened, but I don’t want any more secrets between us.”

  A hot prickling started at the nape of my neck and spread across my skin. “Fynn, if this is dangerous, you don’t have to do it. Mally stitched your wounds up again, and you could undo all her work—do you really want to be in that much pain?”

  He waded out farther, the water lapping at his knees. “My heart is yours, Bridey Corkill. I hope you’ll forgive me for what I didn’t say before.” He turned abruptly and dove into the waves. His dark hair looked bold against the whitecaps.

  My knees threatened to buckle as I searched the horizon for signs of the fossegrim, or something just as sinister, waiting to devour the boy I so adored.

  Fynn’s head bobbed near a group of large rocks, then disappeared. The moments stretched in agonizing silence broken only by the cries of gulls and the rumble of waves.

  I shouted Fynn’s name until I was hoarse. The edges of my vision dimmed, tunneling toward the spot where he’d vanished beneath the waves. How long could a person breathe underwater? Something had surely grabbed him.

  I rushed into the surf, hitching up my skirt. Chilly water surged around my knees as the black fin I’d seen so many weeks ago in the harbor glided toward shore. Shuddering, I stumbled back, coating myself in sea foam. I trained my gaze on the beach, knowing my panic made me easy prey.

  Halfway across the beach, I tripped on a mound of shells, and landed facedown in the sand. I spat out a mouthful of grit, taking heaving breaths as I scrambled to push myself up.

  Something crashed near the water, louder than the meeting of water and rock—a snort from some foul creature’s mouth, followed by the muffled smack of feet against wet sand.

  I turned as a hulking black horse lumbered out of the waves, shaking white foam off its sleek coat. Blinking, I pinched my arm.

  The horse was still there, half-submerged in the waves and staring at me with luminous, dark blue eyes. This ghastly creature looked nothing like the chestnut horses I’d met on my aunt’s farm. Its ears were twice the length of a normal horse’s, thinner and pointed. The creature’s forelegs ended not in hooves, but in webbed flippers. More webbing covered the bends of its legs, and gills lined its neck. White scars shone on the creature’s belly, and a large, round fin rose from its back.

  The glashtyn from Morag’s book and Mam’s paintings.

  I tried to scream, but only a croak came from my throat. The beast tossed its curly, black mane and slapped a flipper against the sand, displeased by my broken sound. The waves receded, revealing the creature’s dolphin-like tail.

  Even though I knew it couldn’t rush to attack me, I staggered back and nearly fell again as the creature gave a strangled cry, more like a man’s gasp than a horse’s whinny. It appeared to be shrinking, muscles rippling and twisting into another form. Flippers became fingers, the giant tail divided to form legs, and the mane became a mess of familiar dark curls.

  I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. I’d finally done what the good folk of Port Coire assumed I had so long ago: lost my mind. When I dared to glance at the beast again, it was no longer standing there. Shivering in its place was Fynn, naked as the day I found him, wide-eyed and dripping.

  “Monster,” I stammered.

  He shook the water out of his hair. Da’s bathing suit must have been ruined during his transformation. He started toward me, worry creasing his forehead.

  But for every step he took, I scrambled back. He’d been lying to me this whole time. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.

  “Bridey,” he said quietly. “I’m still the same person you—”

  “You lied to me! You’re not who I thought you were at all!” Fynn winced, but the hurt look on his face was nothing compared to the agony he was causing me now. “You’re no better than the fossegrim.” I bit my chapped lip, suppressing a sob.

  “I’m a glashtyn, but I’m no monster.” He stopped advancing. Sea-dweller or not, at least he had enough sense to leave me be. Blood leaked sluggishly from his deepest wound, and to my dismay, seeing his pain still caused my stomach to clench in sympathy. “The serpent your mother keeps painting—it tried to kill me the day I washed up on this beach.”

  Glashtyn. Ms. Elena had told Cat’s mam that the glashtyn liked to drown girls. And Fynn had pretended he didn’t know the word when I’d asked about it.

  My head spun. “You drowned that poor girl who washed up on the beach, didn’t you? And Nessa? Eveleen? Alis? Lugh’s mam? You were just blaming the fossegrim for your murders! Where are their bodies? Why didn’t you take me, too? Oh, God.” Tears spattered the front of my blouse as I thought back to our day at sea. How swiftly and surely he’d picked me up and carried me into the waves.

  He could have been planning to steal me then, like the others.

  Fynn clutched at his chest. “I didn’t drown anyone! I don’t know why the fossegrim came here when I did. I’d never even seen one before it attacked us. But the serpent fought me, and I nearly died. It was fair fortune that I landed here with you, and not on some other shore.” He swallowed, then reached out an imploring hand. “You saved my life. Truly. And my heart is yours, if you want—”

  “Don’t you dare say you love me.” A shrill laugh escaped my lips. “It seems we know nothing of each other.” The voice echoing in my ears didn’t sound like my own. “And don’t come near my family. Go back where you belong! I never want to see you again.”

  “Bridey, I only showed you because I didn’t want to keep any secrets … You asked to know! You wanted the truth!” Fynn’s words were lost to the wind as I raced up the path between the cliffs, glancing over my shoulder only to make sure he wasn’t following.

  I sprinted through town by way of my neighbors’ yards, dodging the vague shapes of chickens, cats, and washtubs. I paused once, by a stone blur that vaguely resembled the Gills’ house, to grab a yellowed garment hanging from a line. After dabbing my streaming eyes and nose with someone’s nightgown, I hurried across a field into the sheltering shade of the forest’s silver birch and rowans.

  The climb seemed to take twice as long as usual, perhaps because I kept turning to peer down the hill. Fynn had trailed me here before; he could find it again. But not even a rabbit stirred in the brush.

  My shoulders slumped. There were so many things I wanted to ask him, once my anger had faded. Why the serpent attacked him, and was he was even capable of loving a human? His falsehoods stung worse than the dreadful moment of watching him surface from the waves as a beast from a book of monsters.

  I emerged from the trees with my stomach rumbling. I skirted the edge of the woods and began to search for anything edible among the bracken. A sweet perfume tickled my nose, and I chased the scent to dark raspberries dangling from thorny canes, begging to be picked.

  Something rustled the leaves. I froze, looking toward the path, but it was only a bird taking flight.

  As my sobs slowed, I rested at the crown of the hill. The short, scrubby grass was warm from roasting under the sun, a wonderful contrast to the icy sea water.

  I gazed at the clear sky as I ate the raspberries, recalling every detail of Fynn’s shift from terrifying sea monster to handsome lad. He was a brave, funny, kind boy who cared for me, who had believed me about the threat in the water when no one else would. And he was a glashtyn with flippers, sharp teeth and a tail. A sea monster.

  A giggle escaped my lips.

  I had named him Fynn. Not a Manx name, like Braddan or Colyn or Rory. Fynn.

  Another giggle bubbled from me, followed by a peal of unrestrained laughter that would have surely confirmed the town’s suspicions about my delicate mental state, had I been overheard. I laughed until my sides threatened to burst, but all too soon, tendrils of worry took root in my chest again.


  If Fynn was a creature who murdered innocent girls, why hadn’t he dragged me to the depths during our swim lesson? With no one around to bear witness, it would have been so easy. But there was no doubt that the fossegrim had lured Grandad off the cliffs, and that it had tried to do the same to me. Maybe Fynn really did care for me. Still, there was no proof that he hadn’t preyed on my friends and neighbors.

  Whatever his intentions, I needed answers, not his half-truths.

  And I knew of only one place where I would find them.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Raised voices carried on the wind as I drew closer to Morag’s cottage. Who from the village would visit her? Perhaps someone had come to harass her on a dare, as I’d once done with my friends when we were younger.

  “I wish you’d stay longer, Mureal,” Morag said, an unfamiliar tender note in her voice. “Are you sure you should walk home now? You don’t look well, dear.”

  I recalled the note Mam left by her easel. Of course, she was still here visiting. But I wanted to see Morag alone. I ducked behind the nearest tree and stole a glance at the cottage.

  Mam and Morag stood together in the doorway, Mam’s willowy figure looming over Morag’s hunched one. “I’ll be fine, moir,” Mam said, wrapping her arms around Morag’s bony shoulders. “But what about you? You reek of whiskey.”

  I retreated deeper into the shade of my tree, wondering whether I’d heard correctly. If Mam had said moir, not Morag, then she’d called the old woman mother. Mam’s parents died before I was born, so it was natural that she would seek the company of someone older. But Morag? Shaking off my surprise, which seemed trivial in light of what I’d just learned about Fynn, I focused on their conversation.

  “It’s just a headache,” Mam protested. “I’ve had these hundreds of times since I was a girl. And I bought some Samson—”

  “Bah!” Morag spat in the dirt. “That stuff’s more likely to give you a toothache than cure your head. Wait here, Mureal. I have something that might help.”