All the Murmuring Bones

by A. G. Slatter

  Maidens would come to her pool and beg for boons: beauty, marriage, wealth. And sometimes she granted it and sometimes she did not. They would bring her gifts, these girls, offerings. But only one came who could provide the sole thing the mari-morgan truly desired.

  This girl wanted a good husband – oh, she already had one, a husband that is, but he was neither good nor kind. In fact, he was an entirely undesirable sort of husband, yet he was the one she had. He’d displayed none of his worst characteristics, of course, before their wedding for he wasn’t completely stupid. But as time wore on, so his true nature grew stronger and his façade grew thinner until the cruelty entirely broke through and he took a knife to his wife’s face so no man would ever look at her again.

  Thus the girl, the woman, the wife came to beg the mari-morgan. She said “Make him kind. Make him love me. Make him a good husband. Make my life better.”

  The mari-morgan knew she could do only one of those things, so she asked what the girl would give in return. The girl replied whatever you demand. And what the mari-morgan demanded was a dress.

  A dress that did not lose its beauty when submerged, did not become sodden and weighty, that did not drag on the mari-morgan as she swam and dove, danced and darted and looped. A dream of a dress that did not die when deprived of light and air. The creature thought she’d asked too much, that the bargain would remain unfulfilled and she was content with that.

  But the girl knew of a book. It wasn’t hers but she could get it. She knew that within were all manner of spells, and one of them might well do the trick. So she got the book – the how of it is another tale entirely – and gathered the things she needed, then went to the mari-morgan’s pool under the bright blood moon. There, she cut the parts of a gown from the fabric of water and moonlight, and stitched it together according to the spellbook. She decorated it with waterweed and stardust, and the mari-morgan saw it was perfect, and knew she’d do whatever she must to have the pretty, pretty thing. The creature said, ‘Bring him here this eve and I shall make your life better.’

  And so, the girl, the woman, the wife did. She brought her husband to the water’s edge, by means of cajoling and wheedling. And he leaned out over the shimmering surface, looking for the treasure his wife had sworn he would find there. The mari-morgan appeared beneath him, and he thought how beautiful she was and how much she’d be worth if captured, but before he could reach down for her, she reached up for him.

  The mari-morgan pulled him under and dragged him a’down, a’down, a’down until the bubbles stopped coming from his mouth.

  And his widow screamed and wept and wailed, for a while at least. But the girl hadn’t listened carefully enough – and it’s terribly important to listen carefully when monsters speak, whether they be two-legged men, or women who live in pools. Yes, she screamed and wept and wailed, but eventually she realised she’d got her part of the bargain: her life had been made better.

  Perhaps that one was ill-chosen, but it’s what came to mind. Still, all change is painful, cutting and cauterising yourself for something better. It makes me think of the great tome I left behind.

  Should I have taken the book of tales when I fled? But it was so large, so heavy, and too easy to identify me if I was found with it in my possession. Yet now, without it, I feel it as another loss. A sensible decision, but a hole in my chest, beside all the other holes where Aoife and Óisín, Maura and Malachi once were.

  I resolve that when I am settled I will begin a new book. I’ll write down all I can remember so at least some version of them remains. They will be changed, there will be things my memory lets go, but they will still be. And a trace of a tale is all that’s needed to find your way in the world.

  I’m about to dig for another when we round the bend and there it is: a high hedge of thickly entwined thorns the height of, well, an O’Malley, with clusters of bramble berries hanging like gems in the sunlight. How long have we been riding parallel to it, unaware of its existence just beyond the dark line of the forest? It’s too regular, to cared-for to simply be a work of nature. It’s been shaped and sculpted, kept neat and straight and tall.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, and rub the kelpie-horse’s neck. ‘Keep an eye out for that tree, then.’

  23

  The tree itself takes another couple of hours to find but, once seen, it’s not something to be easily missed. To my right, it stands out amongst the rest of the forest. The entry through the hedge-fence (to the left of the roadway) is another thing altogether, with no clear break in the weave of the green barrier. I dismount and approach the tree first. The face is far more detailed – although the work is rough – than the map gave hint of: a woman’s face, with antlers carved on the forehead. Maura’s stories told of hind-girls who chose their own fate, growing horns as a sign of being untamed and unchained and answering to no one. I suspect this idea would appeal to my mother. I stare at the wooden woman for a long moment, then glance behind me, trying to figure the line of her sight, to where she’s staring.

  Pinpointing the spot, I pace towards the impenetrable wall of brambles. Indistinguishable, really, this patch from all the other patches that I’ve ridden past, that I would ride past were I to continue on. Reaching out, careful to avoid the thorns, I wrap my pointer fingers around two branches and shake them for all I’m worth – to no avail. One of Maura’s old tales creeps to mind: a girl faced with an impediment such as this pricked her finger on one of the barbs and her blood ate away at the briars, enabling her to pass through.

  Tentatively, I snag one fingertip.

  It hurts, blood wells, and nothing happens.

  A stream of curses, days and days of frustration, comes from my mouth. Loud and wild and angry.

  And it’s answered by an equally profane litany from somewhere on the other side of the barrier. I jump back from the movement in front of me. A thick panel of the hedge shifts aside, and there’s a man shouting ‘Mrs Elliott, you’re – oh.’ And his tone is one of terrible disappointment. He squints, tilts his head, says ‘You’re not… but you look like…’

  And I reply ‘I’m Miren Elliott’, laying a claim to a name I’ve never used before. The words taste strange on my tongue; in the pit of my stomach there’s a tightness for it feels like a betrayal, I’ve been an O’Malley for so long. But who would know that name here?

  The man’s scowling now, short iron hair, yellow-green eyes slitted beneath thick brows – not joined in the middle though, so I don’t take him for one of Ben’s shape-shifting brethren. A greying beard obscures his chin, but it’s kept neat and trim, and though his clothes are knock-about, they are clean. He hesitates, staring as if he might be able to see a lie on my face… finally stepping aside. ‘Well, you’d best come in then.’

  I lead the kelpie-horse through what turns out to be a series of panels in the fence, the man shuffling them back into place as I pass through. The entrance is perhaps six feet deep, and when we step out it’s to find a small gatehouse of grey-red stone, with clean sash windows, a well in the garden and smoke puffing from the chimney. Ahead a narrow path winds off into more trees. I wait while the man finishes his task; wait until he turns to me, his scowl still in place.

  ‘Is this Blackwater?’ I ask belatedly.

  He says, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m looking for my parents, Isolde and Liam Elliott.’

  He crosses his arms and stares at me once more. ‘You sound like her – that’s why I… when I heard you swearing. You’ve the look of her, not so much of him. Well. What do you want?’

  ‘I want to see my parents.’ As soon I say it I think what a fool I am. He’ll turn me out again. But he just keeps staring, eyes narrowing, widening, narrowing, widening as if his process of consideration requires this physical display.

  He laughs at last, says just under his breath, ‘Won’t you put a cat among the pigeons?’ And he laughs again, hesitates one more moment and tells me, ‘Off you go, missy, I’m sure your uncle will be pleased to s
ee you.’

  Uncle?

  But I don’t ask him any more, don’t want him curious as to how little I know about my family – although surely he’s wondering already. If he thinks any longer, perhaps he’ll start to question why he’s never heard of me. Or has he? Again, it’s a not a question to ask quite yet. I put a foot into the stirrup and swing up into the saddle.

  The man points to the path. ‘Follow that for a quarter of a mile and it’ll split into four. Take the one second from the left to get to the big house. The farthest right goes to the smelter; the one farthest left to the village. The second right is the mine. Off you go, you can’t miss the house.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask and can’t help but put a little bit of Aoife’s imperiousness into my tone.

  ‘ Lazarus Gannel. You’ll see me again.’ He laughs like it’s a favourite joke.

  I thank him. If I can be polite to the ghosts of gallowscrows, to wolves that walk sometimes on four legs others on two, to man-eating kelpies, even to Aidan Fitzpatrick when required, then I can be polite to the gatekeeper. Indeed, it seems more than wise.

  * * *

  From ‘gate’ to mansion it’s not more than half an hour. I take my time so I can look at the surroundings, drink them in. Also, to give myself some time to think.

  As soon as the gatehouse is out of sight, we enter orchards that seem to go on forever. I tell the apple trees from the cherry trees, the apricot from the peach – all look healthy enough but are bereft of fruit. Perhaps there’s just been a harvest, yet it seems a little early. There are trellises for grapes, too, quite a lot, a large private concern or a small commercial vineyard, I cannot quite tell – but again, the vines though hale are bare. Further over are fields where wheat and barley should be waving; they empty. I might think them lying fallow, but it’s not the time. I pass on, and soon find where the trail divides and I take the way Lazarus advised.

  More trees – oak and yew and ash – more fields empty of crops. Then almost suddenly a vista of groomed grounds opens up before us – although I can see patches where there’s neglect and things grow more wildly than they should – like Hob’s Hallow once had when an army of gardeners could be marshalled into action. An enormous house is set in the middle like an ornament. There are pruned topiaries and hedges, garden beds that are shaped like flowers themselves, trees trained into archways with rosebushes climbing them. As we draw closer to the mansion, I can see some blossoms, random riots of colour, as if here: the house is the heart. Birdfeeders hang from branches but I notice there are no birds to peck at the small mounds of seed. There’s a contrast between the lack I’ve seen elsewhere and the seeming fertility near this home. Yet the place is not entirely pristine; there’s an air of neglect, I can sense it, see it even from this distance. It seems as if all should be humming, growing, buzzing, yet there is only this weight of… waiting, of suspension. It is… strange.

  There are no labourers in the garden, no one rushing from the sturdy grey stone and wood stables to take my horse. There are no sounds to be heard. There’s not even a breath of wind to cool the sweat the sun’s broken on my brow. I stroke the kelpiehorse’s neck and he shivers beneath my touch.

  Blackwater.

  When we mount a small rise, I can see the rolling gardens give way to an expanse of green lawn, which is then swallowed by a lake, long and wide and dark. The black water of the place’s name. No great originality there, but perhaps the sound of it reminded Isolde of “Breakwater”. The surface is still as glass, like polished obsidian; no birds glide across it, neither swans, nor common ducks or even commoner grebes. Are there fish in there? Or it is too inert for any life to be supported therein?

  The mansion is bigger than Hob’s Hallow, and its component parts constructed at the same time. Not for this abode the wings tacked onto the ancient tower, like an ill-made bird. The stone is the same grey-red stone as the gatehouse, the white-painted front door and window frames appear a little grubby. Four storeys to the main building (including an attic and a semi-basement); a two-storey wing to each side. Those wings continue on the same line for a while, then turn at right-angles to reach out toward any approaching guest; both have a parapet and I imagine walking along them in the evening. A turning circle covered with yellow gravel splits the lawn, then between that drive and the home are eight wooden and metal benches for sitting, enormous red pots beside them, overflowing with lavender flowers. Again, I wonder at the lack of blossoming elsewhere that I’ve seen since my arrival, yet the clear explosion of plants closest to the house.

  I halt the kelpie-horse and stare.

  All of this.

  My parents have all of this – made all of this – and there is no sign of a lack of money. No deprivation, neither paucity nor poverty. No expense spared. Yet I have spent my life in made-over gowns, eating soup and porridge thin as water, my grandparents turning a coin around seven times before they spent it, dodging debt collectors, begging the likes of Aidan Fitzpatrick for the smallest of aid.

  And my parents have this.

  They did not send anything to help.

  My mother did not send assistance though she could not have avoided knowledge of the state of the family – she too grew up in Hob’s Hallow.

  She did not send for me.

  I feel as if rage will choke me. I’ve come so far and here I’ll die on the threshold because I cannot swallow down this fury that’s closing my throat. And yet: longing. Yearning. I’d give everything if only they’ll love me. Explain everything away. Tell me it was all a mistake.

  And I know this is infantile – that my heart is still that of a hurt child – so I clench my hands around the reins, feel my nails sharp again my palms. It pulls me back to here. The bile subsides. The kelpie-horse moves impatiently beneath me and I’ve no doubt he’s eager to have his service done. Gently, I dig my heels into his flanks; he makes a mild noise of protest at the indignity and we move on.

  When we are perhaps five yards away from the semi-circular steps that lead upwards, the white front door with its silver knocker – is that a two-faced, two-tailed mermaid? – flies open and a woman appears in the breach.

  My heart stops for the shortest of moments until I realise this cannot be my mother. Cannot be Isolde. This woman is short and very blonde, nearly platinum. She’s buxom but almost to the point of turning stout: her apron and waistband are straining against her. There are traces of a little too much fat in her round cheeks and beneath her chin, and her skin shows traces of coarsening. She’s pretty but how long that will last is anyone’s guess – it’s like she’s poised on a moment between. Even if she had been tall and slender and dark like an O’Malley, the apron with its stains would have given me pause. Even on the worst days when Aoife had to help in the kitchen because Maura was overwhelmed, she would never be seen in a grubby smock, never be seen looking like a scullion or slattern. She drilled that into me and I can think of no good reason why it wouldn’t have been imprinted onto my mother’s mind as well.

  Then I focus on the dress beneath: sky blue with silver flowers embroidered. Even at a quick glimpse, it’s of better quality than one usually associates with a servant. However it doesn’t seem made for her; a hand-me-down. I think of my mother giving away her fine dresses to a servant when she couldn’t be bother to help her own family. I shake the thought away.

  A housekeeper then, or a maid, and by her expression an unhappy one at that.

  ‘How did you get in? Who are you?’ Her tone is barely below that of a shriek. Her hands are on her hips, clenched into fists as if that’s the only way she can keep herself from hitting me. She narrows her dark eyes.

  ‘Lazarus Gannel let me in,’ I say, answering the last question first, and her colour soars from pink to angry red. ‘And my name is Miren Elliott and I’m here to see my parents.’

  Her face goes slack with shock, all that red choler drains, and she reels away from the doorframe, back inside the shadowy depths of the great house.

 
Do I stay here? Do I follow her?

  While I’m deliberating, there’s a disturbance somewhere in the dimness of the entry hall. All I can see is a stirring in the gloom. There are shouts and cries, a slap and then the noises hush to bare whispers that I imagine moving dust across the air.

  Another figure appears on the threshold: a tall man, with light brown hair shot with silver, blue eyes, high cheekbones, a square jaw clean shaven; emerald trews, a white linen shirt with a loosely tied red cravat, and a waistcoat of violet silk with a border along the bottom of harlequin diamonds in green and purple and yellow. His brown boots are highly-polished; they look as if they’ve never been worn outside. The colours of a peacock. There’s a slight smile on his lips, which are full, but as he gets closer I can see a scar mars the right curve of the cupid’s bow. He hangs in the doorframe for a moment, then steps out, arms opening.

  Is this my father? Malachi said he was a pretty boy. Older now, age has taken the edge off the prettiness, so he’s handsome more than anything. But is this my father?

  ‘Miren. My darling girl. Miren. Welcome home.’

  24

  I almost fall in my haste to dismount, then my knees are weak when I touch the ground and it’s only my father’s arms that hold me up for the longest while. I’m crying and I don’t want to, but I cannot stop myself. And the tall man is patting my back and kissing my forehead, and whispering ‘There, there, my darling girl.’

  At last, I am done, empty. As the sadness ebbs, my strength returns, creeping in a little ashamed. I push away, still holding his forearms for the comfort of contact, and look straight into his eyes. I’m about to speak when he says, ‘Your parents will be so pleased to see you when they return.’

  Your parents. And I remember Lazarus Gannel saying ‘Off you go, missy, I’m sure your uncle will be pleased to see you’ and me not asking questions because I didn’t want to appear any more ignorant than I already had. Seeing this man, and the need and hope and want for a parent welling up and crashing over me so that no sort of reason could make itself known.