I notice after a while, however, that there is a sound. The trickle of water. Soon a stream is running beside us, and it’s nothing to cause fear. A mer with its great tail would be marooned in such a shallow rill. It must flow underground from the lake. There are sparkles of silver in the rocky bed that are pretty but I see no fish there, neither big nor small. ‘Does anyone fish in the lake?’
He seems startled that I’ve asked. ‘What an odd question!’
I laugh. ‘Not really – I come from the sea, Uncle Edward, a body of water is always a source of food to such a one.’
‘Ah! The answer is no, my dear. No one fishes there. There is nothing to take a bait, or so I’m told.’ He sighs. ‘Miren, may I ask how you found us?’
So I tell him a little. Again, my trust is a thing so badly battered and so recently, I’ll not give it away easily. I tell him of the loss of Óisín and Aoife, but I do not mention how Aoife died. I tell him of Aidan and Aoife’s matchmaking, but I do not mention Aidan’s cruel hands, nor his hired assassin, nor how the blade in my hand felt biting into the green-eyed man’s throat. I mention finding Isolde’s letters in Óisín’s study, but I only say there was one – and his interest is piqued.
‘What did Isolde say in her missive?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid. Merely that she and my father had settled here, that it was north of Bellsholm and where it might be found.’ I tell such small lies, no one will know. I will not mention the old silversmith, giving away secrets in his senility. This place was hidden for a reason – I think of the concealed entrance in the hedge that I used only yesterday. My parents have gone to great lengths to keep Blackwater’s location undisclosed. And I consider Aoife and her rages when she spoke of Isolde. I ponder if that was enough to hide away like this? So she would not find them?
‘Nothing more? No details of the new home and family?’
‘No, Uncle,’ I say and lean towards him as if to share a secret. ‘You must know that my mother parted from her parents on terrible terms?’ He nods. ‘My grandmother Aoife never forgave her.’ And still I cannot bear to tell him that I was left behind to pay a debt of some sort.
‘Oh, my dear girl. And to come here and find them gone again, albeit temporarily! What a blow. I’m sorry I could not soften it for you.’
‘You have been so kind, Uncle! I will never forget that.’ I smile and reach out to touch his arm.
‘Isolde confided some things to me,’ he says. ‘Troubled, the O’Malleys, but every family has their problems, I think. The Elliotts were certainly not immune! You fled your suitor, you say? Your father left a bride-to-be behind when he met your mother. Poor girl. It seems it runs in the blood. But sometimes what the heart wants cannot be denied.’ He smiles fondly.
‘Aidan did not want a wife with a mind of her own,’ I say stiffly. ‘And he would never have approved of me seeking my parents. I would not have made a satisfactory wife, nor he a decent husband.’
‘Perhaps he might have come around? A wife can convince a husband of many things, is my observation.’
‘Uncle,’ I say slowly, ‘I believe Aidan has made a bargain with the woman who rules Breakwater like a robber queen. I do not believe he is good man.’
I wonder at myself, telling so many half-truths to this man who is family. Did I ever lie this much before? Or was it simply a habit embedded in me, one that is now coming to the fore as I’m forced to survive on my own? Is this the best skill Aoife ever gave me? Dishonesty? Uncle Edward has shown me nothing but kindness, made me welcome, yet there is a whisper in my head that says It is early days, Miren, be patient.
‘I believe you made the right decision, my dear, to leave.’
‘Enough about my trials, Uncle, won’t you tell me of the Elliotts?’
* * *
Fifteen minutes of family tales before we reach the village: The Elliott home in Able’s Croft. Great-Grandmother Eleanor who hollowed out her wooden leg and filled it with plum brandy to make church services bearable. Uncle Tobias who failed to inform his fourth wife that the first three were still alive and well. Cousin Vella whose fondness for her wolfhounds meant she had each and every one taxidermied after their deaths and placed around her home in their favourite spots, then deposited in her tomb at her own demise. Grandfather Edgar who locked himself in his library one evening and refused to come out, only collecting the meals left for him in the corridor when the deliverer had gone, and continuing thus until one day three days of meals had piled up uneaten and his sons broke down the door to find him dead over a copy of Murcianus’ Magical Rites, a look of horror frozen to his face. ‘We never found out if he managed to summon anything – the house always was filled with strange noises anyway, so another haunting would hardly draw attention.’
We follow the stream all the way to the village, where it splashes over a lip of land and down into a fountain pool at the edge of a square. In the centre of the pool rears the statue of a mermaid. I stare at the thing. It’s an idealised version to be sure, pretty and sweet, nothing like the creatures who pulled me into Breakwater Harbour, with their teeth and talons, sharp fins on lashing tails, gashes of gills and scaly skin. This lovely thing was sculpted by someone who’s never actually seen the truth of a mer.
There are perhaps forty small neat houses (some older, some newer built as families expand, I imagine) clustered around the square, straight white fences protecting tiny flowerless gardens. There are people milling about, children playing games and singing rhymes I recognise from childhood. Some folks draw water from the fountain, some produce items – fruit and vegetables which must have been purchased elsewhere or is it really the last of their stores? There are some livestock in pens, cows and sheep, but there are no newborns to be seen, just as Edward said.
I watch as folk begin to notice us. A red-haired woman with an equally red-haired child of perhaps four (too old to be held so) on her hip sees us – or more particularly my uncle – and her lips thin. Then she sees me and she loses all expression, goes blank, her jaw drops. The man beside her follows the direction of her gaze; other heads turn, the phenomenon spreads like flames leaping from one roof to another.
Soon, the press of bodies stops moving all together and they just stare. I look askance at my uncle, who murmurs with a smile, ‘Ah, I see Miriam Dymond’s spotted you. You are very like your mother.’
As if his words have broken a spell, the villagers begin to shift again, like breath has been restored to them. A stout pink-faced man bustles forward, his yellow coat neatly pressed and his black trews tidier than a working man’s should be.
‘Mr Elliott,’ he says and there’s nothing friendly in his tone, but I can tell the hostility is tamped down hard.
‘Oliver. How go matters?’
‘If you mean the matter of the crops, then they are as they have been with no change. If you mean the matter of the mine and the smelter, then that goes the same as well.’ The meaning is clear: you have done nothing, there has been no change. But then his tone varies, becomes hopeful as he asks, ‘Any word from Mistress Isolde?’
‘Not as yet but I have hopes. This,’ says my uncle and gestures towards me, ‘is her daughter, Miss Miren. I put my faith in signs and I believe her coming means that we shall soon see her parents once again. Miren, Oliver is our estate manager.’
Oliver’s expression tells me precisely what he thinks of this bit of logic. I smile, lean from the saddle and offer my hand. He hesitates, then takes it. He seems relieved to have done so, as if he expected one thing and found another. I think about what Malachi said, about Isolde being a charmer; I wonder if she worked her magic on these villagers, if that’s partially why they stay here in spite of the coming lack of food, the inevitable winter, the obvious dislike of my uncle. Internally, I shudder at the idea of anyone being held against their will. Then again, people are stubborn and hard to shift, they don’t like change at the best of times even when it’s in their own interests. Perhaps this isn’t my mother’s fault at al
l.
‘Come up to the house tomorrow, Oliver, that we might discuss the next supply run to St Sinwin’s.’
‘Yes, Mr Elliott. Good day, Miss Miren.’
‘Good day, Oliver.’
We proceed through the square and I notice how, while we’ve been talking to Oliver, many people have disappeared, that there are doors closing with quiet whispers along our path. Those who remain either throw unfriendly glares at us – at Uncle Edward? – or make a point of looking away. I glance over my shoulder, back the way we’ve come, and see the red-haired woman spit in the wake of our horses and make a gesture Maura told me is meant to ward off the unwanted: the sign of the horns.
‘May we visit the mine today, Uncle? I confess myself most curious to see it.’
Edward Elliott shakes his head. ‘Not today, my dear. I have other tasks to attend to and I rather hoped you might spend a while with Ena this afternoon, perhaps give Nelly a little time to herself. It would be a kindness.’ He smiles. ‘There is no hurry, Miren, the mine will be here tomorrow and the day after that.’
‘Of course, Uncle.’ I smile. We are almost through the village now, and I notice one last house, painted white and green, with a bench seat in the tiny front garden, beneath a rose bush with no roses on it. The spot reminds me of finding Aoife in her garden, dead as doornail, and I swallow, blink hard. Then I notice a man standing in the doorway, eating an apple noisily, staring at us both. A handsome hard-faced man with thick dark curls, and pale green eyes that remind me of the assassin’s and I swallow again, know it’s not him. His clothes are covered in dirt and grass, his hair is pushed back from his forehead and there is the damp crown of sweat on his brow. A scar, white and tight, runs from the corner of his left eye to disappear into the hair above his ear.
Uncle Edward is making a point of not looking at him, then the man says ‘Afternoon, Mr Elliott,’ and there’s contempt there and amusement.
My uncle’s mouth twists in distaste. ‘ Jedadiah.’
The man nods to me and says, in a tone not much different, ‘Miss.’
I merely nod and we pass him by, then we are out of the village. Part of me wants to look back, see if he’s still watching; it’s a great effort of will to not do so. There is a small graveyard not far off but we don’t go that way.
I can tell from the twist of Edward’s lips that if I ask anything now I’ll get no answer, so I file it away for later in the box where I keep all those niggling queries to which I am determined to one day have the answer.
26
The crops are easier and faster to do, requiring only a visit to the four corners of each field. A drop of blood from my thumb, a drop of water from the canteen, stalks of wheat or rye or oats blown across my palm by whispered words. A difference should be seen in a few days, perhaps less if my mother was half the witch Malachi said she was. If any trace of her magic remains in the soil. A true witch would get a bigger result more easily, would need fewer accoutrements, not much more than her will and blood. I’m not a witch, but that’s not necessary, just knowledge of the forms, the tools, the intent.
The orchards are more laborious, although the ritual is similar: blood and water and air at each corner, but then every single tree must be seen to, spoken to, the tiny sigil re-carved with my pocketknife so the sap flows freely. There are four orchards and about fifty trees in each. It takes me a long while to finish and my eyes are gritty, my throat sore and my knees and lower back ache by the time I’m done. It’s still dark when I rise – the timepiece tells me it’s barely three in the morning – so I will easily make it back to the house and my bed. No one will seek me, so I’ll sleep as long as I wish.
The moon is full, thankfully, so I did not need to bring a shuttered lantern with me, and it’s the perfect time for such workings. It was easy enough to slip out when the lights had been extinguished and the footfalls of Nelly – the only servant to live in the house, which seems strange for such a large place – faded to nothing as she paced towards Ena’s room, far down the hall from mine.
I sat with the child in question all afternoon, yet it gained me no credit with the housekeeper. Ena is a tiny thing with a thatch of dark hair and deep-set brown eyes. She’s not as pale as I am, lacking that strange sheen to her skin, but we’re enough alike that a family resemblance might be noted. She was fractious and unhappy when Nelly led me into the room, and the same might have been said of the housekeeper herself. She fussed over the child, seeming reluctant to leave, but I could see from the blue circles under her eyes how much she longed for sleep, and the way her brow creased that the child’s howling was playing on her last nerve. I laid my hand on the woman’s arm and said, ‘She’ll be well with me.’ I’d sat by the cradles of tenants’ children when they’d been ill, the occasional distant cousin too when they’d been brought to Maura for her tisanes and tinctures.
The housekeeper recoiled and left the room.
I’d picked up the child and examined her mouth: the gums were red and inflamed-looking. She howled louder at the touch of my fingertips, but Nelly didn’t return. I took Ena with me down to the kitchen garden; the sheer number of medicinal herbs there made it impossible that it had been planted by anyone but my mother. It was curious, to say the least, that those plants continued to flourish despite her absence. I found pellitory-of-the-wall and winter-rocket, plucked them and took them into the kitchen.
There was a highchair by the table and I put Ena in there while I sought a mortar and pestle. I found nothing suitable in an otherwise well-equipped kitchen, so I began to open doors: three pantries containing far more food than the inhabitants of this house could eat, a small room for washing and folding linen and, finally, a proper workroom that any apothecary would have been proud to call their own. Shelves stocked with bottles of dried herbs and tinctures, all neatly labelled in a hand I recognised from the letters my mother had sent to Óisín. There are crucibles and a small fireplace, cauldrons and copper bowls, tubes and pipettes, three quite large boxes made of glass with silver locks on them – and a range of mortars and pestles.
The remains of a shattered jar had been swept into a corner and there was a dried-up brown stain on the floor not far from it – badly cleaned up. It appeared my mother left in a hurry and forgotten to tidy up after herself. At the very back there was a trapdoor and I would have continued to poke about curiously but cries from an unhappy Ena reminded me of my purpose. I located arrowroot powder amongst small bottles and took it and a mortar and pestle back to the kitchen proper.
I ground the herbs, found a bottle of port, mixed some of it in along with the arrowroot, then rubbed it on her gums.
At first she appeared outraged and opened her mouth wide all the better to get the screams out, but the paste was fast-acting and before she could wail, her expression changed. She smacked her lips as the pain began to lift, and she looked at me in wonderment. Soon she was smiling and giggling, an impressive transformation from the small vile demon with whom I’d originally been presented.
She is well looked after, plump and clean, her hair is thick and shiny and her eyes bright. Clearly, however, the housekeeper has no knowledge of home remedies. Perhaps I will tell her. Perhaps I will not. Any road, the child will sleep much better for it tonight and so will Nelly.
After that I took her for a walk around the grounds. I told her the names of all the trees and flowers, of their properties and what good and ill she might do with them. I asked her questions about our parents that she’s too young to answer. Ena just laughed up at me, touched my face and pulled my hair. When we strolled by the lake I watched her gaze turn towards the dark, still water and I thought for a mad moment about taking her for a swim (no waves, no throwing, no fierce Aoife shouting from the shore), but as we got closer I saw there was no sign of any shallows, any bank where we might do something so harmless. I thought of the mer, then, and though I could not imagine how they might get here, I backed away and returned with the child to the house.
In t
he kitchen I filled a bottle with milk and then in the nursery fed her as I read aloud from Murcianus’ Book of Fables – my mother has clearly collected the same books as at Hob’s Hallow – something about foxes and crows and cheese and stones. Her eyes glazed over and she became fractious – as did mine for that matter – so when I finished the fable, I conjured up something from the O’Malley book of tales, thinking to give her something of our family, though I cannot know what Isolde has shared.
I told her of twins, pearls of the same shell, mer-sisters. Of how they were born of an ill-made bargain between their mother, a mer-queen, and a sea-witch. How, as children, they shared everything; but when their mother died and the sea-witch called for them to pay the remaining tithe, all things went astray.
The sisters agreed they would share the burden: the one would rule in their mother’s stead, the other take her place as slave to the witch, six months about. But at the end of the slave sister’s servitude, the other sister did not return to take her place. She hoped for the longest time, did that first sister, to see her sibling come through the greeny-black depths, but that day never arrived. With time, the first sister, the slave sister, learned all the sea-witch had to teach her, and the sea-witch having no more knowledge to impart, departed from this life, and the first sister, the apprentice-slave, ascended the throne of bones beneath the waves. And year upon year, decade upon decade, century upon century, the first sister received supplications from new maidens who wanted to beg a favour, who wanted to make the sorts of bargains her mother had. And every time, the sister-witch granted a wish, and took in return something precious to the maiden: a tail, a tongue, fall of hair, bright eyes, a voice. And every time, she knew, that her sister-queen had sent those girls as tribute, as a bribe, to ensure the witch did not make her way to the old kingdom and take what was owed her. But one day, one day, they both knew, there would be a reckoning.
All the Murmuring Bones Page 21