All the Murmuring Bones

by A. G. Slatter

  Tonight, my patience has grown too weak.

  Tonight, I woke from a dream of drowning.

  My ankles still ached from where the phantom fingers held so cruelly. My lungs were burning from the effort of keeping my breath in. My hair was soaked to the roots, there were patches of damp on my nightgown, and I was shaking entirely.

  There was barely any moonlight coming in, and the fire had died in the hearth, only a few embers glowed there. I knew nothing hid in the dark corners. I knew nothing from the sea was concealed there. But what is rational does not rule in the dark hours.

  I cannot even remember the substance of the dream. Just flashes: teeth and talons and tails like whips. And a song that travels through the waters though it should not, a sound like a mourning bell ringing out my doom for all to hear. And the gleeful words When you are gone then we will be free.

  And I could taste salt in my mouth; still can.

  I rose and padded to the fireplace, pushed a twist of paper into the embers until it flared, then applied it to the wick of the beautiful silver lantern. Once lit, the thing threw a circle of glorious iridescent colour around the room. Then I raised it high to illuminate the far reaches of my chamber: nothing. No one.

  The idea of returning to sleep was utterly unappealing – in truth I felt I would never slumber again. I could have reset the fire and sat by it to read. Or I could do what I’ve done several times since my arrival: explore the main house and its West Wing. The attics are mostly empty, just some pieces of furniture that have been stored up there for lack of a better place. No chests or boxes, nothing to go through in search of secrets or answers. Downstairs, I have been through the kitchen, parlours, guest rooms, sitting rooms, bathrooms, the study my father apparently used, and the library (more than once). In all the rooms there is so much dust that Nelly cannot possibly be doing her job. I have not been into the chambers of either my uncle or Nelly, nor have I been into the cellar (which can be reached via the trapdoor in my mother’s workroom) for its door is locked securely with three big silver padlocks just like those at Hob’s Hallow.

  Nor have I been to my parents’ suite, located in the ruined East Wing, yet this evening I feel more rebellious than usual. Some nights ago, when equally sleepless, I wandered the darkened halls, and into the library. I rifled the desk drawers and in the bottom right-hand one I found, jammed at the back, a ring heavy with twelve keys (not, mind you, one to the locks on the cellar door). Nelly wears hers on a silver chatelaine around her waist – again, very fine for a housekeeper – and my uncle’s hangs on his belt. These, therefore, are spares or at least judging by their covering of dust no one’s looking for them. Thus they have been lying deep in the hollow I made in my mattress when I sliced its corner open; lying beside the jewellery pouch, and the one with most of the gold I stole from the assassin.

  But now, I am here, having travelled through corridors in the wing that is supposedly ruined by fire and dangerous; it’s occurred to me only lately that there is no sign of damage on the outside of the house. I found evidence of the blaze in one of the bedrooms on the second floor where the walls are painted like a garden with bunnies and foxes and flowers and fairies peeking out from behind tree trunks, but there’s barely a stick of furniture, bar an old rocking chair and a broken soot-stained crib with a burnt blanket twisted at its foot. All I could smell in there was old smoke and something else I can’t quite identify, something so faint I might imagine it. The fire had clearly been contained, the curtains and carpet merely singed. I think that this must have been Ena’s room – I recall Edward saying that Nelly and my parents had barely escaped with their lives, but this seems an exaggeration, just as the degree of “ruination” is also. Ena must have been with Nelly or Isolde, although how the conflagration started in here I cannot imagine. Perhaps a lantern knocked over or a candle?

  The rest of the wing, however, was perfectly fine. So, my uncle had lied or at least distorted the truth. I feel far better about disobeying him. It makes me wonder what other lies he has been telling me. And why.

  My parents’ suite is on the next floor down. The key in the lock moves a little stiffly with disuse, then I push the door open, hold my lantern high.

  The room is decorated in shades of silvery blue and stormy green: curtains, bed draperies, quilts, couches and chairs, rugs, the walls. The dressing table is covered with powders and perfumes, face paints, loose jewellery, brushes and carefully created hair flowers and adornments. And dust, still so much dust.

  There are two dressing rooms, one to each side of the enormous bed. One contains men’s clothing and footwear. The other women’s dresses. I can see in both spots where items are missing – absences as if dresses and shirts and jackets and trousers have been picked over, taken as a bowerbird steals shiny objects. Natural, perhaps, my parents had chosen their travelling attire – except for the fact that in each dressing room there’s a high shelf running around the walls, and upon each shelf perch cases and trunks; two full sets, my mother’s engraved in gold with “I.E.” and my father’s with “L.E.”.

  A small door leads into a bathroom with an enormous clawfooted tub and shelves groaning beneath the weight of bottles of creams and hair washes. Nothing appears to have been taken from here, but I could not swear to it.

  Back in the bedchamber, there’s a huge hearth and above it hangs a painting: a handsome dark-haired couple, so very well dressed, the man looks slightly younger than the woman – childbearing will add years to a female face. My father is indeed pretty, and he and Edward do bear a passing resemblance to one another. Around my mother’s neck is a silver chain and on that silver chain is a pendant in the shape of a ship’s bell. I step as close as I can, raising the lantern: I can just make out where the artist has gone to the trouble of detailing the scalloped marks that look like scales.

  There is a desk, too, delicate and not overly large, rather a feminine piece of furniture that surprises me. Then again, I know my mother not at all. I assume it is hers, however, because of the large book that rests on its surface. Black leather, scalloped silver shells as a border front and back and the shape of the two-tailed, two-faced mermaid picked out in silver foil. There’s an intricately engraved pen in red onyx beside it and a bottle of ink that appears mostly dried out. I open the cover of the volume.

  In a fine hand, a hand I recognise from Isolde’s letters to Óisín, are written tales, O’Malley tales.

  Once upon a time, so long ago, nobody but the storytellers remember ...

  In a land that never was in a time that could never be ...

  In olden times when wishing still helped ...

  Once on the far side of yesterday ...

  My mother has done what I had planned to do. I wonder how far she has got, if her recall is fresh? I wonder if she will mind if I begin to add to the tome? Will it be a pleasant surprise for when she comes home? I gather it into my arms like a child.

  As I’m about to leave, I look up. There are shadows and shapes that catch my interest. I locate more candles and light them, then place them so as to best illuminate the space.

  There is a mural painted on the ceiling, a duplicate or as close as Isolde’s memory could get, to the one in the library at Hob’s Hallow. Or I assume so: I recognise some elements, those that were still visible beneath the cobwebs and soot at home. In Isolde’s era, things would have been not so obscured – perhaps with time, Yri or Ciara would have mounted ladders and spring-cleaned to reveal all. Faces here and there, limbs, roiling clouds, a ship’s sail, a sea monster’s tail... only the sea monster isn’t a monster anymore. Or perhaps any less. It’s been turned into a mer or perhaps it always was one.

  An enormous sea-queen sprawled across painted rocks, staring down at my parents night after night. Black hair, pit-dark eyes, bare breasts but skin all scaled, and the tail... the tail is split in two, just like the brand on my hip. The brand seems to burn anew though I have no memory of its original application.

  I blow out al
l the candles, then leave – book under one arm, lantern in my hand – being careful to leave no signs of my passing.

  Back in my own wing, I walk on tiptoes along the corridor. My uncle’s suite is on the floor above. I’m struck how, just like Hob’s Hallow, there so many empty chambers, but at least once upon a time there were people to fill the spaces there. Blackwater, this place built by my parents, feels big just for the sake of it, empty for the sake of it. So much space and they did not send for me. No accommodation for Miren O’Malley. Miren Elliott.

  But perhaps they had plans to fill it with more offspring. Ena – the child worth keeping – was a start. How many more might my mother birth? She’s not so old... And away from the sea, away from Hob’s Hallow, new children might be safe, no nameless ones needed to feed to the waters…

  As I approach Nelly’s room (beside Ena’s), which I must pass to get to my own door, I hear noises: sighing, heavy breathing, gasps and tiny moans. The door is not quite hitched, it’s fallen ajar too, which it wasn’t when I passed by before, and in the breach I can see Nelly’s bed. And Nelly straddling someone, moving back and forth, bucking. And from her partner comes my uncle’s voice whispering profanities and threats, grunts. I almost stop mid-step, am almost grasped by an awful reckless fascination, but I keep going, press forward oh-so-silently until I can ease open my own door and hide myself. Then I let go of my hard-held breath.

  I huddle beneath the covers, thinking of the book of tales I’ve hidden away in the bottom of the blanket box beneath quilts and shawls and fresh linen). I wonder, then, why my parents appear to have gone on a long journey with neither travel bags nor clothing to wear nor any of the cosmetics to which my mother was clearly very partial. Not even her hairbrush.

  * * *

  The next day I tell my uncle I am going to the village to make arrangements for the harvest celebration. He yawns and nods, clearly worn out by his night’s labours. I ride away in the right direction but as soon as I’m out of sight of the house, I change my course.

  The smelter is closer than the mine. I can fit in a quick trip and be less likely to be missed just in case anyone were to ask about the times of my comings and goings. I can go to the smelter, then head cross county to the village, with Uncle Edward none the wiser.

  I dismount and leave my horse in a copse, then approach the gathering of four rough wood and tin buildings that stand on a circle of earth. No grass grows within the bounds of the compound. And it appears that there is nothing special to see. I don’t step from the tree line myself because there are some few men still working there and I don’t wish anyone to note my presence. A few puffs of grey smoke come from the tall chimney stack on the largest structure; inside I imagine there will be a furnace, someone shovelling the silver into it, then the boiling liquid poured into ingot moulds. I wonder how it gets shipped out, where it goes, who from the village takes it or is there a regular pickup by someone? I think perhaps I shall speak with Oliver Redman about such matters; I believe he’ll keep any conversations between us.

  As I’m about to leave, a man wanders out of the sliding door of the main building. Jedadiah Gannel, shirtless, covered in coal dust and sweat from feeding the forge. He stares at where I am hidden by shadow and low-hanging branches as if he can see me. I hold my breath and stay still until he shrugs, grins, and turns away to head into one of the smaller outbuildings.

  29

  The day of the fete dawns fair but a little colder than it has been, as if winter is sending her breath on ahead: Don’t forget me, for I’ve not forgotten you. But soon enough the sun warms everything, and the warning is forgotten. My loose long green dress cinched in only with a sash (beautifully made by Lucy Forsyte) is perfect for the bright day.

  The front lawn is busy, busy, busy: trestle tables laden with food, others entirely with ales and mead, finer wines and rougher whiskeys. Almost two hundred women, men and children scattered across the sward of green, everyone’s done something to contribute to this celebration. A group of fellows are gathered around a newly-dug fire pit (which I’m certain will make Uncle Edward pale when he sees it), but he and Nelly have not seen fit to join the festivities, and I gave permission for its creation. Soon perhaps we might see a point where Uncle and I part ways on matters of the estate’s management, but that day has not yet come… yet every time I make a bold decision, I know I push a little closer. A pig and a steer are both spitted above the flames, and the men, stout chaps all, take turns with the handle to keep the meat rotating. Potatoes and pumpkins in clay pots have been buried in the coals and are cooking there. Fat sizzles down the sides of the meat, and the scent of roasting flesh fills the air. My mouth waters as I walk through the crowd, chatting, ensuring everyone is happy and relaxed, rewarded for their work on the estate, for that seems to have been lacking since my parents went away.

  ‘Miss Miren,’ Oliver calls. He’s standing by a trestle table and the lot of barrels I found in a small storeroom off the kitchen. No one could have brewed soon enough for today’s event, and there’s no point in hoarding for three people in the big house. This was my contribution.

  ‘Hello, Mr Redman.’ I call him “mister” precisely because my uncle does not. ‘All is well?’

  ‘More than well, Miss Miren, and it’s all due to you.’ He smiles, his cheeks are red from the contents of the barrel.

  Abel Woodfox stands beside him, the blacksmith is an enormous man, almost seven feet tall, muscled as a bull. Even I have to strain my neck to look up at him as he says, ‘You’ve put the heart back into Blackwater, back into us.’

  ‘You’re too kind, gentlemen. This is no more than you all deserve for your hard work. It is appreciated.’ I touch Abel’s arm, then Oliver’s, and smile. Neither of them flinch anymore when I do this, having realised that whatever Isolde did to them I do not (cannot) do. That they’ll not be charmed against their will.

  ‘It’s nice to have it show, Miss, is all,’ mutters Oliver. The longer I am here, the more time I spend in the village, the more open becomes their dislike of Edward Elliott. Still, I feel obliged to defend him.

  ‘I know my uncle can seem heedless,’ I say, ‘I fear he is not a man used to managing. And he is concerned, I know, about my parents’ long absence. I fear it makes him… neglectful of the feelings of others. Never doubt that you are valued.’

  ‘We’d been talking about leaving, you know,’ Abel says, and Oliver tries to hush him. Abel forges ahead, nods to where his sons, Jago and Treeve, are arm wrestling on the stump of a large tree. ‘We’ve been a’feared of starving this winter – the road to St Sinwin’s gets impassable in the snow so supply runs can’t happen then, and your uncle’s unwilling to buy in as much as we need to tide us over.’ I try not to press my lips together in annoyance. ‘I was worried for my boys.’ He grins, more than a little drunk. ‘But you’ve put paid to that, haven’t you?’ I smile but say nothing. ‘It’s you, girly, the moment you came back, the land gave once more. We can never thank you enough for that, though we’ll do our best.’ To my great surprise, Abel goes down on one knee and grasps my hand; Oliver follows him and takes the other. ‘We pledge to you, Miss Miren, we will stand by you no matter what.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m at a loss, and try to get them to rise before anyone sees it; before my uncle or Nelly look out of the windows. ‘My dear gentlemen, that is so kind, but people will talk! And I do not want either of your wives coming after me with an axe!’

  They both laugh and blush, and rise. I pat their shoulders in turn and reassure them lest they feel embarrassed by an act fuelled with alcohol and relief. ‘Thank you, Mr Redman, Mr Woodfox, I am more grateful than you know. I will always do my best for Blackwater. I hope you will always feel free to come to me with problems. If I can help I shall.’

  I loved Hob’s Hallow without a doubt but – and this is the first time I have admitted it to myself – I think it was a dead place. If I had stayed there, I’d have been entombed. By the house, by marriage to Aidan, by remai
ning with Aoife in the cocoon she’d created for herself, smothered by the dream she had of reviving the O’Malley fortunes. It would never have been a life, but a kind of embalming in wealth and position and expectations. No true existence at all.

  But here… here there is something to create and grow and nurture. Here, I feel as if I have a purpose rather than a series of activities done simply to survive, to hold back dust and dirt and eventual death.

  ‘Thank you, both,’ I say. I look up to see who might have noticed this fealty ceremony, and find myself caught in a green gaze. Jedadiah Gannel is staring, an eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. I want nothing so much as to poke my tongue out at him, but I resist the urge. Instead, I look away, look around, move off from the blacksmith and estate manager.

  Children are playing chasey, skipping, hoop and stick, Blind Man’s Bluff, tumbling and handstands, a group of girls toy with carved knucklebones to read each others’ fortunes giving rise to great shrieks, several boys are weaving chains of flowers perhaps for the girls. I keep an eye on the ones who are running and jumping, as do their mothers, to make sure they are not too near the edge of the lake. I can almost imagine that the water eats everything, except there are reflections on its surface, clear and true, of whatever occurs above.

  Women sit on blankets, passing out “pick food”, things to nibble on before the main meal is ready. Four old dames have settled by a trestle table laden with cakes and breads and other pastries. By the looks of pride, the way they sneer at the younger women’s offerings, I can tell these are their own works. Aged matrons with no fear of death or censure, who’ve spent their whole lives keeping their mouths shut in the interests of protecting the sensibilities of others – no resemblance to Aoife there – but now they don’t care. They’ve got sharp eyes, tongues like whips, and remarks to sting the same way salt does when rubbed into a wound.