All the Murmuring Bones

by A. G. Slatter

  She played and sang and the sounds rang out in the great space, echoed from the walls and the vaulted ceiling, hit the water in the well and travelled through it because the words her lover had given to her had the power to do so. And after a time, at last, there was a splashing and a muttering more liquid than the woman was used to.

  And she set aside her harp and walked slowly to the edge of the well and held her candle high. And below, in the well, was a sea-queen. The woman nodded in satisfaction and pulled a lever. The cage beneath the creature closed, with its strong metal net and all its spells carved and sung into its very substance, and the sea-queen, realising herself captured, began to shriek.

  The woman picked up her harp and began to play once more, until the sea-queen had calmed. And the woman told the creature how her life would be lived: her scales would be harvested, the children of the woman would be safe on the seas, and in return the sea-queen would be fed. And she made the queen agree to a bargain: that the merfolk would never harm a firstborn of the O’Malleys.

  The mer said, ‘Yet one of your children in each generation’ – for this is how such things are done – ‘will be my meat.’

  And the woman, after only the slightest hesitation, agreed, a tithe for the prosperity she had brought with her double dealing.

  And she would walk the promontory each and every evening as gravity took a greater hold on her. She felt bound to the earth, with this child inside her, even though it was the offspring of a creature from the waters of salt and sand. She would look out to the horizon, she would look for him, even though she knew he would not return – she had seen his corpse herself, seen what the others of his kind had done to him for his betrayal. Still she would look.

  But who can keep secrets from the waters when they are all joined?

  And the place came to be called Hob’s Hallow for those who believed in such things were certain she’d dealt with creatures of darkness, that she’d made her bargains holy by paying her tithes in small lives. And those who believed knew that holiness is neither black nor white, but the red of blood.

  34

  I walk out into the deepening afternoon, soon the sky will bruise into darkness, but I cannot bear to have the walls of the house around me. I traipse through the flowering gardens, then past the new-harvested fields, and the orchards and notice that the trees are heavy again with fruit. I pick an apple but cannot bring myself to eat it; it goes in my pocket.

  I think of Aoife, reading me the tale of Aislin and Connor, of the boy being sacrificed to the sea-queen in the dimly lit cave. I think of asking my grandmother whether it was true or not, of her shrugging in that way she had when she wasn’t quite lying, but wasn’t being entirely honest. I think of her telling me not to be such a child. I hear her saying, ‘Stories are history, whether they’re true or not.’ I think about that book of lies and truths and tales all mixed together so no one could tell them apart.

  I think how it was never a secret, what we did to our own. Or at least, never a secret amongst us, the O’Malleys. I think of all those children, sent to the sea to pay a debt incurred long ago, one to which they’d not had the chance to either agree or otherwise. I think of how no names were kept, of how they were deprived even of that; I think how only Connor was known, recorded, written, because of a misfiring of a mother’s heart, a preference for one child over another, making a choice bold and shameless and defiant. I think they couldn’t have gone to the sea cave because the sea-queen was kept in the cellar, so the poor boy was taken there by his sister to meet his fate. And the maid, the scullion who followed the children? What had happened to her? I can never know, only suspect: found out and fed to the thing in the well so she could not speak of what she’d seen.

  I think of Isolde leaving me behind, the branded firstborn, knowing I was the only child that might be safe at Hob’s Hallow because I was the last. That all hope for a future rested within me; that I was the sole thing to keep Aoife from hunting her down. Did Isolde flee so she might save any other children who came after? She sacrificed me as surely as those who’d gone before her had sacrificed their own children. And I cannot say that I don’t understand, but also I cannot say that there isn’t an agonising pain in the pit of me – gut, heart, soul? – that feels like the sum total of the agony of every one of those discarded children.

  I think of the mer singing When you are gone then we will be free – waiting for the death of the last true O’Malley to release them from an ancient bargain. For as long as one remains, there is the possibility of more to fulfil that agreement and keep them bound.

  And at last I’m running, trees flashing past me in the lowering afternoon light.

  I’m running to try and escape that agony.

  I’m running because maybe I’ll outdistance it all if I’m fast enough.

  I run until I come to the thin stream on the way to the village, and that’s where I trip and fall, almost in. That’s where I weep and my tears join the liquid in the rill itself, and I cry until I believe there’s nothing more in me. When at last my eyes clear, when I think I will simply stay there, crouched over the current and wait for the darkness to draw in and swallow me, to properly be as lost as I feel, in the dying light I see a shimmer beneath the surface. That reminds me of the first day I rode out with Edward Elliott, a silver flicker in the water catching my eye then.

  I reach into the cool flow, to pluck out the shining thing and cup it in my palm.

  It’s a scale.

  It’s silver, properly metal, not some fishy membrane.

  It’s the size of two of my thumbs sat side-by-side and feels heavier than I’d have believed possible. I touch the ship’s bell pendant at my neck and think that the scale would be the perfect size to craft just such a thing.

  I think of the sea-queen trapped by the woman with the bone harp, about the clever construction of the cellar trap in the gut of Hob’s Hallow. I think about the locked cellar in the depths of Blackwater House. I think how the silver mine has not been producing since my mother “left”. I think about a man who stumbled upon a fine kingdom, who fancied himself its new king when he saw an opportunity, but did not understand how it worked, what was required to keep the tiny world turning and healthy.

  I’m sitting there when Jedadiah Gannel comes ambling past on his long legs, a lantern in one hand to light his way. I’m so still he almost doesn’t see me. In fact he doesn’t see me until I speak, and the effect of my voice is to make him jump. I laugh in spite of everything. He comes over to sit beside me, places the lantern between us. The circle of light seems to grow warmer against the night.

  ‘What are you doing here, Miren?’ He touches my face and I lean into his palm like a cat, and don’t answer. ‘Are you well? Are you safe? In that house?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say, but I don’t know if I am. I hold up the scale so it glimmers. ‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’

  He takes it from me, turns it over in his fingers, and nods slowly. ‘Sometimes we find these in the mine, not in a seam, not embedded in the rock, but scattered in spots where water trickles out.’

  I take it back from him, examine it a moment longer, then slip it into my pocket. I wonder what might be done with such a thing, if it might be used as a seed of some sort. ‘My uncle knows nothing about mining, you could tell him anything. Are the seams running out? Truly?’

  He snorts. ‘Truly, Miren.’

  ‘You all live here in secrecy.’

  He looks away. ‘It was the condition of the life she offered us. We did not ask questions, Miren. Blackwater… many of us lived in terrible places, scraping by an existence, then your parents – your mother – came and she promised a better life if we’d work for her. Apart from the flood, we have had far better lives. There was no reason to break our oath to her, to leave.’

  I touch the scale in my pocket. Somehow Isolde found a way to make a fortune. I think of her fertility magic with the crops and stock. I can think of no good reason she couldn
’t apply herself to this. I remember Malachi’s words, about Isolde and her talent for making things big or small. I think about the red price that would have had to be paid to turn barren earth into a rich silver mine. Oh, Mother, what did you do?

  ‘Why are you here?’ I ask. ‘Wandering in the dark?’

  ‘Going to see my father. He reckons something’s been trying to come over the hedge the last two nights.’ He shakes his head, grins. ‘Maybe the old man’s hearing things.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t, here?’ And the air around us is not as silent as before. There are chirrups and shrieks and squeaks, snuffles and snorts and barks: the animals have returned to Blackwater, as the place has grown to giving again. ‘It’s out of your way, but will you walk me to the house?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiles and rises, then helps me up, pulling me into his arms. We kiss, but I nudge him away before it goes too far; I need a clear head, no matter how pleasant his attentions might be. I hold his hand as we walk so the rejection doesn’t sting too much. He’s a smart man and doesn’t push his luck. I kiss him goodbye when we reach the last of the trees before the house lawn, then send him off into the darkness. I watch as the fiery pinpoint of the lantern grows smaller and smaller and finally disappears. Then I face the place I’d hoped to make my home.

  * * *

  I stand at the threshold of the room containing the burnt cradle and hold my carefully crafted silver lantern high, then take a deep breath before pushing myself into the space. Last time I approached ignorance sheltered me. Though I have no proof, only suspicions, now I feel as if my skin has been peeled off, that I’ve no protection left. The tall window by the baby’s bed, its panes cracked from the heat of the fire; only blackness is outside, and my own reflection on the inside. I barely recognise myself.

  Ena, when not teething, is such a happy child. Nelly was frustrated by her but as far as I could tell not to the point of losing her temper and offering harm. But what if Ena is not Ena? What if it’s Nelly own child, her own Meraud? What if Ena, the true Ena, with her tantrums and crying, drove Nelly to distraction? Nelly whose patience is a thing in short supply? Nelly who, I am willing to bet, was not a highly paid nurse in St Sinwin’s or anywhere else, despite her boasts to Miriam.

  I cover my face. Did my little sister burn alive? What could she have done to incur that kind of fate? Or was it something else, something gentler but no less lethal a loss of temper on Nelly’s part? A pillow pressed over an ever-open, ever-screaming mouth, in hope of a few seconds of silence… and suddenly those seconds dragged into minutes and Ena, true Ena, lay still and pale and blue at the lips? Was the fire a clumsy means of covering up?

  But my parents…

  Would they have believed it?

  I can’t know my father, but my mother… she was a witch. She was Aoife’s daughter and no fool. When she saw her child’s body… I do not think she’d have believed in any accident not for one second. And so there was no way she and Liam could have been allowed to live. Nelly and Edward, plotting and scheming to cover up, stripping the house of other servants, pretending to be my parents leaving in the dark hours, telling tales until they seemed to be true, and replacing Ena with Meraud, a happy little girl who knew no better. Edward Elliott, protecting Nelly because he cared for her or because the chance to be lord of the manor was too enticing and he simply believed he could get away with it.

  And then the estate began to fail.

  And then I arrived and it began to flourish once again.

  I might have been killed so very soon, but for his prurient interest in me, his boredom with Nelly (for what kind of a man would tell the woman he loves she is to be a drudge in a grand house while he enjoys himself?). No wonder she hates me so. She hates him too, I think, but isn’t brave enough or angry enough to show it in full yet. How long until that is displayed in all its glory, an inferno such as the one that engulfed my little sister, and how will Edward Elliott hide that?

  I reach down to touch the partially burned baby blanket; it feels oily. Fat burned fat and that smell I could identify the first time I was here: cooked meat. My sister.

  ‘Miren!’

  A shout from the doorway, fear and rage making it so very loud. Yet I don’t startle or spin around. I finish the action, rub the blanket with my fingers, feel the greasiness of it, the melted fat of once-Ena, and I clench my fist. Then I straighten and turn at my leisure.

  Edward Elliott hangs in the doorway like one of those gallowscrows, as if afraid to enter, and that fear weighs more than his anger. His face is red and I think, if he could bring himself to cross the threshold, he would do me harm no matter what else he feels for me. He locked this room, didn’t get rid of the cradle, just locked the room and assumed no one would ask questions. Over-confident. Edward Elliott couldn’t have known I would arrive.

  ‘Miren. Miren, come out at once. It’s not safe,’ he says, trying for a semblance of control in his tone.

  I don’t answer, I just stare at him, daring him. At last he knows he must enter or lose all authority (for he still seems to think he has some), and he comes, his gait strange, like a high-stepping uncertain horse. Until he is in front of me and he grabs my shoulders and shakes me.

  ‘Miren!’ He shouts as if my name is a command that will make me heel. ‘What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you not to come here, that it was dangerous?’

  ‘You tell a lot of stories, Uncle? You know how I love them. Won’t you tell me another?’ I smile. ‘What happened? What happened to my sister?’

  35

  Edward Elliot draws back his hand to slap me.

  ‘That might work on Nelly, but I’m a different kind of creature all together,’ I say softly. I lift my chin, keep my eyes on his and slowly the hand is lowered. He’s shuddering now, sweat breaking out all over his face, and I wonder what he saw in here. Then he rallies and pulls me along behind him, towards the door of the nursery so fast it’s hard to keep my footing, as if dragging me out of the room will change everything, as if we will go back in time and the new knowledge of this place will be forgotten, sins fading into a fog. That we will be able to revert to the way we were.

  I dig my heels in before we get to the doorway, shake off his hand. He looks at me in surprise. He’s forgotten I’m almost as tall as him, that I’m not some tiny girl…

  ‘Shall I begin, Uncle? You’re not usually so reticent about your tales.’ My tone is encouraging. ‘Shall I tell you about changelings? One child swapped for another by the fairies or the trolls or stolen away by those of the sea? Kept as servants beneath the earth, or fattened up as tasty treats, or fed to the waters in the hope of prosperity? There’s always a bargain, Uncle, always a swap: my mother left me behind in order to gain a life of her own, that is my story. One thing for another: I will have this one in return.’

  And Edward Elliott seems to deflate as if someone let the air out of him. He’s a big man, suddenly small. He sits on the floor, a sort of collapse, but slow, and I back away, the light in my hand retreating from him until I’m at the rocking chair once more. I put the lantern down, and then I sit in the chair, staring at him.

  ‘Come along, Uncle, do it properly. Once upon a time…’

  He blinks and swallows. ‘Once upon a time…’ he clears his throat. ‘Once upon a time there was a woman with a babe of her own, a babe as sunny as could be, whose laugh lifted the heart. And this woman took a position looking after another infant as well, how hard could it be? But the new child was monstrous unhappy, crying and screaming, never joyful, always hungry. She fed both children, but her own babe never seemed to get enough milk, and the other took the lion’s share yet still demanded more. The woman knew all of the tales and superstitions; she wasn’t educated, but told herself not to be silly, there was no reason to think the true baby had been stolen away by those who hide in the green or under the mountains or beneath the waters. The child’s own mother managed to love it, after all, did not see anything unnatural
in her offspring, though she was impatient. So, the nurse tried to love it too, just as she did her own; she thought that if she loved it enough, it would be enough.’ It seems as if the further he gets into his story, the more comfortable he is, but he’s still not telling me everything, my listener’s ear can detect the off-note, the places where he is keeping something back and trying to cover the lack.

  ‘But…’ I prompt.

  ‘But she came to regard the baby as a changeling. In her mind, that’s what she called it, and in doing so she was able, perhaps to distance herself from it, so that when she at last lost her temper with the little thing’s rages and rants, it was not so very hard to do… what she did.’

  ‘And what did she do, Uncle?’

  ‘She put a pillow over that squalling little mouth and held it down until it there was no more,’ he says quite viciously.

  He says “it” not “the girl” or “the daughter”. He does not give either child a name. ‘And then?’

  ‘Then she set a fire, thinking to hide what she’d done.’ He wipes a hand across his brow.

  ‘And did that work?’

  His eyes are very dark blue when they meet mine. ‘Even fire cannot cover all sins.’

  ‘And the mother?’

  ‘What mother doesn’t mourn her own child, no matter that it’s a little monster?’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘Fathers, as you may be aware, often care for nothing but the gaze of their wives; and this wife’s heart was broken, so he sought to avenge that.’

  I hear again the off-note in his recounting, and I realise at last that it wasn’t a matter of what he saw in the nursery but rather what he did there.

  As much as I dislike Nelly, she has cared well for Ena, and when Ena was teething she was a monster. Yet Nelly never lost her temper with her – with me, yes, with the child, no. Of course, I might be wrong, there’s no guarantee that a woman won’t kill a child. Even though Nelly is the sort who, like so many others, loves in the wrong place, who stays with a man she ought not to, I do not believe she killed the real Ena. Not after hearing my not-uncle’s rendition.