All the Murmuring Bones

by A. G. Slatter

  ‘You knew my parents weren’t dead,’ I state. I don’t expect to get much out of him.

  He shrugs. ‘They might as well have been, beyond Aoife’s grasp; if she’d found them I think she might have fed Isolde to the waters.’

  And I cannot deny that my grandmother might have done that. ’But she didn’t know where Isolde had gone.’

  ‘That was part of my bargain with her – that I would use all my resources to find Isolde or at least what she had stolen.’

  I laugh loudly and Ena stirs. I say because there’s no point in hiding and I’m happy to let Aidan know that not everyone fell in with Aoife’s plans, and if he doesn’t already suspect it, that I’m unlikely to do so for his plans.

  ‘How did you find this place, Miren? Did he tell you?’

  ‘I found letters from Isolde to Óisín, there were only three, but she said Blackwater was north of Bellsholm, so I came this way, more or less.’ No point mentioning the old silversmith and his wandering memories. ‘I think perhaps she was lonely.’

  ‘Poor, Miren,’ he sneers. ‘So close to rescue, so many times, so many failures.’

  I don’t answer that. We’ve reached the kitchen, so instead I say, ‘You will need a lantern before we descend.’

  As I have my hands full, he takes one from the wall, and admires the workmanship of silver, the iridescent glass; I think of throwing one at Edward Elliott, how it made him burn and dance. Aidan lights a taper from the flames in the great kitchen hearth, then the lantern.

  I nod and lead him to the back of the cavernous space, to the door to Isolde’s workroom; I think about how it was unlocked as if she took no precautions. I think about the broken glass and the brown stain that may well have been dried blood. I think that perhaps Edward Elliott killed her here. At the back of the chamber with its workbenches and shelves, glass bottles and tubes, mortars and pestles, measuring spoons, is the trapdoor. Again, left unlocked but I suppose that hardly matters when it leads down to the much bigger door with the silver locks.

  Aidan gestures for me to go first – he raises the lantern high so I can see my way, but he’s smart enough not to trust me behind him. I grab my skirts so I don’t trip, feel them sticky and cold and remember that I have Nelly’s blood on me. I hitch the sleeping Ena up higher on my shoulder and begin the descent. ‘Why did you murder Nelly?’

  ‘Who?’ He barely even recalls killing her.

  ‘The woman. The woman you left in the foyer.’ This child’s mother.

  ‘She began to shout when I entered the house. I didn’t know how few people were about.’ He pauses. ‘But I’d have killed her anyway. And him, but apparently you took care of that for me, didn’t you, little Miss Miren? There’s no escaping the O’Malley blood and its urges.’

  ‘How is Brigid?’ I can’t help but ask.

  ‘Well enough,’ he says shortly. ‘When we return to Breakwater, I’ll marry her to a man I can trust.’

  He definitely doesn’t know about Ellingham, then, or his friend would not still be alive.

  The stairs seem to go down forever, then at last we are at the large door with the three silver locks. I’ve stood in front of only once before when I tried all the keys on the ring and found none of them fit.

  ‘What now?’ I say.

  He hangs the lantern on a hook on the wall and says, ‘Give me your hand.’

  I don’t want to. Oh, how I do not want to. But I stretch forth, palm upwards. He grips my wrist, hard as he ever did and squeezes until the bones grind beneath his strength; just to remind me of what I can expect. Then he produces my mother-of-pearl handled pocketknife and uses the tip to prick my finger. In spite of myself I cry out, less from pain and more from umbrage.

  ‘Vena amoris,’ he says and chuckles. The vein to the heart. Then he remembers that this finger once bore the massive ruby and pearl engagement ring he put there. ‘Where is the ring?’

  ‘In my room. It’s safe, along with most of the jewellery Aoife bought.’

  ‘Gods, but that old bat could spend. She’d have had me in the poorhouse before year’s end,’ he says and I can’t say he’s wrong. ‘Good to know Bethany Lawrence doesn’t have control of everything.’

  He pulls me closer to the door and holds my cut finger above the hole in the first silver lock, then squeezes. It hurts and a crimson drop, two, three, drips into the keyhole. For a moment, nothing.

  Then a soft whir and a click, the runes carved into the metal of the lock flare, as if a brief flame has run through the thing; it falls open. Aidan looks pleased with himself. He moves my finger to the second lock and repeats the process.

  ‘What will you do with her?’ I ask.

  ‘How do you know about her? Aoife kept you in ignorance lest you behave like your mother, refuse to pay the tithe, respect the pact.’

  ‘I found… I found the tale. The first story of the O’Malleys, how we came to be.’

  He looks surprised. ‘I was never allowed to read the book. No one was who didn’t have the O’Malley name.’ His tone’s bitter as aloe. ‘Aoife told me snatches of it, but not enough.’

  ‘I have the pages, Aidan. You can read it.’ And as strange as this whole situation is, I cannot help but recall that we’re family. We have different parts of the tale, different gaps and lacunae in our histories; I think how mine have injured me. Might they not have warped him as well? All the wealth in the world cannot make you feel accepted if you lack the one thing someone else values above all else: a name.

  ‘Let me leave her out here, Aidan.’ I tilt my head towards Ena, drooling on my shoulder. ‘Give me your coat, I’ll make a little bed for her.’

  ‘No,’ he says, and he moves my finger down to the final lock. Squeezes: the blood is slower, more reluctant now, so he hurts me more.

  ‘Aidan. We can stay here,’ I say. ‘This place is rich; this estate has people who rely on me, on keeping the land fertile. We’re far away from Bethany Lawrence and whatever she wants of you. You don’t need to go back like a hunting dog sent out by its master. Stay here. Be safe.’ I loathe him so much I can barely believe I keep an even tone.

  And he looks at me as though considering it. As though considering the idea and whether or not he can trust me. Whether or not it’s what he wants. But in the end, I think, it’s simply not enough. He’s been hungry all his life and this will not suffice.

  ‘I want Hob’s Hallow. That’s what I want.’

  ‘Then take it, leave me here but take it! Gods, Aidan, you had it. I was gone and you had it.’

  ‘Ah, but Madame Lawrence took it and more, all from me and now you are the only way back.’ There’s the final whir and click, and the last lock drops open. He pushes the door wide, then retrieves the lantern. ‘Come along, Miren, this only needs to be as unpleasant as you make it.’

  38

  Aidan grabs my upper arm and together we step forward into the darkness, shoes echoing on stone. The light does not go far ahead of us.. He raises the lantern higher and higher, then releases me, saying, ‘Wait here.’

  Without the support of his hand I feel strangely untethered. I turn, trying to locate the door, but there’s nothing around me except shadows, as if the egress was lost the moment we stepped through it; I’m too scared to move. The blackness feels like treacle, something I might drown in, and it smells stale, of dead things or something that should be. I watch Aidan get further away, becoming nothing more than an orange point in the darkness; it makes me think of Jedadiah and I wish he was here now.

  But he is not.

  Ena doesn’t stir. She’s damp and hot against me in the cold air of the cellar that smells of dead things. I check to make sure she’s still breathing; she’s alive, just sleeping deeply. The brand on my hip is itching, itching, itching as though I’ve brushed against scratchweed. I listen hard: Aidan’s footsteps; the drops of water coming from somewhere, going somewhere else; a splashing sound, furtive as if not to draw attention to itself.

  Then something changes
: the darkness is retreating. Aidan is traversing the broad cavern and lighting a series of wall sconces, until the space is a combination of dancing shadows and bright specks of flame. The ceiling is vaulted, just like the one at Hob’s Hallow; and in the centre of the room is a well, the stone wall perhaps three feet high, perhaps four. I throw a glance over my shoulder: still I cannot see the door. It must be fear; I’m sure it must be there somewhere and if I could only look without this shiver of panic in my mind, I would see it.

  I wonder about the men whom Isolde hired to build Blackwater, who made this chamber. I think about the story, the pages she’d brought with her: who had she hired to design such a thing, such a trap, such a mechanism? Here at least, unlike Hob’s Hallow, she could simply have dropped the sea-queen in from above, then cast whatever spell she needed to restore the thing to normal size… but the means for catching the scales as they sloughed off? She would have had to trust someone to design it, to build it, to know its purpose. Those men, not the men of Blackwater, for Jedadiah had said the house was already built when Isolde began to bring people to her … those men … she could not have let them live. She could not – as Aoife’s daughter, would not – have let them live and risk them telling anyone about this strange place. I look around the walls, trying to see if there are any bones lying about, proof of what my mother might have done.

  Nothing. I wonder if she used them in the mine? The first blood to seed it, their bodies dropped in some deep hole. Those who followed later – Jedadiah’s wife and the others – were a consolidation to increase what the earth would give. Perhaps the flood was simply a mistake – or perhaps not, all that salt water. The alchemy of blood and salt and dirt and the sea-queen’s silver scales. Isolde and her talent for making things big or small.

  A hand grabs my upper arm once more and I jump. It’s just Aidan.

  Just Aidan, who else?

  He jerks his chin towards the well at the centre of the room.

  ‘Did you see it?’ I ask and find my breath is mostly gone. ‘Did you ever see it at Hob’s Hallow?’

  He shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t spoken of; most of the extended family don’t know about it. It’s not something that was paraded, two gold bits for a gawk, Miren.’ His tone is reproachful. Then he swallows and I can see he’s as nervous, as afraid, as I am. ‘Come along, Miren, time to meet your great mother.’

  And I think perhaps a truer word has never come from his lips, but I still correct him: ‘Our great mother, Aidan.’

  If he thinks the words a long-delayed kindness he gives no sign, but push-pulls me to the wide, wide mouth of the well. There’s too much spilt blood and bitter spite between us anyway. The distance takes longer than it should as if time is stretching, as if our path leading here has not been quite long enough, but at last we are there. We lean over, though I’m careful of my balance with Ena held to my chest with one arm, the hand of the other touching the rim of the well wall.

  Aidan still has his lantern and he lifts it high so the light darts straight down to illuminate what lies perhaps twenty feet below.

  There is water, dark and deep, and beneath it a sheen of silver – all those scales that haven’t been washed into the mine because my mother was dead and Edward Elliott had no idea about the truth of this place. And in that broad circle of liquid, the mer-queen, coiled in a space not quite big enough for her; and the brand on my hip burns as if the hot iron has only just been applied to my skin. I think, in the old days, the shedding of her scales would have been enough, once, twice a year, to fill a chest with the silver for which the O’Malleys were famous. But Isolde… my mother found a new way to harvest.

  She doesn’t look well. She looks old. I wonder how and on what my parents used to feed her – not the people of Blackwater, no, but perhaps drifters and tinkers on the road, folk tempted from St Sinwin or another distant port? – but she’s not had such sustenance for almost five months. Then I think of the lack of fish in the black lake above (below? around?) – perhaps she‘s summoned them, but the waters are fished out. Perhaps my parents were not entirely murderers, perhaps they put fish in the waters at regular intervals; only Edward knew there were no fish in there but he’d only been here six months before I arrived. Perhaps I will believe better of them in this at least. But the fish: how long to call? How many would come after the lake was emptied? How strong would her power be over how far a distance, at such great age, and so poorly nourished?

  The sea-queen, ill though she looks, exhausted and old, is still the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. Twice the size of the mer who pulled me into Breakwater Harbour; her hair like a tangle of silver-green seaweed that moves of its own accord; her eyes so very dark, dark as a storm or the deepest sea depths; the gills in her neck cut deep and I can see them shiver in and out as she breathes above the waterline; her lips wide and thick and black as they draw back over terribly white, terribly sharp teeth; and that tail.

  Oh gods, that tail.

  Coiled round and round and round, a silver spiral that I almost lose myself in. I feel my balance wavering; Aidan’s hand drops from my arm, grips at the rim of the well for support. I feel as if I cannot stop myself, then he has me again, his grasp so tight it’s painful.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’

  He puts the lantern on the lip of the well, and we both step back.

  From below there’s a disappointed hiss. I think of the story of Aislin and Connor, of the song the mer sang to lure the boy closer. But then I look more carefully, avoiding her gaze: she’s got her mouth open wide, and that terrible noise is coming up to us. I realise that there’s no tongue. From this angle I can see, I think, a mass of dead tissue where one should be. So, some long ago O’Malley cut it out, which makes sense: she wouldn’t have stayed captive for long if she could enchant her captors with her voice. I imagine the woman with the harp doing it, somehow. Perhaps she was even more witch than Isolde. I think of the book of tales that are lies and truth and story all mingled and mangled.

  ‘You!’ Aidan’s voice booms out, echoes off the walls and ceiling like thunder. ‘You!’

  There’s no response from below, but she’s glaring at him. I take the chance to look at her face whilst her gaze is directed elsewhere. How long has she been held like this? She’s eternal or as close to as can be – such things always are. There’s hatred in her expression and not a small touch of madness – and locked up like this, who could blame her. Fed nameless babies to keep other offspring alive, to keep ships afloat and treasures coming to the O’Malleys, her scales harvested against her will all for our prosperity.

  ‘We are the children of the O’Malley who bound you, come to renew the covenant in blood. We’re here to pay the red tithe. We will observe our obligations, and you will resume yours: a safe sea, our ships all home to harbour, riches aplenty, in return for a child of every generation.’ Aidan’s still gripping the rim of the well, with both hands now. He’s looking into her eyes, the fool, no doubt thinking it will convince her of his sincerity.

  And just as I’m busy thinking him a fool he whirls away and plucks Ena from my arms before I can stop him. My own fault. I was standing too close. I wasn’t planning ahead. I’m a fool and the little girl will die because of me.

  But he doesn’t dash her straight down into the well as I thought he would; he holds Ena up so the sea-queen can see her, but keeps her close to his chest, and she begins to howl. His face is rich, as red as hers, and their expressions of irritation and outrage, hers at this waking, his at the lack of response to his proposal. I know him well enough that he will not throw the child – his lucky coin – unless he gets acknowledgement. How long before he realises there’s no tongue? That she cannot speak? How long before it gets through to her animal brain, to the awareness that’s still there, that’s helped her survive, for any high function has surely gone, any sanity after all these years, only madness would keep her going.

  I move slowly so he doesn’t notice me from the corner of
his eye. I stand behind him, then call his name ever so gently, as if I’m a lover, a confidant, as if I might acquiesce to all he desires. And despite the number of times I’ve lied to him, he turns as if in hope – might the mer blood work in my veins or simply the power of the first O’Malley? – salt daughter – might I have some touch of the siren in my tones? Whatever it is, he turns and I punch him in the throat as hard as I can.

  His hands go to his neck, Ena goes into freefall, and I grab at her with both hands, then drop my shoulder and charge him. He’s too close to the low stone wall, he’s already unbalanced, he cannot breathe and he’s panicking. He tips over the edge like a dropped toy and, voiceless though she might be, the sea-queen produces a sound that can only be some sort of triumph, before there is the splash of Aidan hitting the water and the noises of her feeding to overwhelm his final screams.

  39

  When at last the queen is finished – when the noises of her meal cease – I force myself upwards from where I’ve huddled on the floor, hunched over Ena, rocking her until she subsides to hiccups and a troubled sleep. Then I lie the child on the ground, gently, and approach the lip of the well.

  I look at the red, red water, at how it splashes over the silver tail, obscures the bed of shed scales beneath the sea-queen – how many months’ accumulation? At least five. How often did my mother do this… reaping? I can never know. I walk around the well, around its great circumference, and come to a metal lever. With only the smallest hesitation, I push it, and it takes all my strength, but eventually I hear a grinding (no one’s kept this oiled since Isolde went away), then a gushing. Then the lever swings itself back into position and I look into the well again. The water is refilling, but the bed of scales is gone, washed into the chutes that will take it to the mines for one last harvest. I can feel the creature watching me, but I still don’t meet her eyes; once was enough.