And upon their return, bearing the bloody trophies of their success, which they laid at the foot of the fin-wife’s throne, their wishes were granted.
The lover of the eldest, long-gone, was returned; but, no longer as he had been, no longer a kin creature, he took her life to sate his own hunger.
The middle one was granted legs and lungs so she might join her human beloved on the surface; but, given these things beneath the waves, she drowned.
The youngest, having requested only the return of their dead father’s famed weapon to do him honour, cut her finger on its poisoned blade and expired.
The door remains locked and no one has come. The back of my head aches where I hit the dock.
Far away and just as long ago there was a rock in a river where rusalky maidens sat and sang. Their songs seemed beautiful, if one did not listen to the words. If one did then it was likely one would follow the lovely tune off the cliff above to either break upon the rock below or drown beside it, much to the maidens’ delight. They look, in the daylight, like glorious girls with long locks in every shade, glowing skins and eyes, red lips and white teeth, figures to catch the eye. Luminescent toes dangle in the flowing waters, long fingers comb shining hair. By day, they are wondrous to behold.
But when the sun sets, or when they doze on the rock, they forget themselves and can be seen in their true form, for they did not begin as sprites, but rather as human girls. Murdered maids, those dead by their own hands in grief and despair, those whose own acts haunted them beyond their passing, lose the pleasing form they had when they lived. The rot of life and death can be seen, the skin has a greenish tint, the eyes sunken, the hair straw-like, the marks of fingers and fists visible on throat and face. In winter times, too, they are in a between state, for the light is never quite right to weave their illusions, so they hide then, but for the sunniest of days.
They’ll take revenge on those who wronged them if they can, or even just on those who tread too close to their places. But they’re business-like in death even if they weren’t in life, and they will make bargains. A rusalka’s tears are magical things, they can be used for good or ill, or any shade of magic in between (although mostly for ill). There’s a story told of a quilter who, crossed in love, badly betrayed, made a wedding quilt for her once true love and his new bride. She sprinkled it with the dust of nightmares and the tears of a river maiden, the bride was turned into a beast with the tail of a fish or perhaps a dragon. No one knows what happened to either.
It’s well past lunch.
In olden times when wishing still helped there was once a church built at Hob’s Head.
Sometimes the O’Malleys forgot to whom they owed their fortune. They’d take up with some god-hound or another, and for a while the bishop would hope he might bring the family back to the Holy Mother Church (as if they’d ever been in its bosom before). But then the women of the family would put their feet down, for they remembered (they always remembered) where their allegiance lay.
And as a result a father, a brother, an uncle, a grandsire, a son would go into the ground a little sooner than expected. It taught the others a valuable lesson.
There is no church on Hob’s Head, just the little chapel in the manor house. But that wasn’t always the case. An O’Malley patriarch decided to build one, fit for his family’s overt worship, and for all the tenants around and any strays who might decide to join them. Perhaps the bishop promised him a god-hound of his very own to say prayers on a Sunday and become a fixture outside of Breakwater.
It was built right on the promontory so the view would be spectacular, the sound of the waves inspiring, and the peel of the bells across the water unparalleled, for they had been specially made. At great expense, they’d been cast at some far-flung foundry and made entirely of O’Malley silver. And on the day that the church was to be consecrated, the Breakwater bishop himself was in attendance, bellringers brought from far and wide to ensure the very first sounding of them would be perfect.
But as the congregation waited outside, preparing to enter the new church, there was a great rumbling, then a crack and a creak and the structure and the cliff on which it stood, fell into the sea. No O’Malley was injured, the only deaths being those of the bishop and the bellringers. So, no O’Malley blood was spilt, not then, but an O’Malley lesson was learned.
The sea-folk hate the sound of holy bells above all things.
The sea-folk love silver above all things.
Some days, they say, you can hear the ringing from beneath the waves.
I fall asleep thinking I hear a dim chime rung at the bottom of the ocean; wondering what it would be like to have sisters; pondering maidens changed by death, bitterness and bile.
* * *
The sky’s a plum-bruise outside the window when I’m woken by the sound of the door being unlocked. Brigid appears in the doorframe, her expression is at first surprised as if she expected to find me otherwise, then annoyed. She’s got a large silver key attached to the silver chatelaine at her belt, a sure sign of housewifely power.
‘Come along,’ she says curtly as she folds her little hands at her waist. ‘They’re waiting for you.’
‘Why’d she lock me in?’ I ask as I follow. I rub at my neck, which is
