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
