He knows. He knows and I am doomed. Whether the mermaid gets me or I drown, it doesn’t really matter. Either way, I will not set foot on dry land again.

  The cry goes up. It is Gunther’s oarsman, Osk, who spots her.

  “Yonder she comes! Hard north!”

  My brains go numb at the terror coming at me, unseen and unknowable in those blue depths. I have seen what it can do, and I am terrified.

  The men tense, nets at the ready, lances gripped in white-knuckled fists. With the vessels blocking my view, I cannot track the creature’s approach. The sea is calm, water lapping gently on the hulls. The oarsmen pull and counter the oars to maintain the ring around me.

  “She’s gone under!” Gunther bellows. “Steady, now.”

  A gentle splash. I turn and she is here, her strange double-lidded eyes dip at the waterline. I cannot see her mouth, cannot tell if she is smiling or opening her jaws to bite down. I don’t want to die, not like this. I brace myself for the coming pain, for the venom of her bite.

  Neither occurs. The mermaid does not strike, her gaze inscrutable and foreign. I cannot tell if she is amused or enraged. Of the harpoonists and their spears, she either does not see them or is not alarmed by their presence. I hear the voices of the fishermen puzzle at her behavior.

  “Why doesn’t it eat him?” says one.

  Another responds. “The stupid boy has made a pet of it. Look at it.”

  The creature circles slowly, her strange eyes fixed on me. The first net is flung, then the first harpoon. The maiden slips below easily and surfaces behind me. More nets, another lance. Again, she eludes the fishermen’s weapons. The sail of her dorsal fins twinkles with sunlight as it cuts the surface. It is toying with me the way a cat bats a mouse before biting its head off.

  “Why won’t it go for him?” says a voice.

  “Maybe she prefers the taste of men to boys,” another replies.

  I glance at Gunther. He has yet to fire his harpoon. Eyes on the water, he is studying the way she darts and feints to avoid capture. Tracking her locomotion, anticipating her moves.

  “Maybe Kaspar is secretly a girl,” laughs long-nosed Sligo.

  A sharp tug on my ankle pulls me below. I catch only a murky vision of the mermaid gliding past me before I claw to the surface. Spitting out the spume, I see a net whirl over me with precise aim. Then Gunther’s harpoon sails from his powerful arm.

  He has timed it correctly. Tangled in the net, she spins and bucks at it, but does not see the harpoon coming. It drives into her ribs with enough force to knock her back and my eardrums split at her shrieks of pain.

  The sea boils as she spins and flails. Sea spray drenches the men as they cast more nets and fling their spears. The spray blooms red with her blood.

  The churning stops and the water stills. The men hurrah in victory and Gunther barks at them to reel in his catch. Hand-over-hand, they draw their harpoon lines to bring the prize to the surface. Looking into the water, I can see a hazy form grow as it rises directly under me. It slithers between my legs like a lover and breaks topside, her belly rolling to the sun. The men keep pulling, dragging their vessels closer to their catch. To a man, they all sport a hungry, greedy fire in their eyes.

  It is all a ruse. She rights herself, locks eyes on me for a single heartbeat, and then dives hard below. Three men are jerked clean into the water. One boat pitches badly and overturns at the violence of her plunge. Gunther hacks his tow line with a machete and screams at the others to do the same before she pulls them all under.

  The men in the water, Sligo and Horst, and another man I do not know, swim for the nearest boat. Their fellows try to haul them in, only to have each man ripped from their hands. The water roils like a boiling cauldron and the men in the water cry out in terror at the thing circling beneath them. Each one shrieks, bobbing in their own blood as the monster ravages them. Gunther fires another harpoon at the creature and Ulric slashes the water with his cutlass, but both are powerless to stop the slaughter. The screams of the dying men cease as severed limbs and bloodied torsos roll to the surface.

  I swim for the pier with the curses of the fishermen in my ears as they stab and slash impotently at the water. One skiff is capsized, and another punctured through the hull, sinking quickly. These men wail in terror as they join their comrades in the red surf. Yet one vessel skims past me as I drive hard for the dock.

  Gunther thunders at Osk and Brom to row like hell because the very devil herself is coming for their souls. The sloop is almost to the pier when a torrent of spray erupts under them, sending all three into the drink. I cannot see them flailing in the chop, but I hear their agonized screams as the creature goes after them. I claw the waves like a madman until I feel solid stone in my grip.

  The townsfolk crowd the dock, their faces white as they witness the slaughter. They fling ropes into the sea and reach to pluck their sailors out. Distracted thus, no one sees my approach or lowers a helping hand. I see Agnet screaming on the dock as her husband’s boat is destroyed. I call to her, but she does not hear me. I pant on the stone and watch as her husband and his oarsmen are plucked from the water and dragged up onto the pier. There is blood everywhere and their mewls of agony fill my ears until each is carried away. I see a severed head bob on the waves. Sligo, the man betrothed to my sister. His outlandish nose is upright like a sail.

  The sky darkens and a briny chill creeps into my bones. I sit up and look out at the destruction rising and falling on the waves in the bay. Splintered wood and capsized hulls, the useless nets and the broken bodies of the fishermen. All of it floating in the chop. The gulls cry and flap as they peck at an easy meal.

  And out there on the water reigns the sea maiden who has all but wiped out our fleet in a single afternoon. I swear to God she looks right at me as she devours the floating remains of the fishermen. No other soul is plucked from the sea this day and the mermaid leaves nothing left of the dead to bury.

  15

  I SHIVER THE rest of the day, unable to rid the chill from my bones no matter how close I huddle by the fire. Our home has become grim. Father remains locked in the vestry, oblivious to the attempt of the fishermen to murder his own son. Bryndis will not speak to me, clanging the pots and bashing the board as she scrapes whatever scraps we have left into a thin stew. Pip is singing songs about the mermaid, gibberish nonsense about how prettily she swims and how green her locks are. I tell him to stop, but he will not, so I shove him in the larder and turn the latch. Rhymes leak out from under the door in his thin voice.

  All feeling is gone from my left hand. It is a leprous, blackened thing that I do not recognize. I can move my fingers, but the creature’s venom has confounded every nerve. There is no sensation to it at all. Slipping the knife from my belt, I prick the blackened skin with the blade, drawing out the dark blood, but there is no pain. The fingernails have become loose and when I press on them, a foul-smelling puss oozes out from the cuticles. It is revolting.

  I try not to recall the midwife’s warning that I may have to lop the diseased limb off. When a knock on the door startles me, I slip the foul thing back into my shirt to hide it.

  Magda stops in to check on us, bringing news. Osk and Brom are unharmed, although badly shaken by what they have endured. Gunther the Brave lives, but just barely. Both of his legs were sheared off by the creature’s teeth, along with his left arm. Magda had spoken to the midwife after she had bandaged his wounds. Gunther is strong, Hagar said, and will most likely survive, but alas, what manner of life will he have now? I ask about Agnet, which earns a nasty glare from my sister. I ignore it. Magda informs me that Gunther’s wife has gone silent. She helped wrap the wounds, fetching water when the midwife asked, but the girl was mute as a stone.

  “The poor thing,” Magda concludes with a slow shake of her head. “Heartbroken into silence.”

  “Now married to a stump,” I reply. My neighbor and my sister both wince at my poor taste.

  “I am sorry to hear about Sligo.” Magda pats my sister’s knee in condolence. “He was an adequate fellow.”

  “Thank you,” Bryndis replies. With Sligo dead, she is free, but I cannot tell if this makes her happy. Her face is stony all the time now. “It is tragic.”

  “Although, perhaps not the best match for you,” says our neighbor. Since Mother’s disappearance, Magda has been especially kind to us all. She thinks quite highly of Bryndis. “How is young Calder? Has he been by to offer his sympathies?”

  Bryndis’ voice is as flat as her eyes. “I saw him in the square yesterday. He acted like he didn’t know me.”

  “Silly boy,” Magda replies. “He’ll come round.”

  The wind picks up, whistling down the chimney and pushing the door open. Magda says she doesn’t like the sound of it and fears something bad is blowing in off the sea.

  “Bad omens,” I say, securing the door. “How could it get any worse?”

  Perhaps this question provoked the fates, for not a minute later comes a hubbub of disturbance. Some fool is yammering down the laneway and another is crying out near the pier. I open the door, craning an ear to catch what the fuss is about.

  Something, shriek the voices, is crawling out of the sea.

  We run to the docks, expecting to see the mermaid herself flopping and wriggling on dry land, but she is not the cause of the ruckus. Something dark and glistening is creeping up over the edge of the wharf and slithering in a great mass toward us.

  Beasts of the sea, in all shapes and sizes. There are octopus and crabs, starfish and sea urchins, along with countless other creatures that I cannot identify. Thousands of them, slithering and swarming all along the shoreline. Onward they come, unfolding tentacles and clawing with pincers, like an invading army laying siege to our village. It is a revolting sight. A few people try to sweep them back or stomp them underfoot, but there are too many and they just keep coming, crawling up the wharf into town. It is as if the sea has declared war on us and its barbarian horde is determined to storm our gates.

  Pip wades barefoot into the squirming mess until Bryndis pulls him away, insisting we run home. Magda blasphemes the name of our Lord, horrified at the invading mass. When a large snow crab scuttles close, I snatch it from the ground.

  My sister makes a sour face. “Put it back, Kaspar.”

  “Look at the size of it,” I say, holding it carefully to avoid the snapping pincers. “This will feed us all tonight.”

  “Are you daft?” says Magda. “The mermaid sent it. It is probably poisonous. Get rid of it.”

  A tug-of-war plays out between my empty belly and my brains. I toss it back and we all hurry home, locking our doors like Magda suggests.

  ***

  No one sleeps. The sound of this invading force is unrelenting outside the window; the awful squirming, sucking, squishing racket of it all. When the sun rises, the townsfolk step out of their doors to find the streets overwhelmed with the damned things. There is nowhere to step without squishing an octopus or cracking a shell. What mad suicide mission was this? The creatures have crawled into town only to die on the cobbles. The smell of it is noxious, and it will only get worse as the day warms. Everywhere I look, men are shoveling the rotting things like snow in winter. The women broom the creepers from their stoops, but there are too many and there is nowhere to put them. Raking them all out to sea will take days.

  I scan the bay, expecting to see the mermaid patrolling the harbor, but she is not there. The sea is calm and dappled with sunlight. The gulls have arranged themselves on the pier in an unnatural silence. Why are they not scavenging the veritable feast that lies in stinking heaps on every street? Perhaps they instinctively know the smell of evil and will not touch the dead creatures. Some of the villagers are not so wise, having cooked a crab or roasted a squid. These foolhardy souls are now green in their sickbeds, poisoned by the delicacies.

  My shoes are slippery with gore by the time I make it across town to the drab little cottage with the damaged roof. A thin trickle of smoke rises from the chimney. I kick the starfish from the step and knock on the door. I no longer care who will see me or what they will say. I suppose I could claim that I am here to ask after Gunther’s health. What a good lad that Kaspar is, they will say. Inquiring about our brave harpoonsman, even after Gunther tried to murder him. There are times when I long for a match to burn this entire village down.

  I am giggling over the thought when Agnet opens the door. She does not look surprised or happy to see me. Her eyes are lifeless, the mouth drawn thin. She is only sixteen, but she seems to have aged twenty years in a single night. When her eyes fall to the stinking sea creatures fouling her yard, she betrays no reaction.

  “Yes?” she says, as if I am a stranger.

  “Agnet.” My tongue stalls, becomes stone. Coming up the path, I was bursting with a thousand things to say to her. Now my head is as empty as a shell.

  “What is it, Kaspar?”

  “I came to see if you were all right. And Gunther, too. I was worried.”

  This last part is not a complete lie. I hope that he has died in the night.

  Her voice is as flat as her eyes. “I see.”

  Is she drunk? I have never seen her like this. “May I come in?”

  “This is not a good time.”

  “I won’t stay long. Please.”

  She moves aside and I come through. I have never stepped foot inside Gunther’s cottage before, although I have often tried to picture it in my mind. Or rather, I pictured Agnet inside it. What she was doing at any moment, or if she was happy. The interior is dark, and it smells of woodsmoke and fish. Mounted over the hearth is the sailfin of the swordfish that tried to pluck out Gunther’s eye. A net is draped over a chair, waiting to be mended.

  There is a bad smell and an even worse sound coming from the bed on the far side of the room. A curtain hangs from the rafters for privacy. I almost do not recognize Gunther’s voice, moaning and mumbling in pain. Restless in his torment, I can hear him creaking the bed and swishing the sheets.

  “How is he?”

  Her eyes go to the curtain and then turn away. “Like this. The pain has made him senseless, but it won’t let him sleep.”

  No wonder her eyes are so blasted. I have had only a taste of his moaning and I want to run away. How could she have endured this all night? How much longer will it continue?

  “I’m sorry, Agnet.” I scrounge for something to console her. “I hear the midwife believes he will survive.”

  “His pride keeps his heart beating,” she says. “Last night, when the pain abated, he told me he would not let a woman murder him like this. He even vowed revenge.”

  “Sit down,” I say, as if I am the host here. She drops into a chair. “You must be exhausted. Is there anyone who can help you?”

  Another tortured cry rises from the sickbed. It makes me cringe, but Agnet betrays no reaction. I suppose she is numb to it by now.

  She rubs at a callous on her cracked hands. “How could I ask someone else to endure that?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  The fire pops softly. A spindle falls from a shelf and rolls to our feet. Agnet picks it up and turns it idly in her hand.

  She lowers her voice. “I heard he tried to kill you. That he used you for bait. Is that true?”

  “He needed to lure her close so he could deliver the killing blow.”

  She says nothing, turning the spindle over and over. I don’t know why I am making excuses for him. When I reach for her hand, she recoils like I’m leprous.

  “He knows,” I say.

  “He knows what?”

  “He knows.”

  Her eyes finally come to life, dilating with terror. Her chapped lips curl into a sneer. “How? Did you boast?”

  Her gaze is too hot, and I cannot meet it. “Our initials,” I tell her. “I threw it into the sea. What are the chances that it would wash up at his feet?”

  The spindle becomes still. Her eyes drop to the floor. “He’s been acting strangely of late. Accusing me of being unfaithful.”

  “But, you haven’t. That was all before you married.”

  “Do you think that matters to him? His pride will not accept it.”

  The moaning from the sickbed does not stop. I stifle a wicked urge to bark at the man to shut up. I doubt he even knows I am here.

  “Father keeps some brandy hidden away in the tabernacle. He thinks no one knows. I’ll fetch it. It might ease his pain.”

  Agnet slumps, letting her hair fall to hide her face. If there are tears, I do not see them. I only hear the hitch of a sob catch her throat.

  “What am I going to do, Kaspar? He cannot even walk, let alone fish. We’ll starve. I am chained to him.”

  She does not pull away this time when I take her hand. How rough they are now, worked to the bone. One fingernail is purple.

  “We will find a way,” I tell her.

  “Stop it. That foolishness will get us both killed.”

  My voice breaks. “Why do you talk to me this way? I have never stopped loving you.” I shake a hand at the curtain. “Despite all this, I could not stop. Have you?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  A roar bellows from the other side of the curtain, raw-voiced and angry. “Who’s there? Agnet? Agnet, damn you! Who is there?”

  We both rise. I promise to bring the brandy and leave. At the cottage’s little gate, I slip on a rotting squid and fall hard, a spiny urchin stinging my backside.

  ***

  By midday, the stench is unbearable. People go to and fro with kerchiefs pressed to their noses to ward off the smell of the sea life rotting on the cobbles. I spend the morning scavenging for food. Sigga, the miller’s daughter, is willing to trade a sack of meal for the last coin I have. It is a paltry score, as the meal is fuzzed with mold, but it will put something in our bellies. I return to the church to find my sister pounding on the door of the vestry.

  “Will he not come out?”

  “He’s locked himself in,” Bryndis replies. Her hand is red from the hammering. “He won’t even answer me.”

 

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