Songs from the Deep

by Kelly Powell

  It comes out as a question. “You really believe he was murdered?”

  Disquiet makes a home inside my heart. Connor’s obituary was written like so many other attacks, but I know—I know—it doesn’t belong among them.

  “He was, Jude. I know it.”

  His mouth thins, but he nods. “All right,” he says, voice quiet. “I’ll help.”

  I sigh in genuine relief. Jude believes me, and it feels like the world will follow. It makes the task ahead seem possible, manageable, whatever the danger.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Tucking his hands into his pockets, he starts down the cobbles toward the hardware shop on the opposite corner. I keep in step with him, eyeing him as we walk. He looks so tired, so pale. I wonder what it is that keeps him up at night, to put such shadows under his eyes.

  I realize it’s perhaps ill-advised to enlist his help. I’m in no position to ask anything of Jude Osric. Truly, he would be better off staying away from me altogether. It’s selfish, cruel even, but I’ve not the time nor inclination to seek out anyone else. Jude is one of the few on this island I trust, one of the few I still hold in high regard.

  The front windows of the hardware shop are large, clouded panes mirroring our reflections. Jude looks colorless within the glass, and for one vicious moment I want to know what his face looked like when he first found Connor.

  Inside, he heads down one of the narrow aisles. I look about the space, at the dusty shelves, the boxes of nails, locks, door hinges. My nose wrinkles at the sharp odor of paint and varnish. Jude picks through the boxes before taking up a small bronze hinge. He inspects it as he says, “This isn’t just about Connor, is it?”

  I hesitate. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “Yes, I think it does. The Sheahans are a good family—they deserve closure.” The light in the shop glints off the surface of the hinge, shining copper like the color of Jude’s hair.

  “And that’s what we’ll give them,” I say.

  A pause. He turns the hinge around in his hands, not looking at me. “You care for the sirens, also,” he murmurs.

  I stare at the shelves. Jude once cared for them, too, but I dare not mention so. That was another Jude, a younger Jude—one who skipped stones alongside me on the beach, who listened to the tales our fathers told with rapt attention. We’d sit on the lighthouse steps together, or take to the gallery deck, looking out to sea, watching for sirens.

  Little is known about the sirens beyond the means of keeping them away, but during their lifetimes, Gavin Alexander and Llyr Osric set themselves to the task of learning. It was, by and large, my father’s idea. In the same way Jude became fearful of sirens after his father’s passing, my father became fascinated after sirens took his own when he was just a boy.

  It was his efforts that led to the establishment of the hunting ban ten years ago.

  Facing Jude, I say, “I can’t watch them be hunted down. I can’t. My father—” I stop short, lest the words unravel me. My heart hammers inside my rib cage.

  Sunlight flashes across the sea the first time Jude clambers into my father’s rowboat. I am eight, he is ten, and he plunks down gracelessly beside me, rocking the boat as he does.

  “Steady,” says my father. “Unless you fancy going overboard.”

  Jude grins as if the notion entertains him. “No, sir.”

  My father rows out until we are quite a ways from shore. It’s been a full week since a siren was last spotted around Dunmore, so this trip is likely to indulge us, but I dutifully survey the horizon, gripping an iron charm in a closed fist.

  Jude looks back at the island, to his lighthouse perched at the edge. He shifts, turns to me, and lets out a gasp. “There!” he says, jumping to his feet.

  “Jude,” my father snaps.

  But it’s too late. The boat tips, unbalancing him. Jude yelps and goes straight over the side. I scramble to peer down into the water, even as my father catches hold of him, hauling him back in. Jude sprawls on the bottom of the boat, coughing and sputtering, soaked to the skin. I pat him soundly on the back, while my father says, “At least you managed to keep your boots on.”

  Jude laughs, none the worse for wear. “Saw her just past the breakers. She’s watching us.”

  I look up. The siren remains, only a few boat lengths away. Her dark hair is slicked back from her salt-white face, her mouth a thin slash of red. She did not touch Jude. Indeed, she makes no move toward us. I’m fixed in place, breathless at the sight of her. My grasp on the iron tightens until it cuts into my palm.

  When she disappears beneath the waves, I feel pinned to the moment. I replay it like a song, over and over, until it’s familiar as a heartbeat.

  In the dusty hardware shop, there is little of Jude that reminds me of the boy who went overboard that day. He is silent and still, his head bowed in consternation. “I understand,” he says, but I wonder if he truly does.

  We find Mr. Bradshaw toward the back of the shop. He wears a heavy knit sweater, his brown hands folded atop the shop counter. He and Jude talk about how dreadful the weather’s been lately and that dear poor boy on the beach; his father’s a fisherman and works hard, don’t know what that family’s going through now, and are you all right up at that lighthouse? Yes, sir. Fine, sir.

  Mr. Bradshaw looks satisfied with this. He calls Jude “Wick”—an old nickname for lighthouse keepers—and Jude smiles as he passes over a few coins, pleased to go by the same name as his father.

  Back outside, Jude pulls his cap on, shadowing his eyes. “How are we to go about this, then?” he asks.

  I set my gaze on the street ahead of us. Faded shop awnings cast long shadows across the cobbles, making the way appear more dark and narrow than it really is. Chairs sit next to doors with peeling paint, dried leaves tossed up against the thresholds.

  “I’d like to speak with the police first,” I say.

  Jude nods. “You think they’ll listen?”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  He puts his hands in his pockets and scuffs his heel against the sidewalk. “Mr. Daugherty always looks like he’s got murder in his eyes whenever I’m late with the monthly report. If we’re to make a suspect list, I’d jot him down.”

  I grin despite myself. “You’re not the murder victim.”

  “No, but see here… If I ever am, you know just where to start.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Sunlight peeks between the row of shops and marks the street in a patchwork pattern of light and shadow. We head for the market, walking beside each other, and I feel glad in a way I haven’t for a long time. I keep the feeling close to my heart, safe and hidden from the world. Like a secret.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE EVENING OF CONNOR’S FUNERAL is chilly and damp, everything gray with fog. Grave markers form dark outlines, the taller stone crosses looming out of the mist. Though the churchyard is small, dozens of people have congregated for the service.

  I make my way past the gates, into the little field. Beside me on the path is my mother, and together we are cloaked in black. I wear a necklace of jet beads, the same I wore at my father’s funeral. He is buried in this churchyard too, and as we pass his grave, I let my gloved fingertips rest on the stone. “Hello, Da.”

  There are those who believe the nature of this island is so awful, so wicked, sometimes it must steal away the best of us to keep its equilibrium. If it didn’t, squalor and malice would overwhelm it, and the ocean would rise up, drowning us, in order to cleanse our sins. I think I believe it too. It explains why I am still here and Connor is not. Why my father is not.

  I have countless memories intertwined with this churchyard, and none of them are good. They are thick with sadness, muddled in grief. I catch the familiar scent of salt water and brine, but I’ve never felt farther from the cliffs, from the sirens who glide through our waters, taking shelter between jagged rocks.

  As we reach the gathering of mourners, I search the d
ark suits and bowed heads for Jude Osric, but I can’t find him. Instead, I see the remaining members of the Sheahan family, standing at the mouth of Connor’s open grave. His coffin has already been lowered, out of view, tucked into the earth, closer now with his ancestors than any of us. It makes my heart ache, being here, where I am forced to remember all my past sorrows. Knowing this will not be the last funeral I attend.

  You had so many songs yet to play, Connor.

  I would have taught you all of them.

  My mother tries to place a hand on my shoulder, to whisper in my ear, but I shrug her off. I want silence, for the ground to swallow me. I study the faces of those gathered, wondering if the murderer has come to see the consequences of their handiwork. To my left, a young girl with dark ribbons in her hair, hands clasped, whispers to herself. Whether it’s a prayer or a blessing, I can’t tell.

  By the grave, the Sheahans take turns kneeling, tossing handfuls of salt down onto Connor’s coffin. Another image pulls at my mind—of a younger Moira, dropping salt into her father’s grave. I can almost feel the grit on my palm.

  Father Teague brings the service to an end, and the tide of funeral-goers begins to shift. Most depart once he’s finished, resuming their lives, the death of Connor Sheahan a cautionary tale to tell their own children. Some stay, offering condolences, asking if there’s anything they can do.

  I edge closer, catching the eye of Mrs. Sheahan. She tugs me into a fierce embrace, and I try to return it the best I can. “Oh, Moira,” she says.

  With her arms still wrapped around me, I say, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sheahan.” My voice comes out soft, surprisingly hoarse. I step back and clear my throat. “He was a good student.”

  She wipes at the tear stains on her cheeks, but her eyes have dried. I recognize the look of someone who’s already cried to the point of exhaustion—it’s an activity I’m well versed in. “Thank you, dear.”

  My mother joins us, saying, “It was a lovely service,” and I watch the two of them embrace as well. They murmur to each other, quiet and sad; a mother who’s lost a son, a wife who’s lost a husband. Both circumstances far from unique on Twillengyle.

  I look back in the direction of my father’s grave. I miss you, Da. God, I miss you, I miss—

  “Moira.”

  I turn at the sound of my mother’s voice. She holds out her hand, beckoning me.

  I am wound tight enough to shatter.

  “Come along,” she says.

  We walk away from the churchyard, soon on the trail back home. Houses grow from the moor grass in uneven rows, made up of brightly colored siding. Laundry hangs from several clotheslines: white sheets, frayed work trousers, floral-printed dresses. A trio of little girls plays in a wilted garden. One of them stands in the center—singing a melancholy tune and biting back a smile—while the other two inch toward her, closer, closer, until the girl stops singing. They scatter with gleeful screeches as the singer springs into action, trying to catch them.

  I know it, the siren game. Jude and I used to play it out on the cliffs. We worked valiantly to convince his older sister to be the siren.

  Emmeline Osric was a lovely singer.

  “I didn’t notice Mr. Osric at the funeral,” says my mother.

  I drop my gaze to the path. “He wouldn’t miss it.”

  She says, “Your father and Llyr Osric were always close,” as if I weren’t already aware of the fact.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “And I remember it’s been quite some time since you went visiting the lighthouse. You mustn’t keep him from his job, Moira.”

  “I’m not.” Kicking a pebble ahead of me, I add, “He gets lonely is all.”

  And it feels better having Jude Osric by my side again. We’ll solve Connor’s murder together—bring real closure to the Sheahans, keep the sirens safe.

  We’ll be unstoppable.

  * * *

  That night I write Connor Sheahan on a blank sheet of paper.

  Downstairs, I hear my mother cleaning. Cabinet doors squeak open and shut and glasses clink together. Each small sound cracks through my concentration like a shot. I hold my pen a little tighter, pressing down, and ink blots the page. I watch, unfocused, as the liquid blackness spreads, gleaming under the light of my lamp.

  I write knife, adding a question mark and circling it.

  It’s little to go on. Plenty of people on this island know their way around a blade, myself included. Jude Osric included. Fishermen, dock workers, butchers. I set my fingertips to my temples and close my eyes.

  There was blood in the water, pooled around Connor’s body in the dark. Had someone forced him down to the beach? Someone he knew, someone he trusted?

  My father’s hand holds tight to my own. It hurts my fingers a little, but I don’t say anything. I stare into his eyes, unblinking. They are blue, dark blue like mine, like the ocean at twilight. Today, he says, we’ll go down to the beach, to watch the sirens come ashore. Do you trust me, Moira? Do you trust me?

  Brushing the memory aside, I write suspects near the bottom half of the page.

  Connor must’ve been murdered just before the storm. It was perfect timing, the harbor emptying out as everyone headed home. The killer could’ve discarded the body at sea with no one the wiser.

  Did they want him found? Did they realize the police would lay blame on the sirens?

  If that’s the case, they must hate them well enough to frame them.

  Below suspects, I write Jude Osric.

  But I’ve hardly finished before I’m crossing it out. An ill sense of dread floods through me, leaching into the very tips of my fingers. I take up the paper and crumple it, smears of ink staining my hands. Crossing the room to my bed, I burrow under the blankets, blocking out the world. Sleep tugs at my eyes, and I gratefully surrender to it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I DON’T LEAVE FOR THE lighthouse until noon the next day. Before I go I sit on my bed, trying not to catch my eye in the mirror above my vanity. I pick every stray piece of lint from my dress, my hands much steadier than how I feel inside. The words I wrote last night bleed into my mind like poison.

  Jude Osric, Jude Osric, Jude Osric.

  I shake my head like I can dispel the memory.

  Lifting my gaze to the mirror, I pinch my cheeks to get some color in them. Sleep hasn’t done me any favors in terms of making me look well rested. I sweep up my long hair into a chignon and take a deep breath.

  Once I’m out of the house, I allow myself to turn over the possibility. That Jude Osric—a boy I’ve known my whole life, someone I’ve always called a friend—might be a killer. He likely expected me to come knocking at the crack of dawn, and I likely would have—but now I’ve no idea what to say.

  Around the side of the tower, I spot him at work in the vegetable garden. On his knees in the dirt, he wears overalls, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and digs into the soil with trowel in hand. As I walk over, he lifts his head, catching sight of me.

  His teeth flash white in a smile. “Moira.” Getting to his feet, he wipes the hand not holding the trowel on his clothes. “Good morning.”

  I clasp my hands in front of me. “Afternoon now.”

  “Is it?” Shading his eyes, he looks out to sea. Dirt smears the underside of his jaw. He turns back, and there’s a softness to the curve of his mouth, the tired lines around his eyes smoothed over. “Shall I make tea?”

  I say nothing. I try to picture him taking Connor by the shoulder and slitting him open, his hand clutching a bloodied knife in place of his trowel. The image frays my nerves, quickens my pulse, until all I can hear is the shallow thud of my heartbeat.

  It can’t be him. It just can’t.

  He was the one to find the body. The thought is a low and lethal whisper. You saw him coming up from the beach.

  Jude had been swift to fault the sirens, keen to have me think the same.

  “Moira?”

  I take a step back. “May we speak inside?”


  “Yes, of course.” He glances down at his trowel before shoving the tool in a deep pocket. “I suppose you’re still set on visiting the police station?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  We walk from the garden to the front of the cottage, and Jude takes off his boots at the threshold so as not to track mud inside. It’s such a habitual gesture, such a simple one, my treacherous heart tries to win out over reason.

  In the kitchen, I press my fingertips to the table’s edge. “I didn’t see you at Connor’s funeral.”

  His brow creases. “I was there.”

  I nod, looking away. I feel the weight of his gaze as he waits for me to say something. A chill brushes over my spine, my vision turning watery at the edges. And I can’t stop myself.

  “Did you kill him?”

  For the space of a breath, there is nothing between us but silence.

  Jude opens his mouth. “Pardon?”

  I glare back, teeth bared, my voice as fierce as I can make it. “Did you murder Connor?”

  A light goes out in his eyes—one I didn’t realize was there until I no longer see the spark. His face drains of color until it is tinged gray. “Moira,” he says, “what are you talking about?”

  My heart threatens to beat out of my chest. The world tilts beneath me, like the deck of a ship in the midst of a squall. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet.

  “You’re the one who found him,” I say.

  His face reddens. “Well, someone had to!”

  I dig my nails into my palms, hard enough to know they’ll leave half-moon crescents in their wake.

  “You know me,” says Jude, almost pleading. “How could you even…? I thought we were—” His voice becomes choked, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You really think that of me? That I could do something so monstrous?”

  “No.”

  The word is hollow—too little, too late. I’ve ignored what my heart already knew, and the cost is more awful than I could’ve imagined. Jude looks like he can’t stand the sight of me. It’s made worse by the fact that I deserve it. I shouldn’t be accorded Jude’s kindness or his understanding or his friendship. He has given so freely, and I have taken it all for granted.