Hold Back the Tide

by Melinda Salisbury

“Be careful, girl,” he sneers, his lip curling with anger. “You’re on my generosity here.”

  “And I’m grateful,” I say, trying to sound it. “But you can see that someone needs to be here to monitor it, now especially. With my father gone, I’m the only one who knows how.”

  Giles shrugs. “It can’t be that hard. Low is bad, high is good. Have I got it?”

  I gesture to the shelves of records and logs behind us. “This isn’t all for show, you know. There’s an art to it.”

  He smiles, a nasty, knowing smile. “You’re a prickly wee thing. Your mam was the same when she was your age. Proud. Too proud to admit her mistakes.”

  Mistakes. He means my father. Me. I tamp down the flare of anger. I won’t give him a reason to take me away.

  “Is that all of them?” He nods at the shelves.

  It’s then I remember the old log on the desk, wide open to a picture of the creatures. Now is the time to tell him about the creatures.

  But when I look over, the book is closed.

  Understanding breaks over me like a wave; my father wasn’t going for the guns when Giles appeared. He was closing the book. He didn’t want them to see. Why was he so desperate to keep those things secret?

  Dizzy appears in the doorway. “You’d better come,” he says to Giles, then he lowers his voice. “Aileen’s been found.”

  There is an unspoken question in Giles’s face and Dizzy answers it with a short shake of his head.

  “What’s happened to Aileen?” I ask, trying to keep the note of panic out of my voice.

  Giles ignores me. “Pack your things and go straight to my house. By my reckoning it takes an hour to walk down the mountain, so I’ll expect you there in an hour and a half, at the latest. Do you understand? I mean it, Alva,” he says to the protest he reads in my expression. “Woe betide you if I have to come back up this accursed mountain and fetch you. Even my mercy has an end.”

  “Listen, Giles, I have to tell you—” I begin, only for him to whirl around and cut me off.

  “And I have to deal with a grieving family. Pack. And you will address me as Mr Stewart.”

  “But—”

  “Get to it.”

  I hear the front door shut behind them. I walk out into the corridor, cover my mouth with my hand to keep my scream in. Hopelessness washes over me. What am I going to do?

  I close my eyes. When I open them, Ren is in front of me.

  He must have heard it all.

  His mouth moves as though he wants to speak, but no words come out. He just looks at me, shaking his head, and I see myself as he must.

  An accessory to murder. A liar.

  I find I can’t bear the idea of him being disappointed in me.

  I try to speak but I don’t know how to begin. My mouth crumples.

  He puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t.” His expression is as soft as I’ve ever seen it and he gives me a sympathetic, close-mouthed smile. “It’s all right. What could you have possibly done?”

  He holds out his arms and I step back, raising my hands. If he touches me then I’ll cry, and if I start I might never stop.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  He nods, crossing his arms. “Well, if you weren’t already planning to leave, I think you should give the idea strong consideration now.”

  I smile weakly. “You were right. I was planning on leaving. Today’s the day.” There’s a relief in saying it aloud, and his eyes lift to mine. “Wait here.”

  I turn on my heel and go into my room, fetching the letters from under my pillow. I hold them out to him, address-side up, so he can see who they’re for. “I wrote these. One says the loch is drying out, because the mill is using too much water. The other is a confession about the night … the night she…” I force the words out. “The night he murdered her. I was always going to tell Giles, you see. I’d already written this. And I know I should have told someone before.” He starts to speak but I hold up my hand. “I should, but I was scared. Scared he’d kill me too. Or that he’d be taken and hanged and I’d be left behind, all alone.”

  “You wouldn’t have been alone,” Ren says. “For the record.”

  We both fall silent then. “What about the monster you saw?” he says finally.

  “So you do believe me?” His pause is a little too long and my heart sinks. “You don’t.”

  “I believe you think you saw something.” He says it so gently that I can’t be angry.

  “Will you do something for me?” I ask Ren.

  “Anything.”

  I take him at his word. “I need to tell someone else what I saw last night. Someone who can do something, who knows they’re out there, especially if they’re what attacked Aileen. Giles won’t listen, not to me.”

  He looks thoughtful. “What about Maggie? People listen to her.”

  Maggie Wilson. Of course – why didn’t I think of that?

  “Perfect. If I write to her, will you deliver it? Along with the book that has the drawings?”

  Ren nods.

  I return to the study with Ren in tow and pull a fresh sheet of paper from my father’s desk. I start at the beginning – with my father appearing with a slashed net, and then later that night, the scream outside the cottage. But when I try to explain the creature I saw, I stop, sucking the end of my pen.

  How do I explain them without sounding like I’m mad?

  “What is it?” Ren asks, searching my face.

  I put the pen down. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Tell the truth,” he says. “Write that you think terrifying monsters are on the loose by the loch and it’s possible that they hunt and kill people.”

  I look up at him. “I might need a bit more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. “I don’t know. Some history and context, maybe. It could help Maggie.”

  “Is there history and context?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe? I think so? You remember at school, when we learned that before the one true god and the earthquake and all that, people believed everything had a god, and they all had to be respected or else? So, say Johnny Logan got sick because he didn’t make an offering to the tree gods before he chopped off a few branches for his fire. Or Mary Black broke her leg because she picked flowers without asking permission from the flower gods. Well, obviously the loch had gods too. What if they weren’t gods, though? What if they actually existed, and the logs prove it?”

  I open the book, wondering again why my father closed it, flicking through until I find one of the pictures. Then I point at the creature in the book, tapping the page for emphasis.

  “My da said they called them gods because they needed a word to explain what they were. It’s what the Naomhfhuil was created for. To deal with these so-called gods. So there might be something in the book that will help, something we used to do to keep them away.” Then I shudder as I realize the stories I heard as a bairn weren’t stories at all, but real events. “Maybe not. They did human sacrifice.” I grimace.

  Understanding lights Ren’s face. “So is that their skin on the logs?”

  “What?” I stare at him.

  “The sacrificed. Alva, did you not know? The books your da had locked away are bound in human skin.”

  FOURTEEN

  In silence I walk past Ren to the kitchen, running the tap and scrubbing my hands. The water isn’t enough, and I search for the lye soap I wash our clothes with, the caustic sting doing nothing to make me feel clean. I don’t think my hands will ever feel clean again. Human skin. Jesus Christ.

  Ren stands behind me.

  “It’s not much different to cow leather. It’s all just skin.”

  I give him a look. “I’m not going to ask how you know what tanned human skin looks like.”

  “Come on,” he says, reaching over and turning the tap off. “We don’t have much time. You have to get out of here before Giles realizes something’s up, and we still need t
o explain your monsters to Maggie.”

  Your monsters. The doubt is still there but I can tell he’s beginning to believe. At least, I hope he is.

  I lead the way back to the study and sit heavily on the desk chair.

  “So, we know what they are, or what people thought they were,” says Ren, beginning to pace. “Do we know where they came from?” He nods at the book. “Any clues in there?”

  My thoughts catch again on my father, and how he closed the book. He had seconds to make a decision, and instead of going for the weapons that might have meant he could escape, he chose to shut it? To hide them?

  “My father doesn’t want Giles to know about them,” I say slowly, realization dawning.

  Ren stops, and turns to me, expression incredulous. “You think he’s protecting them?”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. “When he went out after them he was armed to the teeth. But he definitely didn’t want Giles to know about them. I think that’s why he was so worried about people coming up here. Why he wouldn’t report the loch levels had fallen.”

  The loch levels.

  My stomach swoops, like I’m falling, and I grip the side of the desk.

  “The hole,” I say, surprising us both. “The hole we saw the other day, in the bank on the north shore. I thought it was too big to be made by otters – I said that to you. What if those things live inside the mountain?” My mouth falls open in a perfect O of realization as it all comes together. “The water traps them there, has done ever since the earthquake, when the underground loch merged with ours, making the water so deep it covered their entrance. It didn’t kill them, it imprisoned them. That’s why they vanished then, and why—”

  “Why they’re back now,” Ren says. “Because Giles Stewart is draining the loch with his mill. Their escape route is open again.” He pauses, staring off into the distance, testing it. Then he nods. “That could be it. So we know what they are, and where they come from. All we need to do is figure out how to stop them.”

  “You believe me now?”

  He rubs his forehead. “I want to believe you. But—” He freezes suddenly, eyes locked on the clock on the mantelpiece. “Alva, it’s nearly one.”

  I’m out of my seat, flying into my room. Duncan will be leaving Ormscaula in a few short moments. Leaving me behind.

  I drag the bag out from the bed. Then I stop, back bent, hands stilling on the ties.

  If I stay I’ll lose my job. I’ll have to live with Giles Stewart. I’ll see my da hanged. But if I go…

  I’ll never know what happened here. Whether Maggie listens to Ren about the monsters. Whether more people are killed. Whether they stop them.

  I turn and look at Ren helplessly.

  “It’s your only chance,” Ren says, as though reading my mind. “Go,” he says softly. “I’ll take the book to Maggie. I’ll tell her everything you’ve told me.”

  He walks over to me and gently takes my bag, placing it over my shoulder. His thumb strokes my cheek, his eyes tender.

  “Go,” he says again, lowering his hand and stepping back. “You can still catch the cart.”

  I pass him and start to run.

  It must be close to two by the time I reach the river, each breath a hot blaze of pain, a stitch beneath my ribs. There’s a raw patch on my left knee from where I skidded and fell in my haste.

  I try to fight down panic as I reach the village. I keep my head bent and my earasaid up as I dart through the backstreets, following the same path I used yesterday to avoid the square and the main lanes, making for the road out of Ormscaula. I’m an hour behind Duncan, but I can make it up, if I run. I just have to—

  “My house is back that way.” Giles Stewart stands before me, Dizzy Campbell at his side.

  I skid to a halt, panting. He steps forward.

  “I’ll take that for you, shall I?” he says, and, without waiting for an answer, jerks the bag from my arm. I watch in horror as he drops it to the ground and tugs the drawstring, opening it and rifling through. My stomach turns as he pulls out one of the fine dresses.

  “Very smart for a girl who lives in the mountains,” he says thoughtfully.

  “It was my mother’s,” I lie.

  He looks at the gown with renewed interest, and I don’t think I’m imagining the care he folds it with before gently placing it on top of the cloak. My heart stutters when his fingers brush against the earasaid – the gun that killed my mother is still wrapped inside. If he sees it…

  Instead he pushes it aside, covering the pocket with the bullets in, and pulls out my writing case, pawing through it disinterestedly. When he finds the purses of money, he gives me a knowing look.

  “You seem to have come prepared, Miss Douglas. Empty your pockets, please.”

  The only thing in there is the cameo of my mother. I pull it out and hand it to him.

  Giles cradles it in his palms, staring at it for a long moment.

  “I’ll keep hold of this,” he says.

  “It’s mine,” I reply sharply. “It’s all mine.”

  “Of course,” he says soothingly. “I’ll look after it for you. Keep it safe. Come on.” Giles throws my bag over his shoulder and takes my arm, just above the elbow. “Let’s get you home.”

  If I go with him I’m done for. Forget the bag, forget my stuff. They’re just things. Maybe I can still get away, and as long as I’m free, I’m fine.

  “I want to see Mrs Logan first,” I say. “Offer my condolences. I heard about Aileen. Just now.” I remember at the last second that he never told me what happened to her.

  “They’re not ready for visitors,” Giles replies. “Save that for the funeral. If you’re brave enough to show your face.”

  I suppress a growl of frustration as he continues. “You’re probably best not to go at all. But we can decide that later. In the meantime, your place is with me.” His grip on my arm tightens and he begins to walk, taking me with him.

  I’ve seen rabbits caught in snares; trying to fight makes it worse. Every time they try to escape, the wire tightens, until they’re dead, strangled by their own struggle. So I don’t argue or protest, just trot meekly beside him, my cheeks aflame when Maggie Wilson steps out of the store and watches us pass, bidding Giles a good day. He nods tersely, and we keep moving. I feel her gaze as she looks after us, all the way down the street.

  The Stewarts’ house hasn’t changed at all since I was a child. The hallway where Giles drops my bag is still gloomy, panelled in dark wood. There’s a long rug running the length of it, the middle faded from years of footsteps. To the left is the receiving parlour and beyond that is the family parlour – only the Stewarts are grand enough to have two. Ahead is the door to the dining room, scene of those weekly dinners of my childhood, the kitchen behind that.

  But it’s up the wide stairs Giles leads me, grip still firm on my arm.

  “Where’s Mrs Stewart?” I ask. “And Gavan?”

  “My wife is abed. She took the news about Aileen hard,” he says. We pass what I assume are the family bedrooms. “And Gavan is out with the others, searching for Hattie.”

  At the end of the hall is another staircase, to a second level. But instead we make for a small door that looks like it might be some kind of cupboard. I’m surprised when Giles pulls a key from his pocket and opens it, pushing me inside, even more so when I see another staircase there, narrow, high steps, the wood less fine, leading up into the dark.

  “Go on,” he says.

  Apprehensive of what awaits me at the top, I go, gripping a rope that’s been attached to the wall to serve as a banister. My eyes adjust as I near the top and find another door, a key in a lock.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask, but Giles is at my back, reaching past me to unlock it, using his body to force me inside.

  It’s a small room, a round window set with thick greenish glass casting an eerie light through it. There’s a mattress on a small brass bedstead, a chipped chamber pot visible beneath, and a wardr
obe. No desk or chair, even. A bed, a wardrobe and a pot.

  I turn to Giles, who is blocking the doorway. “You can’t seriously mean to keep me up here.”

  “It’s just for the time being,” he says.

  I take a step towards him. “I want to go back downstairs.”

  “Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” he says. “You must be tired.”

  “I don’t want to lie down.”

  He looks at me as though I’m a child, and when he speaks it’s slowly. “Listen, Alva, you have to understand, there’s a lot of bad feeling in Ormscaula right now. A lot of uncertainty, and fear, and anger. People are out for blood. They need someone to blame – for what happened to your mam, all those years ago, and what happened last night. And I’m afraid with your father locked up, they’ll take it out on you.”

  “Then I’ll stay in the house,” I say. “Away from the windows, so they can’t see me.”

  He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “People will be coming and going. No, it’s best for now if you stay up here, safe and sound.”

  “I don’t want to.” I don’t want to be locked in somewhere again. Especially not here.

  His face darkens, his pupils becoming pinpricks. Then he forces himself to smile once more. “So like your mam when she was your age. Just as headstrong.” He turns to leave.

  “Where are you going?” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  “To the mill. I’ll be back later with a tray for your supper.”

  The mill. If Ren and I are right, and the water level dropping means those creatures can get out, then every inch of water he uses is an inch more freedom they have.

  The door shuts behind him and the key turns in the lock.

  I fly across the room and hit the door with my fists. “No, Giles – Mr Stewart – listen to me, there’s something I need to tell you! Something about the mill. You have to stop. Listen to me. Listen!”

  There is only silence. I continue to batter the door and shout, until my throat and hands are raw. Despair floods me. No one knows I’m here. No one will miss me. And no one will hear me. I’m three floors up, behind locked doors. I look around the room – neat and tidy, the bed made – and my skin crawls. How long has he been planning this?