by Melissa Marr
I am not sure if it's my scream or hers as she watches me lose my sword to the wolves that leap from the undergrowth, as I am stolen, as my sister- -mothers-aunt-daughters are helpless to save me.
And I am in the grip of wolves.
Time passes, and my ability to fight is limited by the lack of food, the lack of rest, the wearing down of hope. After the first passing of the moon, time begins to slip and blur. I do not think of how long it has been--until I feel the tenderness in my breasts and my blood does not flow.
I think of the Nameless, of my long ago wish that she would find an easy death, and I understand how wrong that was. I do wish for death, easy or otherwise. Not for me. Not for the seed of a child that I carry in the cradle of my hips. If I die, I die, but I will not choose it. I do not seek it.
I do not wish my death. The wolf who trapped me, who has told me that he fathered my sister-daughter Victorie, who has foist his body onto mine. . . his death I wish.
I am in a tent of sorts. The prison where I am kept. The ground is hard, and the packed earth has left many bruises on my skin when I have been forced onto that unyielding earth. The wolf stands over me, smiling, with a slash of white in a worn and wrinkled face.
"What sharp teeth you have," I say.
He snarls at me, as if I will be frightened. We are so far beyond the time when I might cringe. I look down briefly, though, hiding my hatred.
"What bright eyes you have," I add once I've tucked my vitriol in the corner of my mind.
He smiles. Perhaps he thinks my words a compliment. They're not. I see the madness in his eyes. I've seen it in the many wolves I've cut down when they came into our forest. He is simply another wolf. Worse than some, perhaps, but at the end of it, he'll close those monstrous eyes just as they did.
I've no other choice. That truth has settled in my womb alongside my growing child. I was not meant for breeding, but my daughter will not be a motherless child. Not because I am any stronger than Victorie's womb-mother, but because Victorie and the child I carry will need to be taught the lessons Mila once taught me. My family needs women with reddened swords; my aunties, sisters, mothers, daughters need those of us who are willing to slay the wolves.
And I am willing.
His hand strokes my face, my breasts, my thighs. I do not move. I do not speak. Not this time.
"That's better. I like to look at you, girl." He looks down at my already rounding belly. I am too thin now for my growing child not to be obvious. He puts his other hand on my curve. On me. On the flesh that shelters my child. It is the closest he will ever come to touching my daughter.
"I could eat you up," he says. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? That's what you girls do up there, isn't it?"
"It is," I say quietly.
He stops, surprised that I spoke. I often ignore his taunts. I've never spoken as carefully, as gently as I do this day.
"And, yes, I like it," I add softly.
The dagger he's left by the tent flap is still too far too reach. I know it's there. I know it's out of reach. There is nothing I wouldn't do to reach it. Nothing.
He smiles, teeth again bared in an expression I know is to mean that he's happy. I need that, his happiness. I need him to believe I am but a harmless girl.
"I could do it better," he boasts.
I smile but lower my eyes. Modesty. Meekness. Fear. That's what his kind wants. It is not what my people teach, but I've watched it in the women in this village. They expect to be hit. They expect to bleed.
"Probably," I lie.
He laughs and hauls me to my feet. "Rutting would lose the babe, but this . . ."
"It's safe," I agree. Rutting is, too, but the only mercy a woman finds in the wolves' den is this: they think that mating must end during these months. I will not tell him this is untrue.
"You'll do it, too. For me." He says it like it's an order, but it's not a thing he can order, not unless he knocks out all my teeth. A wolf foolish enough to place his weapon in reach of my teeth would be made harmless. My teeth may not be as sharp as his, but they'd do the job. No other women would be forced under him.
For a moment, I consider it. I let the thought of the barbarism of it roll through my mind. I can't. Not because I am too kind, not because I am above revenge, but because he'd scream. That would bring the others. They would never let me survive if I unmanned one of them.
I lift the edge of the blood-stained dress they've forced me to wear. "Do you want to?"
He laughs, and I think it's the happiest I've heard him sound.
I am on my back again. I've been on my back so often these last four-month cycles. I squirm and praise him, lying to him about how wonderful he is, and as I do I ease ever closer to the dagger. My fingertips brush it finally.
I let out a fake noise of pleasure to cover any sounds as I pull the blade to me, secreting it under my shoulder. The sharp edge against my upper spine brings me far more pleasure than the man rooting under my skirt ever will. I roll my hips in the lie he is seeking, pretending joy.
When he's done, satisfied with his work, he sits back on his haunches and looks at me. His hand covers the bump on my belly again. Then he stands and gestures to his trousers. "Well?"
Slowly, I start to come to my knees, but I continue to my feet instead. The blade I've stolen slides across his throat. The only sound he makes is a gargling noise, which I cover with another loud exclamation of pleasure. This one, however, is genuine.
He tumbles to the ground, bleeding. My clothes are bloodied, and my blade is too. It is not a sword, but edges still cut. Blood still flows. I am whole again with a hilt in my hand.
"Now your eyes look like most every other wolf I've met."
Once I'm sure he's dead, I slice a hole in the tent and slip into the darkness. I follow the sounds of the water until I reach the river at the base of the cliffs.
I know the archers watch. I signal to them even as I don't see them, and I wait. I wash away the blood that coats my body, the saliva on my thighs, and then I discard the dress I've been forced to wear. I would rather be naked than in clothes chosen by wolves.
I save one strip of the dress to tie the dagger to my leg. Spoils of war. It will belong to my daughter one day.
When the long twist of vines falls down, I begin to climb, back to my home, back to my sisters. I am not broken. I am not defeated. I am Nameless, but I am Mother. I am Protector. I will keep my voice and my child.
I'll raise her to be strong, to fight the wolves, to protect our village. She will not be motherless, neither will Victorie. I am without the name I carried before now, but I am a Mother now. My daughters will fight, as I did, but not because they are motherless. So, too, will my sister-aunt-mothers.
It is not enough to have two women stand against the tide of wolves. We must all lift our swords, not only to protect those who wander from paths or linger where wolves prowl. I will be called Protector, Mother, and Teacher, all names I choose.
Until every piece of earth is safe, until all the soil is as a safe path, we must stand with swords raised.
“Knee Deep in the Sea”
I woke early--or perhaps didn't sleep. My body is still adjusting to the time zone hop from Southern California to the islands north of the Scottish mainland. Orkney. A series of islands, many of them uninhabited, in the cold North Atlantic Sea. To the east is Norway. To the West are Iceland and Greenland. In other words it's chilly even in the summer when there is endless light.
It's stunning, aside from the dead guy currently at my feet.
Still, it's just one dead guy. If no one was going to be judgmental, I'd admit that my favorite sort of man is a dead one.
This one is sprawled on the rocky beach as if he's been rejected by the sea, tossed back like rubbish that the tide returned to its origin. He's not dressed for swimming, and a clear set of fingerprints bruises his throat. I don't think they're mine. They could be, but I don't think I killed him. Jason. I'm sure he had a surname, but I didn't catch it
. I'm fairly sure he was alive when I last saw him. We argued at a nearby pub. I may have kicked him. He may have called me a few ugly words.
Honestly, it doesn't matter if I did it. If I get arrested, they'll have my fingerprints, and even if they don't match the ones on his throat, it'll be trouble. All it would take is one quick fingerprint match and everything I've built would be gone.
I'm not good at jail. I never have been—and if I’m ending up there it will be for a good reason. Not this.
* * *
Jason was nobody, a stranger I crossed after a few too many drinks. I'm not going to end up in jail for his death.
You need to do whatever it takes to make it in this world. Mama explained that fact of life right regularly, often before the lesson that Men think with their willies, so smile pretty and lead with your bosom.
I check his pockets, retrieve his wallet and mobile phone. I pull out the SIM card, toss it into the water, and then toss the phone, too. I empty the wallet. Far too many credit cards, a few membership cards, and some receipts. They scatter like bits of sea grass tossed into the waves. I hope I'm not damning some poor sea creature to death by adding Jason's trash to the sea, but the sea should erase his identity soon enough, and I'd rather not leave identifying evidence with the body. Without it, the police are left with fingerprint and dental records if he washes ashore or gets caught in a fisherman's net.
Dental records can be great to proof identity, but there’s no database.
Still, it’s better to be safe. I search for a heavy rock. A few moment later, Jason has fewer teeth, a fractured jaw, and a higher chance of being nothing more than an Unknown Male Victim if he returns to shore.
That leaves fingerprints.
I pull out my Leatherman and slice off most of the skin and meat at his fingertips. It's easier than the last time I did this. I rinse my hands, toss the teeth and bits of skin into the sea, and continue with my task.
Jason was obviously successful to some degree. I found plenty of money in his wallet--$112 in U.S. money, plus another £800 and €200. It's damp, but usable. I fold and shove it all into my pocket. There's no sense throwing cash into the sea. I don't take his watch or ring. Those are traceable and likely filled with DNA.
After another few moments of handling details, I roll him out into the icy Atlantic, wading far enough that I'm soaked to my hips and shivering. The sea, thankfully, is churning today, and in a few moments, the body is gone. A few credit cards blink like misplaced tropical fish before they're carried away.
The only witness to my actions is a seal. There is always a seal watching. I meet her gaze, seeking censure and finding none. Wild things are practical in ways that humans fail.
"I'm sorry about the credit cards," I say, not that she'll understand or hear me. The wind from over the sea seems to whisk the words away, leaving my lips cold. I hope she forgives me.
Unlike my silent watcher, I am not made for the cold wind or waves. She's why I'm here at this early hour, standing with my rain boots in the edge of the surf, watching the sun rise up over the cold waters. For a flicker of a moment I wish I could join her, dive into the surf and swim out to the deep waters where she is so at home. It's a foolish impulse, likely caused by too much whisky and not enough sleep. I'm shivering already from only a few moments in the icy water.
My entire body is off. Still. I can't seem to find my rhythm in this strange climate. The light lasts for most of the day this time of year, offering around five hours of darkness daily. It's completely destroyed my internal clock after not even a week. The weather here tilts toward windy and wet, and the whole series of islands has only twenty thousand people.
It's not a place I'd have thought to visit on my own, but now that I'm here, I want to stay forever. I feel a calm I'd not realized I wanted. The sea is everywhere. Archaeological ruins seem to crowd the islands, and aside from the tourists pouring out of their busses to see some of the bigger sites, I have found myself alone for hours in wide stretches of stunning land. I don't recall the last time I'd been so far from crowds. Finding that solace was one of the reasons I applied for this job. Life in SoCal is just a bit too crowded for me sometimes. Orkney is an incredible escape.
Being here means that for the first time I love my new job. Most days, I question my sanity. Personal Assistant to a man whose upcoming documentary is called Pinniped! Most people call them seals, not pinnipeds, but my boss is pretentious. Given half a chance, he devolves into lecture on how people reduce both seals and sea lions to the singular term of "seal."
When I'm alone on the beach, the seals swim near enough to entice me into the water, and more than once I've found myself knee deep in the cold sea. I want to go with them, touch them, be in the water. What began as an extra for my job has become a strange love affair with the chilly waters and the creatures that watch me from the waves. I am . . . happy.
Aside from the dead guy.
Working in L.A. is far from glamorous. In the land of film, personal assistant to a documentary filmmaker is even less glamorous. Grants fund his work, so job security is nonexistent. Although, admittedly, this isn't forever: What I really want to do is write. Go ahead. Laugh. Every third person in LA wants to be a writer, thinks they're a writer, or is pitching something soon. The rest are actors or wannabe directors. I'm aware that I'm a stereotype, but I'm not the first small town girl who succeeded at her dreams. The difference between me and them is that I'm clever, and there is zero limit to what I'm willing to do to achieve my dreams. Zero. Possibly less than zero.
I remind myself of that as my boss saunters my way.
"I thought I'd find you here," he pronounces.
I glance at Jack, grateful that he wasn't here at sunrise. I'd rather not share the seals--or explain the body I rolled into the sea.
Jack Abrams is, in the way of successful men, falsely convinced that he's attractive. Forty-five years old, wrinkles already reaching out from his eyes and lining his forehead, average height, average face, Jack is nothing special. The best I can say is that he's more fit than most filmmakers, but in the looks department, he's average. In L.A. though, if you collect enough awards, grants, and prestige, looks are relative. When Jack looks in the mirror, he mistakenly sees one of the finer Hemsworth men.
"Isabel?"
I realize I haven't answered and try to sound calm as I say, "You missed the seals. I came early to watch them."
He looks at me in the same way I've seen him look at a meal as he decides if he ought to accept it or send it back to the kitchen. "Fascinating, aren't they?"
We stand in comfortable silence for several moments, both staring out to sea. I presume Jack is seeking seals, and I am quietly praying that he doesn't see the dead man or his credit cards bob to the surface.
"I need a local. Find one."
I glance at him. "A local to . . . ?"
"Give me the insider view."
"On seals?" I stare at him, not quite sure what he's going for here. It's likely to be some sort of gesture of authenticity. He does that, finds a way to add a touch of humanism to his stories. As much as I think he's an ass, I like that wherever he films he tries to show the locals as appealing. It balances the occasional big budget project he takes on to "fund his art."
If you read "ego" where he says "art," the interview clips are true.
Still, his success fuels my future career, so I nod and listen.
"I need someone with a thick accent."
He looks me up and down again. He hasn't invited me to his bed--yet--but he will. Jack Abrams has a reputation for trading favors for fucks. He's not coercive. I won't get fired for saying no, but I won't get ahead as fast. Truthfully, I just haven't decided if I'm going to say yes when he gets around to offering. I could use a few favors, and I'm not above fucking for them.
For now, I step a little closer and shiver. "Orkney is colder than I thought it would be."
"The old guys at the pub say it's because the Vikings cut down all the trees." Jac
k's gaze scans the water, again seeking the sometimes illusive creatures we're here to film.
"So, would one of them--"
"A woman, Isabel. Better for optics." He affects a terrible accent and adds, "Why watch old men if there's a pretty Scottish lass to stare at?"
I nod.
"She needs to be camera-ready or close enough to have that 'raw beauty,' like you have when you put effort into it." He smiles as he says this, as if it's a compliment.
I smile back, looking genuine because I've practiced that lie my whole life. "You're always so sweet, Jack."
He continues looking out to sea.
The only way I could sleep with him is if I have a few drinks first--and it's been a good day of filming. The high of a good creative day can make even Mitchell, the key researcher for this project, a bit more attractive.
Jack leaves, and I am left alone in the windy weather. For all of my complaints, he's a genuinely talented man, and when he's contemplating the project, not much else matters to him. That's what I want: a story that makes my eyes slip to that far-away place where nothing else matters. I want to be consumed. Instead, I've spent the last two years in pointless jobs just to pay the rent.
Three days pass in which I realize that no one has mentioned the missing man. He died. Now he's a meal for the many creatures of the sea that feed on the dead meat they find. Likely he ate enough seafood that there's a fairness in his body nourishing them now. Really, if you think about it, by moving his corpse those few feet I gave the sea an offering.
I protected myself.
It's not like I killed him. Probably. I'm fairly sure I would have proof if I did. Murder is like that: It leaves a mark on you.
Since I seem to be avoiding jail, I need to focus on the project. I haven't found a single person willing to be interviewed--other than the old men who seem eager to tell tales and drink. We put out feelers, and I hung fliers around Kirkwall, the main city in Orkney. No bites.
Maybe we just need some good public relations.
