Lampie and the Children of the Sea

by Annet Schaap

  *

  He can hear that it is only a child, just a girl, frightened and defenceless. He should be able to deal with her easily.

  If he were not so tired and so hot, he would…

  What, Edward?

  Bite, tear, suck her dry? No, more like…

  Ask for water, call for help, beg for…

  No! Never! He is a monster, and monsters terrify people and make demands and threats: give me water, or I’m going to… What?

  “Monsters don’t exist!” she squeaks.

  He just laughs. What does she know about it? Even his father calls him one, so it must be true.

  I’m going to bite you in a minute, thinks Edward. I’m just going to wait for a moment, just rest for a little longer. He is so hot but so cold.

  Inside her head, Lampie has been bitten to death long ago, but in reality nothing is actually happening. She can’t hear him now.

  But monsters are cunning. He is waiting for her to do something, of course. And then…

  Well, he is going to have a long wait. She is not going to move a muscle, and she is good at keeping still.

  Through the gaps in the curtains, she looks into the dark room. Where the light sweeps around the room, she can just about make something out. The floor is full of books and there are pieces of paper all over, covered with writing, torn and stained. On the walls are shelves with even more books, in crooked rows. An armchair, a low table with bottles of ink on it, a stool with the legs pointing upwards. In one corner is a dark shape, which looks like a bath. And in the middle, there is a big wooden bed with crumpled sheets on top of it. And a monster underneath.

  A monster that reads books? A monster that can write?

  She pictures it, scales and all, sitting at a desk in Miss Amalia’s classroom, and the teacher slapping its tentacles with her ruler when it spills some ink and, in spite of herself, she giggles.

  She quickly clasps her hand over her mouth.

  Under the bed, the monster starts shrieking.

  She is laughing at him! She is not scared of him at all. She is just laughing at him!

  No one laughs at him!

  He’s going to, he’s going to… He wants to let out his most terrifying monster scream, but all that comes out of his throat is a hoarse croak.

  But he is going to get her. He can’t see her, but she is sitting up there by the window, and there is nothing wrong with his hearing. He needs to wait for his chance. When she is sitting up there, he can’t easily reach her, but look: she is already coming down by herself. Thank you, you stupid child. Now I’ve got you…

  She is wearing socks, not even shoes, which will make it all the easier for a monster like him. He will bite straight through her bones. He will…

  A weapon, she needs some kind of weapon. Lampie can’t see a club or a stick anywhere, but there is a big flat book on the floor, and suddenly she is no longer frozen, but jumps off the window sill, grabs the book, and when she sees something emerging from under the bed – not big, much smaller than she had imagined – she takes the book in both hands and whacks its head, so hard that the book shakes and she falls onto the floor. But so does the little monster. It rolls onto its side and lies there.

  He had not expected her to be able to hit so hard. He feels the blow echoing through his head, through his whole body, and he falls into the darkness of the night – and he is so tired that he just lets himself fall.

  Beaten to death by a girl… sniffs his father from a very long way away. Very quietly, so quietly that he almost cannot hear it. And then he hears nothing else.

  A SONG FOR THE MONSTER

  Lampie quickly scrambles to her feet and runs across the carpet to the door.

  Hello, doorknob, I’ve been longing to see you. Hello, nice thick door that monsters can’t get through. Hello, landing outside the room.

  She holds onto the doorknob but turns around, just for a moment, to see what was actually there, under the bed.

  The gap in the curtains is larger now, and the light from the lighthouse glides over books and papers and over the thin little creature lying among them on the floor. Its eyes are closed and it is not moving.

  It’s… it’s actually a kind of boy, Lampie sees. A boy with a head that’s a bit too big. His face is grey and scaly and his tousled hair looks almost green. He is wearing a dirty white shirt. And beneath that his legs have grown together into a dark tail. Like a fish’s tail.

  *

  She stands there for a moment, just looking.

  “Hey, little boy,” whispers Lampie. “Hey? Fish? Are you dead? Did I kill you?”

  There is no answer. She didn’t hit him that hard, did she? Or did she? Very carefully, she walks over to him, her muscles ready to run away. She gives him a gentle kick with her sock. He does not move. He hardly seems to be breathing. She leans over and touches his hand. His skin feels dry and hot. So he is not dead then.

  “Are you all right? Do you need anything? Food? Water?” At the word “water”, the eyes suddenly spring open. Lampie steps back, her heart pounding. They are eyes without any whites. Gleaming black, like a devil’s eyes, or an animal’s. Then they shut again.

  “That must have been a yes,” she squeaks. “So you’d like some water?” She slowly shuffles backwards until she feels the door behind her.

  “Fine. I’ll go and fetch some.”

  Then she slips into the corridor, quietly closing the door behind her. Escaped.

  Now down the stairs! Lock the door and get away!

  But she stays for a moment to listen. She can’t hear a sound.

  She sees the big bolts on the door. They must be there for a reason. It is a dangerous monster, even though it looks a bit like a boy. A boy who is thirsty. Who has a fever. And she has promised to bring him water.

  There is a tap downstairs with a bucket beside it. She knows all the taps in the house.

  “I’ve brought some water for you.” She puts the bucket down beside him on the ground. “Help yourself.”

  The boy does not move. He lies there like before.

  Lampie fills the cup and holds it to his lips, but he does not drink. When she touches his hand again, it seems even hotter. His eyes do not open, even when she gently shakes him.

  Lampie sighs. She wants to leave, but she can’t. Something is keeping her here and making her do things she does not really feel brave enough to do.

  She sits down beside him on the floor. His chest is going up and down very quickly.

  He’s going to die, she thinks. If I don’t do anything, he’s going to die.

  She once found a baby bird in the grass, damp and fluffy, just out of the egg. And she found a young rabbit one day. She had to work out all by herself how to save them, endlessly dangling earthworms in front of the bird’s beak and holding blades of grass by the rabbit’s twitching nose. The bird died anyway. But the rabbit did not, at least not for a while.

  Lampie stands up and takes some sheets from the bed. They are covered in dirt and mould. Carefully she lays a clean piece of sheet over the boy and pours some water onto it; maybe that will cool him down a little. She also places a wet cloth on his forehead, which is the hottest part of him. Then she drips the water from her fingers and onto his lips, as she used to do with her animals. It works. His lips open a little and he swallows.

  “Well done,” whispers Lampie. “That’s better, eh, Fish Boy?”

  His mouth gasps for more, and she gives him more, and pours more water on the sheet, which is almost dry again. It is as if the boy is drinking the water through his skin. She does it a few more times and then sits down beside him, leaning back against the bed.

  The body under the sheet starts to breathe a little more calmly. His hand is cooler and when she touches it, his fingers take hold of hers.

  “Sleep, Fish Boy,” she sings quietly.

  “Boy who’s a fish

  Boy who’s so quiet

  And harmless and small

  Boy who’s no monste
r

  At all, at all.”

  Not a monster. But what is he then?

  WOMEN WITH TAILS

  The pirates used to tell stories about them. Before. Back when the pirates still came by. When she was little and everything was fine.

  They were called Crow and Jules, and there were other ones she has forgotten. They smelt of drink and of sweat, and Lampie was allowed to help them put pieces of fish and shrimps onto sticks. They used to cook them and eat them all up, with scales and whiskers and everything. They threw mussels into the fire until they went pop. They sang and chatted away, played ferocious card games and told stories that the girl listened to open-mouthed.

  Of course it always got far too late and she should have been in bed long ago. But she kept quiet and went to sit on the sand just outside of the circle of firelight, where the dark shadows flickered wildly.

  It was all about sunken ships, lost booty, bad luck. About fights with sea creatures, bloody battles with fish the size of houses. And about fights with each other of course, because they were no softies. Hack! A hand. Swish! A nose, an eye, a couple of fingers. All of them were missing something or other.

  Her own father was missing most, of course. A whole half a leg!

  But he never wanted to tell that story, and if anyone tried to insist, he would get angry and her mother went very quiet, and then Lampie always had to go to bed.

  But sometimes, sometimes one of them had sailed far beyond where all the others had sailed, even beyond the White Cliffs. And that was where he had met them, the Children of the Sea:

  Women like fish.

  Women with tails.

  Women with eyes that…

  The babbling would stop then, as the men began to whisper, or they said nothing at all and just stared at the one who had seen them.

  But he would not say much either, becoming tongue-tied and stammering a few words.

  “Tell us about them,” they said. “Go on.”

  And he tried to, but he stumbled over his story and it ended in gibberish and shoulder-shrugging.

  “It’s not a story that can be told,” he would finally admit.

  And the pirates would all nod, and then sit in silence and let the fire go out.

  That sort of creature. Is that what she has found, here in this house?

  But what is it doing here?

  Lampie leans against the bed and yawns. She gently tries to free her hand, but his hand will not let go. So she sits there and sings all the songs from the past for him, one after another.

  There are so many songs that she still has not stopped singing by the time it gets light and Nick kicks the door open.

  Slowly the little hunting party shuffles closer. Lenny is hiding behind his mother, with the dogs hiding behind him. Nick lowers his rifle, Martha her broom. They look at the creature lying half covered by the dirty sheet. The monster. Monster?

  Martha shakes her head, almost laughing. Is that what she has been so afraid of? Is that what all those nightmares were about? Look at it. She could kick it right across the room, just like that, if she wanted to.

  Nick turns to her and shrugs.

  “See? It’s like I’ve been saying all along.”

  She instantly feels her anger flare up again. “You? You don’t ever say anything at all!”

  The boy suddenly sits up, his eyes flying wide open.

  They all take a step back. Lenny runs back out into the corridor. Those eyes. That’s not a child, that’s…

  “Hush now, all of you,” says Lampie. “Be quiet. He’s poorly.” She pushes Fish back down and puts the sheet over him. “And the bed’s all dirty. I need clean sheets and some food, something hot, and tea or something.”

  “Yes, of course, of course.” Martha is already out in the corridor. It may well be poorly, but she can still feel its teeth in her leg. Time to get away. She pushes Lenny down the stairs ahead of her. The dogs follow, as soon as they have gobbled up all the rotting fish.

  “And you too! Come along now!” she barks at Lampie. Now that she can see the child is safe and still in one piece, she just wants to give her a good shake and chase her downstairs, into the safety of the kitchen. What a morning! And she hasn’t even had her coffee yet.

  “Yes, of course,” says Lampie. “I’ll be right there.”

  Nick stands there a little awkwardly, with the big gun in his hands. He looks a little ashamed as he carefully rests it on his shoulder.

  “It wasn’t loaded, you know,” he mutters. He wanders around the room for a while before walking over to the boy, gently lifting the sheet, looking under it and nodding, as if it is as expected. Then he turns around and disappears downstairs.

  The boy opens his eyes again. They are so strange, so black. Lampie can see herself reflected in them.

  “Do you want some more water?” she asks. “No? Then go back to sleep for a bit, Fish.” She leans over him to straighten the sheet.

  “MY NAME IS NOT FISH!” he shrieks and then he bites into her wrist. Deep. The blood comes streaming out and Lampie stumbles backwards.

  “Piss and bile!” curses Lampie.

  The boy slips out from under the sheet and disappears beneath the bed.

  “Ow, that was mean! Why did you do that?”

  “Serves you right,” he whispers from the shadows.

  “What for? I was only trying to help you!” yells Lampie. She grips her wrist tightly, the blood dripping through her fingers and making red splashes on the carpet.

  “Do not anger the monster!”

  “Monster? You’re not a monster!” Lampie whispers back. “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re just a nasty little boy.” She stomps out of the room and slams the door behind her. Bang!

  Inside the room, she can hear him protesting. Quietly at first, then louder. “Hey. I wanted to… Come back. I need to… Hey!”

  Lampie can hear him, but she just keeps on walking. A trail of blood follows her down the stairs.

  COFFEE WITH MARTHA

  Once the blood has stopped, the wound does not look too bad. A semi-circle of little red holes. With her rough fingers, Martha rubs ointment onto it, which smells a bit and stings a bit, and then she wraps a white piece of cloth tightly around Lampie’s wrist. She cleans the wound with a mixture of kindness and anger, muttering to herself as she does so: “This just won’t do,” and “How is it all going to end?”

  “So… who is that, up there?” Lampie asks when Martha is finished.

  “You saw it for yourself, didn’t you?” Martha says, looking at her sourly. “Well, there’s your answer.”

  “A boy with a—”

  “A boy? That’s no boy! It’s a monster!” She holds up Lampie’s wrist. Red dots appear on the bandage. “Is that what boys do? No. It’s what monsters do.”

  Then she goes to make coffee, bashing around angrily. So she was wrong, again. Just for a moment she had thought this child would make her life here a little easier. But no, of course not. As if Martha would ever get anything she hoped for. She bangs the coffee pot onto the table.

  “Sugar and milk?”

  “No, thank you,” says Lampie. “My father always thinks it’s a waste, putting milk in your coffee.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” says Martha with a slurp, pouring an extra dash of milk into Lampie’s cup.

  Lenny gets a cup too, almost all milk and lots and lots of sugar. He sits quietly at his corner of the table and keeps looking at Lampie’s wrist.

  They blow into their cups.

  “He can’t die,” begins Martha. “He mustn’t smell too bad. And whatever he screams for, we have to give it to him.”

  “Who says so?” asks Lampie.

  Martha points up into the air.

  “God?”

  “No, the master, the admiral.” Martha stares into her coffee. “Joseph always did everything. Knew everything. Fed him, looked after him, kept him up there. No one else was allowed to see him. Of course there was talk, and no
one wanted to come and work here, not for long at least. This place gives you bad dreams.”

  Lampie nods. She wants to say that what she dreamt and imagined, alone in her room, was actually more frightening than the creature in the tower, but she picks at her bandage and remains silent.

  “We could only ever get shirkers who cut corners or never did anything at all. Well, you can see what a mess it is here. It’s been that way for such a long time. But we always managed, somehow we always managed. Until last week, until Joseph…” She swallows. “Until one night he didn’t come back. Or the next day either. Until him up there started screaming and shrieking. For a whole day and a night. No one could sleep. No one dared to go upstairs. I had to beg and plead until they finally agreed to go and look. They carried Joseph out of there. Dead, of course, as I already suspected. And then…” She gives a deep sigh. “After they’d brought him downstairs, they packed their bags. All of them: the maid, the gardener, the handyman. No one wanted to stay here. Not even for… Ah, you can’t blame them. So I went into town to ask around and see if they could send someone to help. I was thinking of a big, strong chap. Someone who could handle that thing upstairs. But it seems I didn’t quite make myself clear. Well, yes, I was feeling rather upset. Anyway, then they sent…”

  “Me,” says Lampie, downing another bitter mouthful.

  “Indeed, child,” says Martha with a sigh. “Right. I’ll pour you another cup of coffee and then you can go and pack your things. I’ll ask tomorrow if they can send someone else. And you can just go back to your mother.”