The Bone Snatcher

by Charlotte Salter

She abandoned the dining room and ran up the corridor in Cartwright’s direction. She swerved into the entrance hall and cursed. Everyone had left.

  “You’re wondering what just happened, aren’t you,” Cartwright’s voice said in her ear. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

  Sophie turned and stamped on his toe, hard. She didn’t even think about it. Cartwright gave a squeak of pain.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “You made me jump,” she said, breathing again.

  “Most people would scream.”

  “Most people are idiots. You shouldn’t sneak up on anyone.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. The carpet muffled the sound of my footsteps.”

  She looked down at his black boots and thought that it was very unlikely. There was something about Cartwright that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it wasn’t pleasant.

  “You were waiting for me,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “You were following me. What do you want?”

  “I asked first.”

  Cartwright shrugged, wearing an infuriating smile. He withdrew a fork from his pocket and started playing with it, twisting the prongs out of shape.

  Don’t give in, Sophie told herself.

  He yawned.

  “What do you want?” she exploded.

  “Nothing. How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “A day.”

  “Do you like adventures?”

  “I like telling stories. I’m a storyteller,” she said, then realized she’d told him too much. “Why are you here?”

  “A holiday. And a task. Do you want to get off this island?” he said.

  She looked at him sharply.

  “I can get you out of here,” he said. “And more. I can get you a ticket to the New Continent.”

  She snorted. He sounded like one of those dodgy traveling salesmen that offer genuine antelope-skin jackets for the price of a fish.

  “Why is that funny?” he asked, looking annoyed.

  “Because there’s no way you have a ticket. Anyway, why would you help me?”

  “I feel sorry for anyone who’s stuck in this madhouse,” he said, putting on a decent impression of being hurt. “I had to live here for the most miserable years of my life. Nobody deserves that.”

  “I want to know what the catch is,” she said.

  “Well . . . you might be able to do me a small favor. I need you to find something for me.”

  Find something. How wonderfully vague.

  “I won’t do it,” she said.

  “You don’t even know what it is. It’s very exciting.”

  “And what makes you think you can trust me?”

  “Nothing yet,” he said. “But you said that you’re a storyteller. So let me get to know you. Spin me a tale.”

  Sophie looked around. The entrance hall was empty but for the slow drip of water, and Scree was nowhere to be seen. Stories were something she could do. And that would show him, wouldn’t it? He’d see how clever she really was.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you a story.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about a girl and a fish.”

  He nodded. She picked up a fish skeleton from the floor, letting it swing gently by the tail, and looking into its snowy rib cage she began.

  Chapter 7

  The Queen of the Sea

  In Which Nobody Is Fooled by a Generous Offer

  In a cave at the top of the world, where the Arctic mountains touch the sky, an old man and an old woman dug themselves a home in the ice. They had a child, and they called her Fishmoth.

  Fishmoth was not afraid of the snow, or the dark, or of the great white creatures that stalked the ice fields. Her hair was so cold it was transparent like glass, and her skin was as thin as a sheet of frost. When she walked into snowstorms she became invisible, but she never got lost.

  One day Fishmoth was sitting in her cave when she saw a traveler. He told her the story of the crown of the sea, which would make its wearer a queen, and in return asked for water. But when she gave it to him it froze in her hands, and when he put it to his mouth he grew so cold he died.

  Fishmoth’s parents, horrified by her power, waited until she was asleep and sealed her in the cave behind a sheet of ice. When she woke up they were long gone. She was so angry she smashed the ice down with her bare fists.

  She stepped over the body of the frozen traveler and walked south.

  She walked for days and weeks and months. The stars began to look different, the air became warmer, and the trees and the earth changed color. She climbed mountains, and as the air warmed, she melted. Her lips became pink, her hands cracked, and her hair turned into a sheet of water. She trickled down the other side of the mountains and landed in a brook.

  A brown fish rose from the brook and said:

  “I will swallow you and take you to the South Sea inside my cool belly, and there I will spit you out and you can take your crown, whereupon you will be the queen of the sea and the sun will never bother you again. In return, bring me the jewel that is lost at the bottom of my stomach.”

  Fishmoth agreed and the fish swallowed her. Searching his dark stomach with her hands, she found the stone immediately. But there were other things in there—hairpins, and bones, and three small teeth. She shuddered when she realized what the fish had done, and what he was planning for her.

  Fishmoth held the stone and waited. She and the fish traveled far together, and when they reached the South Sea the fish spat her out, and she emerged with the red, fist-sized jewel.

  As the brown fish rejoiced she struck it over the head with the red stone, so swiftly that it died without noticing. The fish split open, and out came the remains of all the queens it had treacherously eaten, which she buried under a juniper tree in a silk handkerchief.

  Fishmoth used the stone to weigh herself down and dropped to the bottom of the sea to where the crown lay. She put it on and swam back to the surface, the beautiful red stone in her pocket.

  Now she was the queen of the sea, revered by the creatures that lived in it, and she remained that way for the earth’s eternity, all the way until the sun went out.

  Chapter 8

  Manic the Horse

  Sophie, sleeping crookedly on her stone slab, dreamed of being the queen of the sea. She fell under the waves and the creatures heaved her out again, and when she emerged she had a crown made of bicycle spokes and seaweed and a cloak made of locked-together crabs. The loose ribbons of the dream-story swirled round and round until one got caught on the back of her eyelid and slowly, gently, tugged her awake.

  Her mouth tasted like old leather and her spine was stiff from being bent by the hard bed. For a while she stared into the clammy darkness of night, wondering why she’d told that story to Cartwright when she’d sworn she wouldn’t let anything out of her head.

  But this wasn’t the time for regrets. She had an escape plan to carry out, and she needed to do it before morning. She rolled out of bed, felt her way into her clothes and shoes, and walked blindly through the catacombs toward the stale breathing of the house.

  Cartwright’s bedroom was near the twins’ room of destruction, opposite a particularly bad painting of snow-struck mountains. She knew because she’d followed him there earlier. He’d gone a very strange route—it was almost like he was trying to make sure nobody could keep track of him—but then he’d arrived and shut himself in.

  It was the work of minutes to quietly break the lock with a fork. Cartwright slept like a corpse. He was laid out neatly on top of the bedsheets, still fully dressed, with his arms by his sides and his chin pointed at the ceiling. His skin looked white and cold, and only the faint twitch of his eyelids said that he was still alive. His hair looked as though it had collected dust
in the brief time he’d been here. Cartwright was, she thought, hideously unattractive.

  First she needed to find the tickets. She crouched to look under the bed, but saw only boots and a small tin of shoe polish. Then she went to the chest of drawers and opened them one by one. There were two pairs of socks, a comb with razor-sharp teeth that looked like a weapon, and a crumpled map of Portsmouth. Nothing else. She felt a twinge of disappointment before noticing a piece of paper sticking out from the lining of the drawer, and with some careful tweaking managed to get it out.

  It was an envelope, thin and grubby, and inside—yes! She slid the tickets out. They were thin and crackly, covered in gold leaf and spidery black writing. She tilted one toward the light.

  HB Victoria Steam Cruisers

  presents

  Your one-way ticket to the New Continent.

  Over 300 ships departing for certain paradise

  ~ Twice a week from five ports until boats run out! ~

  She felt suddenly disappointed. She’d never seen a ticket up close, and knowing this was what her parents got rid of her for was almost humiliating. They were like the tokens you’d buy at a fun fair in exchange for rides. Her fingers twitched with the impulse to tear them into confetti.

  Before she could do any damage she thrust one into her pocket and dumped the other on top of the dresser. Next she searched behind the curtains and around the bed until she found Cartwright’s sword. She swung it a couple of times, almost smashing a lamp. She might have to hurt some people on her way to Portsmouth. Anyone who hadn’t already fled the country for the New Continent would be desperate and probably mad with Sea Fever, and she didn’t want to be an easy target.

  As she lowered the sword she noticed a short length of cord hanging from the side of the bed and disappearing under Cartwright’s pillow. She smiled. It was too easy.

  “You’re an idiot,” she informed him, and slid the key to the stables out. She wound the cord around her wrist, walked backward out of the room, and bowed.

  “Thank you, Most Violent,” she said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  Then she ran, dragging the sword behind her, fleeing through the house like a ghost, slipping through a small window on the ground floor and landing outside in a bed of thistles. The ocean was flat and calm, the air still. She jogged down to the stables, where through the five-inch-thick door she could hear Manic shuffling his hooves.

  She unbolted the door and forced the key into the lock. It swung open, and moonlight flooded in. There were twelve stalls inside, and Manic was standing in two of them.

  “Hello, Manic,” she said, and held out her hand as she walked toward him. He was even bigger than she remembered, and doubt bobbed to the surface like an ice cube. “I bet you don’t like being cooped up in here. Would you like to go for a ride?”

  He regarded her with his yellow eyes, and with a long, deliberate crunch he crushed a plank of wood between his teeth.

  “Right,” she said. “You’re hungry. I should have brought food. But there are lots of fish in the sea, and you can have as many as you want. Won’t that be nice?”

  He spat out the piece of wood. She went over and patted his nose, which was somewhere above her head. He shuffled his feet, then nudged her so hard she fell over backward.

  “I’ll take that as yes,” she said, and unhooked the saddle from the wall, making sure not to break eye contact with him. “I’m just going to put this nice comfy seat on you.”

  Manic swung his head around, tugged the saddle from her hands, and sat down on it. He snorted. If she didn’t know any better she’d say he was laughing at her. She stepped back. His yellow eyes fixed themselves on her like fog lamps, waiting for her next move.

  “I get it,” she said. “It’s a game. That’s fine. I’ll do without the saddle.”

  She climbed over the piles of broken wood, and he gnashed at her as soon as she was within biting distance. Then he stopped. Out at sea, something was stirring. Sophie could hear the sucking of the waves, and looking out the door she saw a gray tentacle rise from the water.

  Manic whinnied excitedly and got to his feet so quickly Sophie backed into a corner to stop herself being crushed. He cantered out of the stable and into the garden, crushing stones beneath his colossal feet, as the tentacle waved to him like a flag.

  “You mean you like stamping on sea creatures?” she said, then, realizing what was about to happen, grabbed her sword and took off after him, jumping over piles of fallen brick and dodging broken statues. By the edge of the garden Manic had broken into a full-blown gallop. The tentacle in the sea was joined by another and another, on and on until a forest of slime was gyrating above the waves. And Manic wasn’t slowing down.

  “Stop!” Sophie yelled. He slowed down to swerve around a tree and got caught in the branches. She caught up and grabbed a handful of his mane, but Manic, now free, had other ideas, and she was dragged along for a couple of yards. “What sort of horse are you?” she cried. Manic shook his huge head, almost knocking her over. Then he drew up beside a garden wall, and taking a chance, she swung herself onto it, balanced on the wall with her toes, and leaped onto Manic’s back.

  The tentacles disappeared with a splash. Manic sat down.

  Fighting a scream of frustration, Sophie dug her feet into his sides. That’s what people did to get horses moving, wasn’t it?

  “You have a serious attitude problem, you know that?” she told Manic. “But I’m not giving up until you’ve crossed the sea. I’ve seen you do it. I know it’s possible. Get up and start walking, or I’ll stay sitting on you all night, no matter how cold or wet I get and no matter how much you complain. I’m in charge and I’m going to win.”

  Manic started to tear up weeds.

  Sophie groaned and buried her face in his mane, which smelled of old socks. Any minute now someone in the house was going to wake up and wonder what was going on. Neptune only knew what they’d do to her when they realized she’d tried to escape. They’d throw her into the sea or mash her up for dinner.

  “Hey,” she said, looking up. She filled her lungs and started waving her arms at the sea. “CREATURES! IT’S SUPPERTIME!”

  She hadn’t expected anything to happen, but within seconds the water started to bubble and a black shadow rose and burst out in a sheet of foam. Manic stood up so quickly her stomach dropped, and she just had time to wind her fists into his mane before he started galloping again. She plunged her hand into her coat and pulled out a bone, which she threw into the water as hard as possible. A stingray with a body the size of a bedsheet rose to consume it, and Manic jumped.

  For a second they were flying through the air, and then they were falling hard, and Sophie wondered for a fraction of a second if they would ever land. They hit the stingray. It was like landing on a plastic sheet, and for a terrible moment it felt like they were about to sink right under the water, but Manic had already started to jump again, this time onto a patch of rocks that no person, or any normal horse, could ever reach. The stingray convulsed, rolled up, and disappeared. Manic skidded to a halt, stamping his feet on the tiny island.

  She hadn’t expected him to stop. Now that they were still, Sophie was faced with the enormity of what was in front of them: a stretch of sea miles long, deep and deadly and teeming with teeth and tentacles. Manic reared, making an unearthly sound from between his teeth, and she clung on for dear life.

  “There! Go that way!” she shouted, pointing at another rock in the water which turned out to be something else entirely.

  Manic made another leap, narrowly missing a set of brown teeth, and skidded off something dank and slimy. He stumbled forward and slipped into the sea, front legs skittering out in front of him. She thought they were done for, but then they landed on a submerged rock, the water sloshing up to Sophie’s knees.

  This was such a bad idea, stupid stupid stupid—

 
But there was no turning back now.

  “Keep going!” she said desperately, digging her knees into Manic’s sides. “We have to move!”

  Manic stamped and lost his footing on the wet rock, stumbling toward the water. He hit another cluster of rocks and twisted sideways. Gray tentacles arched over them, drawing themselves in like a noose, until Sophie slashed at them with the sword. They screamed inhumanly, then slammed back into the water.

  Manic reared again, and she finally slipped off, still clutching his black mane. Her feet were hanging just above the water when a jellyfish rose and spread out beneath her. It was huge and pale blue, and she could see its internal organs contracting and expanding, its huge beating heart and its packed-up stomach writhing. She knew that if she touched it she’d be killed. The creatures in the sea started to jostle for position, smelling a victory, and a squid reached out for Manic . . .

  . . . Who turned around and flung himself into the water again. Sophie drew her legs up and just missed the jellyfish. They were standing on another submerged platform, some old jetty or pier full of holes, and Manic had his head just clear of the waves, dragging her along. She brandished the sword at the things coming toward her. They had no shape or form, only colors and noises and eyes and suckers and shells and gelatinous skins. Something shot through the surface of the water like a rocket, and Sophie stabbed it until it withdrew with an awful cry, an inky substance trailing after it.

  Sophie couldn’t drag herself back onto Manic. Still holding on to his mane, she started to kick. And then she saw the tall figure in an army uniform standing at the edge of the garden, watching with pale blue eyes.

  She opened her mouth to curse and water flooded in. She let go of Manic but not the sword, and immediately started to sink, kicking without effect. On the way down she grabbed one of the pointed rocks that protected the island and dragged herself back up. When the salt cleared from her eyes she knew that she couldn’t claw her way back. Manic was gone, and her worst nightmare was in front of her.