Not unexpectedly, I found a tunnel leading from the crypt. It angled downward toward the sea. Men had finished the narrow passageway by smoothing the floor, but the walls and ceilings looked a great deal like the other natural tunnels I had seen, though this one was mercifully dry. There had once been some sort of stacked stone wall blocking off the tunnel, but it had collapsed outward. Not inward—not pushed in by smugglers coming up from a sea cave. Something in the crypt had pushed the wall down when it escaped seaward.
I had traveled perhaps a dozen steps into the tunnel when suddenly I could hear the sea begin to roar and gurgle. It seemed that I had again lost track of time and the tide had turned while I explored. Or was it the finman, somehow aware of my intrusion and sending the sea after me again?
The need to retrieve my courage and conduct after my panicked flight from the faerie mound kept me moving steadily if rapidly backward until I heard something scream with fury. The sound shook the very walls of the crypt. Then fear came upon me again, washing away whatever compulsion had lured me into the kirk. Being careful not to upset the lamp, I turned and fled back to the metal staircase and climbed it with much less caution than I had used in my descent. Survival before dignity. It is probably miraculous that I did not collapse the old spiral of rusted iron.
Still, enough was enough. I knew now that the kirk did indeed have tunnels that opened to the sea and could be used by the finman. Or by Lachlan. Or by anyone who did not want to visit the village in a conventional and honest manner. There was nothing else to see there, though, no parish records to investigate, not even graves where I mightgather names. I wouldn’t come again.
Chapter Twelve
There are certayne sorcerers, who having annoynted their bodies with an ointment which they make by the instinct of the Devil, and putting on a certayne inchaunted girdle, does not only unto the view of others seem as animals, but to their own thinking have both the shape and nature of animals, so long as they wear the said girdle. And they do dispose themselves as very beasts, in worrying and killing, and most of humane creatures.
—Richard Verstegan, Restitution of Decayed Intelligence, 1628
The sea was having convulsions as I left the churchyard, and I prayed it was localized to our bit of shore and that the village fishermen were beyond the water’s angry reach—I suspected I had provoked it with my trespass, and any ill that befell them could be laid at my door. The village itself could be in danger. My brain chose that moment to recall that tidal waves were not unknown in Scotland and Ireland. In 1640 Aranmore had been struck by a giant wave, carrying off fifteen fishermen repairing nets on the stony shore, which was ironic, considering it was home to the graves of so many Irish saints and supposed to be blessed and looked over by God. We are not so fortunate in Findloss.
The scene outside the kirk had turned bleak in other ways, and the grass and I alike were numb from the sudden assault of a livid wind, which I could not help but note now seemed to hurl itself angrily both night and day, clearly at the whim of some unseasonal agency. It did not escape my attention that rain came nightly now as well, and these sudden storms seemed invested with a deliberate and supernatural malevolence that reminded me of the rain that had fallen on the day we buried Duncan. Did everyone in the village sense this as well? Was that why no one was abroad? Normally I did not seek out my neighbors, but that day I wished for a familiar face, friendly or not. It was all too easy to imagine that I was the last living person in Findloss, which itself seemed not long for this world.
In that moment I feared for the village and for Lachlan, and especially for myself. Nothing had followed me out of the crypt, but I felt marked, observed and hated. A part of me wanted to try to placate the monster, return his heart and pray he afterward left us alone. However, I knew that Lachlan would not be deterred from the hunt, and what else could I do but stay and help him in the hopes that the village would be spared? Thinking practically, I had perhaps enough money for three weeks at some modest hotel in some city, but that would eat up my meager savings. I hadn’t enough money for passage home, even if I could bring myself to face my family and former friends. Something would have to be done, though, if the others took panic and fled Findloss. I could not stay in the village if it were abandoned by everyone else. I hadn’t the means. Or the courage.
Though my hearth called to me, the path to my cottage was a lonely and shadow-filled one and I was too nervous to take it at that moment. Instead I pulled my scarf tight and set out at a brisk pace for the village and the comparative warmth of Mistress Mac-Laren’s company.
“Cha d’thainig ne math raibh bh’l tuath ad goath fhuer ‘san fhoghar,” I heard as I entered the shop, shutting the door with some difficulty against the wind. This saying I knew: There never came a good thing out of the North but a cold wind in autumn.
The speaker was a stranger. This behemoth of a man wore workaday clothes, dark cord trousers belted at the knee, a patched shirt and an enormous belt that suggested he was accustomed to lifting heavy loads as part of a daily routine. His middle quarters bulged around the leather in a way that was almost comic, and I pitied the woman who might deal with his immense appetite; she was doubtless a slave to the stove. His only spot of color was a green muffler wrapped approximately where his neck should be, with the ends tucked into red braces.
As curious as everyone else in the shop, I waited and learned that the stranger’s name was Miles Cooke, a cousin of the Magees, and he brought with him the news that Mill’s Circus was coming to Keil.
I smiled politely when he looked my way, though inside I was repelled at his words. I have never liked the circus. Poor wild beasts, guilty of nothing, are made to serve life sentences in rolling prisons. They are forever exiled in a foreign, treeless land filled with gawking strangers and unkind wardens. Nor had I ever been one to take pleasure in staring at human freaks who were every bit as exiled from their families as those beasts who went about on four paws. And, I must admit, clowns had frightened me as a child. I had a distrust of anyone who hid behind a mask of paint.
This circus did offer one thing though that I thought might be of interest to Lachlan, and perhaps to the finman: The preserved body of a shark man, which one could see for six pennies. (It was surely an impressive relic, because this was a ruinous price for most children, who would be the main audience for such a thing.) It seemed that I would have a great deal to tell Lachlan when we met again. Perhaps this clue at the circus would distract him from his annoyance that I had gone to the kirk alone and perhaps further enraged the finman.
Night delivered its usual tempest. Warmed by the fire in my hearth and by a small glass of whisky and a book, I did my best to ignore it, though the wind seemed to take personal umbrage and battered my barred door with grit and detritus. Though I read until nearly twelve, the ticking of the clock on the mantel reminded me of the passage of time—and of Lachlan’s failure to appear. Unable to sleep, I read on, feeding the fire recklessly.
My ears had grown attuned to the sound of Lachlan on my doorstep, so I did not at first feel alarm when I heard a louder scrape at the outside of the door. But when there came no knock, I hesitated to rise. Lachlan always announced himself with a deliberate blow; this night there came a light scratching that sounded something like a dog’s claws, except from too high up on the doorframe. And if this were not enough to give me pause, Herman’s arched back and silent snarl would have been a warning. The cat had hissed at Lachlan’s knock, but he had never frozen in place, seeming caught between the two equally powerful emotions of terror and revulsion.
My logical side, the one still grappling to accept the abrupt supernatural intrusions into my life, suggested that it might be Lachlan, perhaps injured again and too weak to call out. But deep down I knew it wasn’t Lachlan. Especially not when a faint but nauseating odor began to creep under the door. The Devil or worse was on the other side of that thick wood panel, listening and scrabbling as he tried to find a way in.
Herman
remained silent and frozen. I too made no sound as I picked up Lachlan’s charm and retreated to the bedroom, where I had taken to openly sleeping with the yew beater and the iron shackles; the shears-wielding beasties had not returned but I was taking no chances. They seemed pitiful weapons against a creature like the finman, but also all I had. A knife would not aid me. Hadn’t someone already cut out this creature’s heart?
It took all the will I possessed to enter the parlor again when the noise ceased, and when I did it was to find Herman and the terrible odor both gone. I ran through the cottage, making sure that no window was open, but I knew that I had closed them all long before the advent of the rain. Of the cat there was no sign; nor was there any sound or smell or other sensation to suggest I was anything but alone.
It was on my second, less frantic turn through the cottage that Lachlan’s knock at last fell on the door. Certain as I was that this was he, I nevertheless called through the door before opening it.
“Lachlan—he was here!” The words were out before the door was completely open. Relief brought tears to my eyes and made my voice waver.
“Aye, I tracked him frae the kirk. He’s gone intae the sea caves again.” Lachlan set me away from the door and closed it carefully. I noticed that he was dressed, though the plaid he wore was more worn and faded than the last. “Sit down, lass. Yer whiter than sand. What did the creature dae?”
I allowed myself to be coaxed to the fire. “He just scratched. But the cat’s gone. I can’t find him. He puffed up like an adder when that thing came to the door…and then he disappeared. I know he must be hiding somewhere, but I can’t find him. Could the finman have gotten him somehow?” My voice was quavering shamefully, but I truly feared for Herman.
“Donnae trouble yerself over the moggie. They’re canny beasts. He’ll return when it suits him. Now, drink this wee dram doon and tell me all that’s happened. Something has provoked the beast and brought him here tae yer door.”
So, this was my doing. Should I confess? It seemed wisest.
Usually I am not soothed by a there-there and a pat on the head, but Lachlan seemed so certain that Herman was fine that I allowed myself to relax and blink back my tears before they spilled over. Taking a deep breath, I began telling Lachlan first about my journey into the bowels of the kirk and the certainty that the finman had sensed me. Then, at the onset of Lachlan’s frown, I related the news about the shark man at the circus in Keil and my feeling that the finman would go there to destroy it once he learned of its existence.
“I could tell ye that ye’ve an active imagination and tae not worry…”
This time, I rejected the soothing pat on the head and settled for a scowl. “But I don’t—have an imagination, that is. I had my imagination removed with my appendix when I was twelve. Along with common sense, apparently.” This was a lie, but I was damned if I would admit to being more than usually anxious. My near-hysterics over the cat had been emotional display enough. As close as I sometimes felt to Lachlan, he really was almost a stranger, and I didn’t want to admit how much Herman meant to me.
“As a selkie, I donnae have an appendix.”
This lighthearted answer was so out of character that I could only stare. At last I said, “You also lack the inclination to speak straightly with me. Lachlan, what are you thinking?”
Lachlan raised a brow. “If I am tae speak straightly, then it will be to tell ye that it was extremely foolish tae venture intae that crypt alone. Especially since I’ve already been there, tracking the finman’s spoor. There is nae need to rush in blindly, lass. I hae matters well in hand.”
“You might have shared this information before,” I said in a tone of exaggerated aggrievement, hoping he would shoulder some of the blame. “And anyway, I believe in playing to my strengths. Impulsive action can take the enemy by surprise. I was there, the door was open…”
“I am sharing the information now,” he said. “And yer impulsiveness maun be a surprise to yer friends as well as yer enemies. How dae they trust thee?”
I glared at him, not bothering to hide my annoyance at his suggestion. Usually I was very trustworthy—truthful, honorable, an upright citizen in every way. I asked instead, “Are we going to investigate this circus that has the shark-man mummy?”
“If I said that I waud investigate the circus, would ye be content tae stay out of it?”
“Probably not. Damn it, Lachlan! This involves me too. That cursed thing is in my home.” I pointed at the floor beneath the table’s ponderous leg. “Monsters are trying to cut off my shadow and that fi nman has tried to get me. Twice.”
“Aye. Yer involved more closely than ye ken, and I’ve nae liking for it. If I could divorce ye frae these events I waud.”
“What do you mean?” When he didn’t answer I repeated the question. “Lachlan, what do you mean? How am I involved? Beyond the obvious.” I paused. “What don’t I know?”
“Ye’ve thought on wham it was wha stole the finman’s heart?” Lachlan asked at last.
“Yes. Constantly. It was a magical kind of thing, right? Not just a physical assault? Could it have been Fergus’s father? He would have been alive at the time of the inundation. Would his theft have caused the storm, or worsened it?”
“Aye, it could. But that wasnae what caused the storm, nor when the heart was taken. The theft was mair recent.”
“No? Then when was it stolen?” I was beginning to get a bad feeling. “The year before last? It was Duncan, wasn’t it? He took it.”
Lachlan nodded. His posture was relaxed as he leaned against the mantel, but he watched me closely.
I spoke slowly as I thought it all through. “Duncan stole the heart and then…what? When the finman didn’t die, he ran away to the States to escape retribution. Where he met me. And he thought, because of my family, I could protect him from the finman if the creature ever came.”
Lachlan nodded again.
“But I couldn’t. Because I didn’t know anything about witches or finmen or MacCodrums. And eventually his family’s hatred of mine began to surface. And he started to drink and…other things.”
A third, smaller nod.
“But why? Why steal the heart? It seems such a crazy thing to do. Surely he knew that it would lead to bad things. And what could he gain by it?”
“Power mayhap. Tae aid Fergus in his diablerie in hopes of finding the lost treasure. I cannae say. But with Fergus’s withered arm, Fergus couldnae hae done it alone. Nor could he hae hidden it in that crypt aneath the table. And I cannae believe he waud trust anyone nowt of his own blood.”
“And so you’re sure it was Duncan who did these things. There wasn’t anyone else who might have done it?”
“Nay. Most likely he didnae ken that taking the heart wouldnae kill the finman. That must hae come as a nasty surprise.”
“Have you always suspected that it was Duncan rather than Fergus who did this stupid thing?”
Lachlan didn’t answer.
“Is that why you haven’t trusted me? Because I’m his widow and I might have been involved?”
He blinked once, a slow and completely inhuman gesture during which I was able to see a second lid close over each eye. A part of me noted that this was probably how he was able to see in salt water.
He knelt by my chair so our eyes were level. “I trust thee now.”
“Lachlan, couldn’t we just destroy the heart?” I asked, leaning forward and putting a hand on his arm. As always, his flesh was hot to the touch.
“Possibly, wi the right spell. But the finman and his confederates need tae be flushed out of hiding, or the evil will simply gae underground and surface somewhere else,” he answered, staring at my hand bemusedly and breathing deeply. “And be certain, should the heart be destroyed afore his ain death, that he shall bury this village again in vengeance, though it be his last living act. Every soul in it waud perish.”
I felt cold and wrapped my arms about myself. Lachlan’s heat faded from my fingers
as soon as contact was broken. “How can he live without a heart?”
“He cannae. He is using anither’s organ. Perhaps Fergus Culbin’s. But it cannae last long. He burns them out quickly and then needs anither. More people—yer kind and mine—shall die if he isnae destroyed along wi’ his black heart.”
I swallowed hard. “That’s horrible. How many has he killed to steal their organs?”
“Countless. And aye, ’tis horrible. But everything aboot this monster is horrible. He waudnae have it any ither way. It is the nature of the beast. Dae nowt forget this.”
Chapter Thirteen
A witch is a kind of hare, And marks the weather As a hare does.
—Ben Johnson, The Sad Shepherd
“Bliadh an diugh, agus codagh am mairech,” Lachlan murmured. I tried to decipher the phrase but failed. “Food today and war tomorrow,” he translated, giving the small smile I was coming to know all too well.
We were sharing some chips, salty fried potato wedges, a new gastronomic experience for a suspicious Lachlan but apparently a satisfactory one. A small hostelry, The Alpine Inn, seemed to be serving customers, but we had chosen instead to patronize a street vendor. Lachlan had said obscurely that the inn had for too many years worn the sign of the peeled willow wand. I recalled that this had something to do with warning away witches or faeries or some such thing, and I was content to be led away to someplace with fewer bad memories.
This was the first time I had seen Lachlan in full daylight, and I have to admit that my eyes were pleased. I knew his hair was dark, but firelight did not show the deep chestnut and other autumnal hues lurking in those silken depths. His eyes beneath the brim of his tam were eerily black but utterly fascinating, and I had to make an effort not to stare as if besotted. We were attracting quite enough attention as it was.
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