by Anne Renwick
Isa fought an urge to wince. Ten years ago she had been Avra, determined to abandon the Isle of Lewis for the mainland, to marry well, to make her mark on medical science. One item on her list had been accomplished. Many would argue she’d managed the second. But the third had proved impossible. Her heart shrank a bit. All too easy to place a finger on the very date life had forced her to set aside her own hopes and dreams.
“None of your goals require perfectly shaped toes,” Isa pointed out, eyeing the tightly laced leather boots Avra wore with great skepticism. “You will find it painful—or impossible—to walk for quite some time. It may delay your departure.”
Aether, she hated being the voice of good sense and reason. Hated her drab, woolen skirts, how her hair was scraped into a tight knot. Hated how she needed to constrain even her physical movements so as to convey both competency and respectability. But her acceptance as a healer was hard-won, and she could not afford to alienate a single individual among her people. If she lost an essential source of income, her uncle would win. Again.
She’d rather walk ten miles barefoot upon barnacles.
“Yes, but…” A flush rose to Avra’s face as she leaned forward. Her voice emerged as a whisper, “What if I contract a marriage with a progressive? He might find defective toes repulsive.”
Caught between the urge to laugh and scold—for Finn features were a gift, not an abnormality—Isa choked.
In her experience, a husband rarely cared what was at the end of his wife’s legs, being more interested in what was between them. Besides, any Finn man trying so very hard to assimilate to such a degree should skip the matchmaker altogether and marry a Scottish woman. But she didn’t dare voice such an opinion.
“It’s but a small flap of skin,” Avra continued. “In Glasgow, it serves no purpose and can only cause trouble.”
In the city, what good is being Finn?
She’d heard that question asked far too frequently, and had yet to find a satisfactory answer. In recent years, more and more Finn were tempted away from their traditional fishing villages to seek their fortunes in cities where technology breakthroughs promised a life of wealth and luxury. Many returned, broken, but the rare story of success was an unrelenting siren’s song.
To fit in, to be fully accepted in the city, a Finn must appear to be no different from Scots. To look “other” was to invite comment, to solicit derision. Nothing could be done about their odd, gray eyes. But ears, fingers and—yes—even toes could be altered.
Once, extra skin stretching between the fingers and toes was celebrated—the more the better—among the Finn as proof of a pure heritage, of their descent from the gods and goddesses of the sea. Those days were long past.
Conform? Or stand proudly apart? Both had merit. But a nail that stuck out was almost certain to be hammered down. Avra must reach her own decision.
Item by item, Isa unpacked her surgical equipment. Gleaming scalpels, clamps, needles and scissors. Lengths of fine ophthalmic catgut and silver wire for sutures. Balls of lint to mop up the blood and flannel to bandage the incisions.
“You understand that the operations require general anesthesia,” she said, presenting the dangers bare and unvarnished. A moment of truth that turned many a Finn away from the surgery. “You’ll feel no pain, but there is a risk the narcotic might trigger the diving reflex and drop your heart rate dangerously low.”
And sometimes a heart beating too slow might simply… stop. It was an outcome that had been all too common in the past, and one of many reasons Finn gave surgeons a wide birth, calling upon them only when truly necessary.
The girl pressed a trembling hand to her throat. “I thought…” She gulped as Isa placed a leather and rubber mask upon the table between them, studying the embedded brass gauges that allowed her to monitor various respiratory gas levels. “I thought you’d solved that particular problem.”
“Not entirely,” Isa disclosed, her chest tight with the memory of every time she’d lost a patient. “I have a specially formulated mixture of volatile anesthetic agents for Finn and rarely encounter complications now. But the longer you’re asleep, the higher the risk. Are you certain you wish for me to operate upon your feet?”
The young woman’s eyebrows drew together as this new worry carved a groove in her forehead. Isa gave her time to weigh her options, but continued to position her paraphernalia upon the bleached canvas she’d spread over the kitchen table. As the only flat surface available in the small cottage, it would serve as an operating table.
“I do,” Avra replied, setting her jaw. “I do not wish a small flap of skin to keep me from my goals.”
Isa could refuse to proceed, of course. But this procedure was part and parcel of the profession she’d adopted. If she refused to alter Finn, they would take matters into their own hands. She’d seen the results. Without anesthesia or sterile procedures, the unlucky developed infections that festered, oftentimes ending in blood poisoning. The lucky merely bore angry, disfiguring scars.
But—they rationalized—at least they wouldn’t be ogled as a quaint curiosity—or worse—be called a selkie. A tiresome and irritating piece of fiction.
The selkie was a mythological creature. Imaginary. Though the sea called to each of them, not a single Finn—man or woman—had ever shape-shifted into the form of a gray seal to slide into the surf beneath the moon.
“All three,” she agreed with some reluctance. “Provided you promise me the choice is your own.”
“I swear it upon the sea and the moon that turns the tides.”
Her fingers tightened around the bottle of ethanol she held. It was uncanny to hear a Finn oath sworn upon the intent to sever ties with that very community.
Avra held a trembling hand out above the white cloth, and called to her grandmother. “Mummo?”
“You wish the first cut ceremony?” Isa asked, blinking in amazement.
“No. But my grandmother requested it,” her voice softened, “and I’ve broken her heart enough.”
An old woman rose from the gathering of relatives and crossed the room to stand beside her granddaughter. Tradition—one most Finn largely ignored—required the eldest family member to mark the moment a Finn renounced any future right to lead the community as an elder. “It is decided?” Her grandmother’s voice was weak and thin, as if watered down by a deep sadness.
“Yes, mummo.” Avra’s voice was as resolute as granite. “It needs to be.”
With a faint nod, the old woman placed a hand—wrinkled and webbed—upon her granddaughter’s head. Drawing herself up straight and proud, she began to speak in the old language, “I stand as witness—”
The throaty consonants catapulted Isa back in time, to the first day she herself had broken with Finn convention. A vat of dull, brown dye had boiled upon the stovetop, a monthly ritual, ready to conceal the coppery roots that sprung from her head. Defiant, she’d crossed her arms and refused. “The chemicals burn,” she’d protested, then, knowing she was about to unleash a thousand furies, continued, “And why bother? My Scottish ancestry is an open secret.”
Her refusal had sent the household into an uproar. Eyes wide, her brother and sister gaped. Mother cried. Uncle Gregor frowned. Grandmother had all but disowned her. But Isa had stood firm, forever altering the course of her future.
Though her stomach knotted at the memory, any regret was directed at the events that unfolded afterward. Naïve of her to think her relatives would ever understand her viewpoint. She’d become a problem to be solved, her future a situation to be manipulated.
A certain melancholy washed over her as the matriarch spoke the final words of the invocation. “The waves have surged and cast you adrift. But the moon’s pull is unceasing, and the sea endures. When the tide turns, may you find the current that carries you safely home.”
With a shake of her head, she knocked as
ide the unwelcome emotions, consigning them to a distant corner of her consciousness. She needed to focus. Reflecting upon the implications of this surgery could wait.
Isa uttered the response in the old tongue. “Until then may you find the tranquility of deep waters within your heart.” Swabbing the skin that stretched between the third and fourth finger of Avra’s right hand, she lifted the scalpel and made the first cut. Blood welled along the incision, and she waited for the matriarch to pronounce the final words.
But they did not come. Instead, the old woman stared at Isa, her gaze razor sharp. “Once I called your grandmother friend,” she said, continuing in the same old tongue. “For her, I make you this offer. Decline to finish. Leave my granddaughter intact, and I myself will play matchmaker on your behalf.”
Irritation pricked her skin. Every Finn woman wished to see her safely marriage-bound, but she’d come to value her freedom far too much. She enjoyed this new career, traveling about in her houseboat from community to community, attending to various medical complaints, many of which were Finn specific. How many Scottish physicians knew to warn a Finn not to dive with a spleen infection? To treat digestive complaints with Epsom salts and oil of thyme to rid them of parasites? “Thank you, but I do not seek a new husband.”
The matriarch’s mouth opened once more, but Isa was spared her reply as the door to the blackhouse swung open. A frigid blast of air blew inward, and the flames leapt at the sudden flood of oxygen. All eyes, however, fixed upon the man who staggered inward, his clothes sodden and dripping from the storm that raged outside. He dragged a woolen cap from his head. “I need the healer. It’s happened again.”
“Who?” Avra’s grandmother demanded.
“Abel. We found him on the beach. Alive, but he’s lost much blood.”
Those were the only words Isa needed to hear. This surgery could wait. Thrusting items back into her doctor’s bag, she turned to find the old woman holding out her cloak. “He is a good man,” the matriarch said, hustling Isa toward the door. “A father, with many mouths to fill.”
Outside, the howling wind hurtled shards of icy rain into her face as she followed the man down a footpath that snaked its way toward a blackhouse crouching beside a bluff. A weighted net fought to keep its thatched roof atop windowless stone walls. Anemic wisps of peat smoke escaped the central hole only to be yanked away by the wind. Just beyond, the surf crashed and boomed against the rocky coast.
They hurried across the threshold and into a smoky room. A single oil lamp hung from the rafters casting a weak, yellow light. Three young children quietly playing with marbles at the far end of the house stopped to stare. A hugely pregnant woman—presumably their mother—rose from her seat beside a bed whose sole occupant lay motionless, his face pale and drawn.
Though her eyes were red and puffy, she blocked Isa’s approach, giving the man who had delivered her a pointed stare. “Are you certain she can be trusted?”
He shifted on his feet. “She is Finn.”
And Finn avoided sharing anything that might be considered an eccentricity with outsiders. What could be so amiss that denying her husband treatment was even an option?
“My practice focuses upon Finn,” she said, drawing the woman’s intense and anxious gaze. “Whatever his complaint, the details will not leave this room.”
Hand upon her abdomen, the woman nodded, then stepped aside.
Isa pressed the back of her hand to the man’s forehead. Cold and clammy and unresponsive to her touch. His breath was shallow and his face slack. When she pointed the light of a decilamp into his vacant eyes, they danced. A nystagmus. Not good. “Was he conscious when you found him? Has he spoken?”
His wife shook her head. “He woke up once, but his words were garbled and made no sense. I spooned broth into his mouth, but he barely managed to swallow.”
Facial hypesthesia with dysphagia. Dysarthria. The evidence mounted in favor of diagnosing an apoplexy.
Drawing a stethoscope from her bag, she slid it beneath the blanket to listen to his heart—a regular rhythm, but too slow—and continued gathering a history. “You said this is the second time this has happened?”
“No,” the man spoke. “He is the second fisherman to be attacked.”
“I’m sorry.” Isa’s head jerked up as her eyebrows drew together. “Did you say attacked?”
“He left on his fishing boat,” the wife said, “and was gone for weeks. Today, my son found him on the beach like this.” She tugged down the blanket covering her husband’s form.
Isa’s mouth fell open and her eyes grew wide. She struggled to regain a professional demeanor. And failed. “What in the seven seas…” This was far, far outside her experience.
A pale, flesh-like cylinder—tube?—of about three inches in length protruded from his stomach. Someone had tied the end off with rough twine. It appeared to have been severed from… from…
“That is what we hoped you could tell us,” the man volunteered. “We found him like this, with blood oozing from the tentacle.”
“Tentacle,” she repeated, as if pronouncing the word aloud might help her make sense of what her eyes observed. Gingerly, she reached out with a probe, half expecting the rubbery mass to move of its own accord. It didn’t. Flipping it across the man’s abdomen, however, revealed rows of tiny suckers. “Not sea kraken.” Not only was the tentacle not squid-like, but sea kraken of such size had claws embedded in their suckers and rarely ventured this far north into the cold Atlantic.
“No,” he agreed.
“Then it must be…” Her face twisted in confusion. Octopuses were not known for attacking men. Not in such a manner. Provoked, they might bite with their sharp beaks or wrap an arm about a man’s arm, leg or neck. But to pierce the abdomen with a tentacle? Unheard of. “How can it be…?”
He nodded. “Octopus.”
Knees weak, she resisted an impulse to drop into the unoccupied chair. “Impossible.”
And yet the evidence lay before her.
“Can you save him?” his wife asked, her voice a whisper of hopelessness.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Isa took a deep breath and spoke her thoughts aloud. “This is far, far outside my experience. On the surface, it appears to be a case of apoplexy, bleeding in the brain. With care and time, he might recover. But the presence of the tentacle complicates matters.”
“Can it be removed?” the man prompted.
“Certainly.” Isa ran damp palms over her skirts. There was no other course of action, even though it would stretch her skills to their limit. “It must be removed. If not, infection will set in when the octopus flesh begins to decay.” The patient’s wife winced. “However, removing the tentacle is also risky. It might be a simple procedure. Or it could cause further bleeding.” Depending upon what had been pierced, he could easily die. She opened her black bag and began to prepare for an entirely different surgery. Placing the anesthesia mask upon the bedside table, she looked into his wife’s eyes. “I can promise you he will feel no pain during the surgery. The decision is yours to make.”
A desperate and horrible sound came from the afflicted man. All flinched as they turned toward the bed. His chest expanded drawing a deep and labored breath, a gasping, rattling, endless inhalation.
And then it stopped.
But there was no exhalation.
“I’m so sorry.” Isa grabbed his wife’s hand. “He’s gone.”
Chapter Three
February 1885
ALEC CLENCHED HIS FISTS. Punching his brother in the eye would be immensely satisfying but would solve nothing. “My knee is fine,” he growled. Again.
“It’s fine for a civilian. Excellent, really,” Logan agreed. “But not even I can pull enough strings to send you back to your team. How many times do you need to hear it? Until Dr. Morgan produces the appropriate paperwork documenting that the artificial joint meets BURR specifications, you cannot be reinstated. Given
it’s experimental, that might be never.”
He clenched his jaw. “Well I’m not staying here.”
He glared at the windowless laboratory buried beneath the Glaister Institute in the heart of Glasgow. A temporary assignment, he’d been promised, but months had passed in this humid, saline pit of despair, and no end was in sight. The artificial light and stagnant air ate at his soul. No matter how many immense saltwater tanks it held or the number of bizarre sea creatures that swam in their depths, it didn’t—couldn’t—hold a decilamp to the exhilaration of working on the open ocean.
“Casting aspersions upon Lord Roideach’s facility?” Logan’s eyebrows rose. “BURR teams have benefitted from multiple innovations that emerged from this very laboratory.” Across the room a technician, one Miss Lourney, puffed with pride as his brother ticked off item after item upon his fingers. “You yourself reverse-engineered that Russian nematocyst weapon in under two hours.”
“After Roideach’s people spent a month studying it, unable to reproduce the coiled thread.” Alec scoffed. “Every other item on your list was developed when the lord was in his prime, some five years past. Now?” He shook his head. “The man himself is never present and has no idea that his laboratory technicians are incompetent. They insisted upon using the Volterra equation when the viscoelastic material was clearly nonlinear. He ought to dismiss them all.”
“I beg your pardon,” Miss Lourney snapped. She planted a fist on her hip. “That was an oversight that would not have happened had we been informed the trigger material was silicon-based. A fact you kept close to your chest.”
Tipping his head back, Alec focused on an overhead network of pipes covered in a sheen of condensation. “Which you would have deduced for yourselves if any of you bothered to keep abreast of the latest internal reports.” He missed his team, where everyone went above and beyond to perform to the best of their abilities and no one was allowed to rest upon their laurels.
