“Does it have to do with my mother?” she asked.
His expression shuttered then.
“I’ll be at Biddy’s,” he said, turning on his heel.
That time, he had not come home for two days. Brea did not broach the topic of the scale with him again, and when she next went looking for it, the mysterious object was nowhere to be found.
She was a clever girl, though, and slowly a sketch of the past unfolded itself. Her mother had come from the sea—some sort of ocean being who had become, for a time, a wife. Surely she was not a selkie, for then Brea would have discovered a sealskin. Or transformed herself into a sleekly furred sea creature.
The more she thought on it, the more convinced she grew that her mother had not been a normal human woman, but a mystery born of water and starlight.
It would explain so much.
From a young age, Brea had been nearly as comfortable in the water as she was on land. At first, she had thought the other children disliked her because of her uncanny swimming ability—but it was more than that. It was the fey blood that ran in her veins. No wonder the other villagers treated her with distance.
I’m still just myself! she wanted to cry out. Just a girl. Other than her talent in the water, there was nothing remarkable about her.
Indeed, since the discovery of the scale, and the notion that her mother had not been human, Brea had tried to reach something within herself. Something powerful and elusive and mysterious. If the neighbors looked askance at her, and no young men came to call, then she wanted to at least be able to do something otherworldly.
She’d taken to swimming alone in the cove a mile to the north. It was secluded and peaceful, with only the cries of the gulls to interrupt her efforts. But no matter what she did—held her breath underwater until she was dizzy or swam so far out into the waves that the shore was merely a blur—she never transformed into something more. Never found a wellspring of magic within her soul.
Her tears of frustration mingled with the seawater, and she beat at the waves with her fists. But still she did not change.
So that summer passed, and the next, and Brea found herself, at nearly seventeen turnings of the sun, with no clear future ahead.
Most of the girls of the village were courting or married. Some had moved away to other towns, and the handful left single seemed content to care for aged parents or tend the crofts.
But that afternoon, mending the nets, Brea’s soul stirred with a fierce longing for more.
A pity she had no bardic talent that would take her away to the halls of Tara. No wise ways with herbs and tonics or deft hand at healing.
Perhaps she might go to one of the large towns in the east, where no one knew her name or face. But even there, she would have no prospects. Who would hire a girl from a fishing village for more than a lowly serving wench—or worse?
Fingers re-plaiting the coarse rope, Brea stared sightlessly over the sea. The echo of the surf on the black rocks below was the beat of her heart, the sough of her sighs.
At length, when the shadows cooled and the sun began its long slide toward twilight, she set the nets aside and went in to make supper. Brown bread and fish stew with a few bartered vegetables. It was not much, but ‘twas warm and would keep their bellies filled.
Dusk sifted over the village, the sea turning silver with the last light of day. Brea lit the beeswax candle on their plank tabletop, and the one in the window that stood sentinel for her father’s return.
Worry did not start nibbling at her until most of the village quieted. Often her father returned late from hauling in his day’s catch. He had no sons to help him, and as much as Brea begged, he sternly refused to take her out in his curricle.
Now, she wondered if he feared losing her to the deeps. Not by drowning, but perhaps from the heritage of her mother’s blood rising up to claim her.
She went to the threshold and stood, looking down the darkened and winding streets, hoping for a sight of her father’s lantern. She waited a long time, until the lash of the rising wind and the spatter of stinging rain from the west drove her back inside. Black clouds scudded across the pewter sky, stealing the last light and extinguishing the stars.
Fear settled like a fist in her stomach.
The storm was blowing in off the ocean—where her father in his small boat was ever at the mercy of the winds.
For three days the tempest raged, tearing thatch from the roofs and carrying away anything left unattended. On the second day, the wind snatched their bucket straight off the hook outside the door. Brea had no hope of catching it. She watched helplessly from the window as the much-mended bucket rolled and clattered away down the street to smash against the sea wall.
She kept the hearth stoked with peat, and carefully portioned out the rest of the stew and bread, though it was tasteless in her mouth.
Da will return. She clutched the thought like a blanket, even as dark knowledge spread through her. He was likely never coming back.
On the morning of the fourth day, the dawn broke clear and golden. Brea grabbed her woolen shawl and hurried down to the dock.
She was not the first there. The gathered fishermen stood about the wreckage of a small boat, and Brea’s steps slowed.
Please, no.
It was the remains of her father’s curricle, flung ashore in the heart of the storm.
“Terrible sorry, lass,” one of the men said, and the rest nodded, sympathy sitting uncomfortably on their worn faces.
“Likely won’t be a body,” another said.
The rest murmured in agreement.
Brea caught her breath on a sob and ran back to the cottage, tears blurring her vision so that she nearly lost her footing on the cobbles. She slammed the door behind her with a heavy thud, then sank to the floor, sobbing, as her heart broke thrice over.
The neighbors brought food and awkward comfort, but as the days passed their eyes hardened. After a week, old Biddy herself came to pay a visit.
“He’s not coming back,” she said. “‘Tis a hard truth, but it must be faced.”
Brea nodded. She could not yet speak the words aloud, but she knew in her heart that her father was gone. Taken by the sea.
Late at night, when sleep taunted her from the corners but would not settle upon her, Brea imagined her father and mother finally reunited. They sat together on thrones of coral, their hair lifted above their heads by the caress of the waters surrounding them, sunshine slanting down through the green sea in shafts of light to illuminate their pearly crowns.
It was a pretty thought, but in the light of day it burst like soap bubbles too-long exposed to the harsh air.
“What will you do now?” Biddy asked.
It was the question Brea had been pondering for days, and she was no closer to an answer. Her aunt in Corcaigh was half the length of the country away. Brea had never met the woman, as her aunt had left the fishing village as soon as she could and never looked back.
Biddy took Brea’s silence for the lack of plan that it was.
“Well, now,” the older woman said, her seamed face losing some of its sympathy. “Have you had any young man come courting?”
Of course not, and everyone in the village knew it.
“No,” Brea said. She wove her fingers tightly together.
“Anyone who might take you in?”
“Can I not simply stay here on my own?” Brea asked, panic beginning to rise in her chest.
“No, lass. There’s others have need of a fine, stout cottage to raise their families in. Why, the Reedys have seven people all beneath one roof. Their son and his new wife have a baby on the way.”
“I could stay on and help them…”
Brea trailed off at the look in Biddy’s eyes. The strange lass had been tolerated while her father was alive, but now there was no place for her in the village. A strained silence filled the room, chilly despite the peat burning upon the hearth.
“Very well,” Brea said at last, dropping
her gaze. “I’ll gather my things and leave tomorrow.”
What else could she do? Better to depart on her own, dignity intact, than have the villagers come and pitch her out of the cottage.
“There’s a good girl.” Biddy patted her knee. “I’ve a bit of coin set by I can give you for traveling money, and the roads should be safe enough.”
Brea hoped so. Earlier in the year, reports had come of brigands prowling the countryside, but they seemed to have departed for richer pickings.
Where will I go? The question quivered on Brea’s tongue, but she would get no answers from Biddy. Already the woman was taking her leave.
“I’ll bring you the coin tomorrow morning,” Biddy said, pausing at the threshold. “Nothing like an early start.”
Brea nodded mutely. The sound of the door closing behind Biddy echoed hollowly through the room. Through Brea’s heart.
There was nothing for it except to pack up her meager belongings. In the morning, she took the good blanket from her father’s bed and fashioned a bundle to hold her spare clothing, the kitchen knife and a wooden bowl, a linen kerchief, and the small carving of a fish her father had made one summer from a pearly shell.
She made one last effort to find the scale, and at last discovered it tucked behind the chimney. It was dark and opaque, all the light gone from it. She did not know if her father’s death had made it so, or if it had become singed black from the heat of the fire. Regardless, she tucked it into the folds of her second-best skirt. It was all she had left of her parents.
Just after first light, Biddy rapped on the door. She nodded when she saw the bundle on the floor.
“Affix it to the end of a stout stick and carry it over your shoulder,” she advised. “‘Twill be easier to manage than carting it about in your arms.”
“I will,” Brea said, accepting the small purse the other woman held out. “Thank you for the coins.”
“Hide them, and use them sparingly. Safe travels to you, Brea Cairgead.”
It was a clear dismissal. Under Biddy’s watchful eye, Brea tucked the purse away beneath her petticoat, then lifted the woolen blanket containing all her earthly possessions. Head high, despite the weight of stone in her heart, she stepped over the threshold and did not look back.
Down the street, she could see the Reedy daughter and her husband pulling a cart filled with household items. The air in the cottage would not even have time to cool before the new occupants took up residence.
“Farewell,” Brea said.
To Biddy, to the huddle of cottages, to the rocky shore where she had last seen her father. There was no one and nothing else to say goodbye to. Taking a deep breath, Brea set her feet on the path leading southeast from Ardglass. The crying of gulls overhead gave voice to the tears she could not shed. The sigh of the surf was her own sorrow at leaving the only home she had ever known.
The path curved, and Brea knew that if she cared to turn and look, the village would no longer be visible. She did not turn, only set one foot on the earth, then the other. The bundle grew heavy in her arms, the wool prickling her palms.
Another league ahead lay a hazel wood. Perhaps she might find a stick there to attach her bundle to. And just before the wood was the sacred spring. She would tear a strip off her kerchief and tie it to the wishing tree there, hoping the Fair Folk would bestow luck upon her. Certainly, if anyone had need of it, ‘twas herself.
The morning sun grew in strength, though the high clouds meant rain later. She hoped she would find shelter by the afternoon, or she would add being damp and cold to her overall misery.
But first the sacred spring, and the wood.
The path turned again, this time to follow the bright stream that led to the spring. The water made a merry sound, sunlight glinting off the surface, and Brea could not help but be a little cheered. She allowed herself to rest beside a tumbled granite boulder, and drank from her cupped hands. It was too much trouble to fetch the bowl from her bundle.
The stop revived her, and her bundle felt a bit lighter when she picked it up in her arms again. She was thankful for the burbling companionship of the stream as she strode up the heather-banked path.
At length the heart of the spring came in sight, just when Brea’s shoulders were beginning to ache. She hurried the last few paces and set the blanket down on the ferny moss surrounding the spring. The wind rustled the leaves of the wood beyond, mimicking the sound of the sea.
Beside the cool, clear pool a bent hawthorn tree grew. Bright bits of cloth fluttered from its branches—wishes for luck and healing and to honor the Fair Folk who dwelt in the land.
Brea pulled her linen kerchief from the bundle and tore off a small strip. Luck she needed, surely, and a wish for safe travels as she went, friendless and alone, into the wide world. She knelt at the edge of the spring, dampness seeping through her skirts. Dipping her cupped hand into the water, she murmured a blessing upon the spirits of the place.
The water moistened her lips, but she was not fool enough to guzzle from the pool. She had a skin of water from Ardglass’s stream to quench the thirst of the road. A soft wind shivered the surface of the water, and for a moment she thought she saw a face looking at her, a reflection of a fey woman with tangled greenish hair and stars for eyes.
Then a raven called harshly overhead, and the moment was broken.
Brea stood and made a curtsy to the waters. Her skirt was muddy at the knees.
“I hope I’ve not offended you,” she said. “My apologies if I have. I’m but a wandering girl, and mean no harm.”
The raven called again, a softer sound this time, as if reassuring Brea all was well. Heartened, she strode to the wishing tree and tied her strip of cloth to an empty branch. The cloths fluttered, some faded nearly white, others still bright with woad and berry juice.
A third time the raven called, taking startled flight into the air, and Brea heard the heavy tread of footsteps.
A moment later, three men crested the hill, their clothing rough, their beards unkempt. She shrank back, but there was nowhere to hide. She snatched up her bundle and backed toward the woods.
“A lass!” the black-haired one cried, looking at her as a wolf regards a lamb. “Aye, and it’s a fair day for us indeed.”
Greatly misliking his tone and the leers of his companions, she turned and ran for the trees.
But she was too slow, and awkwardly burdened. In four paces the men caught her, the first one grabbing her arm while the second snatched the bundle from her.
“A prize carrying a prize,” the black-haired man said. “What’s in the blanket, love?”
“Nothing of use to you,” Brea said, her mind whirling as a dark fog of fear crept over her.
“We’ll be the judge of that.” The brigand holding the bundle pulled it open, letting the contents spill upon the ground.
The third man snatched up her bowl and knife, and toed her extra garments aside.
“Not much here,” he said. “She’s a right poor one.”
“Shake out her clothing,” the black-haired man said. “What’s on the ground first, then what she’s wearing.”
He gave her a nasty smile.
Brea tried to pull away, but her captor’s grasp was hard upon her. There was little chance she would escape the men until they were done with her. She swallowed hard, fearing what the next minutes would bring.
When the brigand took up her extra skirt, the blackened scale slipped free. It slid into the sacred pool with scarcely a ripple.
“What was that?” the second man asked, leaning over to peer into the water.
“Well?” Her captor shook her. “Answer.”
“A scale I found on the beach,” she said, her voice trembling. “I thought I might use it for a mirror, but it turned black.”
“Not black now,” the second man said. “Bright silver, it is.”
“Well, fish it out,” the black-haired leader demanded.
He marched Brea up to the pool’s edge,
where they could both see the scale, shining against the soft mud at the bottom.
The second man rolled up his dingy sleeves and sprawled on the moss. It was a desecration for him to reach his grimy hands into the clear waters, and Brea winced as he splashed about.
“I can’t quite reach it,” he said.
“Carrig, take his legs,” the leader said, gesturing to the third man.
With much grunting and groaning, the second man was levered out over the surface of the pool.
“Still can’t,” he said.
“Then best hold your breath,” the black-haired man said. “For I’ve a mind to fling you into this bedamned spring.”
Brea bit back her cry of protest at the thought of a brigand’s grimy body befouling those sacred waters. With the men’s attention on the elusive scale, her captor’s grip had loosened. If the moment presented itself, she would wrench herself free.
But then what? They had already proven they could catch her.
If she could gain the wood, perhaps she could lose them amidst the trees, or climb high enough that they could not pursue her.
Too many perilous chances to lose her life—yet she must act, and soon. She had no taste for becoming a brigand’s doxy. Better to fall from a high branch and break her neck than the fate the men intended for her.
“I’ll have to go under,” the second man said. “Hold fast to me legs, Carrig.”
He took a deep breath, then plunged his head and shoulders into the pool. In the clear water, Brea could see his hands flailing about, stirring up the soft silt at the bottom. The silver scale seemed to elude his grasp.
“Argh!” He surfaced with a shout and splash, red-faced.
“Try again,” the black haired leader said.
“But—”
“‘Tis your fault the bauble fell into the spring. Now fetch it out.”
Hair plastered to his knobby head, the second man glared at his leader, but did not seem inclined to argue further. He blew two breaths out of his nostrils, then sucked in a mouthful of air and submerged his head and chest once more.
The bottom of the spring was murky now, but Brea glimpsed flashes of bright silver. And something else, lurking in the watery shadows beneath the bank. Something with green hair like kelp and glowing eyes, and a sharp-toothed mouth open in a terrifying grin.
The Shapeshifter Chronicles Page 4
