Mire

by Vivien Leanne Saunders

  I bit down on my lip as hard as I could, remembering Dahra’s order to stay focused. She was a witch. No wonder she had laughed. She knew that my dreams would summon these pictures every night. I shut the hatch and squeezed my eyes shut in the darkness, but I could still hear them. Perhaps it was better to watch. My imagination showed me such lewd images that I shuddered.

  When they were quieter I peeked again. The woman was holding the man in her arms, stroking his hair like an infant and completely unabashed by her nakedness. She was speaking again, but softly. He smiled as he listened, and ran his fingers idly along her skin. It was as if they had both been holding their breath. This time, the man answered her questions. They were all silly, foolish things. What was his favourite colour? Did he know how to fish? What kind of moustache would he like to grow?

  I reported the answers back to Dahra when she came to collect me. She listened and shrugged. “Martine hates the quiet ones. It’s taken her two weeks to get this far.”

  “But it didn’t mean anything!” I protested, remembering to keep my voice low as we walked past the servant’s rooms. My Mistress opened her mouth to say something, and then smiled a little ruefully.

  “It doesn’t matter. We get them to talk to us; it’s not our job to decide what they say. Maybe Martine will ask him some better questions tomorrow.”

  I wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but I kept walking. I knew there had to be more to the Siren’ mystical artifice than what I had seen. I had not spent my whole life in training just to sell headache syrup and find out that a man’s favourite food was kippers. Dahra tugged at the edge of my cloak when we slipped back into the courtyard.

  “Hide this.” she said. “If you keep to the shadows then you will be safe enough. You need to start finding your way around the rest of the island. Don’t get caught, especially not by any of the men. Until the High Mistress assigns you a guard you will not be safe outside of these walls. Do you understand?”

  I did not, but I nodded. My teacher sighed and tugged the hood down from my face. “You need to learn how to lie, Clay. You’ve been taught how to recognise other people’s lies – why can’t you hide your own thoughts?”

  “No-one’s ever been interested in working out what I’m thinking.” I rubbed my eyes sleepily. “Not even you. Why should I hide something no-one actually wants?”

  She tilted her head to one side. She wasn’t used to me speaking so honestly to her, and it clearly confused her.

  We had never shared the warmth that the other apprentices enjoyed, and we had no interest in prying into each other’s lives. Dahra was amused by my experiences if I learned from them, and completely indifferent if I did not. When I lost my last baby tooth she had still seen me as an infant, and when I started my monthly bleeding she only warned me not to stain my clothes. My life became a series of essays and examinations, and the part of it that grew from a shy child into a surly adult went almost completely unnoticed.

  Dahra’s sudden silence made me wonder if this was the first time she had noticed the gap.

  She had no talent for finding the right words. In the end her shoulders lifted in a shrug, and I saw that the fabric was crumpled and one buttonhole was stretched. I thought of the man with the nut-shell face. She chose her words slowly. “Nobody asks me what I’m thinking, either. Most of them think they can read it in my eyes. They’re wrong.” she reached out and jabbed her finger into my chest. “They would see through you in an instant.”

  I didn’t care. I was too tired. I yawned, and my Mistress seemed to get the hint. She bit her lip, and then sent me on my way.

  I dreamed of steam.

  CHAPTER 12

  We had reached the final part of our training. We were given more private lessons with our Mistresses, and extra free time to study. I was glad to be alone with Dahra, even if she constantly mocked me for my ignorance. But how could I be otherwise? I had almost forgotten what a man looked like until I spied on the one in the steam. Now I was supposed to know everything about them, and more. I would have been embarrassed to learn about such things with my classmates.

  If Dahra sent for me at dawn I knew that she would not appear. It was her way of getting me out of the training wing before the others woke up. By the time they were rubbing their sleepy eyes I was far away.

  At first, I spent my freedom indulging my body and not my mind. ‘Frustrating’ wasn’t even close to the right word. We had been taught how it felt so that we wouldn’t be overwhelmed – and in that respect, sex was treated the same as any other drug. The addiction was harder to shake off than the yearning for honey liquor. Months passed where I spied on every tryst I could find. Young men with hard bodies, old men with soft skin, fat men and thin men. Women on their knees or on their backs, moving slowly or writhing like snakes but always so smooth and beautiful. People who groaned together or people who were silent, people who seemed to adore each other and people who could have been fighting… over the months I watched all of them, and I learned from every one.

  My longing never abated. I gradually realized that my voyeurism was making it twice as painful. I turned my attention towards the island itself.

  I have tried to describe the island before, but I fear I cannot do it justice. At some point, a great volcano spewed itself out into a great pool of fertile land, before settling down into a tepid dormant mountain. The land was ridiculously fertile. I secretly believed that if Dahra had not been raised as a Siren she would have found a way to sneak onto the island just to steal a handful of the black soil. The Siren’s side of the island was littered with fig trees and willows, enormous flowers and scented herbs that had no earthly right growing in the same place. The apprentice wing was about three miles south of it, hidden behind a neat headland. The walls around it were surrounded by trees, which had been planted generations ago to form an artificial grove. The dainty trees nearest to the pier became older and more gnarled the closer the trail got to the apprentices, and by the time it reached our bay it was thick with wasps and mushrooms.

  After our complex the woods got thicker. Lizards and snakes slithered through the leaf mould and birds rattled throaty caws in the treetops. There were very few animals, but there was an abundance of insects. Some beetles would make a blue or red dye if they were crushed; some of the spiders had venom which made their victims dance. Dahra disliked the insects and I adopted her squeamishness, but some of the maids captured the scuttling creatures and kept them as pets in wooden boxes.

  I reasoned that, since the island was vaguely circular, I could explore it one beach at a time. I found a bay, worked out where it met the base of the mountain and forbade myself from walking outside of that segment. With such an idiotic plan I am surprised that I did not get lost, but after a few months of it I had a huge part of the island memorised.

  It was utterly deserted. There was the pier, the apprentice village, the tower and the lighthouse. Then, for endless miles, the island was filled with dirt, grass and trees. I expected to stumble across a village or another apprentice, but there was nothing. I even looked for smoke trails across the sky. All I could make out were the lookout towers the servants manned along the headlands.

  One day I decided to try walking around the entire island. I left the complex before the sun had risen. The first few beaches had been carefully tailored by the old women. The sand was free of stones, and decorated with a few pink seashells. I stepped on one. The crack was satisfyingly loud against the soft sough of surf.

  I walked around seven bays before noon. It was the furthest I had ever walked. My feet ached, but I forced myself to cross another headland before I sat down to rub them. The sands here were wild and untamed. They were littered with sharp stones and tufts of sharp, gritty grass. I decided to keep walking along the tideline. My feet would not sink as they had on the sandy beaches, and I could move more quickly if I kept on the flat sand.

  I walked for another few hours before a vague sense of unease started bothering me. I peered ahead.
The sea surged, and a wave crashed into the base of the next headland. My heart stilled for a moment. How could I have been so stupid? The tide had crept up on me!

  I spent too long searching the edge of the bay I was walking through. The ground was too soft and slick for me to climb off the sandy beach. Slick rocks led to a jagged, crumbling precipice. Tufts of marram grass waved at the top, taunting me. A gust of wind blew dust into my eyes and droplets of sea spray stung my lashes.

  The sky above the sea was black, and the wind grew stronger by the second as it was dragged into the storm. The tide hadn’t crept up, it was being pushed forwards!

  The waves were growing stronger, and the wind whipped the tops of them into frothy peaks. I could have clung to the cliff face and clambered back over the rocks to the last headland, but the sight of the waves crashing against my path made me shudder. If the water kept rising I would be dashed to pieces or dragged out into the riptide.

  As I ran towards the headland the trail of solid sand grew thinner until it was gone altogether. The cliff face was sheer on either side of me. I wobbled along a shelf of soft sand which the tide and carried up the cliff. I stopped for breath and looked down at the tide roaring below me, and bit back a wail. It was still rising! I hiked my skirts up into my belt and reached for a sharp rock which jutted out of the wall. If the sea couldn’t tear it free then I doubt a young girl could have managed it, but as I climbed I imagined myself falling, dragging the rock with me, and being crushed onto the rocks like a starfish.

  After a few minutes of climbing my hands were sliced open and raw, and my shoes were loose and slippery from the salt spray. I did not dare to kick them loose. I wept as I climbed, and the wind dashed the water from my cheeks. My fingers slipped in the oily bird leavings as they grew slick. I was ready to give up. I could wedge myself between the rocks and wait for the water; it would be easier.

  A seagull shrieked and flapped its wings above me. The ledge it sat on was filthy. My exhausted mind told me that the water couldn’t possibly reach it. I dragged myself up, ignoring the beating wings as they thudded about my ears, until the gull lost its nerve and dived off. My traitor eyes followed it, and I saw how far below me the rocks were. I shrieked and shut my eyes, too dizzy to move. I could not convince my hands to let go of the rocks for long enough to climb another inch. Then, finally, a burst of anger made me reach up and haul myself onto the ledge.

  I pushed myself onwards and found that the ledge kept going. There was a tiny channel, like the path I had followed below, which cut through the wall as neatly as a staircase. As I climbed the path grew broader. There were rocks on the cliff edge, webbed together with weeds like a balustrade.

  The channel ended at the entrance to a cave. My arms were trembling so much that I would not be able to scale the rest of the cliff face, but the sight of the dark yaw made goose-bumps rise on my arms. I had to force myself into the darkness. At least it was not raining in the cave. Still, my head began to pound. I felt like a child again, crawling into a cave that would surely drown me, and this time there was no Jonas to save me. The thought of my old friend made me grit my teeth. He would rush into the darkness with a cocky grin on his face even if he knew it would fill with water.

  I had to hold my breath and squeeze through the narrow entrance, but it widened out as I felt my way through the tunnel. The immediate sense of being away from the sheer drop made me smile with relief. The tunnel twisted inside the bedrock. I worried that I might find a labyrinth of caves and lose myself entirely. Then I saw a glimmer of grey light.

  The tunnel opened up into a cave – not vast like the caves of Singen, but the same size as my bedroom. There was a thin layer of water on the floor. When I tasted it the cool water was sweet. I drank a handful of it and sank down onto one of the rocks. There was a way out in front of me – I could smell wet grass and see the rain pooling by the entrance – but I was too tired to take another step. I curled up and fell into a deep, exhausted asleep.

  The moonlight shone through the entrance and lit the cave brightly enough to wake me. The silver beams reflected from the water and made the walls shimmer.

  A face stared out at me from the shadows, its eyes tearful and limpid as they fixed on mine. I gasped and leapt to my feet, my heart racing. Who else could be up here? I was completely lost, and nobody could have followed me up the cliff in the storm. I had never seen a person so grotesque. Perhaps it was a Mainlander who had been disfigured by the rocks – but how could it be? In the years I had spent on the island I had never heard of anyone leaving the pier.

  I backed away and the eyes followed me, but there was a milky blindness to them. I crept closer, too frightened to whisper a greeting, and the face flattened and disappeared.

  I breathed out in a rush. A demon! I clasped my hands together and fell to my knees, babbling an apology for trespassing. The face appeared again. When I stood up to speak to it, it faded away. A shred of doubt made me brave, and I stepped forward and reached out my trembling fingers. Two feet – one – and surely my hand would meet flesh, or he would catch hold of my wrist and stop me. A few inches – and my fingertips met stone. I felt odd whorls beneath my chapped skin. I moved closer, and finally saw the face for what it was.

  It was carved into the rock, protruding just enough to catch the light. When I had knelt down it had been hidden in shadow. The craftsman had used the natural shape of the rock as part of the carving, and so the face had jagged pits and blisters bursting out of its grey cheeks. Its nose was disfigured beyond repair. Only its eyes were beautiful – two shining beads of slate, which the rain had polished to a glimmering sheen. They caught the moonlight and followed me around the room, their expression soft and forgiving. Water dripped down from them, and when I brushed it away to see if the eyes would dim, they welled up again. It was a masterpiece. Why carve it here, where nobody would ever see it?

  The Siren would not have made such a twisted, masculine effigy. Men on the island were transient, while the women and their traditions were sunk into the bedrock. The servants who carved and painted facades on the pier would not have wasted their time on something so ugly, and besides, how would they have found this place?

  I touched the grotesque cheek one last time, and then walked towards the shining moonlight. I had to reach up and sink my hands into the sodden soil to pull myself through. The grass had knotted its roots into a mesh, and thistles scratched my fingers, but soon I was lying under the open sky. Water seeped through my clothes but I laughed and pressed my forehead into the ground.

  It took me hours to find my way through the marsh. I managed to sneak into the bathhouse before anybody saw me. The hot water sluiced off my skin and mud and silt disappeared into the drains. My clothes would have been impossible to clean, so I took them to one of the boilers and burned them. I must have looked odd scurrying along the trails in nothing but a towel, but nobody saw me. I fell into bed, and then saw blue light outlining my curtains. Of course nobody had seen me; it was before dawn.

  When I woke up my damp hair had twisted itself into impossible auburn snarls. Dahra came into my room as I was trying to comb them out. As usual, she did not bother to knock. She picked up my cloak – the only clothing I hadn’t dared to burn – and ran her fingers over it. She found crumbling mud and rubbed it between her fingers thoughtfully.

  “You’ve been in the marshes.” she said. “The servants are still searching the coast.”

  I blushed. I had no idea I had set the whole island into upheaval. Seeing my confusion, my Mistress sat beside me on the bed, “It would be difficult to convince the men that they’re in paradise after they see a girl’s corpse washed up in the sand. Are you hurt? Scarred?”

  I shook my head, but the woman glared at me until I showed her my scuffed arms and legs. Dahra poured alcohol over the scratches and scrubbed them so roughly that thin red blood seeped into the burning liquid. Her callousness hid genuine concern, I knew, but all she could bring herself to admit was that her propert
y had been damaged.

  I explained what had happened, but did not tell her about the cave. I told her that I had climbed all the way up the cliff and found shelter a little further along, in a grove of trees the old woman wouldn’t have thought to check. For the first time, I convinced my Mistress that I was telling the truth. I had far more to protect than my own petty secrets.

  The visage had haunted my dreams. It had no name and no warmth in its stony flesh. I was disgusted by it, but I wanted to protect it. I knew that the Siren would destroy it on sight. The sculpture was a fragment of another time, when the island was more than just obedient souls indulging selfish superstitions. Perhaps there had only ever been one person, a shipwrecked craftsman who had left his mark before being dashed into the sea. Maybe there had been a time when the Siren welcomed men into their sanctuaries. Only one answer was too awful to contemplate: maybe, once upon a time, there had been no Siren at all.

  CHAPTER 13

  If I am grateful for one thing in my life, it is this: I never knew the man’s name.

  I was picking apples from the trail-side trees when I saw him. He wore the light silks of a Mainlander but he walked as arrogantly as a Mistress. He was alone. He strolled along the path as if he owned it and stared curiously around every corner.

  A thrill of panic ran through me. Mainlanders were absolutely forbidden to leave the pier. The man only needed to take another hundred steps and he would see the ugly brown stone wall of the training house. It was fever season, and the beds were filled with the old and the sick. There was nothing magical about that.

  My hands went numb, and I dropped my basket onto the ground. The apples thudded out onto the soil. I closed my eyes and listened to the noise going on and on, hoping that I would open them and the man would be gone.