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sirens-serial · 7 years ago

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Chapter 2

Delma took her time packing up her knives. The day was over. All the fish were sold, all the village cats fed. The customers had come to gawk and stare, but she still managed to finish out the stock father brought. The other women in the market hated her for it, but how was it her fault that their husbands couldn’t bring in a decent catch to save their lives?

It wasn’t a life anyone in their right minds would choose for themselves. But it was all she had. The noisy fish market was quite interesting all things considered. Better than being bored, at least. She’d asked Mother once why she’d come to this island, to this soggy little village with horrible people. Mother wasn’t from around there, not really. She’d married Father at some point and they’d come to live here, miserably forever after. Mother never answered the question, choosing instead to usher her away to some other task, or distract her with some tasty morsel.

Delma finished cleaning up her stall and wrapped her shawl tighter around her. No one else around her seemed to mind the cold, but it cut her to the bone. The threadbare dress she was wearing wasn’t much help, but the shawl provided some defence at least. She called out to the gathered women “Good evening!” and they ignored her, as they always did. It had become a little joke for her now, to irritate them for just a moment before she went home to prepare Father’s dinner.

She took the road over the cliffs, round the edge of the forest instead of through it. It was a longer walk, but safer than going through. Even though it was afternoon, and the sun hung high in the sky, there was no light in there. There would be shadows and strange birds, things that crunched underfoot. At least out on the cliffs, she could see if something was coming at her. The trees in the forest could provide cover for all manner of creatures, and there were plenty of stories of those who went in and never came back, or worse still, did come back.

She’d told Mother that once, a few years ago, begging to go home the long way.

“But Ma, something might come and catch us,�� she said. She couldn’t remember why now, but she’d been almost distraught then, tears stinging her eyes as she tried to get her mother t understand that they needed to go the cliffs way. There was something needling her about the forest that night.

“Hush, girl, you’re letting your mind get away w’ye,” Mother used to admonish when Delma begged to go the long way. “Your father’ll be waiting for us, and I don’t mean to be late because you’re afraid of your own shadow.”

At least in those days, Delma wasn’t alone. Now whenever she had those fits of fear, she couldn’t bring herself to go in the forest. Besides, the cliffs at the start of winter were beautiful, stark and white and strong. They dwarfed everything around them when she looked up at them from the beach or the dock, and when she stood on top of them, as she did now, she felt as though nothing could touch her. As if she could fly.

She took her time walking back. Father wouldn’t be home. On Wednesdays he went to visit a woman in town, a widow. He said it was just to have a drink at the pub, but Maye had seen him calling on the woman one day and told Delma. Every week for the past few months, he’d go there, with his beard shaved and his hair a little tidier than usual. Talk in the village was that she was quite the wealthy madam, although no one would ever know it to look at her. She was meaner than anyone Delma had ever met.

She could hear sailors down on the beach, shouting at each other. The sound carried even over the wind, coarse and crude, and Delma blushed, even though there was no one to see. It sounded like some sort of argument between the men from the village and the sailors from the other side. She couldn’t quite make it out, but neither side was mincing any words, she could tell that much. Delma stopped to watch. There wasn’t anything else she had to do anyway.

The men were standing in two lines facing each other, yelling and gesturing to the others. There was an air of complete carelessness about them, as if they could do anything they wanted. Of course, they could. She was envious of it. She’d spend countless hours imagining what it would be like to see places far beyond her tiny little island, not have to answer to anyone. Still, there was no use pining for something that could never be.

She looked closer at the little crowd. He was there too, the man who’d visited her stall. The captain. He stood slightly between the two sides, his hands up like he was making peace. Delma felt her face heat up, and she couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her, although she was sure it wasn’t from the cold. He couldn’t have been much older than she was, but he commanded attention, she could tell even from up there. Every time he spoke, the others would fall silent and listen, only starting back on the argument when he was finished. Delma averted her eyes. Having good sight didn’t mean that everything was meant to be seen. Mother had drilled that lesson into her head many times.

She forced herself to walk faster to get home. There were still things to do around the house, and prepare some food in case the widow decided not to feed Father before he came back. Delma was proud of how she kept the house. There was not a speck of dust anywhere and the fire was always stoked, so it was bright and warming. The attic where she slept was small and draughty, but she kept it clean and cosy. Father didn’t really notice or care, but she did. At least she was better at keeping house than those women in the village. It was common knowledge that they were slatterns, all of them.

Eventually, the fire was built and roaring and a stew set to bubbling in a pot above it. She’d dusted and cleaned and scrubbed, and the house was immaculate. Tomorrow was wash day. She hated it, but anything was better than giving the village something else to gossip about. There would be no fault found with how she took care of Father, she made sure of that. If the only thing they could criticise about her was her skin, that was fine,

She sat down by the fire to try and get warm, but the chill was so far into her bones that she couldn’t stop shivering. She was usually cold, so she didn’t pay any attention to it at first, but this time felt different. It was as if Death himself were sitting next to her. The roaring fire in the hearth didn’t seem to be making a whit of difference. There was a great big ball of worry coiled in the pit of her stomach, wrapping it in knots. It was that man, she was sure of it. Mother used to say that people had something about them that others could see. It seemed to be true about the man at least.

He wasn’t like the men on the island, even the young ones. He was nicer, more confident. Refined, she thought. Island boys were rough and rude. They tore at girls’ dresses as they passed, and barked rude things at them when they walked. Still, something felt wrong, like there was some disaster heading for her.

Father late coming back from the widow. She was probably feeding him his supper. ‘Fine then,’ Delma thought. ‘He can stay there as long as he likes.’

Still she couldn’t stop the shudder that ran up her spine. She tried to avoid thinking about what would happen when he married again, had a family of his own. She’d asked him about once, right after Mother died, but he hadn’t said anything. Just grunted that she didn’t need to worry about that now. The darkness was so heavy outside the window, and it was frightening. It wasn’t the darkness that scared her. It was what was lurking within it. There were a lot of things that could hurt a girl sitting in an empty house by herself about a mile from the nearest neighbour’s. She leaned closer to the fire. There wasn’t any use in thinking about that now. Father would be home any minute and then she wouldn’t be on her own anymore.

On nights like these, she used to make mother tell her stories, about far off lands where it never snowed, and the sea was warm and welcoming instead of icy and harsh. Marico the raven was her favourite. She’d sit on the floor and rest her head in Mother’s lap, and Mother would talk and talk, brushing her fingers gently through Delma’s curls, her fingers greased with whatever she could find to tease away the knots.

“But you must remember they’re just stories, love,” Mother would say. “There isn’t anything that can hurt you when you’re in here with us.”

It was all well and good when it was her and Mother together in the little house, but on her own, without Father, without anyone except the spiders in the corners to keep her company, it wasn’t so safe, she was sure of that.

It wasn’t just that there were things in the forest. Those could be kept away if you tried hard enough. There were books about those, things she could do, herbs to burn, or incantations, or spells to say. Those didn’t worry her. It was that she was, in the most basic of ways, especially since Mother died, alone. There would be no one to stop the men in the village taking advantage of Father’s absences to do something to her if they wished. Hag stones only went so far as protection. Men were cruel, and if they were determined, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

She’d known since she was a child that there was something different about her. The mothers in the village used to drag their children away to wash them whenever Delma tried to play with them. There were the looks in the street, the whispers that people never quite managed to hide, and even in church, even when Mother told her that it was the safest place for her, there was no refuge. At least Parson Wickers tried to preach patience and kindness.

Still, sunlight made all of that so much easier to bear. She could see them.

She took up the broom from beside the hearth and started sweeping up the non-existent dust from the spotless floor. She wouldn’t allow the house to fall into disrepair because Mother was gone. Even after she died, Delma scrubbed and cleaned and mopped and cooked and held it together by her fingertips, crying in the privacy of her room over the raw skin on her fingers and the blisters and the cuts. It got better with time as her skin adapted to the work. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been working, but it seemed like no time at all had passed before Father slammed the door open. She could tell even in the dim light from the fire that he had been drinking. The widow had obviously been plying him with whatever smelly beer she brewed in that house.

“Good evening,” Delma said cheerily. He didn’t answer. He just stomped past her and collapsed onto a chair.

“Have you had supper already?” she asked. She could feel the little hairs on her skin start to stand up, the way they did before a storm. It wasn’t a good sign when he refused to speak like this. He wasn’t the type of man to be over chatty anyway, of course. But when he was drinking, and he got quiet…Delma tried to calm herself. Worrying was something she did just as well as selling fish. Mother always said it of her.

He grunted in answer, so she started dishing up some of the hot stew from the pot anyway. It might put him in a better mood. She got a plate for herself and sat down on the chair by the hearth. They both ate in silence, the only sound the crackling of the wood on the fire. Delma hoped her couldn’t tell she was nervous. That would only make him worse.

#song of sea #sirens #writeblr #mywriting #webnovel #web novel #web serial #magic #witches #mermaids

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sirens-serial · 7 years ago

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Part 1: Light

Chapter 1

Black, cold water crushes her on all sides, rushing into her mouth, her nose, her ears. Everything aches, her lungs burning like salt in a fresh cut, like the pain that clings to her wrists and ankles like the memory of something terrible. Her legs feel like lead, her arms can’t push herself up anymore, and her body loses the fight for air, and she struggles and struggles and then...

Delma wrenched herself back to wakefulness. Her heart hammered so hard against her chest that she felt nauseated. Her eyes darted back and forth, taking in the stained wooden ceiling, the cracks in the walls. Her lungs worked so hard they burned. It was the fourth time in seven days she’d had that dream. She hadn’t had it for about a month. It didn’t ever go away. Sometimes it was every night, sometimes not but it was always the same dream. She didn’t know how she ended up in there, but all of a sudden, she was in the ocean, struggling against the tide, trying to stay alive, then right before she let herself slip into oblivion, she would wake up.

Nothing helped. She made sure every night before bed she did all the right things, just like Mother used to say. She said her prayers, put a sprig of thyme under her pillow. Drew the curtains over the windows to block out the moonlight, went to sleep with a clean conscience. But still when she closed her eyes the waters would rush to close over her head.

Nearly drowning every night takes a toll on a body, and she stayed awake as long as she could to try and avoid it. It didn’t help. Morning always came sooner than she expected, but after a night like this, she always thanked God that she was even awake. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. The sun wasn’t up yet, only sending a little hesitant light up to turn the black sky a dusky purple. And yet, the air was sweeter today, cooler in her lungs, like spring water, and she guzzled it up in big sips.

She pulled on her dress, rough homespun, thick enough to ward off the worst of the winter air coming off the ocean, and wrapped a woollen shawl around her shoulders. It’s one Mother made, large and comforting, wide enough to wrap around her head and shoulders and still have room to burrow in. Make the bed, pull the curtains open. Same as every day. The bed is old, the room small. There is only room for one, but it’s cosy enough. There is an altar in the corner of the room, another thing from Mother. She crossed to it, knelt, and lit the candle, offering up a prayer of protection, as always, in a language she couldn’t speak, but whose cadences were as familiar as her own fingernails.

The sun is almost up, almost time for the fishermen to return with their day’s catch. Father will hand the catch over to her, stacked in boxes, ready to be sold at her stall in the marketplace to all the chattering, clattering, terrible people who come asking. Time flew, as time did, so she ran outside. Lateness was the one thing Father could never abide.

The woods outside the house seemed foreboding in a way that they never did before, and Delma couldn’t understand it. Mother used to take her outside when she was a child, play the counting games, hide in the trees. The forest was her friend, but something in the air felt…evil today. She waved the feeling away. There was no point in trying to explain the feeling away. Mother used to tell her that sometimes she’d have that feeling for no reason, but there was nothing to worry about. Delma clung to the reassurance like an amulet as she took her usual path through the thick trees to the dock.

She knew it like the back of her hand, but there was still the faint hesitation in her stomach. The trees stood deep and black like the winter water waiting just over the cliff.

Mother used to tell her other stories too, of things that lurked in the water, in the woods, in the town, waiting to take away little girls who disobeyed their mothers. Delma loved them. “But they’re just stories. Just stories,’ she used to say.

Delma braced herself as she walked deeper into the trees, fast and straight. She had no plans to die in a forest. Mother always said, quiet doesn’t mean empty. In a forest like this, walk fast, don’t look back. You never know when something might be following you. Watch your step, and never, ever look back, in case something follows you out.

Fog rolled in from the sea, thick and white as a blanket and she couldn’t see the tops of the trees anymore. The smell of salty ocean water cut through the air like a knife and all of a sudden, her lungs felt like they were stuck on the inhale, just for a moment. She pulled her shawl over her head and shoulders, tight and warm, hurried through the woods, ignoring the strange sounds and crackles, singing out like she used to, in just a whisper. It seemed almost like sacrilege to sing aloud in this place.

“Bobby Shafto's gone to sea,

Silver buckles at his knee;

He'll come back and marry me,

Bonny Bobby Shafto!

Bobby Shafto's bright and fair,

Panning out his yellow hair;

He's my love for evermore,

Bonny Bobby Shafto”

She came out of the forest at the other end, grateful that no one was usually about at this time of the morning. Never run. Never run in the forest. You might catch something’s attention. The sun was starting to properly come out. Father would be angry. She was late. Selling fish wasn’t a friendly occupation for anyone, but Delma found it even more difficult. Every minute counted so she could get the place she wanted before the rest of the fishwives bullied her away.

She heard them whispering to each other, trying to hide behind their hands. Being born out of wedlock was the least of it for Delma. Touched by the devil, as old Mrs Jones was fond of saying, but she was a miserable old crone. Not a brain between the lot of them. The rest of them laughed and gossiped together, some even crossing themselves when Delma passed by, or falling silent and watching her with ugly, rheumy eyes.

Father was with the rest of the fishermen, mending nets, hauling in whatever they’ve caught. It made her a little proud to see him turned out better than the rest of them, thanks to her. His jumper was old of course, but she took good care of it, mending and dying it with herbs to keep the colour. He’d even started shaving again. He looked a good deal better than the others, who were the husbands of the village shrews. The ancient wooden planks of the pier creaked and clattered as people moved back and forth.

This side of the bay usually only had smaller boats, people who fished to support themselves. The larger ships almost never docked on the island, but when they did, it was on the far side, where the rich people lived.

“Good morning, everyone,” Delma called.

The men were slightly friendlier than their wives, even though Mother used to warn her to stay away from them. She didn’t understand why then. Then the stares started, the glances, the lingering touches, and she understood and kept her distance.

It frightened her. It still did. Longer dresses, shawls, scarves, doesn’t help. Mother told her it was normal, that she was a beautiful girl, in the same breath warning her to be careful, that a girl can get a reputation, it isn’t respectable, it isn’t safe.

“Good morning, girl,” says Mr Jones. Father barely acknowledged her. He looked up, nodded, and picked up a box filled with fish, plopping it into her arms. At least they didn’t smell yet, just the salty tang of the water they came from. They stared up at her, glassy eyes dotted around the crate. They were alive a few minutes ago, swimming around their watery homes and then down came a net, scooped them up and then nothing. Poor creatures.

“Good catch this morning?” she asked. Father shrugged. “The big ships on the other side are scarin’ off the fish. I wish they’d just dock somewhere else.”

“Are they back then? At this time of year?”

“Aye. Pirates, the lot of them,” he growled.

Mr. Jones patted his shoulder with a knobbly old hand, resting the net he was mending on his knees. Father shrugged him off, not too forcefully.

“This close to winter it’s hard enough to catch anything without them scaring away the fish. Any sort of business ‘round here, they come in and mark it for death.”

Mr Smith, another of the crone-husbands, laughed, gravelly and wet, and for a moment, Delma hoped he would choke on it.

“Not to mention all them young men spoiling all the local…” Father glared at him before he could finish the sentence. Whatever else Father was, he did try to shield her from language unfit for a young lady. More than could be said for the other men on the island.

“All I’m saying is thanks to those sailors, even the good doctor can’t help some of the people in this village.” Mr Smith gave the impression that he was about to cough up some vital organ every time he so much as whispered. He spit liberally on the ground, great gobs of disgusting mucus.

“Well then. The fish isn’t going to sell itself,” Father said gruffly. “See if you can make them sailors earn their dock. Sell as much as you can.”

Sailors don’t have much use for fish, but Father didn’t like excuses and reasons so she didn’t say anything as she took her box to the stall.

The crones had gathered already. They wouldn’t outright take over her place, but there had been more than her share of fish guts slung about in her direction lately. The local custom is mostly from the other side, pubs and the servants of the bigger houses. Even from her stall, Delma could see that it would be a good day. Father’s catch was a lot more impressive than the others’.

She took out her knives and her favourite cleaver. She kept them sharp, shiny, even though the handle was pocked with age. She laid the fish on the table for her buyer and started cutting, slicing, emptying, cleaning. The flesh was supple and firm, but her knives are sharper, her hands firmer. She muttered a prayer of thanks and saw the crones cross themselves out of habit. The church here didn’t believe in crossing yourself or lighting candles, but that could have changed. Delma hadn’t been to church in so long, after Parson Wickers died.

Maye had dutifully reported back on the new parson’s homilies on how dark skin was a mark of sin, and how the Abolitionists would burn in hell and all that. The biddies took that as confirmation that Delma was cursed by God, or that Mother was cursed and Delma was her punishment, or something. It changed every week.

All of a sudden, she felt something, like water trickling down her spine. Not on her skin, but underneath it somehow. It made her shiver. Every time she felt it, something terrible happened. Mother said it was a gift from her father, and she would pat her on the cheek, immeasurable sadness in her eyes.

The first time she felt it was when her father disappeared. She didn’t remember much about him, just a white shirt, boots, his cool-as-earth, calloused hands, darker than Delma’s, but so big and powerful. She was playing in the field next to the house, just a wee child, couldn’t even speak properly from what she heard afterwards. It frightened her enough that she ran crying for Mother. She didn’t remember that either.

The second time Delma felt it, she never came home again.

She tried to ignore it, go back to the fish, sell before they started to stink. The market was full, more men than usual, probably come from the ships. Merchants, sailors, passengers all milled around and she hated them for it. They stare and gawk, some at least polite enough to look over the fish in front of her before they moved on. At least she had more paying customers than the crones. Thank goodness for the novelty of buying fish from a coloured girl.

Out of nowhere a man passed in front of her table, and she froze. Freedom read in every line of his tall body. Jet black hair under a hat low on his forehead, and yet he didn’t look frightening like the other men who did this. Tanned skin, from working on his ship, white shirt, scuffed black boots. Shining eyes. Small gold earring in his right ear. Her eyes couldn’t leave him, and she sank back into the hood of her shawl, as if it could protect me from his gaze. He walked alone and self-assured, and stopped in front of her.

“How much for your biggest fish, my lady?” he said. His voice was just as playful as his grin.

“Depends. Do you want the whole thing? Or just pieces of it?” She picked up her knife, concentrating on its heft, selecting a fish from the box, avoiding his eyes.

“The whole thing of course,” he replied. He smiled, quirking up one corner of his mouth. “I’m a growing lad after all.”

Something about his voice warmed her insides.

“Three shillings. I’ve never seen you around here,” she said, trying to mask the tremor in her voice.

“That’s because I ain’t from around here. My ship just docked on the other side of the bay.” His eyes seemed to sparkle even here.

“Well in that case, either you should buy something or move on. Why don’t you make a start with my biggest fish?”

He straightened up, hands behind his back. “You really should let your customers take their time in making a selection,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll lose business.”

�� He stared up and down, making little noises of approval at the fish, and she found herself trying not to smile at him. Before either of them could say anything else, a dirty looking man with a scruffy beard and a grubby shirt called out “Captain!”

“You’re the Captain of your ship?” Delma asked. He didn’t look much older than she was.

“I suppose you’ve caught me out now,” he said, gleam in his eyes. “Keep my secret?”

“From who? No one’ll care.” She caught herself. “Perhaps my stepfather might, if he sees me talking to the likes of you.”

He clutches at his chest. “The likes of me? You wound me!”

She couldn’t help smiling, but she stifled it. Father was never too far from the stall when business was good.

“I meant a sailor. Now are you going to buy something or are you going to move so other people can buy?”

“Alright, alright. I’ll move on. But I will be back. I think you owe me a fish to soothe my bruised pride.”

“What bruised pride? Because I called you a sailor? You are a sailor.”

“No miss. Because you implied that I wasn’t the sort of man you should be seen with. Sailor or not, I’m a gentleman.”

The answer flew out before she could stop it. “Where’d a sailor learn a word like implied?” Luckily it didn’t seem to cut him too deeply.

“And that’s another fish.” He winked and walked away, still as carefree as before. Butterflies beat a tattoo in her belly, a sick sort of feeling, like her head was about to float right off her shoulders. She found herself wringing her hands together, winding a loose thread on her shawl over her finger.

“You’re a sailor. What do you want with fish?” she called after him. He waved over his shoulder without looking back.

Mrs Crone sneered from her stall. “P’r’aps you should keep your attention on your work, girl. Otherwise you might get a reputation like your mother’s”

“She’d be lucky to,” said Maye, coming out of nowhere, as she did. She was a carefree girl, almost the complete opposite of Delma, but they’d been fast friends since childhood. Maye’s mother was one of the few people in the village who didn’t mind about Mother. She came to visit anyway, and brought Maye, and even stayed to lunch once or twice.

“Besides, some of the things everyone knows about you, you’d be well advised to remember that old saying about glass houses,” Maye added, nodding in the woman’s direction.

The Crone’s mouth flopped open like one of her ugly fish, but she stayed quiet.

“Anyway, who was that you were yelling at?” asked Maye, with a smirk on her face.

“No idea,” replied Delma. She was still feeling brave, her body buzzing with excitement. “Some sailor. I don’t know who he is.”

“Well, well, our little wallflower isn’t so shy after all,” crowed Maye.

Delma flung a piece of fish guts clinging to her fingers at Maye. She caught the man out of the corner of her eye. He walked with a swagger, still getting used to the steady ground after rolling decks. All sailors had it, a rolling gait, legs apart to balance themselves. But the way he walked wasn’t frog-like, like the rest of them. He was confident, just as comfortable on dry land as on a ship, as a man in charge of his own vessel should be.

Maye noticed her looking off in his direction and smacked her on the arm. “What’s his name anyway?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Captain something or other.”

“Captain?” She sounded suspicious. “What kind of Captain? Isn’t he a little young?”

Delma flushed under her friends questioning for some reason, and the cold burned against her face.

“I don’t know, Maye. He just came looking for some fish.”

“You might be forgiven for thinking he’d have had enough fish when he sails.”

She came round the stall and started to wipe up the table with an old rag, deftly wiping bits of fish onto the ground as Delma polished her knives.

The rest of the day went strangely fast. Maye’s visits between errands for her mother always broke up the monotony, but Delma found herself going back to the man with the dark eyes. The morning wore on, for the village cats. The sun is high and so is the wind; the waves are louder than ever. Try as she might she couldn’t forget the light sensation of water trickling down her spine, slowly, slowly.

#webnovel #song of sea #sirens #ocean #story #writing #mywriting #sailors

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