. . . Miss Rusk, the inestimable Tante Ankolee. What is’t brings you here, madam?
As this fool says, an’ in support o’ his arguments: because that yah done brung trouble on yaself, Jerusalem Parry—terrible trouble indeed, drawn up from deep places, for all it treat ya sweet and look on you wi’ love. More than she herself know, even, poor creature . . . not that ignorance ever any excuse for ill-doin’, as we all three o’ us well-know.
Doctor Attesee’s corpse swum into view once more, mouthing its curious warning fragments: Oh, my poor girl . . . not her fault. Clione, my poor creature. And Parry found it easier by far to read between the lines of that palimpsest now, with the fit of love no longer immediately upon him. Staring down upon the too-fluid curve of his sleeping lover’s spine, vertebrae sharp-raised as if poised to tear free and form a sea-trench eel’s dorsal fin, and knowing in his heart how it would have had to have been this way, all along. For who could ever feel pulled to him, in all his Cain-marked glory, who did not themselves bear such a taint in turn?
Clione, taming Dolomance without intent and tracing the lines of power linked between Parry and his ship, all ignorant of their import, before laying a cooling hand on Parry’s sorest spots and folding him in, giving him so much delight he thought himself healed. Just like Rusk, in his way—so Devil-sure he could bend Parry to where he’d accept this bond he saw between ‘em, without even a pennyworth of proof to that premise. Dying still so unconvinced, in fact, that the grim manner of his execution freed the power he didn’t know he owned in one great burst of ill-wishing, a reel of spellwork which proved both first and last.
She is not human at all, then, Parry said, sadly. Is she?
Nah as such, no.
There she sat, the shade of her anyhow, all decked out in her pagan finery—locked hair hung with bells, a bone through her blue-rimmed lip, and daring somehow to feel sorry for him, who’d once stood to take the pulpit, shepherd of every soul in the district! Who’d studied Greek and Latin, writ on holy things . . . by God, it was insupportable. Her with her green eyes and her tea-coloured slave-girl’s skin, the set of her nose so much like Rusk’s own it made Parry want to break it with a single slap—
(You are being ridiculous, Jerusalem, mabyn mine, his mother would have said, though, whenever some passion made him stamp and scream. Things are as they are; the world has its order, much as we may rue it. Not even magic can ever make it otherwise.)
Prideful as always, therefore, he drew himself up, made himself cold and still. And put out a hand, demanding that he might be the one ordering, rather than the reverse—
So show me the truth of it, madam; I will believe it from you, if not from that “cousin” of yours. Show me it all.
That one time, Haelam Attesee, on th’ bounding main—surgeon o’ the Nymph, who study hard on nature for his own reward, an’ seek t’ steal the Sea’s own secrets from Her t’ gain him passin’ land-locked fame an’ fortune. That one time, he.
Dredging the ocean wi’ a scoop-net of his own design, sent down along o’ the Nymph’s great anchor, in an uncharted corner of Her ever-changin’ waters. An’ one day, along wi’ all the usual muck an’ trash, he find something else entirely, drawn up from dark places: an egg made from jelly wi’ a skin—nah, a shell—which he raise up towards the light, feelin’ it warm in his hands. An’ as he do, he see something deep inside start t’ move, to change . . . to grow.
One day more an’ that tiny thing a baby, whole an’ perfect-formed, hoverin’ inside the egg in its glass bottle, as it set on Doctor Attesee’s cabin desk. An’ the egg get bigger as the baby do, growing ‘til it fill the glass so full Doctor Attesee take an’ break the glass over an old hip-bath, pouring seawater in ‘til the egg float up unbroken yet an’ the baby open its eyes, blinking, making faces like it nah know whether it want to cry or nah—an’ smile at him, too, like it recognize his face.
By the time a week gone, the egg split an’ a child come out, a little girl-baby. Two month later, that girl-baby a girl for true, tall up to Doctor Attesee’s waist. An’ so she keep on, growin’ and growin’, ‘til she as you see her now: a siren sure, made ta bend men to her will. Made ta tempt men to their death an’ take ‘em down with her, deep under, to that airless place from whence she born.
The crew think her a sweet child when she still look like one, an’ treat her like they would have treated one of their own. But the minute she gain her maiden form an’ commence ta bleed, they perk up they heads, like sniffin’ dogs. First they start ta fight amongst ‘emselves, an’ then they turn on Doctor Attesee to get ta her, ta fill her full of their seed an’ see whah may grow of it—how can they help it, when she fillin’ th’ very air wi’ heat an’ botheration? An’ she, she know no better, bein’ lied to all her short life. For Doctor Attesee never want to tell her the truth, nah an’ risk him lose her love . . .
An’ when the end come, how could he know where the Sea take her on to, once he commit her once more to Her own bosom? How Her currents would carry her on, ceaseless, ‘til that creature o’ yours recognize her an’ pledge her his fealty—pull her on through wrack an’ ruin ta where he know she best be welcomed—an’ lay her at last at your feet, Jerusalem Parry. You with your craft, powerful enough ta protect her ‘gainst all comers . . . not ta mention your ill-fatedness when it come ta such matters overall, forever doomed to be loved by those ya never can, or love them who never love you th’ exact same way in return . . .
At these words, even in sleep’s tight grip, Parry gave his head one fierce rejecting shake, thinking: Who are you to say that, witch? Do you know my whole life, planned out beforehand? Perhaps I will never love at all, never having loved thus far, aside from she who bore me . . .
But: Oh, little wizard, Tante Ankolee’s now very far away spell-voice told him, softly, sadly—water-warped, as though filtered through every watery mile between them. Be it here a-Sea, or on Veritay Isle where that half-me-blood brother o’ mine first saw light, or them Cornwall marshes you an’ ya mother call home, cunning-folk go only ever one o’ two ways. Others we can make love for, but ourselves . . . to such as we, love is dangerous; worse than iron’s kiss, an’ far more lastin’.
An’ as for you—you damn well know you love this sea-girl already, fast an’ hard enough to drown in. You nah the triflin’ sort, worse luck. If ya had been, well . . .
( . . . if so, I still have a “cousin,” ‘stead of his ghost. An’ you nah be stuck afloat for the rest of ya life, just ‘cause ya too proud ta bear the proof of someone else’s love, true though it might be, so long as you nah share it.)
Almost a whisper now, yet still he fought to rail against it, twisting in his sleep . . . ’til another voice again intruded, equal-familiar, if far more unwelcome. Commanding, in its turn—
Jerusha, rouse yourself! Jerusha! Spring up and don your breeches, man, lest ye crave t’ put down a full mutiny bare-arsed!
What—?
That hammering at the cabin door, tweaking him sharply up from slumber into immediate waking danger—less like flesh than wood and metal, staves and mattocks, grappling hooks. The din of many feet and the blabber of many voices, all of them calling for his blood . . . or hers. Clione’s.
His Clione’s.
Rusk’s ghost stood by the door, gesticulating peremptorily. There, out there! Arm yourself, fool, for they come in force, and will not be long denied entry!
“Those damnable dogs,” Parry exclaimed, torn between shock and rage, as he fumbled at his buttons; flame bloomed all ‘round him, a blue-green protective conflagration, and by its prompting light Clione Attesee arose likewise, stumbling to her feet whilst still in a sweet state of nature, with only her long black hair for clothing. Grasped for his arm with one hand, her soft fingers now slightly webbed between with crepey folds of skin, and asked: “Jerusalem, what is it? Has the madness come upon this ship, too? Are we safe?”
“While I yet have strength to make it thus, my dear, yes. But perhaps you should cover yourself, before we find ourselves in slightly less agreeable—”
‘Company,’ he might have meant, before the door gave way at last, rendering the point moot. Men spilled in over the threshold, howling various obscenities and execrations, but Parry did not pay them much heed. Instead, he let loose at them full-force, much as he had with that earliest attacker—but doing so intentionally cost him more than he’d bargained for, causing blood to gush from his nose as though punched. The resultant blue-green wave bore the two closest hands away entirely, reducing them to fragments, and flayed the wall itself away behind them a good ten feet on either side, leaving the doorway’s frame to wobble a moment in the wreckage before falling backwards, resolving to splinters. Other men took it in their eyes or across their half-turned faces and thrown-up hands, like vitriol, before it finally broke over the railing; the deck was awash with dissipating force, rising screams punctuated by general discharge of pistols, and a ball had struck Parry’s upper shoulder before he could shield himself, spinning him Clione’s way.
“No!” she cried, face white with horror. Then: “To me, sir!”