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The Song of the Sea

  Mari Biella

  Copyright 2013 Mari Biella

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  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  The Song of the Sea

  Author Note

  The Song of the Sea

  Folk around here will tell you that Jacob Worsley is wrong in the head. ‘Poor old Jake,’ the fishermen say, looking up from their nets as he walks along the harbour wall on chill grey days when the wind is up and the clouds are low; ‘his mind’s gone, poor fella.’ Or: ‘He ain’t been right since the accident. It stole his wits clean away.’ What else are they to think? Twenty years ago, as a young man sound of mind and strong of body, he went out to sea with his brother Isaac; and when he came back again, he was broken up, wild-eyed, and deaf and dumb. Leastways, he hasn’t spoken since that day, nor given any sign that he hears or understands – to them, at least.

  But to me – well, I know him better than most. I’ve cared for him these past fourteen years, there being none other to do it, and in that time I’ve come to know the man, and to love him a little; and I can testify that, when he wants to, he hears as well as any man alive, and speaks as well as most. But his story is not for the ears of these men who scour the sea for its treasures, for it would only affright them, and cause them needless care. No: to them he will always be Mad Old Jake, with his mouth and ears sealed and his story locked within.

  He will not speak, for fear of the words inside him. He will not hear, for fear of the Song of the Sea.

  It was twenty years ago, as I said, when I was but a girl. If this is a quiet place now, it was quieter still then: a remote little harbour village of grey weather-beaten stone, shielded by steep cliffs, with one road in and out. Nobody ever came here unless they had to – and very few people, I can assure you, ever felt that obligation. That suited us well enough, the three hundred or so souls who live here, for we’re distrustful by nature, and slow to take to strangers. Most of us are fishing folk, and the sea is in our blood, and Jacob was no different. He and his brother Isaac went out in a boat long before they took their first steps on land, and fishing was the only thing they knew, or ever cared to know.

  ‘If you had heard the Song of the Sea,’ Isaac would say, when he spoke of these things, ‘you’d know music the likes of which was never heard on land.’

  Isaac was the elder of the two brothers, a big, thickset man with a tangle of black hair. He was a pleasant fellow, they say – always ready with a civil word, quick to smile and slow to take offence. He had a wife and two daughters, and hoped for a son to follow them before too many years passed. He was careful with his time and money, and provided well for his family.

  Jacob was two years younger, smaller than his brother, and quieter. He was a strange devil, as everyone agreed: he kept himself to himself, a trait that became more marked as he grew older, and by the time he was a man nobody knew what went on in that head of his. He didn’t have a wife, though he was judged a handsome fellow in those days, and even with his friends he remained distant and quiet. He was clever, though, cleverer than almost anyone; and if he had not come from such a poor place as this, he might have gone on to do wonderful things. But what good are idle thoughts like that? He was born as and where he was, and that was his luck and his lot.

  Still, he wasn’t unhappy. Jacob loved beauty, and mystery, and peace, and all of those things could be found out at sea, where the ways of men, and the ugliness of those ways, are soon forgotten. He was a deep man, and full of feeling; and I’ve often thought it strange that, of the two brothers, it was Jacob, and not the more commonplace Isaac, who should have been spared the sea’s terrible spell.

  They set out on a fine morning in mid-May, with a jaunty little breeze that blew in from the west and whipped the sea up into frolicsome little waves. On days like that peril is far from your thoughts, and you set out with a light heart and a whistle. They slipped out of the harbour without a backward glance, and continued at a fair speed until they hit the open water; and then they cast their nets and lowered the sail, and let the waves carry them as they would.

  They were in a lazy mood. Isaac left Jacob to man the tiller, and lay back on the deck. He fell into a light slumber, his big chest rising and falling in time to the lifting and dipping of the boat, and soon his snores were the only sounds that broke the silence. The sea seemed quieter than ever, Jacob said: no seagulls cried or wheeled across the sky, and even the sound of the waves slapping against the hull seemed small and shy. Clouds came up and covered the sun, and the thin breeze grew cold. Jacob felt uneasy, for no reason that he could think of. He turned to look behind him and, seeing nothing, turned again. He strained his ears for the usual sea sounds – the sounds he knew, the sounds that spoke to him – and heard nothing. Restless, he gazed out over the horizon, and peered up at the sky. He reckoned that they were about two miles off the coast, but he could not see the grey smudge of land in the distance. He shivered, and felt a light trickle of fear in his stomach. But why should he have been afraid? He had been out in these waters in fair weather and foul, and regarded them as he might a wilful but well-known friend.

  ‘The sea is innocent,’ Isaac had once said. ‘Only men ever mean to wound you. The sea wishes you no ill, though it may let harm come to those who don’t respect it.’

  Jacob remembered the words, and wondered why they failed to comfort him now. He leaned over the stern and let his hands drag through the water. The sea looked deep green beneath the grey sky, and as calm as he had ever seen it. No danger, he thought, could possibly be lurking there today.

  Then he saw it.

  At first he thought he had imagined it, he said. It seemed nothing more than a flicker of movement, a flash of silver and grey, barely there before it was gone again. He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, and looked into the water again. Nothing: no movement, no shadows, no disturbance.

  It was a fish, he thought. A fish, that was all. I must be going soft in the head, to be afeard of such a thing as that.

  Another rippling shape shimmered and thrashed just beneath the surface, and then twisted away.

  ‘Isaac! Isaac!’

  Isaac’s snores were cut off, and he stirred, blinked, and propped himself up on one elbow.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  ‘I thought I saw something. In the water.’ Jacob pointed. ‘I don’t know what it was. Something big.’

  ‘Well, what of it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Isaac. There’s something right strange going on out here today.’

  Isaac cursed and stumbled over to the stern. The sun rolled out from behind the clouds for a moment, and the sea reflected a rippling pattern of light onto his large, sunburned face. He squinted down into the water for a moment, and then laughed and spat.

  ‘Ain’t nothing there now, anyway.’

  ‘I saw it.’

  ‘You were dreaming, lad.’

  Then Isaac’s mouth fell open, and his eyes grew wide.

  It was the same dancing, shimmering shape as before; but it swam closer no
w, as though it had lost its fear. Jacob saw little flashes of colour: white, brown, green. It was large – five feet in length, longer perhaps – but slender. It arched and dived as they watched, and was lost to sight once more.

  Jacob found that he was clutching Isaac’s arm.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Isaac’s eyes remained fixed on the water as he licked the salt from his cracked lips. ‘Not a fish.’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  It reappeared a moment later, and there could be no mistaking it this time. It swam level with the boat for a while, and then wriggled and flipped onto its back, and allowed itself to drift close to the surface. Jacob saw a face, surrounded by floating wisps of hair: a human face, a woman’s face. Her eyes fluttered open, and he saw that they were dark and cold, like the eyes of a fish.

  Jacob screamed and stumbled backwards, sprawling on the slippery deck.

  And then the singing began.

  It was just that, he said: singing, pure and high and sweet – the sweetest sound he had ever heard or could ever have imagined. There were no words, for this song was too ancient for language. It was simple, untainted sound, arching above them, swelling beneath them, echoing in their ears – a sound similar to that made by a female singer, and yet far more beautiful than anything that could have come from a human throat.

  Yet there was danger in it, too: a darkness, a menace.

  But Jacob felt no fear. A sweet lethargy spread through his body, and his soul swelled. He forgot everything other than the song. The past died before his eyes, the future lost all meaning, and only the perfect present signified anything at all. He wanted to weep and laugh at once. He wanted to lose himself, to leave the world behind. He got onto his hands and knees, and began to crawl towards the stern.

  He saw Isaac laughing, staring into the water, and watched as he slipped one leg over the stern and sat astride it for a moment, stretching out his arms like a man under a spell. Then he fell, hitting the water with a soft plash; and Jacob could think of nothing but how sweet it would be to follow, and let the sea swallow him. He crawled across the deck, cursing the heaviness of his limbs, and then grasped the side of the boat and began to clamber over it.

  The sea danced and glittered. A dozen or more shapes moved beneath the surface now, gliding past in smooth arcs, fluttering and wheeling like a flock of birds. They were beautiful, he saw: women, smooth of skin down to the waist, where the skin began to toughen and take on tinges of green and grey as it melded with the scales of slender, thrashing tails. Their hair floated around their heads in dark tendrils, and lay in streaks across their pale faces, and their hands beat at the water. They held their arms out to him, inviting, imploring, and their song reached an unbearable pitch.

  Jacob dipped his face into the water.

  He opened his eyes and saw swirls and plumes of scarlet, as delicate as smoke curling upward from a fire. The movement around him intensified, growing stronger and swifter. Dozens of wild white hands beat at the water, and backs and tails arched as if in ecstasy. They began to approach him from all sides, and he waited, his blood pounding in his ears like a drum.

  Then he saw where the scarlet plumes were coming from, and screamed. Brine filled his mouth, and he tried to lift himself clear of the water.

  Isaac was struggling a few feet beneath the surface, his eyes bulging, his arms and legs held fast by the women. He gave a silent shriek, and bubbles frothed from his mouth. One of the women dug into his belly with a thin, claw-like hand, and another eruption of blood stained the water as she tore a strip of flesh away and twisted it between sharp teeth. The scent of blood seemed to heighten the excitement of the others, and they closed in, thrashing their tails, until Isaac was lost to sight.

  But still more women were swimming towards Jacob. He saw bleached and shrivelled skin, like flesh that had been submerged in water for an Age, and shrivelled breasts flapping against protruding ribs, and sharp-nailed hands that curled into claws. Bloodless lips were drawn back into ravenous grimaces to reveal teeth like razors, and though the eyes were stagnant and black they spoke of an ancient hatred for mankind, and a hunger for men’s blood.

  Jacob fell back against the slimy deck, coughing, retching, and weeping. He buried his face in his hands and screamed. The sharp taste of his brother’s blood lingered in his mouth. He closed his eyes and put his hands to his ears, even though the song had died, had faded into the overwhelming silence.

  He could not have said how long he lay there. He felt the air grow cool and the sun fall upon his face at an angle, and heard the sharp cry of gulls. He lifted his head and peered around. The boat was in order, it seemed, though it drifted idly on the tide. He sat up, gazed out to sea, and saw a hunched green shoulder of land, and the spray thrown up by the waves as they smashed against the rocks. The evening sun lit the sea with streaks of crimson and gold. He crawled over to the stern, and looked down into the water. No shapes, no movement, no sound: only silence, and emptiness.

  The Song of the Sea was at an end.

  They found him that evening, they say, drifting in the boat just off the shore, sobbing and shivering; he would not speak, and did not appear to hear what they said to him. They coaxed him with kind words, with spirits and tobacco, but to no avail; he only covered his face with his hands, and wept. He did not quieten down until they took him back to the harbour, and he set foot upon land once more.

  His mother took him home and cared for him. She never heard her son speak again, but she had no doubts about what had happened. Isaac had fallen overboard, she pronounced – a large wave or sudden squall had tipped him out of the boat, perhaps – and his younger brother had been so disturbed by what he had seen that he had lost his powers of speech and reason. That, at least, was what she chose to believe, and I think it better that she never learned the truth. The old woman swallowed her sorrow, being too proud to let it be seen, but it gnawed away at her inside, and took her at last to an early grave.

  Isaac’s widow was married again in due course, to a merchant from a nearby town, and left the village. She never came back: the place was tainted for her, they say, after he died.

  And Jacob – well, Jacob lives quietly enough, though he walks always in the darkness. He wanders about the village sometimes, his gait shuffling and uncertain, and looks out over the sea with eyes full of silent horror. Sometimes the other men, feeling sorry for him and thinking to please him, invite him to step into their boats and go out onto the water with them, and he shivers and turns away. Yet still, like a lonely satellite circling a terrible star, his steps carry him back to the harbour at dawn and dusk, when the sun is swallowed and the water runs thick and red, and he listens, in fear and in hope, for the Song of the Sea.

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  Author Note

  Thank you for reading The Song of the Sea. I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to know more about my books, you can visit my website, or catch up with me on Twitter, Facebook or Goodreads. I blog monthly with the Authors Electric collective. Sign up to my newsletter for news, gifts, exclusives, and a free starter library – https://eepurl.com/bXqUnX.

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