Chapter 29

Three days passedsince Alba spoke to Phyllis Michaels and Eridanys dragged Eugene Michaels back to shore. Three days of returning to a normal routine, Alba thinking he might otherwise go mad. Not wanting to bring any more attention to himself from the town, even spending nights in the lighthouse tending to the lamp.

Doing chores around the house, cleaning the cistern, making repairs, searching passively for any other signs of his mother's brief stay as a way of keeping the grief from eating him a little too much. Asking Eridanys if he could do anything about the other drowned souls in the water, convinced they were the other missing wickies, wanting to know if there was any way Alba could set them free, too. They kept their distance from Eridanys, he'd said, but would still try nonetheless.

Three days until the lantern in the retired lighthouse finally stopped turning, and Eridanys could join Alba at the top to witness what Alba had described to him. Where he stood in silence for a long, long time, staring at what remained of his kin who never came-to again after so long beneath the influence of the turning light. Four pairs of eyes reflecting the occulting glow even once it had long died; unresponsive, unmoving, hardly breathing. When Alba finally nudged Eridanys to ask what he was thinking, Eridanys jumped, like he'd forgotten Alba was there with him. He offered Alba a weak smile, though it didn't last long, especially once he turned back to the others.

"I'll bury them," he said. "There's a sacred site on a small island a ways out to sea. While the town buries Eugene Michaels and you search for what's keeping your mother here—I'll bury the rest of my kin. Then you and I can finally leave. Without any ghosts to follow us."

Alba squeezed his hand. "Alright," he said. "I think that sounds good."

It was three days until someone came to the lighthouse looking for Alba, telling him there would be a funeral for Mr. Michaels at sunset. Alba thanked them, doing his best to keep his breathlessness to himself. To cover the marks on his neck with the collar of his shirt, sweeping his hair one direction to cover the white streaks. In the washroom, his siren waited impatiently in the tub for him to return, swishing his tail over the edge and smacking it against the aluminum in warning. Alba pretended like he didn't hear it, assuring the messenger he would be there, thanking him for coming, closing the door once the man turned and made his way back to the boat tied off on the rocks.

Returning to the washroom, he scolded Eridanys for being so stubborn, kicking off his slacks and climbing back into the tub to take his face and kiss him. Opening his legs to continue what had been interrupted. Knowing it would hopefully be the last time anywhere near that godforsaken place.

Eridanys helped Alba to shore,where they exchanged a silent look as Alba tied the boat off. A look of thanks, a look of ‘see you soon' and ‘be safe.' Alba pretended to work on the knot the whole time he watched the moonlit siren swim away, until there was nothing left to see.

He'd already helped bring down the four merrow from the lighthouse to lay in the grass, accessible for Eridanys to carry out to where he intended to bury them. Alba hoped it gave him some closure, hoped it meant he could finally let go of the idea of Moon Harbor, just like Alba had once he realized his mother was no longer there waiting for him.

It was strange not having Eridanys alongside him after so many days in such close proximity. Especially after how easy it'd become to touch him, kiss him, as natural as ice melting into water; how it felt to sleep in his arms in a shared bed, warm and safe and exhausted as a chilly tongue licked drops of sweat from his temple and the side of his neck depending on how they got there. How Eridanys wanted to taste every one of Alba's breaths whenever their mouths connected, to steal every one of his heartbeats even once they were finished. Even once Alba was left used up and hardly able to move, left vulnerable to the creature who talked so often of how good he smelled, how badly he wished he could have another taste while kissing the faint scars left on Alba's shoulder by his own teeth.

A part of Alba wasn't sure he would decline if asked—there was something erotic about knowing his blood coated the tongue of something so sharp and strong and deadly, who craved it so badly, so much that he would resist simply because the temptation was exciting enough.

None of those thoughts were appropriate to have while Alba searched for the end of the funeral procession, already winding its way slowly through the town, up the inclined road toward where he was a little too familiar with the location of the cemetery.

Merging in with the rest of them, he kept his cane close as to not trip any of the surrounding mourners, searching up ahead to spot Eugene's simple pine coffin supported on the shoulders of four men. The same four men, he knew, who'd once followed Eugene into the merrow pools where they hoped to have trapped the last of their prey. He wondered what they thought about losing their leader to that very same creature—despite it never being confirmed. Alba was sure there were whispers. A stormy sea might kill a man, smashing him against rocks until he was beyond recognition—but even the sea wouldn't do to someone what Alba had done with the copper pot.

Alba being the reason for the old man's untimely death was part of the reason he was so eager to join. But more than that, the reminders ruminated endlessly in the back of his mind, every little thing he wanted to keep his eyes sharp for. Unique funerary rites; Eugene's hair being cut, perhaps braided and given as an offering to his widow. A part of Alba even wondered if they'd hike all the way to the cemetery, only to lob his box over the cliffs back into the sea, like he once saw depicted in the merrow pools. Whether or not it was a full moon, Alba wanted to know how far Moon Harbor's beliefs went—and if they really had been killing wickies to try and create new merrow for their sacrifices.

"Is that Dawson Michaels' ex-fiancé there? With Mrs. Michaels at the front," someone passing nearby asked the woman next to her, and Alba's attention traveled up to the front of the line once more where Phyllis Michaels walked.

Alba hadn't noticed it before, but the gossiping birds alongside him were right—there was someone else there with her, a hand on her back, leaning in slightly every now and again to whisper reassurances and words of comfort. Dawson's ex-fiancé—Alba remembered Eugene saying something about him, mainly that he'd been nothing but trouble for both Dawson and the town, how he'd left after Dawson fell ill. Alba couldn't help but wonder if falling ill was an easier way of saying was attacked and killed by his merrow companion.

"Ah, no, that's his younger brother, I believe. Took over the family business when he died. And here I thought they'd forgotten all about us since striking rich."

"Remembered enough to take our fish every month, at least," another added.

"Seems that one still keeps in contact with Phyllis."

"So kind of him to come all this way for the funeral," the whispers continued.

"Yes, so kind of him to use a sprinkle of wealth to come back to visit us," another grumbled. "Maybe one day all the men they took will come back, too, with all the money they promised to send from their adventures on the sea."

"Oh, stop it, Ellen. No use in holding grudges after this long. Our men were likely taken by the water the moment she got her hands on them, after all we've done to her…"

"Shh," another hissed, and Alba felt eyes travel to him. He pretended not to notice, pretended to be wallowing in his own silent, stoic grief.

He pretended not to notice the people noticing him, just like the people pretended not to notice the clear singing from the trees. Ringing out louder, more intensely than he'd ever heard before, as if the sight of the entire town making its way up the hill excited the trapped spirits for good or for worse.

Their song intertwined with the whistling flutes on the buildings, one occasionally overtaking the other depending on the wind. As they reached the top of the road and turned down the path toward the cemetery, only the wailing ghosts of sacrificed merrow landed on Alba's ears. He knew it had to be the same for the rest of the townspeople, knew there was no way every single one of them could just pretend not to hear it—though no one turned. No one paid any mind to the apparitions in the trees—and Alba thought he finally understood the purpose of the musical pipes. To build up their immunity to any song at all, whether mundane or crafted by the sea.

Only one head in the procession turned, and it was the stranger walking at the front with Mrs. Michaels. Proof that they'd come from the outside, they had no idea what to expect of such a strange little town. Alba could only guess how tightly Phyllis clung to that man's arm to keep him from answering the call and sprinting into the woods.

Having to eventually stop and rest his leg on the journey to the cemetery, Alba missed the start of the eulogy and words offered by kin and friends, but those things didn't matter to him so much. He only wanted to see if they cut his hair. If they tossed him into the sea. If they carved markings into his body.

But when he arrived at the burial, encircled by townspeople all whispering and quietly weeping, there was no ceremonial hair cutting. They lowered Eugene Michaels into the earth just like every other burial plot around them; dressed in plain clothing like any other sailor who never knew or cared for particularly fine things. The man was, as simply as any other, nailed into his coffin and lowered into the wet ground with nothing more than his wool hat and nicest shirt to take to the other side with him.

Alba knew he stared as the body was lowered, though wasn't sure of the look on his face as it went. Only that his brows were furrowed, hand clenched hard on the head of his cane. Flushed with hot frustration, confusion, uncertainty—disappointment. Knowing it might yet be another day before he and Eridanys could leave. Another day, another week, who knew if they ever actually would escape Moon Harbor, that place the both of them seemed destined to end up no matter how they got there.

He decided to offer Phyllis Michaels a look and a nod of acknowledgement, apology, at the very least before turning to make his way back down the road, to escape that crowd of mourners. But the moment Alba glanced up, he made eye contact with the newcomer standing across the grave from him—and everything in him went limp.

Josiah wore a fine black suit. His dark brown hair was nicely combed back, shiny with pomade and as flawlessly held together as the rest of him. Even the thin beard on his face was neatly trimmed, perfectly outlining the way he smiled across the coffin lowered slowly into the ground, hand-over-hand with fraying ropes. Smiling at Alba. Turning him to ice, making him wish to vanish into the rainy mist floating just above the green grass of the cemetery floor.

Dawson Michaels' ex-fiancé… his younger brother…

Alba took a slow step backward. Josiah's eye twitched slightly in reaction—a predator eyeing his prey about to bolt. Alba's instincts told him to wait, don't move, stop, stop—! but he was already turning. Pushing through the crowd gathered at his back, rushing through them and not caring that he made a scene.

How long had Josiah known where to find him? From the very beginning? Since Marco never returned to Belmar? Did Eugene Michaels send a telegram long before making his threat? When did he first spot Alba in person? Just in that moment, over the face of the coffin? During the procession? Alba knew it would happen, eventually—he knew it was only a matter of time before Josiah Warren came looking for his lost little ship rat—and the instant he did, Alba knew nothing except the need to get away. To run, run, get somewhere safe, far away, safe, far away?—

His instincts told him to run for the road—and he did, at first. But then his feet took him down through the center of town. Not in the way out, the same way he first arrived, no longer cursed to crumble into salt once he left the sound of the sea, where he could run until his legs gave out beneath him, until he ground the crack in his hip all the way down to dust and there would only be dragging himself by his hands to go any further. Instead—he ran to the sea. He ran to the docks, jumping to the black-sand shore, racing down it. Losing his footing, clawing at the grains and kicking them up in a storm as he pushed himself back to his feet again, throat sore and cold and cut by the salt in the air and the rain hitting him.

"Er—Eridanys!" he cried out once too tired to run any farther. There would only be cliffs, soon, with no more beach to follow. "Eridanys! Eridanys! Please!"

He didn't know if Josiah would follow him all the way there, especially while the funeral continued. He didn't know when Josiah would come to collect him, either in that moment, in a few hours, a few days, even—but he would come. He would come himself, or someone else would appear with a dozen hands to grab Alba and steal him off his feet just like the first time when he was a child—and Eridanys would never know what happened to him. That grim reaper would come for him just like every other time, killing Alba on the spot or dragging him back to Belmar where he would never get another chance to escape again. Josiah would make sure of it. He would break both of Alba's legs; lock him in the workhouse attic or send him back out to sea where there was only water in every direction and no one to hear him.

"Eridanys!"he screamed again, desperate, searching the waves, water stirred up by an incoming storm. Please, please, he wanted to see a streak of moonlight coming for him—Alba wanted to be safe. Alba wanted to be somewhere he knew he was safe?—

The moon answered. No—his siren answered. Eridanys heard him. His guardian sown from the night sky shimmered beneath the water's surface, and Alba threw himself into it. His feet sank into the mud, tide nearly knocking him down had arms not flown out to catch him. Eridanys emerged with a gasp of surprise, grabbing at Alba with wide eyes, touching him all over in search of an explanation for his panic.

Alba didn't know what to say, didn't know how to explain, just threw his arms around Eridanys and clung to him. He was safe there, safe, safe, safe, even right there on the beach where anyone could see. Where even Josiah would see, Alba knew he was safe so long as Eridanys had him.

"What happened?" Eridanys repeated, growing more demanding the longer Alba took to respond. A hand scooped his wet hair over his shoulder as he still refused to let go. "I'll take you back to the lighthouse?—"

"No!" Alba trembled, shaking his head, clinging tighter. "No, no—he'll find me there, they'll find me there?—"

"Alright," Eridanys answered, as if he immediately understood, without another word. "I'll take you somewhere else. Somewhere no one will think to look for you. Hold on to me tightly, the sea is rough."

Alba did as he was told. His shaking arms locked like vices around the back of Eridanys' neck, pressing his face into the siren's strong shoulder as they turned against the water.

He only had the courage to crack his eyes open again and gaze back toward the shore a single time—but wished he hadn't. Hardly more than a silhouette on the misty black shore, Josiah Warren watched as Alba was carried away by the last merrow of Moon Harbor.