Chapter 8

Alba woke againwith sand and salt in his mouth. Coating his tongue, gagging him. He dug fingers into the sand, wondering why it didn't have the bite of frost. Why his fingernails didn't scrape against ice like cold glass, why his cheek didn't lose a layer of frozen skin when he finally lifted his head.

He wasn't in the north, he hadn't gone overboard—he was face down in Moon Harbor's black sand, and every inch of him hurt, like a sheet of ice carved through by the bow of a steel ship. Cracked in every place there was a fragment of weakness to snap.

It took a few attempts to push himself up, groaning each time, gasping, clutching at the thick scab of caked blood on the gash in his shoulder. Unable to move more than to drag of his pitiful corpse as his leg locked up every time he tried to bend it and kneel.

Eventually a cluster of townsfolk noticed, rushing to grab at him, pushing hair from his face and sand from his mouth, checking to see if he was alive. Demanding to know what happened, how he ended up there, as if it was a crime to wash up on shore with air still in his lungs. As if they'd seen the drowned faces in the waves, too, and had to know if he really was alive or just another reanimated corpse. Even he wasn't sure.

He had no explanation to offer as they roughly pulled him to his feet, dragging him down the length of the beach toward the steps up to the road. Into town. All while Alba's world spun, his body aching as badly as the day he fell from the mast and crashed to the deck below.

There was onlyone doctor in all of Moon Harbor, and Alba was left to shiver on the exam table in the single exam room meant to serve an entire town of people. Waiting for the doctor to come.

If he wasn't so cold, so weak, so exhausted, he might have had the time to wonder how such a thing was possible when fishing resulted in so many cuts and breaks and gruesome injuries day over day. But he was cold. He was weak, he was exhausted, so he just stared up at the plain ceiling while what had to be two dozen voices chattered on the opposite side of the door.

The room smelled distinctly of old fish, aged salt, like they used it as an overflow for the fish market when no one needed a checkup. The cabinet against the wall was packed with old books and rolls of surgical tools in leather satchels; a hand-drawn poster on the wall indicated parts of human anatomy; bottles of varying liquids labeled with handwriting too scratchy to read lined a shelf by the window, covered with a pair of heavy curtains; an icebox with a padlock on the front sat in the corner, smeared with what looked a little too suspiciously like old blood someone forgot to wipe up after tending to a wound. Another curtain separated the room in half, only a peek of the other side visible through a crack at the end, and Alba swore he saw a peek of fins and fish scales piled in a tin bucket on a shelf. It would explain the smell.

When the door finally opened and the doctor stepped inside, she was followed by a handful of townspeople on her heels, including Eugene Michaels. The remaining dozen faces clustered in the doorway, like the state of Alba's being was the most important news that morning. As if they all had a vested interest in their lighthouse keeper, the first one to survive into a new month seemingly in years. Ah—perhaps that merrow had eaten all of the others, too. Perhaps Alba was simply the first to ever survive.

He had to get the hell out of that place.

Forcing himself to sit up, the doctor approached to offer a more thorough examination than the initial dead-or-alive check, asking Alba to open his shirt, extend his arms, perform the same choreography he always did when getting exams for eligibility to sail. And, like all those times, that morning Alba said nothing about his aches and pains, new and old. The doctor would see what was obvious; anything else was none of her business.

She seemed determined to know every inch of him, however, eyes moving as her hands did. Alba was briefly captivated by her tan eyelids and cheekbones dusted with shimmery powders, complementing her lips dabbed with rouge, thick hair pulled back into a tight bun and decorated with a seaglass-adorned pin. She wore dangling earrings that made Alba think of iridescent abalone shells, though the color was paler than anything he'd ever seen before.

An assistant wiped the dry blood from his shoulder while the doctor looked the rest of him over, eventually asking what happened. Alba told her only as much as he thought necessary to be convincing, though admittedly not sure why he had such a sudden urge to withhold some details. Perhaps carryover from what he'd witnessed of other men brought to shore for madness from sea, how they were sent off somewhere never to be seen again when it gripped their minds too hard to be useful for work.

And despite the clear depictions of mermaids throughout that town, from the paintings on their walls to the statue in the center, even the endless stories his mother told him growing up—Alba wasn't sure exactly what kind of relationship the townspeople had with the real thing, if any. There were endless stories and myths and warnings about mer-people, no matter where one went—like how sailors whispered about sirens, or even how the Warrens had sea-maidens carved into the bows of their ships for good luck and full nets. But that didn't mean those people looking at him would believe claims of seeing one in person—let alone to claim having been attacked by one in their own harbor, where they fished day in and day out.

Alba opted to withhold any more information that necessary—just in case. Just until he had a better idea of the townspeople and their relationship with the mer-people alleged to live in their waters.

"I got swept off the rocks during the storm last night. Must've got caught on something," he said, motioning to his shoulder as the assistant continued dressing it. "Foolish of me to be out there in the middle of it, but I couldn't believe how big the moon was. Won't happen again."

A completely believable story, but the doctor didn't react. No one in the room did, like they all knew beforehand what the truth was. Like it was some sort of test, like they truly were waiting for him to ask about mermaids in the water. To admit what he'd seen. Something about that only made him more hesitant to be so forthcoming—as if an outsider like him wasn't supposed to know of the merrow of Moon Harbor at all.

"Think I just need a rest now," he prompted, not liking how quiet the room had gone, how it almost felt intentional to get him to keep talking. Edythe used to do the same thing when trying to get the truth out of him as a child. "Probably won't get in the way of tendin' to the lantern tonight as normal."

"I haven't finished my evaluation yet," the doctor answered, authoritative and dismissive. Her assistant stepped behind the center curtain and returned with something folded in butcher paper.

Those crowded in the doorway mumbled to one another, seemingly annoyed, enough that Eugene turned and gave them a look to be silent. Alba noticed all of it, every tiny flicker in their expressions, how they watched him with a curious mix of mistrust, disdain, even a sort of—disappointment.

The doctor unwrapped whatever was folded in the paper while Alba's eyes glazed over the townspeople, and he jumped when something slippery and cold pressed into his skin. His wound immediately tingled, skin stiffening beneath whatever was spread over him. Only then did he panic, wondering if the gash resembled two sets of sharp teeth, though neither the assistant nor the doctor mentioned it.

"We use what we have on hand, here," the doctor said instead, using a brush packed with horsehair to smooth the bandage against Alba's neck. "You might find it alarming at first, but we're simple folk. Don't think us brutes when you look in the mirror later, alright? Now, one last thing…"

Alba didn't know what she could have meant by that, but didn't get the chance to ask when she took his wrists and extended his arms again. The curtains were pulled open from the window by the assistant, allowing a surprisingly bright stream of sun to spill over where he sat. Only when so brightly illuminated did he realize what the doctor was trying to show him.

Spread across his skin like spilled ink over parchment, splatters of black intermingled in and out of his tattoos. He stared at them in confusion, even attempting to rub his hand over a streak and frowning when it didn't smear.

"Do you remember how you got these markings?" She asked, brown eyes flickering up to meet his. The way the sun beamed through them made the gaze more intense than if it had been another dreary, overcast day. Enough that Alba's breath caught, realizing his instincts were right. Those eyes—they expected a specific answer. Like they already knew.

"I…" he started, mind racing. Not sure what to do. If they already knew of that merrow in the harbor, why not tell him so? Why ask him? The fact they waited for him to answer, rather than asking outright if the mermaid was who Alba had seen—something about it kept his words further at bay. "I don't know, I'm sorry. I don't remember."

He lowered his eyes back to his arms, his skin, unsure what exactly discolored them, but knowing from the way the doctor asked that it had something to do with the mermaid who'd attacked him. A blanket of cautious understanding draped over him, closing his mouth again. Forcing his words back.

There was a reason Moon Harbor hid itself in the woods, on the shore; why the people there blocked off their roads and made themselves so hard to find. Perhaps there were many reasons their wickies went missing so regularly, but suddenly Alba had to wonder about that as well.

He remained quiet, until the audience of onlookers started muttering amongst themselves again. Growing impatient. But Alba wouldn't speak. He'd learned early on to never volunteer information unless asked directly—and those rules applied on land as well as they did on the water.

"Let the boy get some rest now, doctor. A few days of goin' back to normal may refresh his memory," Eugene Michaels finally said, stepping forward to plant a hand on Alba's shoulder. "Sea never keeps a man's mind for long once he gets back to work on land. C'mon then, lad, we'll get you some supplies before rowin' back."

Alba didn't wait for another invitation, pushing himself from the exam table. Wincing as his leg wobbled beneath him, swiping a walking cane from the coat rack by the door on his way out. No one said anything to stop him, the crowd even parting to let him through.

"You've gota two-dollar credit to get what you need for the week, be it food or anything else," Eugene told him as they exited onto the street. "Just tell ‘em to withdraw it from your wages. I'll leave you to it, meet me at the dock in about an hour, will ya?"

"Alright."

Alba watched Eugene shuffle off, before turning on heel and heading down the nearest alleyway without looking back. Bypassing the shops, the main roads, heading straight in the direction of the trees.

Breathing heavy by the time he reached the top of the incline, he returned to the main road to give a break to his legs. Forget his coat, his small collection of personal belongings. He wouldn't stay any longer—he couldn't. He would find his mother another way. Just like he decided the night before on the water, before ever meeting the eyes of the streak of moonlight beneath the surface.

Except he barely made it within the embrace of the trees when a bitter, nauseating rush of brine flooded his mouth, making him wretch.

Stumbling backward, he attempted to spit it out, but his tongue dried into dirt under a hot sun. His eyes blurred, parched as if he had no eyelids to blink; his skin ached and itched, and he swore he felt the start of his nail beds splitting over bone. All in an instant, all of it fading just as quickly again when he stumbled back out of the trees.

A vague memory stumbled into the back of his mind, spoken in the harsh words of that creature pinning him against the sand?—

You shall not walk anywhere you cannot hear the sound of the waves, else you crumble into a pillar of salt to be tousled into dust by the wind.

"D-damnit," he croaked, voice hoarse as his insides fought against the internal salt that ransacked him. He lifted his eyes to the road again, heart pounding in the back of his throat.

Whether he liked it or not any longer, Alba was trapped in Moon Harbor's miserable embrace. Until, as he blearily recalled—he learned what happened to the rest of the merrow that once filled those waters. A promise made at the request of a merrow all the same, who had had a taste of Alba's blood.

Alba staredacross the water as it passed them by, crawling at the speed the old man could row. In his lap he held a bundle of provisions, three boxes of cigarettes, chalk for the cistern, mortar for cracks in the lighthouse's exterior, a handful of castile soap chunks for bathing and washing rags. Eugene was even kind enough to look the other way when Alba clumsily hid a bottle of whiskey in the bag, both of them knowing it was practically treasonous for a wickie to drink on shift. Also knowing it was a staple for the work to get done.

Alba was already buzzing from a handful of drinks thrown down at the bar while waiting to cast off. It was only his second time being rowed out to the lighthouse rocks, and both times his blood had been warm with alcohol.

"You collect the cards that come in them packs?" Eugene asked as Alba opened one of the cigarette boxes and knocked a stick out, begrudgingly offering to share one, secretly glad when the old man shook his head no.

"Used to," he answered, lighting a match and inhaling the flame into the end. "Lost a few dozen of ‘em one night when I forgot they were in my pocket and a wave hit me. Nothin' but ink and mush after that."

"My son has a collection going," the man countered with a wink. "Doesn't get out much anymore, but likes the pictures on ‘em."

"He live in town?"

"All his life. Almost got out a handful of years ago, but fell ill, then his fiancé left him ‘fore he could. Never had any desire after that."

"Sorry to hear it."

"Don't be," Eugene shook his head. "Selfish of me, but I never liked that lover of his. A right troublesome man, for him and this town both."

It took Alba a moment before realizing what Eugene meant—His son, his son's fiancé. A troublesome man. Rather than commenting on it, he let out a short, breathy laugh, then hooked a finger back into the cigarette box and slid the collectible card out.

"Here, then," he said, briefly glancing at the advertisement for a luxury coffee brand printed on the back before handing it over. He almost asked, wanting to know more about the fellow man-loving-man in town, but sucked on the tobacco in silence instead. It wasn't his business; it wasn't their business about him, either. At the very least, it was a strange relief to know Eugene wasn't the type to judge such things, especially should he ever learn some of what Alba kept close to his own chest.

Eugene took the cards with a small nod, saying nothing else as Alba turned to stare back across the water and inhale as much smoke into his lungs as he could. Thick clouds clustered off in the distance, signing the approaching end of the sun. Perhaps the moon was only strong enough to pitch light through the indefinite gloom when she was at her fullest, brightest.

Perhaps her merrow servant only had the audacity to attack when she was beaming in the heavens like that, too. He took another drag, thinking what he might do the next time he saw the creature bobbing in the water within view—though such a gruesome fantasy would surely make his mother scold him.

Alba bathedin only a few inches of water, not having the strength to pump any more than that. Not so pathetic to ask Eugene for help, though the man said he'd be happy to check around the rocks for damage after the previous night's storm while Alba got some rest.

Alba should have insisted he leave on that offer, too, but he was too damn tired. Tired, sore, bloody, irritated—not to mention the massive blood stain on the kitchen floor that Alba wasn't sure yet how to explain. Admittedly, a single nap might be the difference between calmly watching over the lantern at sunset, or burning the whole thing down.

Scrubbing relentlessly at the black marks on his skin like lines of splattered smoke, Alba grew more agitated the longer he thought about all those people crowded around the doctor's office looking at him. Waiting for an answer when the doctor asked what they were, how Alba got them. Eyes full of knowing, just waiting for Alba to say it. Whatever it was.

What would have happened if Alba had been more forthcoming? Would they have accused him of being mad, like it was a claim other sailors made regularly? Would they have gutted him on the spot in order to keep their town secret? His mother used to speak so openly about the mermaids in the harbor, they couldn't be so na?ve to think there wasn't another living soul outside their town who knew.

He scraped at his skin until it was red and swollen, but just like the ink of his tattoos, there was no rubbing the dark streaks away. Only as he scoured his memory trying to remember anything that might explain them did he finally make a connection, recalling how that merrow's blood splattered across him when cut with the knife. It'd even said something about ‘blood for blood' while pinning him to the sand as dark as its own blood had been.

The realization filled Alba's mouth, his insides with a rotten taste. Another reminder of what he had to deal with, now, before he could flee that horrible place. Given a chore by that beautiful, awful, finned moon-creature; forced to sit and wait for his next orders like a child, like he'd sat and waited his entire life for one assignment on a ship to another, one assignment to another, then another; waiting and waiting for when it would finally be his turn for a night back in Welkin to visit his mother, only to be back in line waiting for assignments in Belmar the very next morning. Waiting and waiting and waiting?—

"Damnit!"he shouted, throwing the soap into the tub with a hollow bang. "Damnit, god—damnit!"

He wasn't going to do what he was told without question. No more. Not any longer, never again. He wasn't going to bend over backwards like he was told and hope it would be gentle. He was no one's object to boss around, not any longer, he would kick and thrash and fight and tear as much as he had to?—!

The trap door banged from the store room, stopping Alba short. Holding his breath, he stared at the bathroom door, heart pounding as he swore he heard footsteps, next. Whispers, the scratching of nails on the underside of the floorboards. He thought of those bloated faces he was sure he saw in the waves before going unconscious on the beach; he thought of that rotting flesh that grappled for him in the water and swam him back to shore faster than should have been possible.

Moon Harbor was a cursed place. The people knew more than they let on, and that merrow surely had something to do with it. Alba didn't care where the other mer-people who that once filled the waters went—he was too busy trying to find where his own kin had gone, when all signs pointed to Edythe Marsh disappearing from that terrible place as much as the mermaids apparently did.

Alba closed his eyes. He scratched at the aching wound in his shoulder, grimacing when the bandage flaked off under the movement. Pulling away to look, he expected to find cheap fibers under his nails, instead rubbing his fingers together at the sight of—fish scales.

Frowning, he stepped from the bath and limped to the mirror, wiping grime from the surface and staring in shock at the shiny sheet of white scales plastered to his skin, keeping the wound closed. It explained why the doctor said all those strange things in the exam room, about how the people did what they could with what they had. How she hoped Alba wouldn't see them as brutes when he saw his reflection later. Brutes. They were brutes, all of them. Including that creature in the water.

He didn't know what to do—and the reality of it crashed down on him all at once, nearly buckling his knees and sending him to the floor. He braced his hands against the edge of the washbasin instead, arching his back, hanging his head, clenching every muscle just to remain upright. Standing there, naked, shivering, miserable as the wind beat on the house and the sun crept closer to the horizon outside the windows.

He couldn't leave. He couldn't stay. He would die either way. The merrow in the water would kill him first, unless the townspeople killed him first, unless Josiah's men came back and killed him first, unless whatever driving him mad on those haunted rocks killed him first.

Trapped. Stuck. Hopeless. No different than being isolated on a boat in the north, nothing but water and shelves of glacier ice in every direction, knowing there was nothing he could do but sit—and wait—and pray—and consider death as the only way out.

He let out a long breath through his nose. Always in a hurry. Take that bone from your teeth.

The townspeople wanted something from him. The merrow wanted something from him. Even Josiah's dogs wanted something from him.

If he couldn't get out of that place on his own, if there was nothing he could do but wait—then, perhaps, so be it. Alba was good at waiting; that was all fishing ever was. All sailing ever was. All his life ever had been.

He would take his mother's advice and wait, on his own terms rather than someone else's. He would take the bone from his teeth. He would sit anchored until the water around him no longer frothed, like a shipping boat anticipating the arrival of its catch. Eventually, something would come. Alba would capture it then.