Fear the Drowning Deep(67)

Gooseflesh covered my sweaty skin. That was no ordinary bone shard.

It was a serpent tooth, just like the one that stabbed Lugh’s foot on the beach. The serpent had eaten the fossegrim’s victims. I thought of Fynn’s tale about fighting the serpent for a drowned girl to eat, and wondered if the serpent attacked those poor people once the fossegrim lured them into the water. Not that it mattered.

I thought I’d saved our town, but I was wrong.

What mattered now was stopping the serpent before it made a meal of anyone else, on land or at sea.

“We must seek out the murderer today!” someone cried, to scattered applause. “We can’t continue to live in fear!”

“This is the work of the Little Fellas!” a woman argued. “They’ve put a curse on Port Coire, and we’ll all have to make a sacrifice if we’re to break it!”

“What kind of sacrifice?”

“Enough babble!” With a rustling of skirts Ms. Elena shuffled to Mr. Gill’s side. She peered into the crowd of faces until her eyes found mine. “I’ve been silent far too long. No man would do anything this hideous. Nor would the Little Fellas.”

She raised her paper-dry voice over the murmuring of the crowd. “The Little Fellas live for their tricks and revels. They might curse the life of a lone mortal who crosses them, but they aren’t killers.”

Mr. Gill made a noise like a dying goose. “Now see here, this isn’t a children’s tale! There’s a dangerous—”

“No, you see here, Danell. I remember when you were this high,” Ms. Elena motioned to her knee, “and I gave you a thrashing for making birdcalls during the Sunday sermon. You’re still a little boy who needs to shut his mouth and listen.” She paused, breathing deeply. Mr. Gill’s face turned white and red and purple all at once. “We must look to the sea. There’s a monster, called forth from the deep—”

“Sea monsters again? Ha! The old woman’s as mad as Bridey Corkill.” Mrs. Kissack rose to her feet and pointed an accusing finger at me, as though I’d somehow caused Ms. Elena to stand up and support my claim.

Every head in the room turned toward me, and I dropped my gaze to the floor.

“Danell Gill is right,” a deep voice said. “There’s a murderer in our midst, lads, and we need to do something. I have to protect my family! Who’s with me?”

Cheers rang through the house. There was an inhuman quality to the voices of my friends and neighbors that made me shiver.

“The first order of business,” Mr. Gill called over the babble of voices, “will be to impose a curfew. Anyone roaming town after dark will be considered suspect and held for questioning.” Several people nodded. “Are there any volunteers to patrol the roads and cliffs tonight? We need enough men for two shifts: six to midnight, and midnight to dawn.”

Da’s hand shot up, as did Lugh’s. Then Lugh’s da put his hand up, and father and son exchanged a rare smile. Mr. Watterson and a smattering of younger men came forward, all willing to sacrifice their sleep for the good of the town.

I shook my head. The most disagreeable thing they were likely to find was a stray Manx cat in heat. Unless their eyes were trained on the sea, and the moon swelled to its fullest, they wouldn’t find the culprit slinking among the waves.

Every moment they spent arguing over details of a pointless patrol was another moment that the serpent was free to claim another victim.

And if the serpent was as terrible as Morag described, fighting it would be a far greater challenge than the fossegrim. I knew the truth; I couldn’t waste any more time.

Climbing to my feet, I pulled the four remaining Bollan Crosses from my pockets and strode to the front of the room. Before I had a chance to think of the eyes upon me or the laughter that would drown out my words, I addressed the group. “These are Bollan Crosses,” I mumbled, staring at my feet. “They’re a charm to ward against drowning, and I thought—”

“Speak up!” a dry voice commanded. I raised my head, clutching the crosses to my chest. Ms. Elena gave me a faint nod of encouragement.

After a slow breath, I tried again. “These are Bollan Crosses. They’re just wrasse bones on string, but they’ll keep those that wear them from drowning.”

The house was silent.

Meeting Lugh’s bright eyes helped me continue. “I rescued my best friend from the ocean last night, and my charm worked quite well. Morag Maddrell made them.” I knew how most people felt about Morag, but she deserved credit for her work. Anyone too proud to touch a gift from a witch would have to accept whatever hand fate dealt them.

“How do we know old Morag isn’t the one who put a curse on us?” Mrs. Kissack cried.

“Can witches charm someone’s head off their body?” a voice countered.

“How do we know the hag’s even still alive? When was the last time anyone saw her?”

I set the crosses on a small table with shaking hands. “You’re all welcome to them. There are only a few, but I’m sure Morag can make more.”

“I have one,” Lugh called loudly, over the throng of people who were now discussing the possibility of Morag’s involvement in the gruesome deaths. “You can scoff at sea monsters, if you must, but surely some of you are wondering how one man—or a few—could cause such a rash of murders so quietly in your own backyards.” Lugh locked gazes with me from across the room, and I mouthed a silent thank you. “Are you willing to risk your lives? If there’s even the smallest chance these charms work—what’s the harm?”