The Monster's Wife(75)

“This is a compass,” he said. “I use it to guide the boat after the stars have disappeared, when it is day or when I am lost. The needle points to all the directions, North, South, East and West. We’re headed round the coast to the South bay. If anyone follows us…” He snapped the compass shut and slipped it in his pocket. “Do you understand?”

Oona nodded and she was only half lying. They picked up the oars again and rowed towards the cliffs. The surf crashed on the side of the boat and washed inside. It was up to their knees. They rowed hard. When they were a few feet from the shore, they laid down the oars and jumped out.

Together they hauled the boat through waves that spit salt and foam at their faces. Without the sun shining on him, the man lost his wings and no longer seemed like an angel. He held out his arm and Oona stopped. They stood hip-deep in the freezing sea listening to the men’s voices.





66


There was a snatch of rough talk, a dragging noise, the words haddock and noust. Perhaps the men were hauling fish onto the beach. She looked down at the water, where the sun had melted to butter spooned between waves. She saw her own pale hand floating under the sea with long fingers wound around it. For a moment, she thought it was seaweed entangling her. But it was the man’s hand gripping hers. She could have bitten it again, but the pressure of his fingers gave her comfort somehow. After all, they were the same. Dead things. Monsters. Hunted.

Whether it was that a wind blew up or that the men were wading into the sea, their voices grew louder in Oona’s ears. Her wolf’s heart beat faster. She looked up at the man. His grip tightened.

Boots crunched on sand. A prow sliced through water. They were pulling their boat back out to sea. There was a cry of “Whossere?” the splash of wading thighs. The man’s hand moved to her wrist, dragging her away from the voices. Her legs moved too slow, caught in treacle. The men were almost on them. There were more words, chopped up by the booming sounds of waves hitting rocks. Killed that lass o’ mine. We’ll string him up.

She knew the gruff voice that spoke the words and cudgelled her brain to remember who it was. Nothing came. Her feet had no feeling in them and she was glad of the man’s hand keeping her steady. Murderer. The word, spoken in a familiar voice clutched her heart like a frozen hand. The word caught in some sea cave and shuddered up an echo. Murderer. Derer. Rer.

A pair of kittiwakes startled from a sea stack and whirred up screeching. Oars hit the water. Can you see anything? A different voice and yet she knew it too. It made her think of being held, being kissed. Those were meant to be good things, but she’d never been more afraid. She knew the men were looking for someone, a killer who deserved punishment. The thought split inside her. The men were looking for them.

A big wave pushed her forward. She plunged down and hit the bottom. The water rattled as it sucked sand out from under their feet. Salt stung her eyes and throat and chest. The sea was a frozen fist gripping her. Hands closed around her waist and hauled her out. The man lifted her up and waded through rough swells, clutching her to him. She spluttered brine, forcing herself not to make a sound that might give them away.

The man’s voice was low in her ear. “Hold on. There are rocks on the left.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, face pressed into him, smelling salt and seal hide. In the darkness, she felt the tide drawing them towards the rocks. Then there was a glimmer of sunlight and the sound of surf growing shallower, dragging them ashore. He laid her on the sand and fell down beside her.

“They took the boat. It’s lost to us, but we can hide here.”

She listened for the men, but could hear them no longer.

They were in a small cove. The beach was shallow and pale and unmarked. The rocks rose sheer and tall out of the powdery sand. Set into the rust-red cliff face was a dark mouth that echoed their breathing.

“A cave.”

He nodded and scrambled up. Shivering, she followed him across the sand to the mouth of the cave. Inside, the ceiling dripped rhythmically and something in the depths made scratching sounds. The clouds behind them parted. Light silvered the wall in front of them. The whole surface was covered with crosses gouged into the rock, carved in deep with some sharp implement. Some were circled with whorls of hectic scratches as if whoever marked them was angry. She looked at the man. He was squinting at the crosses, his blue eyes curious.

“A man lived here, but not any more, not for a long time.”

“I can smell him.”

“Me too.” He walked on.

A few steps more and they reached the back wall of the first chamber. It was about the same size as the white building where the old man lived. Near their feet, a smaller mouth led off somewhere. Water gurgled inside it.

The man turned and faced the beach again. “We can build a fire.”

She followed him from the cave, blinking at the sun that hung over the sea, new-minted. For a while, she stood watching the man stoop and straighten, stoop and straighten, as if he was picking flowers from the sand. Then he turned and she saw the small sticks of firewood in his arms, the scowl on his brow as he scanned for more. It would be a mean crop on a small beach like this. A memory shimmered up from some past time, turning her towards the cliff face where she saw dry grasses sprouting from the ledges of sandstone and felt joy at knowing they’d be there.

She went up to the cliff and started to rive the brush. At first she came away with handfuls of dried straw. She stuffed them in the lap of her dress and tugged harder. Sharp twigs bit into her hands. She wrenched at the roots of dried-out bushes and whole plants came away from the cliff, the knotty wood spraying her with sand. She fell backward with a small cry of surprise that was half a laugh. The man was there, looking down at her.