Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(98)

Open water was much closer now. I’d covered more ground than I’d thought, and most of the rocks were behind me. I was exhausted, but I didn’t notice it any more than I noticed the cold. I only felt it; I didn’t believe it. I didn’t let it stop me. I scanned the water and the nearest rocks; she’d been moving so much faster. She must’ve gotten away from me. She must’ve made it to the water by now.

While I hunted, squinting against the night, that unearthly call continued, booming and banging, and I thought I sensed some rhythm to it. Not quite a drumbeat. Not quite a heartbeat. Something lower and not quite so fast. Some vibration, slowed down until it no longer hummed, but moaned instead.





? ? ?


   (I recalled some old lesson about the music of the spheres, about monks and their chants trying to re-create the tones of the universe—to sing the song of creation. This was not that. Or else it was, and I have misunderstood everything, for my whole life.)





? ? ?


Then I saw her again.

Not a flash, but a prolonged, static moment wherein she did not move—she did not even appear to breathe—she stood like a statue, tall and beautiful as always. White as the moon, her hair as wet as mine, spilling down her shoulders and back. All of it whipped by the wind, like a flag on a pole.

I did not scream her name this time. She would not have heard a scream. I whispered instead, “Nance?”

And she turned to look at me, but I did not see her face. The wild ocean and the vivid black sky kept her shadowed, lit from behind, and blank, and again I was struck by the sensation that she was being erased in front of me. A stupid thing to feel, but there it was. That’s what I believed.

I gazed at her as if I could draw her back to me by sheer force of will.

She looked away. She did not whisper back.

She jumped. Neat as a sea lion. If she made a splash, I did not see it. I did not hear it. I heard only the ocean and the demented, incessant cry of whatever waited beneath it.

I leaped awkwardly to my feet and cast myself forward, sliding and fumbling, meeting so much resistance from the wind, the water, the rocks; but I reached the place where I’d seen her and I looked down, and saw nothing but the churning froth of the tide coming in, or going out. It was ink and inscrutable. I did not care whether it came or went.

I jumped, too.

If I couldn’t save her, then I couldn’t save anybody. And maybe it didn’t matter if I did. From exhaustion, or madness, or despair—I could not say—I threw myself into the open ocean.

Wherever she’d gone, I would go. Whatever strange god she now served, I would serve it, too. It could have me, too. It could have anything, as long as it would let us be together. If it wanted a soul, it could take mine. If it wanted a priestess or confidante, I would sing its worship until the end of time. If it wanted a meal, I would offer it my bones and beg it to stop there. I would plead and pray: I will be your sacrifice. Just leave the rest of the town, the rest of the world . . . in peace.





? ? ?


I hit the water hard, and hit something else while I was at it.

Another stone, a bit of driftwood? Perhaps one of the pilings, underneath the pier. I might’ve been close enough. I don’t know, but it stunned me. I tried to swim anyway, but the currents around me were erratic and powerful.

I kicked back and forth but found no purchase to anchor me; the water was too deep, and the waves were too insistent. They splashed over me. I dove beneath the surface and opened my eyes—which hurt, but told me nothing. I saw nothing at all, so I flailed with my hands and legs, taking up as much room as I could. If only I could touch her . . . grab her, draw her back to me or at least let us go down together, if that’s what it came to. I would die alone for her, if that’s what needed to happen; but I’d rather die in her arms, if I could be granted that one final grace.

I spun and bobbed, taking air only when I had no other choice. I was never a strong swimmer, and I was already half-dead from the run, the rocks, and the waves. I could feel the last of my strength bleeding away, and except for the fact that I’d not found Nance, I could not force myself to care.





? ? ?


   Under the water the voice sounded different. The Leviathan cry was peculiarly clear, and it sounded like music played by a madman on an instrument found in hell.





? ? ?


Stars sparkled across my vision. I did not know if my eyes were open or closed anymore. I could not tell the difference between water and sky. I felt nothing. No, that is not true. I felt despair, but even that was leaving me. At least the end was in sight. That was something, wasn’t it?





? ? ?


No. That was not true, either. Nothing was.

A hand reached me—strong as iron, fingers tangled themselves in my hair and pulled me. It did not hurt. It felt like unfamiliar pressure; I was aware of it, but I didn’t understand it. I wondered if this was Nance, if she’d changed her mind and come back for me. But it wasn’t her hand. (I never really thought it was.)

A second hand joined the first and I was hauled out, bodily. Dredged from the deep like an insensate lobster, confused to find myself in the open air.

On the pier. On its very edge, after a short trip up a ladder that I remember only vaguely . . . some lunge, some jerking pull, as I was brought up rung by rung. By force. I was dropped to the boards, and below them I heard the waves, swearing in thunderous rushes. They hadn’t quite been finished with me yet.