Tempest (25 page)

He spent so much time at the docks that he almost missed Megg's visit to the Cove. It was close to sunset by the time he swam back there, and when he felt the gentle slap-slap of waves against a little boat, Colm slowed his pace, stopping in the deep shadows beneath the cliff on the far side of the cavern. He lifted his head out of the water and heard Megg's voice, saw her crouched on the little beach with Sari by her side and two men he didn't recognize standing a few respectful paces behind. Rory sat by her feet, for once completely focused on someone other than Colm.

“There's naught else to be done,” Megg was saying. Her voice was thready and worn, tired in a way that Colm had never heard from his aunt before. It had the sound of hopelessness in it, and Colm's heart clenched in his chest as he realized why she sounded that way. “Nichol won't speak to me. He won't speak to anyone, poor lad. Not since he first woke up. Lost him, he said. ‘I lost him, Gran.' Then he wept, and he didn't stop, not for days. He only got back on his feet a few days ago, and since then, I've barely seen him. He haunts the sea wall where they went to swim, just stares at the water like he expects Colm to reappear.” Megg sighed heavily.

“I thought he was like you.” Colm could hear her fingers scritch-scratching along Rory's back. “A selkie, love. With what Colm could do, with his little strange ways on the water, how he knew things, I thought he had to be like you. But if he was a selkie, Nichol wouldn't have been hurt, would he? I thought we'd lose him for sure those first few days, with both a healer and a priest working on him. And then all that talk of mer… It must have gotten Colm. It must have been terrible. Poor lad, it must have been—” Her voice cut off on a sob, and Colm took advantage of the lull to dip his head below the water and breathe.

He couldn't show himself to Megg. Not like this, not with other people here. They would be afraid. They would lash out. No, Colm couldn't do anything but listen, and wish with all his heart that he could heal the pain in Megg's voice.
I'm alive
, he wanted to say.
I'm right here!
Monstrous, but here.

Colm surfaced quietly in time to hear, “—wouldn't come, but it has to be done. Colm deserves the rites, and he was as much a child of the sea as any ever born in Caithmor. Gods love him, for I surely did.” Colm watched Megg make the sign of the Four in the air with a sweet-smelling smudge stick. She set a clear bowl into the water, set a little package inside it, then added a lit candle to the top of that. After a moment, Megg pushed it away from the shore.

The sugarglass bowl hovered there at the edge of the water, and for a moment, Colm was sure that it wouldn't move. How could it? He was still alive. As soon as Megg began the prayers, though, it started to drift out into the water.

“May…may the Four look with favor on the spirit of our departed kin, Colm Weathercliff,” Megg said, her voice wavering with grief. “May they welcome him back to their fold. May they give him the comfort that he has earned after his time toiling in this world.” Colm stared, captivated, at the little light, which seemed to be getting brighter. “May his spirit find the peace of the water, the strength of the earth, the gentleness of the air and the warmth of the fire. Bless him, and take him back into your loving embrace until such time as his spirit is ready to return again.”

In the sudden silence, Colm snapped out of his stupor and realized that the light looked brighter because it was getting closer to him. The burial bowl, filled with whatever offering of his Megg could muster since she didn't have his ashes, was heading straight for his dark, secluded corner of the cove. If the light touched him, it would give away his presence, illuminating the horror of his new reality. Colm suddenly couldn't bear to spend one more moment in the harsh dry air, and he ducked down into the water. Maybe it would pass him by. Maybe it would go out to sea…

The bowl stopped just above him, hovering there for almost a minute before the sugar finally melted through. The light snuffed out as the remnants of the bowl sank, and Colm reached out with trembling fingers and grabbed Megg's offering to the gods, the things that she felt represented him best.

Some of it was ashes after all, burnt pieces of clothing or papers, perhaps. Probably a letter from his sister, a memento of someone else's love for him. There was a fish hook, and a broken glass float from one of Lew's nets. There was a bit of food, as well. Colm felt the flaky texture of Megg's pastry dissolve to nothing between his fingertips. The last two items were the nub of the candle, its fire totally extinguished, and—

Oh. His knife. Colm caught the little gutting knife by the blade, and winced when it dug too hard into the webbing on his hand, leaving a sluggishly bleeding cut. He'd kept it sharp, the perfect tool for his life on land. Now Colm was a living weapon. He had no need for the help of steel, not with his teeth and spines. But he wanted it. It was all he had left of his father, all he had left of his humanity.

Colm despised his new body, but that didn't mean he hadn't indulged his curiosity about it. There were pockets between the spines in places, valleys in the grooves of his scales and fins. Colm lifted his tail up and slid the knife into one of those deep, rough grooves, where his skin was too fibrous to be easily cut, and the knife was wedged so tight that it wouldn't be easily lost. He could barely make out the glint of its tip in the vanishing light of the sun. Now he would have it with him, until it finally rusted away.

Colm was so absorbed in his own melancholy he barely noticed the movement of the boat above his head, the oars slicing through the water as Megg and her hired hands left the cove. Rory went with them, swimming around the boat like a sentinel, baring his teeth at Colm when he made a move to follow.

Fine, then. Rory wanted to be alone. After seeing evidence of the pain he'd put Megg through, Colm couldn't blame the selkie for needing to be apart from him.

Colm swam over to the beach and lay back on the sand, staring up at the sliver of darkening sky over his head. The moon would cross that gash in the cliff at some point tonight. Soon it would fill with stars, and Colm would be able to imagine that he was looking through the skylight in his room, lying in bed with Nichol's arms twined around him, instead of the clammy grip of the sea grass that held him now. Nichol, oh, Nichol… If there were any way to spare him the pain he was going through now, any way at all, Colm would take it. Perhaps he could see him, meet him at the sea wall and show Nichol that he was still here, still alive. Would that comfort Nichol? Or would it make everything worse?

At the very least, Colm had to see him. He would watch from a distance, assess the situation tomorrow. If it seemed like his presence might help, and there was no one else around, then he would reveal himself.

With that thought, the first hopeful one Colm had consciously felt since his transformation, he closed his eyes and let himself drift away into sleep. When he woke up tomorrow, things would be better.

Chapter Eighteen

It wasn't the gradual heat of the rising sun or the friendly press of Rory's body against Colm's that woke him when it happened. Instead of a slow drift out of slumber, Colm snapped awake with a gasp and instinctively turned to swim into deeper water, only realizing at the last moment that he couldn't even manage to turn. He could only flail in place. He pressed right and left with his tail, slashed with his claws and bit, hard, at the ropes he suddenly found himself tangled in, only to almost break a fang on the leaded core of the net that covered him. He had been
netted
…but how? Where had such a thing even come from?

“Hold him down, lads, hold him steady!” a man's voice yelled from above. “Don't let him slip away to sea. Hold him tight! Draw the lines together and prepare to hoist our prize up.”

Prize?
Men. Colm felt their presence now—not in the water, but from the beach. They had dropped in from above him like spiders, and the more he struggled in the nets, the tighter his captors managed to draw it around him. Frantic, Colm ripped a handful of spines from his back and thrust them through the net toward the men.

“Back, back!” one of them yelled, and they moved away, but not before Colm tagged one of them. The man fell to the side with a curse and the weight of the net began to lift. Colm dug into the sand with his free hand, searching for the edge of the trap. If he could hold them off just long enough, if he could find it and lift it…

Blows rained down on Colm's back from the men's quirts, short, slender whips that sliced through his skin like knives. Colm rolled away from one only to be faced with another, but the smell of his own blood only drove him to fight harder. He screamed, his voice hideous in the dry, disgusting air, and shoveled at the sand faster when the men winced and reared back, desperate to find the edge, so close, he knew he was close.

A flail cracked across his face, hitting just above his eye, and Colm fell back into a momentary stupor. “Now, lads, now!” They moved in again, and this time, Colm didn't have the strength to struggle. He was light-headed from his exertions and time spent out of the water, and his whole body burned with pain. The men closed the net around him and hooked it onto a rope that led up through the hole in the rock above. They hoisted Colm out of the cove and up, dragging his battered body against the sharp stone of the crevice without care. His gills fluttered weakly and his mouth worked soundlessly, with no force to spare now for frightening his captors. Colm was done in. He was finished.

His body cleared the stone and was towed across the ground for a few more feet before coming to a stop. “Lookit that,” someone marveled, prodding him with a foot. “Right proper beastie, he is. He'll draw 'em in, Regar, no mistake. People'll come from miles away to see a living fish-man.”

“He might not be a living fish-man for much longer if you don't get him into the tank,” another voice chimed in sardonically. “It would be a shame to have gotten rid of the grundylow only to off his successor before he could make us any money.”

“I'm not touchin' 'im,” the first man declared. “You hear the yellin' down there? Be lucky if all the lads survived, and I already got filthy today draggin' old Grundy from the tank and cleanin' it out for this one. I don't fancy doin' it all over now.”

“One half-dead fish-man won't put you on your back, Kith,” a new voice said. This one was louder, with a deeper register that seemed familiar somehow. “But I will, if you lot don't get the thing into the tank before it suffocates. You—Nyle, y'said? Help Kith get the creature into the tank.”

Two pairs of hands, uncomfortably hot on Colm's skin, took hold of him beneath his armpits, one of the few places he could be grabbed safely, and started to haul him forward. Colm flipped his tail sluggishly, trying to muster the energy for something more, but he couldn't turn his neck far enough to bite, and his vision was beginning to blur. Perversely, Colm hoped that the tank was far away, far enough that it would be too late by the time they got there. He didn't want them to get any use out of him. Colm might be a monster, but at least he had been his own monster before this. Let him die, then, and let that teach them to grope for what they couldn't have.

His vision went gray, then black, his hearing fuzzy, and for a brief, beautiful moment, Colm was sure it was too late. He was going to die, and it would serve them right. But no, Colm's rotten luck wouldn't be denied. His captors lifted him high and managed to shove him over a smooth, cool edge and into fresh salt water, and despite himself, the darkness began to clear.

He could hear their voices, muted thanks to the water but still clear enough to make out. “He's comin' round,” the voice that was Kith said. Colm blinked his eyes open, but the sun had set by now, and he couldn't make out any details of the man's face. “Got a shiner comin' up.” He turned his head and called out, “You lads did a number on the merchandise! The fish-man's bloody all over! Got his blood on me too, and phew, that's
rank
, that is.”

“You weren't down there wrestlin' him into the net now, were ya?” another man snarled, striking the tank with the side of his fist. The sound reverberated through the glass. “Nasty buggering fuck, this thing is, absolutely vicious. It stuck Farval with one of its ruddy spines, now he's havin' trouble breathin'.”

“That's only going to get worse,” the sarcastic voice said as he touched the tank lightly with one hand. “I did tell you to be careful, Wes.”

“You didn't say nothin' about poisoned spines, Kiaran,” Wes said, and his voice quivered with barely restrained fury. “Not a bloody thing, yet you knew everything else there was to know about this fish-man, right down to where 'e'd be and when. Couldn't have used your second sight to see that he'd be a danger to us?”

“I assumed you knew he'd be a danger to you,” Kiaran replied, and Colm shrank back a little from the edge of the tank when he realized who was speaking. Kiaran, with second sight, someone who knew things he shouldn't have been able to know… It was the man from the Spectacular, the one who had said he would ruin Colm, the one who had talked about Fate. Was this what he'd seen, then, Colm's transformation? How had he known where to find him?

“You've heard the stories. You've seen the head in the House of Horrors. Why would you ever think a mer was anything other than deadly?” Kiaran tapped his fingers against the glass. “It's not my fault you didn't take precautions.”

“You listen to me now, you
filthy
little—”

“That's enough of that now,” the deep voice interjected. If Kiaran Brighteyes was here, if these were men of the Roving Spectacular, then that voice had to belong to Regar Brighteyes, the ringmaster. He looked different through the distortion of water and glass, but as he got closer, Colm could make out the size of him, so broad and tall, and knew he was right. “We've got to be clear of Caithmor by dawn, and that means we finish packing up tonight. Wes, take Farval ahead to the healer, see if there's anything that can be done for him.” The casual dismissal sent Wes scurrying.

“You sure the beast'll perk up?” Regar demanded of Kiaran.

“He'll be fine,” Kiaran soothed. “This is the new star attraction of the Roving Spectacular. I actually Saw it, Father. Provided Kith takes better care with him than he did with the grundylow, the mer should last for quite a while.”

“Oy, I cleaned the tank, made sure Grundy had food,” Kith protested, rubbing one hand over his familiar swollen belly.

“You only cleaned the tank once Grundy started trying to jump out of it,” Regar said. He stepped close to the tank and lifted his hands to the rim where glass met the metal grate over the top, pressing in hard. Heat suddenly welled up where he touched, and Colm shied back as best he was able.

Regar circled the tank, the strange heat following him, and Colm did his best to watch this new source of potential pain. “You have to take care of your creatures if you want them to remain beautiful, and this one is wicked beautiful right now. If it becomes ugly and foul, we'll lose money. I don't care how many spells you have to use, you keep it alive and fresh.” Finally, he pulled his hands away, looking satisfied. “Y'hear me, man?”

“Yessir,” Kith said reluctantly.

“Good. I'm taking the lads ahead to help with the breakdown. You and Nyle take the easy route down the cliffs with the cart. If I find out that you've broken this tank, I'll break every bone in your body.” With that casual declaration of violence, Regar walked away, shouting for his men at the top of his lungs.

Grundylow… That had to be the strange scent in the water, permeating it even though its previous occupant was gone now. It smelled a bit sharp, like freshly ground ink. Beneath the sharpness was something mustier, flat and strange. Colm slowly turned his face to the bottom of the tank and pressed his nose to it, inhaled carefully.

The faint scent made him want to retch, and he knew with a sudden certainty that it had to be despair. After so long living in captivity, long enough that the creature had been driven to attempting suicide, its despair had sunk into the very foundation of the tank. Colm hoped they'd killed the poor creature quickly.

“Regar didn't waste no time binding this'n in,” Kith muttered as he inspected the metal grate covering the top of the tank. “And now, to keep it all t'gether.” He pressed both of his hands to the surface of the tank, then muttered an incantation under his breath. A moment later he pulled back, looking satisfied.

“What was that?” the other man—Nyle—asked, pulling his hood tighter around his face. The wind had kicked up, and while it might be spring now, the air was still more than cold enough to chill to the bone.

“Ah, just a little charm to keep the water in, lad,” Kith replied, putting up the gate on the back of the sturdy, low-slung wagon the tank rested on. “Where we're goin', there won't be a chance to change it out, so the more of it we can keep in there, the better. He can thrash around all he likes now, but the water won't leave the tank. Learned that lesson when Old Grundy almost splashed himself dry a few years ago.”

“I see.” Nyle stepped closer to the tank. “What else do you need to do to make him comfortable?”

“
Comfortable
,” Kith scoffed. “You've got some odd ideas, lad. It's not our job to keep the beast comfortable. It's our job to keep 'im alive. Feed him, keep him in water, clean the tank whenever the scum starts to stick to the surface, maybe rile him up a bit when it's time for a show—that's our work. Think you're up for it? Kiaran vouched for you, but if you can't handle the job—”

“I can handle it,” Nyle said harshly. “Why would I have shown you the way here if I didn't think I could do this?”

“Lots of reasons a man might want to get out of town, lad. You wouldn't be the first criminal that's come to the Spectacular looking for a place to lay low. Regar don't turn them away, 'specially if they can pay.” Kith spit off to the side. “Got to say, a live mer is a hell of a payment.”

“There's no one to come after me,” Nyle said, his voice as hard as stone. “No law, no girl got up in the family way. I just can't be here anymore, and this seemed as good a way to find a new path as any. And he”—a pale hand indicated Colm—“might as well be what pays my way, since I've nothing else to offer but the strength of my back.”

“The Spectacular will get plenty of use out of that back o' yours when we next set up,” Kith said, clapping Nyle on the shoulder. “Come now, I'll show you how to drive this cart. It's mules for us .They're the only beasts can get this bloody heavy thing over the ruts, but they're stubborn as they come. There's a trick to makin' 'em move, though…” The voices faded a bit as the two men circled around to the front of the wagon, and a moment later, they jolted forward along the narrow, rocky trail, leaving Colm alone again.

He couldn't stretch out in the tank, not even halfway. His tail coiled around the glass wall until it almost doubled back on itself, and he curled his battered arms beneath his face to cushion it a bit as the wagon jolted over bumps and ruts. Colm had never thought of sand as soft until now, when he compared where he was to what he'd had. At least Rory hadn't been there for this. He would have been captured or killed for sure. Thank the Four Megg had come tonight. Thank the Four Colm had been alone in the cove. Just like he was alone now.

Colm turned his face against his arms and resisted the impulse to keen. Nothing was sacred; nothing was constant. He had gone from a man to a mer to a carnival attraction in the space of a month. Was this to be his new life? Would he languish in a cage for years like the grundylow, until his desperation drove him to try to kill himself? How would he, without the freedom even to move, much less go anywhere?

Colm covered his face with his tail. Perhaps he could strangle himself with it. Perhaps he could stab himself through the eye with one of his own spines, perhaps that would do it. His skin was too tough for them to penetrate most places, but the eye, his gills…those were tender. If he pushed deep enough, he might find release. It would be painful, but it might be an end, a real end.

Colm adjusted his head a bit, draping a fin across his shoulders as he curled in even tighter. He was bruised and beaten all over, but the blood had stopped flowing, and already things seemed to be healing. This body recovered so quickly… Would a spine be able to do enough damage to him fast enough? Colm grimaced as his whole body shivered, coiling even tighter—except where it couldn't. There was a stiff spot just above his tail, not exactly painful, but rigid. Colm palpated it gently, then slid his hand into the pocket.

His knife… Gods, he had his
knife!
He had forgotten it in the trauma of his strange burial at sea and subsequent capture, but here it was, in his hands. The steel was harder than his spines, short but sharp. This, he could save himself with this. He could do it. It didn't cut through the thick scales of his tail, but surely it would penetrate the more delicate skin at his wrists, or across his neck.