Riverkeep Read online

  “I must,” said Wull. “I have to, I have to—Pappa needs some o’ the medicine inside it.”

  “An’ haven’t I been hearin’ fine tales o’ the treasure in this beast the last week—sailors an’ their money! It’s worthless if you’re dead, young man—corpses can’t spend the coins on their eyes.”

  “I don’t want the money,” said Wull. “I jus’ want to save him.”

  Mrs. Vihv started arranging tea things on the table. “Am I not glad I let you in here now,” she said, “wi’ a babby an’ a sick man needin’ took care of. Why’re his hands bound up, if I may ask?”

  “He . . . he might hurt himself,” said Wull quietly. “He’s ill.”

  Mrs. Vihv tilted her head and gave him a hard look. “Well, there’s a tavern called the Brunswick in the market square—all the huntin’ folk go there on an evenin’ to drink their pay. You’ll like as not find this captain in there—Murdagh’s his name. But careful, mind: I’ve heard he’s a fearsome type—ran the mayor here for all his land if the tongue waggers have the right of it.”

  “Thank you,” said Wull. “Oh gods, thank you!” He looked at Mix. “Will you look after Pappa?”

  “I’m comin’ with you,” she said. “Don’t reckon I want to miss this.”

  “I’ll look after your pappa,” said Mrs. Vihv, “an’ Mrs. . . .”

  “Cantwell,” said Remedie. “Miss Cantwell.”

  “Miss Cantwell an’ her babe. There’ll be root tea and flat scones when you’re back. An’ be careful, mind, huntin’ folk are not normal folk. . . .”

  “Stinking it that speaks!” said Pappa, spluttering awake.

  “But you might not be as shocked as I imagined,” said Mrs. Vihv without missing a beat. “You can take your things up to your room before you go.”

  Wull gathered the bags and headed for the thin, warped stairs. Remedie pulled his arm as he passed.

  “She touched Bonn and thought him flesh!” she whispered. “It’s really happening!”

  “An’ I’m glad, miss,” said Wull, smiling.

  “I only worry about the wound from that bird.” Remedie lifted Bonn’s blanket away. The white wood had browned at the puncture’s edge, a vein-burst of thin lines spreading from its center like a bruise. “I hope it won’t change him too much, or cause him pain.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Wull, touching Bonn’s palm with his fingertip. “He’s a strong one, an’ he’s—”

  Bonn’s fist curled around Wull’s knuckle.

  “Did you see?” said Remedie. “Oh, Wulliam, there’s so much magic here! And it was you who brought us to it.” She beamed up at him.

  “I saw,” said Wull, squeezing her shoulder. He looked at Bonn’s hand on his.

  “If you’re going out, take the . . . thing, you know—the mandrake,” said Remedie, mouthing the last word. “I don’t want to be alone with it.”

  “If you like,” said Wull. As he climbed the stairs, he looked beyond the curtain and saw a long low-lit room lined with jars of yellow water, all filled with coils of organs and the glutinous lengths of sea creatures, a few dead edges moving delicately against the glass.

  He threw the bags into the room, hoisted the heavy mandrake sack over his shoulder, and, squeezing Remedie’s shoulder as he passed, followed Mix back into the cold night.

  Decatur House

  From Pent’s open mouth came wordless sounds of fury, uncontrolled spit hanging in strings from his chin.

  Tillinghast writhed away from the swinging boots, his insides an expanding agony, the misshapen fires of the wicker Things burning his clothes and singeing his skin as he crawled past them into the corridor.

  “How’d you even know to find me here?” said Tillinghast.

  Pent held up the dossier, flicked through the pages, and smiled.

  “That’s about me, is it? ’Bout my life?”

  Pent nodded. Then he dropped the book into the pile of burning Things.

  “No!” said Tillinghast, reaching for the curling paper.

  “Tillinghast!” cried Clutterbuck, pulling on his arm.

  “Run!” said Tillinghast. “Get yourself away!”

  “I can’t! Not without—”

  Pent’s fist knocked Clutterbuck to the ground, dashing his glasses in a tinkling mess on the flagstones.

  “You blaggard!” shouted Tillinghast, rising, swinging madly, fluids bursting from his eyes and nose.

  Pent dropped him with a boot to the chest, held him there. He leaned close in on him, let his spit fall onto Tillinghast’s face, then held up a piece of paper.

  “The mandrake?” said Tillinghast.

  Pent nodded.

  “It’s no’ here! I gave it away . . . sold it! Look, in my money pouch: money, hundreds o’ ducats! Take ’em an’ go, jus’ leave him alone!”

  Pent turned his head on one side, his expression inscrutable. He went to his pocket and lifted out a witch ball.

  “Whassat?” said Tillinghast, his mind fuzzy.

  Pent rolled it between his fingers, smiling, then held up the piece of paper again.

  “I told you I dun’t have it anymore!”

  Clutterbuck pulled himself to his knees.

  “The Things!” he said, reaching sightlessly around him. “Why did you burn the Things?”

  Pent looked at him crawling on the floor, then back at Tillinghast. He showed him the witch ball again.

  “I tol’ you, I dun’t have it!” shouted Tillinghast, seeing the straw inside the dark lump. This witch ball was made to kill him. He hugged himself to fight his seams bursting, the force inside that would split his skin.

  Pent smiled again, spat on the floor, then tore up the piece of paper.

  “What’s that mean?” said Tillinghast. “Take the money, jus’ don’t hurt—”

  Pent threw the witch ball.

  Tillinghast was seized by a pain that seared through him like a terrible white light. He felt his skin break where the ball had landed, melting at its touch, and his ears filled with a high-pitched whine that dizzied his head and brought more fluid into his mouth.

  He screamed again, and writhed, gone from time and space to a realm where only agony existed, unconscious of the slabs beneath him or of the burning touch of the Things as they lay dying around him.

  When at last he opened his eyes he found himself in the workshop. Pent sat patiently on Clutterbuck’s chair, the little man gathered to him, a knife at his throat.

  “I’m so sorry, my boy,” said Clutterbuck, his mouth smeared red, matting the hair of his beard.

  Tillinghast looked at Pent. “Dun’t,” he managed. “I’s goin’ to gerrit f’you, the mandrake. I’s goin’ to . . .”

  Pent shook his head and pointed at Tillinghast.

  “You want me?”

  Pent nodded.

  “I thought . . .”

  Pent moved the knife to the back of Clutterbuck’s head.

  “Dun’t! I’ll tell you—it’s on a boat, headin’ for the coast . . .”

  Pent tilted the knife.

  “. . . for Canna Bay! The people in the boat din’t take it. They’s got nothin’ to do with me, but the boy, Wull, he’ll give it you if you help ’im catch that mormorach thing. That’s why he’s goin’ there. If you get ’im out after it, on a proper boat, he’ll give it you. All right?”

  Pent nodded, smiled, and drew back his hand.

  “No!” shouted Tillinghast.

  “Remember you are yourself,” said Clutterbuck quickly. “You are your own—”

  The knife drove into his skull with a squeak, making white slits of his eyes and sending blood running from his lips.

  “Father!” shouted Tillinghast. “No! You blaggard . . . you . . .”

  He dragged himself to his knees, face running wet onto
the floor.

  Pent tossed Clutterbuck’s body aside and stood in front of Tillinghast, a new dagger, dull and misshapen, in his hand. He smiled again.

  “Whassat now?” said Tillinghast, loose and beaten. “What you got? A new toy?”

  Pent nodded, waggled the blade in front of his eyes. Around him the glass valves of the workshop hissed and popped, and the little gears turned among bottles and tubes of bright liquid.

  “So, you’s not even after the mandrake now, ’s that it?”

  Pent shrugged.

  “You’ll still take it, ’s long as you get me, too?”

  Another nod, another smile.

  Tillinghast stood slowly, his great weight swaying, his skin bulging and straining as he leaned on Clutterbuck’s workbench.

  “Well,” he said as Pent turned the dagger in his hand to make his cut, “’s too bad for you I’s my father’s son, so I’s got a fair idea this is goin’ to hurt,” and he threw a vial of green liquid in Pent’s face.

  Pent fell to his knees with a hiss of burning meat, clawing at his eyes. The dagger clanged on the ground, and Tillinghast kicked it away, feeling the sting of it through his boot.

  “You blaggard!” he said. “You’ve come here an’ killed my father an’ for what? The mandrake? The sport?”

  He kicked Pent’s stomach and doubled him over.

  “How dare you?” he said. “Did you think I’s goin’ to let you get away with it?”

  Tillinghast winced, grabbed at his side as his filling lurched through the split in his skin.

  “Oh gods . . .” he said, falling to the floor and pulling himself toward Clutterbuck’s body.

  Pent rose in a tangle of desperate limbs and fled, pressing his hands out in a blind fumble. A moment later there came the sound of horseshoes on stone, and the vanishing drumbeat of a horse at gallop.

  “Father,” said Tillinghast, pulling Clutterbuck toward him. The body was lifeless and still. Tillinghast threw back his head and howled.

  “I’s goin’ to make the right choice,” he said quietly, closing Clutterbuck’s eyes and laying him on his back. “An’ I’s goin’ to make you proud o’ me.”

  He stood, tore his shirt into strips, and bound himself together, tying knots with fingers that trembled with a weakness he’d never experienced. Finally, feeling some of his strength returned, he ran into the darkness, the moon gleaming off his pale torso as the woods swallowed him once more, the creatures of the night scattering before him as he thundered on toward morning.

  20

  Canna Bay

  Oh! Canna Bay Sound, we wish ye were potœm!

  Canna Bay Sound, oh my,

  How nice it would be if the potœm were free

  An’ we could all drink ye dry!

  An’ what if the trawlers should tip in a storm

  So we in the potœm were drown’d?

  How happy we’d be, in the potœmy sea—

  Never carin’ if we’re to be found!

  —Traditional Canna Bay fishing/drinking song

  The Brunswick Tavern sat glowing in the corner of the market: a square skinned with cobbled scales that shone under the moon, bordered by ranked, silent stalls on which the tarpaulins shimmered like ghosts. The Brunswick peered at them across the emptiness, orange light in its eyes and raucous bellows from its mouth. There came at regular intervals the rumble of upended furniture, of quarrels and falling tankards, and every voice seemed to be raised against the deafness of alcohol—every utterance shouted as though into a storm.

  “I’m not in a hurry to get in there,” said Mix.

  “What choice have we got? Mrs. Vihv said there’s only one huntin’ ship left, an’ the captain’s in here,” said Wull. He rubbed the top of his belly, pushing his fingers against the pain of his guts.

  Inside, the scene was as chaotic as it had sounded. People lay on floors, on tables, in the alcoves of the windows. The floor was sticky with spilled liquor, and the air tasted of yeast and the animal heat of cheap sheep-fat candles. Wull stepped over a thick-bearded man who was asleep with an expression of unfocused bliss, and waved at the barkeep.

  “Does I know you?” said the man, setting a ham-sized forearm on the bar.

  “I . . . no,” said Wull.

  “Then why’s you wavin’ at me?”

  “He waves at everyone,” said Mix.

  “I was jus’ tryin’ to get your attention,” said Wull. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, you’s got it now. What’d you want?”

  “We’re lookin’ for someone,” said Wull.

  “’In’t tha’ super,” said the barkeep. “An’ what’s you drinkin’ while you’s lookin’?”

  “Oh, we don’t want a drink. We jus’ need to speak to him.”

  “Well, look, long lad: I sells hard drink in here for those who wants to get drunk fast. We don’t need bright-faced younglings like you’selves to give the place atmosphere by makin’ merry chatter wi’ folk whose only conversation should be wi’ the bottom o’ a glass an’ maybe the gods after they’s had one too many. So I’ll ask again—what’s you drinkin’?”

  Wull looked at Mix. “Have you more o’ Till’s money?” he whispered.

  She held up a handful of coins. “Plenty,” she said. “I was only kiddin’ when I said I din’t take much.”

  “You thievin’ sneak,” said Wull, smiling. “What can we have?” he asked the barkeep.

  The man took his finger from his nose and rolled a sticky lump delicately between his thumb and forefinger.

  “A couple o’ kids like you’s can have milk suds or milk suds, though come to think o’ it there is a third option.”

  “Is it milk suds?” said Wull, standing on Mix’s toes.

  “’S right. What’ll it be?”

  “Two milk suds, please,” said Wull.

  The barkeep turned to the barrel.

  “That was cryin’ out for a smarter mouth,” whispered Mix. “Why din’t you ask for some potœm?”

  “Because I don’t want to get thrown out,” hissed Wull. “So don’t you say anythin’, either.”

  Two sloppy tankards were placed on the bar, sudsy white bubbles spilling into the puddles that had already gathered.

  “Crown an’ a half,” said the barkeep.

  “Thanks,” said Wull, counting the money into his palm. “Can I tell you who we’re lookin’ for now?”

  “You c’n try me,” said the barkeep, “but most o’ these wretches ’in’t my customers. People from here’s had no coin since that beast showed up—these’re mostly the sailors what’s come from out o’ town, drinkin’ away their huntin’ money.”

  “It’s a hunter we’re lookin’ for,” said Wull. “Gilt Murdagh.”

  The barkeep’s eyes widened. “You sure ’bout that now?” he said.

  Wull nodded. “We were told his was the last ship sailin’ for the monster.”

  “An’ you were told the truth, but I’s not sure I’d want to be both’rin’ the captain this night. He’s over by the fireplace, crutch on his shoulder.”

  Wull followed the barkeep’s hand, saw the man slumped in the firelight, alone at his busy table.

  “Thank you,” said Wull. He lifted his tankard and turned into the tavern, sniffed the cloudy liquid and wet his lips with its foam. “This tastes like sweat,” he muttered.

  As he stepped through the crowds, someone found most of the piano keys they were looking for, and a thin tune was picked up by the rolling crowds: a song Wull had heard Grandmamma sing about wishing the deep sound of Canna Bay were made of potœm. He reached Murdagh’s shoulder and cleared his throat.

  “Captain Murdagh,” he said, “I wish to speak with you.”

  Murdagh made no move, gave no sign of having heard.

  “Captain Murdagh?” said Wull again. �
��Sir, I wish to—”

  “I heard ye, lad. Don’t go strainin’ yourself wi’ that stiff-shirt voice,” said Murdagh, his face obscured by his hat. “Speak.”

  Some of the men—Murdagh’s crew, Wull supposed—had stopped singing and were listening intently.

  “I wish to join your crew as you sail for the mormorach,” said Wull. “I’ve come a long way to kill it, an’ I badly need somethin’ it has inside it. I can row an’ I can mend nets an’ . . .”

  Murdagh laughed, a wheezing, choking sound.

  “An’ ’in’t they mighty fine, all those little skills?” he said. “You know how many other’s’ve come beggin’ me, lookin’ for a slice o’ Gilt’s money?”

  “I need none o’ its gold, sir, jus’ the juice from a small part o’ its—”

  “Well, you’re gettin’ none from me,” said Murdagh. He drew a knife from his sleeve, lifted a vivid red fruit from the table, and began to peel it in long, slippery ribbons. “My crew is my crew is my crew, an’ how d’you think they’s goin’ to feel about splittin’ their haul wi’ a cut-cheeked stranger who’s no legs for the sea?”

  “I’ve spent all my life on the water,” said Wull.

  “How many times, I wonder,” said Murdagh, lifting a slice of fruit into his mouth, “have I heard that claim, untested against the bright heat o’ my work?”

  “I’ve been tested plenty,” said Wull coldly.

  “Have ye? So, you reckon you’s a water man, do you?” said Murdagh. He tilted his head and looked at Wull for the first time, never stopping his blade at the fruit’s husk, its juice running clear on his dirt-thick hands. Keeping his attention on Wull’s eyes, he kissed pieces of red flesh from his blade with lips that were sun-bleached and cracked.

  “Aye,” said Wull, looking back. He focused on Murdagh’s good eye and set his mouth to stop his own lips trembling. “I’m the Danék Riverkeep.”