The townsfolk crowd the dock, their faces white as they witness the slaughter. They fling ropes into the sea and reach to pluck their sailors out. Distracted thus, no one sees my approach or lowers a helping hand. I see Agnet screaming on the dock as her husband’s boat is destroyed. I call to her, but she does not hear me. I pant on the stone and watch as her husband and his oarsmen are plucked from the water and dragged up onto the pier. There is blood everywhere and their mewls of agony fill my ears until each is carried away. I see a severed head bob on the waves. Sligo, the man betrothed to my sister. His outlandish nose is upright like a sail.

The sky darkens and a briny chill creeps into my bones. I sit up and look out at the destruction rising and falling on the waves in the bay. Splintered wood and capsized hulls, the useless nets and the broken bodies of the fishermen. All of it floating in the chop. The gulls cry and flap as they peck at an easy meal.

And out there on the water reigns the sea maiden who has all but wiped out our fleet in a single afternoon. I swear to God she looks right at me as she devours the floating remains of the fishermen. No other soul is plucked from the sea this day and the mermaid leaves nothing left of the dead to bury.

15

15

I SHIVER THE rest of the day, unable to rid the chill from my bones no matter how close I huddle by the fire. Our home has become grim. Father remains locked in the vestry, oblivious to the attempt of the fishermen to murder his own son. Bryndis will not speak to me, clanging the pots and bashing the board as she scrapes whatever scraps we have left into a thin stew. Pip is singing songs about the mermaid, gibberish nonsense about how prettily she swims and how green her locks are. I tell him to stop, but he will not, so I shove him in the larder and turn the latch. Rhymes leak out from under the door in his thin voice.

All feeling is gone from my left hand. It is a leprous, blackened thing that I do not recognize. I can move my fingers, but the creature’s venom has confounded every nerve. There is no sensation to it at all. Slipping the knife from my belt, I prick the blackened skin with the blade, drawing out the dark blood, but there is no pain. The fingernails have become loose and when I press on them, a foul-smelling puss oozes out from the cuticles. It is revolting.

I try not to recall the midwife’s warning that I may have to lop the diseased limb off. When a knock on the door startles me, I slip the foul thing back into my shirt to hide it.