The church is quiet. It holds only one soul this night, and that is mine. The cold flagstones and smell of the wooden pews are comforting. I light a candle under the icon of Torgrim the Unbending and wonder if the fabled hero will return from beyond the grave to save us again. On the lectern sits the parish registry, open to the latest page. Father must have forgotten it out here.

I run a finger down the last names listed in the ledger. Names of all the dead men, along with the date and means of death. For each cause, Father has written “taken by God.” The ink pot and the quill are here so I dip the nib into the ink to amend his record. Crossing out the word ‘God’, I scribble down the word ‘mermaid’. There, the record stands accurate now. I wonder if Father will notice. In his current state, he doesn’t seem to notice anything.

When my blasphemy is done, I go to a pew and pray. I pray to the Almighty to save our souls, to make the creature go back to the open seas. I pray for Agnet to be returned to me, for us to be together like we used to. I pray for her to be safe.

The prayer is ended when I genuflect to the four points of the compass. The stern countenance of the One True God, carved out of ancient oak, hangs just below the brittle skeleton of the sea monster. Two dead gods, two corpses hung for display. Is either real? I wonder which one I am praying to. Are both deaf or has one craned its ear to my whispers? When a fragment of sea monster bone falls to the floor, I wonder if I have doomed us all.

***

The wrack of octopus and starfish on our streets has putrefied into a sludge under the rays of the sun. It clings to shoes and makes the cobbles slippery. The stinking fumes ripple like heat from the pathways. The women go about their tasks, kerchiefs pressed to their noses against the miasma. There is nary a man in sight. I see Ulric standing in the doorway of his hovel, as if unwilling to step beyond his threshold. He tells me that Gunther’s oarsmen, Osk and Brom, have both disappeared in the night. They were last seen on the eastern wharf, clumsy with drink, and singing bawdy songs to the creature that had mutilated their skipper. They had raised their fists in anger, cursing the monster and pissing into the sea to underwrite their contempt. Late this morning, Brom’s head is found washed up on the beach by two little girls. His eyes are gone and a small crab has made a nest of the empty socket. No part of Osk is found.