Sing Our Bones Eternal

Dedication

For all my ancestors, the quick and the dead.

For Ruth and Debbie, the best mirror-keepers I’ve ever known.

And for James, my eternal wulver.

Some souls are born so hungry they enter the world a bloody, hissing mess. Fangs bared, they feast on mother meat, tender-pink, but it’s not enough. Craving more, they consume the world around them, sparing only what’s out of reach: a sky of lonely stars, a silver-bellied moon, and the deep salt sea.

Long ago, when the sea was young, there was a hungry mermaid named Kilda. She was an exquisite creature from head to tail, with honey-blonde curls, almond eyes, long lashes, and pearls in her hair. On her fifteenth birthday, Kilda rose above the salt and scratched the skin of the sea. She finned for Crescent Isle, following the cold light of the moon. With a splash, she flopped onto the black sand and fell into a deep sleep.

At dawn, Kilda woke and tasted the fruits of the earth. She crushed berries between her fangs and painted her lips with their blood. She gorged on shiny apples and juicy lobsters. She lolled on The Crooked Sands, gazing up at the ghost-clear sky. Life on land was splendid, for there was no veil of water to obscure her vision.

The seasons lived and died, each blossoming until it wilted. Many a long day Kilda spent on Crescent Isle, exploring every nook and cranny. Her body became a refuge for many creatures. Shrimp burrowed between her scales; petrels nested in her wild hair.

It was all so beautiful – until Kilda grew restless. The isle she once loved became the bane of her existence. She despised the dirty shrimp between her scales and the cold moon with its crooked spine. Crescent Isle wasn’t even an isle. It was more of a sandspit, really.

Tempted by new wonders, Kilda set her sights on the neighboring isle. For seven hundred and seventy moons, Kilda swam to Hourglass Isle. She hid behind the sunbaked rocks, her keen eyes floating on the surf. Sly as a devilfish, she watched the wulvers as they lugged their nets along the shore and sang their shanties around the fire.

The wulvers were handsome indeed, dressed in salt and pepper fur, with broad shoulders and rippling muscles, but Kilda fancied the fallows. Her heart hammered as they pranced along the windswept shore. Each time she saw one, she swam closer than before. They always greeted her with big doe eyes and bone-white antlers, but before she could utter a word, they dashed back to The Brittle Forest. 

Every night in her oyster bed, Kilda dreamt of the fallows. She followed them into the mist as they led her deep into The Brittle Forest. Kilda watched with delight as they pranced around a crackling fire, their antlers smearing in the shadows. She sat under a canopy of leaves and listened to the owls hooting in the pine trees.

When Kilda awoke from her dreams, she felt a stab of jealousy. The wulvers weren’t bound to the sea, and the fallows could come and go as they pleased. It wasn’t fair. Kilda loathed her soggy lungs and her clumsy tail. Of all the eternals she could’ve been, a mermaid was the lowliest. To ease her pain, she told herself glorious stories.

I’m better than my sisters. I belong above the salt. I deserve the fresh blue sky, a cloud-soaked throne, and the sweat of the sun. I deserve a herd of loyal fallows to dance around me and a crown of antlers bursting berry-red. I deserve an altar of smoke curling in my name. If only I could shake off these odious scales. If only I could rip the human heart from my chest, then I could become a god and rule Hourglass Isle.

A faint whisper caressed her ears: Hourglass Isle is yours. But it was only the wind rustling through the leaves; such was the dangerous nature of hunger, causing creatures to mistake the crunch of grass for the crackle of bacon.

One starry night, Kilda refused to sleep in her oyster bed. She rose above the salt instead. With heavy eyes, she ordered a crab to pinch her if she fell asleep.

A pinch and a half later, Kilda snapped to attention and scoured the shoreline. There, straight ahead, was a handsome fallow. Kilda finned her way to the water’s edge and followed him. She crawled along a stretch of black sand, squeezing her body between the slippery rocks. Muscles aching, she ascended a steep hill that gave way to a clearing. By the time Kilda reached the top, her arms and her tail burned red-hot.

Overhead, a rowan tree blazed with berries. Entranced, Kilda stopped and stared at the herd of fallows prancing around it. With her last ounce of strength, she slithered over a carpet of crimson and gold leaves until she reached the rowan tree. The fallows bowed before her, pricking her with their antlers. 

Hissing with pleasure, Kilda threw her arms around the rowan tree and pledged her allegiance to the land. She sang for the last time, a melody of blood and sand.

In one fell swoop, the rowan tree thrust its branches through her heart. All through the night, Kilda writhed in pain as the rowan tree devoured her. Her tail hardened to wood and her scales to bark. The ground absorbed her dark little magic as her poison spread throughout Hourglass Isle.

There’s a crack in the roof above my bed. My father put it there, perfect for peeking. I’m a thing to be watched when I sleep, when the candles burn low, and I undress to skin and bones. When I touch my tender parts under the sheets.

I feel eyes on me, dragging along my skin, eyes that belong to my uncle. I hate the way Gunn looks at me, all teeth and tongue, hungry enough to eat me.

When it rains, I dream. My bed is a rock and my room is the sea, waves rolling around me. I’m a sad sort of happy in this drowsy state, a bundle of nerves and a curl of limbs, sweaty hair sticking to my neck. I feel it coming, all wind and rain. I see it so clearly – the dream staring back at me before the tide carries it away.

I’m sitting on a cold rock, stitching my legs together. I feel the poke of the needle, the pull of the thread, my fingers slick with blood. I rub my tailbone, tracing fresh blooms of silver scales. The sky is broken, cracked open like an egg. Lightning strikes through a ring of fog. A waterspout spins around me. The storm is here, ready to swallow me whole, but I’m only half-afraid.

At the pink of dawn, I jolt awake. A ray of light licks me, washing away the dream. Familiar noises creep through the cracked roof: the crunch of my father’s boots and the squeak of the latch. Nothing ever changes. The air still reeks of rancid meat, and Gunn lazes by the hearth guzzling mead.

I peek under the blanket, searching for bloody stitches, but my legs are smooth and clean. I hold my breath, giving my lungs a good stretch, while delicious pain swims through me. The mermaids are singing again, their voices knife-sharp – sharp enough to draw blood from my ears.

The land is never quiet here. There’s a curse in every crevice, a trill in every tree. Sheep bleat in the meadow. Whales click in the sea. Lochs and rivers splash. The wind strums the thistles into dazzling little harps. Even the rocks snarl with song, for the earth remembers what my ancestors have done.

The past isn’t gone. It’s always here, nipping at my heels. Rumor has it my father is a wicked bluebeard from The Minch. When I ask him where he’s from, he doesn’t give me a straight answer. He just flashes his hook of a smile and says he’s a bag of mystery.

We live on Hourglass Isle, surrounded by The Bitter Sea. And bitter it is, for it’s never felt like home to me. Best I can figure, we’re a dozen leagues north of Scotland, but it’s hard to tell because I’ve never been on the mainland. I’ve never seen a map, either. My father forbids many things, maps and harps to name a few.

Harps. The very word casts a spell on me, hurling me back in time.

Time is slippery on Hourglass Isle, or perhaps it’s just slippery for me. Fear has a way of warping time, bending it until it breaks. Something bad happens, and the ground splits beneath me. Memories scatter and splash into the sea, leaving behind a chain of isles. Here’s the present, thin and jagged. There’s the past, long and crooked. And everything in between.

How easily I swim from now to then: to the day my father took the harp away.

It’s warm outside, not a cloud in the sky. My mother and I sit under the oak tree, the ground still damp with dewdrops. She wears a crown of fairy bells, her white gown fluttering in the breeze. Her hair is a blend of blood and earth, a rich mahogany gleaming in the sun. I scoot closer, savoring the smell of cinnamon on her skin.

Angel-pretty, she plucks her harp. I crave her attention, but her gaze lingers on the horizon. Perhaps she’s searching for something she lost long ago, like her voice, a bitter root pulled before its time. My mother loves nothing more than to hear me sing. With an eager nod, she encourages me. I purse my lips in song and feel her moving through me, strumming the strings of my heart.

But something bad is coming. The nape of my neck tells me so, its tiny hairs standing on end. I cast my mother a worried glance. She forces a smile, her amber eyes warm as toast.

The front door squeals open, giving way to my father. He’s built like a bull: short, stout, and full of thunder. He stomps his hoof-feet into the ground and scolds my mother for playing the harp. Then, with a wild snort, he charges at us.

Fear pulses through me, blurring my vision. In this moment, my father is not a man but a beast, with a mangy beard and a jumble of teeth. My mother springs to her feet, shielding me from my father. She bows before him, clasping her hands together. She doesn’t know it, but she’s teaching me something very important: my father is a god, and we must worship him. My mother continues groveling, kissing his feet in contrition.

But her apology only incenses my father more. He lunges at her, knocking her to the ground. He could stop right now, but he doesn’t. My father has an insatiable soul, always wanting more. He yanks my mother by the hair and strikes her jaw. I cringe as bones crunch and teeth crack. My mother goes limp in his arms, blood spilling from her mouth.

Instinctively, I reach for her, but my father shoves me away. With a wild snort, he tosses my mother aside and guts her harp like a whale. When he finishes, he sets his sights on me, his eyes boring through my skin. I try to run away, but my feet are pinned to the ground. I cower down, biting back tears.

My father grabs me, his hands eating my neck. For a beat, he lets up, only to raise the harp strings over his head. I feel a sudden gust of wind, followed by the lash of strings. Blood rolls down my back; it hurts so badly I can hardly breathe.

How quickly things change. The harp is a weapon now, and I must endure the pain. Whether it’s past or present, I’m always afraid of my father. He’s the lump in my throat, the stone I can’t swallow.

But still, I feign he loves me. I imagine us rising from the hot breath of the earth, soaring above the salt until we crumble into stardust. I imagine his hands mending the lashes on my back, his tears sponging away my scars.

For what little I know of my father, I know even less of my mother. She bakes and sews like most mothers, but she never says a word. When she tries to speak, nothing comes out but a gurgle. The only remnants of who she used to be are a stack of music tomes with singed pages and several jars of tulip cream, which she lathers on her throat to ease her pain.

Every morning, I gaze into the mirror, searching for a piece of my mother, but her hair is thorn-bitten while mine is rose-red, and my eyes aren’t warm as fire; they’re cold as ice. The only features we share are heart-shaped faces and a smattering of freckles.

My father has been wary of me since the day I was born with a slimy caul on my head. He was ready to toss me over the sea cliffs and try again for another child, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it. She stole me away to Wulver Cove and nursed me in the dim light of the sea caves. She suckled me until I looked like a normal child, until my eyes were clear as rain and my hair was fuzzy red, then she brought me back home to the castle.

Oh, the castle. The very thought of it wrenches my heart.

The castle was destroyed before I could form any memory of it, but I know I was born there, high above the salt. High enough to smell the copper bells tolling from sunrise to sunset on the day I came into this world.

I wasn’t born beside a crackling fire in my mother’s splendid bedchamber. Rather, I took my first breath in the dusty turret so my grandmother’s ghost could witness the tender occasion. I don’t remember anything about my grandmother, but I do remember my grandfather’s black eyes and peculiar whiskers and the sealskin pouch he wore close to his heart.

My father says there’s no use in crying over spilled milk. The Blackhouse is our home now, and we’re not to speak of the castle. I wish it felt like home, but it doesn’t. The Blackhouse was built on blood-soaked ground, spit together with the bones and ashes of my grandfather. There’s no chimney inside, so the smoke hangs thick as a blanket. The cracked roof above my bed leaves me at the mercy of the wind and the rain. I may as well be living outside among the hawthorns and the fairies.

My aunt Lorna and uncle Gunn live with us. Their bedchamber is glorious, dressed in oak wood and velvet drapes, bright with candelabras and gilded mirrors. Despite such grandeur, Lorna still misses the castle. She’s too stubborn to admit it, but I know she does. When the mood strikes her, she wears her skin inside out, her black heart breaking. On such days, it’s best to leave her alone so she can ride her pony along the sea cliffs, her butter-blonde hair flying in the wind.

I try to understand Lorna, but she’s not cut from the same cloth as my mother. Lorna hates singing and cooking. She has a penchant for pomp and frill, and she takes great pleasure in causing pain. If it weren’t for Kilda’s dark little magic, Lorna never would’ve agreed to live in The Blackhouse.

Last summer, I asked Lorna what dark little magic was, and she said it was Kilda’s gift to our family. Lorna promised me I’d become a god if I made sacrifices like the other women in our family. My grandmother gave her life. Lorna gave up the castle. My mother gave up her voice.

And I must give up Ivor.

Ivor is the only person in this world I trust. If I ever lost him, my heart would surely break. Not to mention, I don’t have any interest in godhood. I don’t even believe in gods, at least not in the way my family does. Of course, I’d never tell them as much because they’d leave me to perish in The Brittle Forest with the