The pirates used to tell stories about them. Before. Back when the pirates still came by. When she was little and everything was fine.
They were called Crow and Jules, and there were other ones she has forgotten. They smelt of drink and of sweat, and Lampie was allowed to help them put pieces of fish and shrimps onto sticks. They used to cook them and eat them all up, with scales and whiskers and everything. They threw mussels into the fire until they went pop. They sang and chatted away, played ferocious card games and told stories that the girl listened to open-mouthed.
Of course it always got far too late and she should have been in bed long ago. But she kept quiet and went to sit on the sand just outside of the circle of firelight, where the dark shadows flickered wildly.
It was all about sunken ships, lost booty, bad luck. About fights with sea creatures, bloody battles with fish the size of houses. And about fights with each other of course, because they were no softies. Hack! A hand. Swish! A nose, an eye, a couple of fingers. All of them were missing something or other.
Her own father was missing most, of course. A whole half a leg!
But he never wanted to tell that story, and if anyone tried to insist, he would get angry and her mother went very quiet, and then Lampie always had to go to bed.
But sometimes, sometimes one of them had sailed far beyond where all the others had sailed, even beyond the White Cliffs. And that was where he had met them, the Children of the Sea:
Women like fish.
Women with tails.
Women with eyes that…
The babbling would stop then, as the men began to whisper, or they said nothing at all and just stared at the one who had seen them.
But he would not say much either, becoming tongue-tied and stammering a few words.
“Tell us about them,” they said. “Go on.”
And he tried to, but he stumbled over his story and it ended in gibberish and shoulder-shrugging.
“It’s not a story that can be told,” he would finally admit.
And the pirates would all nod, and then sit in silence and let the fire go out.
That sort of creature. Is that what she has found, here in this house?
Lampie leans against the bed and yawns. She gently tries to free her hand, but his hand will not let go. So she sits there and sings all the songs from the past for him, one after another.
There are so many songs that she still has not stopped singing by the time it gets light and Nick kicks the door open.
Slowly the little hunting party shuffles closer. Lenny is hiding behind his mother, with the dogs hiding behind him. Nick lowers his rifle, Martha her broom. They look at the creature lying half covered by the dirty sheet. The monster. Monster?
Martha shakes her head, almost laughing. Is that what she has been so afraid of? Is that what all those nightmares were about? Look at it. She could kick it right across the room, just like that, if she wanted to.
Nick turns to her and shrugs.
“See? It’s like I’ve been saying all along.”
She instantly feels her anger flare up again. “You? You don’t ever say anything at all!”
The boy suddenly sits up, his eyes flying wide open.
They all take a step back. Lenny runs back out into the corridor. Those eyes. That’s not a child, that’s…
“Hush now, all of you,” says Lampie. “Be quiet. He’s poorly.” She pushes Fish back down and puts the sheet over him. “And the bed’s all dirty. I need clean sheets and some food, something hot, and tea or something.”
“Yes, of course, of course.” Martha is already out in the corridor. It may well be poorly, but she can still feel its teeth in her leg. Time to get away. She pushes Lenny down the stairs ahead of her. The dogs follow, as soon as they have gobbled up all the rotting fish.
“And you too! Come along now!” she barks at Lampie. Now that she can see the child is safe and still in one piece, she just wants to give her a good shake and chase her downstairs, into the safety of the kitchen. What a morning! And she hasn’t even had her coffee yet.
“Yes, of course,” says Lampie. “I’ll be right there.”
Nick stands there a little awkwardly, with the big gun in his hands. He looks a little ashamed as he carefully rests it on his shoulder.
“It wasn’t loaded, you know,” he mutters. He wanders around the room for a while before walking over to the boy, gently lifting the sheet, looking under it and nodding, as if it is as expected. Then he turns around and disappears downstairs.
The boy opens his eyes again. They are so strange, so black. Lampie can see herself reflected in them.
“Do you want some more water?” she asks. “No? Then go back to sleep for a bit, Fish.” She leans over him to straighten the sheet.
“MY NAME IS NOT FISH!” he shrieks and then he bites into her wrist. Deep. The blood comes streaming out and Lampie stumbles backwards.
“Piss and bile!” curses Lampie.
The boy slips out from under the sheet and disappears beneath the bed.
“Ow, that was mean! Why did you do that?”
“Serves you right,” he whispers from the shadows.
“What for? I was only trying to help you!” yells Lampie. She grips her wrist tightly, the blood dripping through her fingers and making red splashes on the carpet.
“Do not anger the monster!”
“Monster? You’re not a monster!” Lampie whispers back. “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re just a nasty little boy.” She stomps out of the room and slams the door behind her. Bang!
Inside the room, she can hear him protesting. Quietly at first, then louder. “Hey. I wanted to… Come back. I need to… Hey!”
Lampie can hear him, but she just keeps on walking. A trail of blood follows her down the stairs.