My sister’s final warning was almost drowned out by the crashing waves. As Da and I heaved our fishing currach into the surf, I avoided looking back to shore. The accusing look on Finella’s face might be enough to break my resolve. Instead, I checked the darkness in the clouds, the colour of the water, and looked to the whitecaps farther out. I hopped in and grabbed my oars as fine spray shot up and over the gunwale, quickening my pulse. I sniffed the air, tasted salt on my tongue, and gauged the cold. The wind whistled a caution, endless waves threatened a beating, and birds called us fools. It was as I’d come to expect for a morning storm. Only the water was a bit darker green than it should be, and the storm birds a bit quieter. A sickly shade of yellow tinged the outside edges of blackened clouds.

Da yelled back to me. “What does the sky tell ya, Ness?”

My guts squirmed like I’d swallowed an eel. I couldn’t lie. “It’ll be mean as the devil when it hits, so we have to be back afore then … or safe in Dirk Cuan.”

“Aye. That’s what I feared,” he said.

His doubt whittled at my resolve. Finella’s words didn’t help either. Bracing my feet, I doubled down on the oars. Even faced away from Da, I could row in perfect time with him. But gone was the excitement of waking to the delicious tang of wind-stirred seaweed and brine as it slid under our door to the peaty hearth where I slept.

Don’t go today. A telling-dream came to me again.

I gritted my teeth and pulled hard. If Finella’d had a telling-dream before, I didn’t remember and didn’t care. Just because she was three years older and the closest thing to a ma I’d known, didn’t mean my big sister always knew better. Especially when it came to fishing. Finella was afraid to set foot in the currach, but I’d been fishing with Da for nearly five years, since I was eleven. And he bragged I could read the wind and sky better than any boy and most men—though folks didn’t like to hear such things about a lass.

I adjusted my grip on the oars and wondered about Finella’s dream about a merrow. A girl with a big, stripey fish tail. The last time we went out to sea, I’d seen a macamore, the male variety of water fay, and though Da was quick to deny it, I think he saw it too. I imagined his black hair curling out from under his cap and the determined angle of his ginger-stubbled jaw. Surely, he was still grumbling that I’d provoked my sister, and I didn’t dare turn to face him. I already regretted leaving her that way.

A splash of frigid seawater snuck over the side of the currach and slapped me in the face as Finella had. I gasped and nearly let go of an oar, but snatched it back in time. Da’s laugh rumbled up to my ears, and I was glad he couldn’t see my scowl. Heave, lift, and feather, push and dip. I tried harder to sink my nagging thoughts and let the rowing take over, but Finella kept coming to mind. Heave, lift and feather … my thumb tapped something hard at my waist. I stole a glance and saw the silver brooch, a fine-tooled thing of beauty, two linked hearts under a crown. Ma’s Luckenbooth pin. Too precious to be out in the currach, but Finella had pinned it to my sash before I ran downhill to the shore. Remembering her words made my skin prickle.

It’ll protect you. But you have to watch out for Da.

I couldn’t let her hen-hearted ways stop me. Pulling on the oars, I stared at the wild sky and sucked in the rain-heavy air. Even though our nets had been near empty lately, the wind whipped through my short curls, telling me yes. Ahead of the tempest, storm petrels rose and dove over the crashing surf.

Only fools go out to fish when the sky promises hell.

But I knew this weather, I knew the sea, and felt best when both wrapped themselves around me, promising the kind of freedom that only hard work and a splash of danger brought. If we were to pay rent and survive, today had to bring a good catch.

We followed the rocky shore and wind eastward to the towering limestone walls that formed the northside of the island. Soon, the Prongs rose from the water before us to stand against the dawn-lit sky ahead. Three solitary pillars carved by wind, water, and time, stood like a hay fork sticking out of the water. The middle one was taller than the other two, and all at least half as high as the island cliffs to our right. Without a word, Da steered us farther out to sea, and we rowed around the Prongs to avoid merfolk as well as the treacherous waves and currents between the cliffs and the rock towers. More than a few boats had risked a passage through the Dark Waters and were never seen again.

Worry lurked in my mind like the slithering slip of a dark creature I’d seen here before. I looked over my shoulder to the approaching rocks, but no wild eyes or flashing tail waited this time. Da caught my eye and shook his head.

“No talk of them. Do ye hear? They’ll be watching but won’t harm us.”

I sucked in a cold sliver of sea air and nodded. He had seen water fay before and swore we were safe from them as long as we gave offerings. Folks said they were dangerous creatures with large eyes powerful enough to see your soul and long ears that could hear your heart beating a mile away. It was best to steer clear, but stories of caution only fed my curiosity. I rowed harder to hide the thrill running through me at the thought of seeing one again.

Over and over, the narrow oar blades rose from the water for only a moment before disappearing under the surface again. Our sturdy vessel finished a wide arc around the craggy towers, and we drew back into the steep, white-splattered shoreline that clamoured with nesting seabirds. Dark clouds tumbled above. Rain was nearly upon us. The shallow sands and calm waters at the mouth of Dirk Cuan, a narrow inlet on the other side of the enormous rock face, were so close. I prayed a netful of fish awaited there.

It never bothered me that the cove was so close to the Dark Waters of the merfolk because we always asked for their blessing. Still, every time we drew near, Da stopped whistling and singing out of respect. Other fishermen were too scared to come even this close, saying it was cursed. Years ago, we’d been caught in a squall on the east side of the Prongs. Desperate for shelter, we pushed on until we made it to the protected inlet. It had been strangely calm, so we dropped our net, and it came up so heavy with fish we’d nearly tipped. The next time a morning storm headed our way, Da coaxed me into trying it again. I was not eager to join him, and Finella was dead set against it, but Da was convinced we could not fail. He’d been right, and I was hooked. We’d gone back several times, and the catch was always worth it, especially now when fishing anywhere else often meant an empty net. The trick was getting there before the storm.

Today, as soon as we rounded the familiar sharp corner of rock face, wind blasted us with icy spray. I gasped and gripped the oars even harder. The waters of the cove were stirred up and moiling like Finella’s bubbling soup pot. It was all wrong. I stopped rowing. Approaching thunder rumbled behind us. Panic almost choked me.

“Oh no,” escaped my lips. I turned to the prow.

Da’s face had gone white and his knuckles too. He was spooked, but raised his voice above the wind. “Don’t turn to jelly now. It’s not that bad yet. Let’s get a little closer so we can put out the anchor and toss the net. We’ll be done afore the rain.”

“But—”

His raised eyebrow silenced me. “You swim like a fish, Ness, but you won’t need to today.”

It was far too late to go back, so I gulped down my fears. We rowed hard into the wind, angled towards the sandy shallows of the cove. Crashing surf echoed off the rock walls and roared in my ears. Once anchored, the boat was still bullied by the wind and bounced drunkenly on the waves. We nearly lost our legs trying to stand. My cold hands tangled and tripped as we readied the weighted net. Letting it fly from our hands was sweet relief. As long as we stayed sharp, it would end well. Thunder and lightning blasted around us, cracking the sky open. I clenched my teeth as stinging rain pelted my face. The bucking currach dipped hard, and I landed on my rump. Da fell to his knees, tugging at the net where it had doubled up and caught on the rowlock. He reached far over the side to pull up a handful of net for slack. I grabbed the leg of his trousers.

“Let me help.” My voice was lost in the wind.

The next wave blasted us high into the air. We pitched forward and over the gunwale, along with every piece of fishing gear we owned. Hungry waves swallowed us whole. The frigid water burned my skin. My sodden woollen jumper was arctic lead dragging me down. I wrestled it off and clawed my way back to the surface, sucking in a breath. Grey-blue waves buoyed me, then smashed down from all sides.

“Da!”

I searched for him between dips and surges. Water clogged my ears, and rain hammered the morning sky back into night. A faint cry came from behind. Wrapped in the net still tangled at the rowlock, Da gasped for air. The currach surged between anchor and net, knocking him back under. It took an eternity to reach him. No amount of tugging at the knots over the rowlocks could coax them loose. Arms trapped at his sides, he spluttered and writhed like a spider’s prey. I barely caught a breath before another wave tried to sink us.

Da thrashed and kicked to keep his head above water for even a moment. Fear burned in his eyes. He sputtered. “I was—good to her …”

It made not a whit of sense. “Hold on,” I shouted, “we’ll make it!”

“They’ll watch o’er ye.” Eyes closed, his lips moved in silent prayer.

I could not fathom what he meant, and there was no time to wonder. Too slowly the net frayed under my blade. Why hadn’t I let him sharpen it that morn? He went still and slipped under again.

My brave words rang hollow as the boat banged against him. I had to get Da in the boat, but stiff arms and chattering teeth made it impossible. Grabbing the rowlock near his head, my fingers stumbled to withdraw my knife.

“Hold fast!”

Da’s head lolled up, black hair plastering his pale face. Dull eyes, his body slack like a worn doll. Water poured from blue lips. No, not like that. I put knife to net again until the last strand split. My whole body shook. He slipped from my grip. I gulped air and dove into blackness.

You’re in danger. Listen to me this time.

Islanders say only fish and fay were meant to swim. It bothered Da a good deal when I learned, but surely, I was meant to swim so I could save him now. The weighted net dragged him past the sandy shallows, over the drop-off. I stroked and kicked, pushing every burning muscle to reach him. A swipe of my arm caught the netting, and it yanked at my shoulder, dragging us both to the depths. Seeing too late that I’d doomed us all, I shut my eyes against the water rushing by.

Bright spots lit the insides of my eyelids. Bells rang my ears senseless. Every fathom deeper crushed my body like a bug under a boot. And then air burst from my lips in an unstoppable explosion of bubbles. An icy sword of water coursed through my nose, slid past teeth and tongue, filling my lungs as if it had waited all my life for this moment. No cough, no pain or fear, only the echo of a heartbeat. All I’d hoped to do, the sorries I should have said, slipped away like a fish held too tight as the sea wrapped me in a dream barely remembered.

And then, the vaguest hint of a nick and release. My hand came free of the net. I stopped, suspended for a moment, unaware of who or where I was. No thoughts came to my rescue, only the nagging but distant urge to lift my arms and rise. Neither came to pass. When the last bubble of breath was squeezed from my chest, a feathery stroke curled around my ankle.

Chapter 2

Finella

Da kept his brim down.
Nerissa wouldn’t look up.
Smaller with every stroke of the oars.
Swallowed by grey and wet.

Still dripping, soaking skirt,
I shut the heavy door
Against rising waves
Of fear and horror.

The vision was no falsehood.
Da always told us how
Merfolk watch the Dark Waters,
So, for a moment, he listened.

My warning, wasted breath.
Da thumped the table twice,
His signal that it was decided.
“Shush now. It’ll be fine, luv.”

And Nerissa, tough lass,
Nearly a woman in age,
Still looking the lad
Da hoped for long ago.

Nessa, his dutiful helper
Cannot yet see beyond herself.
Rowing to an unknown fate
Demanding my sacrifice too.

I rush back into the weather,
Searching from cliff tops.
Already past the Prongs,
Perilously close. Unstoppable.

I foresee the cold fear
Of an unforgiving sea.
Devourer of souls
With efficient mercy.

Surging waves will mock them.
Fresh flesh within their grasp,
The hunters become prey,
For the sea is always hungry.

Rain, loud as crashing waves,
Pounds in my ears, stings my skin.
Down neck, arms, and chin,
Running, returning to the sea.

Please, winds—carry me off.
Waves, wash me away.
I don’t want to shiver and wait,
In the day-dark cottage.

Sitting before the cold,
Soot-blackened hearth, alone
But for our loyal Kitty
And her comforting purr.

She will stay in my lap,
Mindless of sorrow and fright.
While my spirit and tears fall as
Hard as the drenching rain.

Lightning shakes the air,
Thunder rumbles the ground.
Winds howl in the heavens
I tremble here in hell.

Without Da and Nerissa
Rent is unpaid, I cannot stay.
The loom is as abandoned as I—
Powerless to shift the tides.

My head is a battlefield of
Worries and nagging regrets.
I should have hidden the net
Or put a hole in the currach.

How I wish I had the power
To summon Declan by my side.
He would take my hand and listen,
Even if no words fall from my lips.

His presence is soothing
As a steady heartbeat.
His voice, a calming lullaby.
Let me be pulled into his arms.

Storm passes, night comes.
There are no fish to cook,
No mouths here to feed.
When I am sated with grief.

Grey morn seeps through cracks.
Calmer winds whistle and beckon.
Lies. Too quiet, too still.
Nothing as it should be.

Pulling the door open,
The grit of windswept salt
Crusts my swollen eyes,
But can’t hide what is gone.

I pick my way down the slope
To endeavour a fool’s search.
Behind the boulders,
Around the headland.

Yestermorn they were here.
What is lost may be found
In the last place you look.
And I can never give up.

Barnacles slice my feet.
I see nothing in the shallows.
Cold brine reddens my hands.
Searching among tangled seaweed.

My belly clenches and lurches,
Hunger keeps horror company.
On hands and knees, I retch
Sick and fear into the waters.
Because it’s true and
I hate myself for knowing
What I knew afore.
They are gone.

Thank you for reading the first pages of this story—I hope you enjoyed meeting Nerissa and Finella—if you would like to dive into the rest of their adventure, click on the link to order the eBook, audiobook, or paperback.