Asyia Gover Poetry & Prose

“It’s a daughter, My Lord. Do come in and give your regards.”

Lord Merton’s sweaty hand entered the room first; his head, last. It took him a moment to locate the infant, only half-wrapped in her blanket, still smeared with dried blood, nearly concealed by a veil of the Lady’s hair. Every minute or so the child bleated weakly, and the Lady cooed weakly back. Lord Merton watched them, torn between curiosity and disgust. “Congratulations, my darling,” he finally said. The Lady did not respond, her eyes fixed downward. The room was thick with the scent of salt. He couldn’t recall having been in the same room with an infant since he was a child himself. He left without closing the door.

The flickering in the candlelit hallway suited Lord Merton, who was deep in thought. He glanced out a window; the dark clouds from earlier had begun to spill. Rain would be good for the crops. He remembered the glimpse he’d caught of the child’s skin—translucent, almost as clear as water. Why couldn’t it have been a son? His wife had refused even to look at him, or was she reserving her attention for the bundle of quivering pink muscles and blue veins in her arms?

Mrs. Bains, the housekeeper, bustled toward the Lady’s room, an apothecary’s bottle in hand. “She bled quite a lot, My Lord. This brew has done well for me in the past.” Terrible cries had emanated from the birthing chamber, he remembered. What was it like to be a woman? And a Sealmaiden at that: he realized with a flash of guilt that they typically gave birth in seal form. Such a form didn’t suit a Lady of Marblehaugh Park.

The women’s murmuring in the birthing chamber grew louder. An unknown voice, perhaps the midwife: “It still hasn’t subsided?” Unintelligible responses. “The tide is coming in,” the Lady said. Lord Merton moved to a window from which the view extended over the cliffs. Yes, he saw the sea approaching in ranks of breakers, like sweeping hands. The Mainland ferry was approaching too, and hopefully his cousin Edward with it. He closed his eyes and imagined the island as a bird sees it, ringed by a constant assault of waves, the hands reaching every crevice, every rock along the cliffs, and the boats borne along, helpless as babies.

Lord Merton ventured back into the Lady’s room, where the chatter had subsided but the bleeding apparently had not. Mrs. Bains alternately changed the bedding and moaned to herself about the mess. The infant had fallen asleep; the Lady was awake but motionless. The women stared expectantly at him, the silent interloper. “Rona, my darling, isn’t it wonderful?” His face betrayed his insincerity. The Lady’s eyes darted to her left, then back to him. “Yes,” she said with equal dispassion, “a true miracle.” He examined that side of the room for the thing that had caught her attention. On the vanity lay a discarded bundle of sleek silver fur. He could see the dried blood stuck to individual hairs: the infant’s Sealskin.

Lord Merton returned to the hallway. In the thrill of the chase and the consequent rush to produce an heir, he hadn’t realized that it would be so much more seal than human. Such a form didn’t suit the future of the Merton family. Well, he’d had this problem once already, and he’d dealt with it neatly enough. He recalled his wife’s expression, more somber than peaceful, tracks of tears framing her face. She already knew. The first Sealskin he’d destroyed had been a hideous mess, too tensile to cut easily, quivering with blood despite being separated from its master’s body. Life is full of unpleasant choices, he thought. Somewhere downstairs, the hounds bayed.

The midwife crept through the doorway. “My Lord, the Lady wishes to speak with you.” This would be their first conversation since she’d found the slain skin, months ago. He entered the room and waited for privacy.

“You intend to raise my daughter as your heir.”

Lord Merton tried to avoid looking at his wife’s face, colorless and stiff. He let his eyes rest instead on the child, who had been wiped clean, whose fingers resembled a wet film stretched over bones. “Yes,” he said.

“You know where she belongs.” He still wasn’t looking, but he could feel the Lady’s stare like a barrage of sea spray against a stubborn stone.

“She belongs here. She is a Merton.”

“No.” The Lady’s voice was growing faint. “I am a Merton. I was made a Merton, but she won’t be.”

A bloody spot blossomed onto the topmost sheet, near the end of the bed. Lord Merton suppressed a retch at the sight of it. The salt smell was almost oppressive.

“You can take the skin away from her, but you can’t take the sea.” The Lady coughed heavily. “Either she will go to it, or it will come to her.”

“You’ll not do anything to separate that child from this estate!” He regretted raising his voice as soon as he’d done it.

The Lady smiled, for the first time since months ago. “I won’t need to.”

He’d had enough. Lord Merton spun on his heel and exited, lest he lose his composure again. He turned his back to the door and listened to the Lady coughing and the attendants filtering back inside. He had never seen his wife so resolute. As long as she lived, he wouldn’t be able to place a hand on the Sealskin. What use was the child if it wouldn’t stay human? If he couldn’t even keep it here? Indecision drowned his thoughts and let them drift to the floor. 

He scanned the window. The rain had developed into vicious wet pins. He saw the Mainland ferry, finally safe in the dock, unloading passengers. The sea, swollen and restless, continued to toss the ferry while sailors struggled to carry cargo to shore. Mrs. Bains emerged from the birthing chamber, wringing her hands. “My Lord, I’m concerned for the Lady. She’s lost a terrible amount of blood, and her awareness is ebbing.” He had wondered if it would come to this. The nearest doctor lived in Firth Landing, and the ferry would not return until tomorrow. He didn’t dare send one of his ships in this storm. “Do what you can. I’ll summon a physician in the morning.” She nodded and bustled away.

Sir Edward’s hurried greetings with Mrs. Bains carried up the corridors and to his cousin’s ears. Sir Edward was dry except for his shoes; his Valet was most likely drenched. He initiated the usual small talk; Lord Merton listened, unable to find his own words. “The voyage went smoothly until a few hours ago. When the storm started, we were already more than halfway here; we had no choice but to continue. … The Midsummer festival in Firth Landing was meager at best, nothing compared to ours. I didn’t mind leaving. But I suppose it was wise not to host it this year, what with the Lady expecting. I heard it was a daughter. Maybe you’ll have a son next time, eh? … Yes, it’s frightening out there. I was worrying for our crops! And say, as we advanced to shore, the sailors tell me they heard the Sealfolk crying. Those men can certainly spin stories out of grave situations!”

Lord Merton had lost interest a while ago. It was indeed a grave situation. The spray had begun to lap at the tops of the cliffs, fifteen feet high. “Remarkable storm, isn’t it, Hartley?” Sir Edward said as though remarking the presence of a dead animal. Three drops of Sealfolk blood to call a storm, his nurse had told him, among other fanciful things. Judging from Mrs. Bains’ continual shuttling of new and soiled sheets to and from the Lady’s room, she was still bleeding. Already the sea sprawled hungrily over the grass. It was a ways from the cliffs to the Manor, but the flood was rapidly worsening. Saltwater would destroy Cliffsend’s famously rich soil, the soil that fed the Merton family. Inside the birthing chamber, a woman sniffed loudly. Mrs. Bains cried, “Oh! My Lady!” Seven tears at high tide to call the Sealfolk. The scent of salt had reached the hallway. Lord Merton shook off his indecision as though shedding water.

“Edward,” he said in a moment of silence, “is there a Foundling Home in Firth Landing?”

The infant let out a few short wails, each one piercing Lord Merton’s chest. He checked the window again; the brine had crept back down the cliffs. He stepped into the birthing chamber.

“Everyone must leave. And close the doors.”

―

Ten years later, Lord Merton stood in the same candlelit hallway and welcomed Sir Edward back from a trip to the Mainland. He politely feigned interest in Edward’s gossip from Firth Landing and the ferry ride. He gazed through Edward’s head and out the window, as he often did when feeling contemplative at inopportune times. Lord Hawthorne, from a manor on the Mainland near Port Wallace, had suddenly fallen ill, and the rumor was that he’d just passed away. He left behind a wife, a son, and a brother who, like Edward, kept no secrets about his desire to command the estate. Neither the Lady nor her son would be missed, should she remarry. It could be troublesome to take a wife with a previous child, but he still had none of his own, and raising an infant was beginning to sound even more troublesome. If he couldn’t have his own son, at least he’d have a proper heir to keep the manor out of Edward’s greedy hands. He had been on good terms with the Hawthornes. It was an optimistic prospect.

“… Yes, they say the storm today was one of the worst yet! Those sailors are quite the superstitious folk, aren’t they, Hartley? They claim the weather at sea has been steadily worsening since the night of that Midsummer storm some years back! That was the same night the Lady Rona passed, bless her soul.” Edward suddenly became quiet.

“Yes,” Lord Merton said, to fill the uncomfortable stillness. “May she rest in peace.”

“Imagine if the sailors knew! They’d have your head, going on about this and that curse of the Otherfolk. Well, of course it’s all nonsense….”

Lord Merton had also noticed the worsening storms, but carefully enough that he knew them to be no more than warning shots, war dances. He knew what the sea wanted, and he no longer had it. He wouldn’t be so easily intimidated.

“… And when I went to oversee our trading vessels, why, one had gone missing!”

This caught Lord Merton’s attention. “Missing? Did you place a claim with the trading company?” He had been expecting rugs, silks, and spices for the upcoming Midsummer festival. One missing ship would spoil the plans considerably.

“Oh, certainly, I was furious. I demanded a full reimbursement, but who knows whether those gluttons will pay. The sailors said they saw the ship battered and pulled apart by the sea, but they were roaring drunk, you know, and they always see whatever they fancy convenient. Me, I suspect pirates, with all the fine goods on that ship….”

Lord Merton imagined the Sealfolk prying apart the hull, tossing the bottles, nudging the bolts of cloth into the waves. Pirates, indeed! He thought of the silver skin in his Trophy Room, big enough now to fit a ten-year-old child. Out of respect for Rona, he had not done it any harm. Had the Sealfolk no respect for him?

“… But I suspect we’ll still have enough for the festival. Last year we didn’t use everything we ordered….”

Sailors up and down the coast had been whispering of similar catastrophes for a few years now. Lord Merton had been following the rumors. He’d moved the sea’s target as far north as Port Wallace, and until now he’d been left alone. He hated to move it any further from his reach, but perhaps that was the only way to keep it out of the sea’s reach as well.

“… Naturally, they were all talking about Marblehaugh Park’s legendary Midsummer festival! I heard we’ll be expecting guests from towns as distant as Rhysbridge! Yes, we’ve certainly become prestigious, haven’t we, Hartley? I don’t even think they celebrate Midsummer so far inland….”

Rhysbridge, yes. There was no point in moving the target again if it didn’t go so far inland. Did they have a Foundling Home? Surely there would be one nearby. 

“… Did you hear about Lord Hawthorne? Apparently it was a fall overboard that led to his illness, which led… well, you know. Eerie, is it not?”

Lord Merton silenced Edward with a raised hand. “Yes, it’s awful. But I might ask for the hand of his widow. In fact, I ought to go compose a letter right now. If you’ll excuse me.”

Lord Merton made for the study, already drafting his letter to the Port Wallace Foundling Home.