Lacrimae Knows

by CJ Jessop

 

Lacrimae knows that the best time to collect shimmer crabs is when the sun bleeds red on the horizon and the sea grows dark under the watchful eye of the purple moon. Not the yellow moon; she is too bright, her light too sharp and cruel for eyes suited to dusk.

Under the purple moon, they crawl from shadowy pools between rocks and become visible, so that they might find one another and mate. She crouches, still as a rock, the gleam of her eyes hidden beneath a dark cowl.

Sure enough, before the red has faded from the sky, they emerge from the water on spindly legs like irridescent ghosts. She waits until one comes close enough that she can smell its mating musk along with the salt in the air. Her hand whips out to grab the shimmer crab at the base of its glowing carapace, where pincers cannot reach her soft fingers.

“It’s all right,” she breathes. “I won’t hurt you. A little of your blood and you can be on your way.” She thrusts her other hand into a pocket deep within her long skirts, bringing out a roll of cloth. The shimmer crab tries to turn invisible again, but where warm fingers touch cool shell, the glow remains. Chuckling to herself, she unrolls the cloth with one hand and lays it out on the dark rock.

She pulls a needle from the roll and turns the crab over. By pressing her hand to its underside, the warmth of her touch reveals a soft space between plates of glowing shell. Carefully—she only wants to make it bleed a little—she jabs the needle into the soft spot. Luminescent ichor wells, and she takes a tiny glass vial from the roll. Making sure not to get any on her fingers—shimmer crab blood burns skin like acid—she collects five drops and lets the crab fall into the water.

As the creature scuttles off, she corks the vial and holds it up to the soft light of the purple moon. The blood within turns opalescent, reflecting moonlight back at her. A broad smile creases her face. Tonight, before the yellow moon sends her back to the dark sanctuary of the caves, she will know the secret of the crab’s invisibility. Tomorrow, when the purple moon returns, she will creep into the palace unseen and learn whether rumours of the prince’s affliction are true. Her belly shivers at the thought of seeing him again and she shakes her head at her own foolishness. She does not belong with him. Not any more.

She places the vial back into the roll of cloth, stuffing it deep into her pocket. Then, painfully, she grasps her staff and pulls herself upright. With slow, careful steps she limps across the barnacled rocks towards the cliffs. Her eyes catch and magnify the purple moon’s meagre light to help find her way.

Voices, sharp as knives, echo down the beach towards her. The glare of a torch stings her eyes and she is forced to turn her head towards the dark. She stops and pulls her cowl down over her face so that the glow of her eyes cannot be seen. Before the fire comes close enough to reveal her, she drops to her knees, biting down on her lip to prevent a cry.
I am as the rocks. She slows her breathing and endures her leg’s silent screams.

Four men pass, carrying another with them. They do not see her.

“No use squirming,” one says. “The king has decreed you meet your fate tonight.”
The captive’s words are muffled beneath the sack covering his head. Another man raises his fist and the frightened mumbling ends on a cry of pain.

When they reach the edge of the water, the men drag their prisoner to one of the tide poles and tie him in place. Lacrimae’s heart twists. They mean to drown him. When the tide comes in, the pole will be deep under water. When the tide goes out, his body will be limp, if the silver sharks do not tear him to pieces first.

While the men are busy with their task, she fights to gain her feet. Time to be on her way, while their attention is elsewhere. The light of the purple moon is not enough to reveal her to them—not with their dull eyes—and the torch is too far away. The man on the tide-pole cries out and she sees the glint of a knife. They have cut his hamstring, to cripple him and draw the silver sharks to their prey. Lacrimae knows.

The men move back up the beach and sit on the sand dunes. They are still too far away to see her. One of them pulls out a wine-skin and they pass it around, taking turns to drink. She licks her dry lips. There will be water when she returns to the caves, fresh and cold from the stream that bubbles up from the ground. But there is no wine and it has been so long since she roamed the town. She remembers the crab ichor in her pocket and smiles. Perhaps now she will be able to haunt the tavern and taste whatever wine she fancies.

The men appear in no hurry to move off before their victim drowns. Lacrimae must go, or risk being caught outside when the yellow moon rises. She does not wish to end up on a tide-pole of her own. Not again. But the man tied to the pole tugs at her conscience. If she leaves him there, he will die. She tells herself that he is not her concern, but she knows otherwise. Garia could have left her to die.
Garia. She brightens. Garia will know what to do. But no. By the time she can hobble back to the caves to fetch the old woman, the tide will have served its purpose. The ocean already laps at the man’s legs. His life is in her hands. But what can she do? A cripple cannot fight four strong guards.

A crafty smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. A cripple cannot fight them, but perhaps an invisible witch can sneak past them.
Trying not to make a sound, she pulls the bundle of cloth from her pocket and unrolls it on the rock before her. The vial of shimmer crab blood glows faintly and she pulls her cloak around to hide its light. First, she uncorks the vessel, then—with the needle she used to get blood from the crab—she pricks her right forefinger and squeezes five drops into the vial. Shaking the vessel between finger and thumb, she watches her blood mix with the crab ichor. The vial glows brighter for a moment, then fades.

Lacrimae pulls off her cloak, grinning now. Careful to keep her head down so that the men do not see the light of her eyes, she spreads her cloak on the rocks. Bringing to mind the ten-pointed constellation of the Night Goddess, she begins. One drop for each star, she marks the pattern on her cloak, her mouth silently forming the invocation.

May I walk beneath your gaze, my lady, unseen by all who would harm me. May I wear the shadows, so that even in the brightest light I shall pass without notice.

When the last drop hits the fabric, nothing happens. Her breath catches in her throat. She sits, frozen, heart lumbering. Did she speak the wrong words, make the wrong pattern? No. She performed the ritual exactly as Garia taught her. Perhaps Garia was wrong. Perhaps she lacks the skill, after all.

Despondent, she gathers up the cloak and wraps it around her, trying not to think about the man who will drown because she cannot help him. Then she covers her mouth to stifle a gasp as the night itself settles about her shoulders. Holding out both arms, she marvels at the way the fabric hides the shape of her limbs.

Lacrimae struggles to her feet again and pulls the cloak around her body and the staff. Reluctantly, she limps towards the men on the dunes first. There is something she must do before she can rescue the man on the tide-pole.

If they sense her approach, they show no sign, but anxiety builds with every step. She is certain they must see her, but they carry on drinking and laughing and calling for the ocean to hurry up and swallow their victim so they can go home to warm beds and willing wives. For one petrifying moment, she pauses right in front of them, sure that if they cannot see her they must hear her traitorous heart trying to beat its way out of her chest.

 

They shift uneasily, as though an ill wind blows between them, but no one speaks. When she snatches their torch and thrusts it, hissing, into the nearest tide pool, they jump up and shout, their voices shrill and full of fear. But they do not see her and now—deprived of light—their dull eyes do not even see each other. They stumble about, cursing and crying of witches and sorcery, and it is all Lacrimae can do to keep from laughing.
She leaves them falling over one another and limps towards the tide-pole. The ocean is up to the man’s waist. In the distance, waiting, silver shark fins move back and forth.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers as she wades out to him. The icy water numbs her toes and seeps into her skirts to make her teeth chatter.

The ropes that bind him to the pole are wet, the knots too tight. She digs into her pocket for the small knife she uses to pry open clams. The blade is dull, but she presses hard on the rope and saws back and forth. Fibres fray and eventually the bonds give. The man collapses with a whimper, head barely above the waves. Lacrimae wraps her arms around him, lifting, and urges him away from the pole.

“Hush,” she whispers. “Here, lean on me.” She lifts his arm around her shoulder, taking his weight. Together they manage a couple of steps before her staff gets in the way and he stumbles, his weight pulling her with him. The chill makes her gasp, and salt water fills her mouth. She chokes and spits, shivering.

“It’s all right.” She drags them both upright. “Don’t struggle.”

He flails and almost pulls her under again.

“Stop fighting me. You’re going to get us both killed.”

He is quiet then, meek, allowing her to lead him out of the water and onto wet sand. There he collapses, panting.

“No.” She urges him back to his feet. “We can’t stay here. Yellow moon will be up soon and then we’ll be the blind ones.

He groans, but allows her to lead him across the rocks towards the cliffs.

“That’s it,” she coaxes. “Just a little farther.” The knotted scar on the back of her leg pulls taut with every step, but she does not complain because she knows it is worse for him with his fresh wound. She tightens her arm around his waist and takes more of his weight on her shoulder.

When they reach the black shadows under the cliffs, where even the dim light of the purple moon cannot reach, she stops and helps him to sit on a boulder. “Wait here, I need to get help.” She cannot manage him alone down the steps into the caves.

“Wait,” he says, and her breath catches in her throat. She recognises that rich timbre. When she turns around, he pulls the sack from his head and she sees why he was tied to the pole. His violet eyes are lit with an unnatural glow. Like hers. What makes her gasp and draw back from him, though, is his face. She knows that face so well. That same, strong-boned face watched, impassive, while the king ordered his men to give her to the sea.

“Jehan.” Her voice wavers and she curses her own weakness. Prince Jehan, her betrothed, or so he was before his father condemned her as a demon when her eyes changed.  Part of her, who remembers the ocean closing over her head before Garia’ wizened fingers worked her bonds loose, wants to leave him to his own fate. But the other part, who Garia saved and mended, who loved Jehan more than anything else in this world, insists that he is no worse than her. How many others were given to the sea before she turned, while she stood silent?

“I heard the rumours.” She fumbles with her wet skirts. “We all did. The changed ones. It gave us hope—if the king’s own son shares our gift, then perhaps he will stop hunting us.”

“Gift?” His voice turns harsh. “And you overestimate my father’s sense of family.”

“Better a gift than a curse.” She repeats the words Garia whispered oh-so-gently in her ear when she wanted nothing more than to die.

“Better to make the best of what is now than dwell in the past where we are no longer welcome.”

Jehan is silent then and she draws back her cowl to show her face.

His eyes widen and he pales. “Lacrimae? I thought—” He swallows hard and looks down at his clenched hands.

“You thought I’d be dead.” She says the words he avoids. “You let them take me, Jehan.”

He lifts his head to meet her gaze and the pain there tightens her throat. “I had no choice,” he says in a voice that cracks in the middle.

“If I had made a scene in front of the whole court he would have had me dragged away too.” He reaches for her hand.

She pulls away. “Not your own father.”

“The same father who had me hamstrung and left to die? Or your father, who stood right beside me when they took you.”

Lacrimae tries to push that memory back, but it comes anyway. “At least he cared.” She thrusts out her chin. Her father’s eyes were wet with tears and he had not been able to watch them drag her away. Jehan had watched, though, jaw set and back stiff, not a sign of emotion. Unlike now. Misery radiates from him.

“I waited until court ended.” He stares past her to the waves crashing against the rocks. “I ran down here. I was going to set you free, take you somewhere safe. But—”

“But you didn’t.” She remembers waiting until hope had gone, until water filled her lungs and she was sure death must soon come for her. It was Garia, not Jehan, who came to her aid.

He shakes his head. “I waited until my father was busy elsewhere. I waited too long. The tide was in. I couldn’t even see the pole.” His haunted gaze meets hers. “When I thought you dead. I ran into the waves. I wanted to join you. I couldn’t even do that much.” His shoulders slump and he covers his eyes with trembling fingers. .

Gently, she pulls his hands away and stares into his eyes, waiting for him to flinch, for his gaze to slide away from her scrutiny. When he does neither, she leans forward. Touches her lips to his forehead.

“Come.” She takes his hand. “Let’s go home.”

“We have no home,” he says, but allows her to lead him to the cave entrance.

“Home is wherever we belong.” And he belongs with her. Lacrimae knows.