16th October 1102

“Garrick… Garrick”, Cindra whispered as she fell away from the strong embrace of her father.

She was rocking back and forth on the waves as she floated away from him, her stumpy arms and legs flailing desperately as he watched with a cheerful smile. The water was icy against her tiny body, the tears that poured down her face the only warmth she had.

The water turned solid beneath her, her hands brushing against the scratchy bedding that surrounded her. She clung to the blankets, her knuckles draining of colour as the world rocked around her. She slowly rolled over, keeping a firm hold, afraid to be tossed from this sturdy structure and back into the water.

She opened her eyes groggily, the lashes sticking together with sleep. She was awake, safe in her bed despite the storm that rampaged outside, slapping raging waves against the ship’s hulking body. The bed beneath her felt firm and reassuring. She tucked her hand beneath the covers once more to shield it from the frigid cold of the room. The wind was howling outside, icy tendrils finding their way between the tiny cracks where the oakum had began to peel away in the sun.

She sighed, snuggling drowsily against Garrick. Garrick! She turned towards him but he was sleeping soundly, snoring softly as his breath whistled through the cavernous realms of his nose.

Perhaps she should check on Atholt. He had a habit of throwing his blankets off as he slept so that he lay half the night, legs and arms twisted up in woolen knots like a tiny piece of driftwood tangled in a fisherman’s net.

Cindra couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering as she emerged from the covers like a hermit crab stretching its chitonous legs and venturing from the protection of his decorated house. Winter was coming early this year, creeping slowly but surely across the sea to the north, the icy breath from his exertions chilling the people of Mhalwae as they went about their harvesting.

She pulled the cover off her feet suppressing a yelp of surprise as the cold air caressed her uncovered feet. She grimaced in anticipation, and squirming in discomfort placed one tiny foot on the floor followed by the other.

Lord sakes it was cold! The planks felt damp beneath her chilly feet. The freezing water from the North was soaking up through the intricate skeleton of wood as though it were still alive, drawing it up through roots plunged deep into the clammy depths. She was glad that she was among those who would be moving to newly built wing of the castle. She was well and truly sick of living in a room that was never quite dry and never quite still.

She pattered over to Atholt’s crib. He had kicked his blankets entirely off so they had slithered between the wooden bars of the crib and slumped to the damp floor below. He was curled up, knees tucked to his chest like a little, shelless crab trying to protect his soft parts.

She retrieved the discarded blanket wrapping it around his beloved body and bending to kiss him softly on his sleeping face.

Behind her she heard a low moan. She pattered over to Garrick peering at him in the darkness. His teeth were clenched, lips drawn back in a silent snarl as his head thrashed from side to side. He was having another nightmare.

She resisted the urge to wake him. Some people said that if you woke a person from a dream only their body would wake and their soul would remain, trapped forever on the other side.

She silently lit a candle, hoping that the flickering light would wake him naturally. She peered down at his face. A large swollen bruise was forming around his eye, flecked with dark purple in the candlelight. In the faded light his face was pale, his skin blue-tinged like a drowned man drifting among the slimy, clinging sea grass, while sightless bottom-dwelling creatures slithered on their bellys through the mud.

Garrick had not mentioned that he had been hurt. It looked as though he had been punched, but she was sure he would have said so. She was suddenly very frightened, remembering what he had said when she asked about the last injury. Since then Garrick and Cindra had gone together to the chapel, every evening to pray and there had been no more unexplained injuries. There had been no more dreams either until tonight.

She decided she would wake him, it was only silly superstition anyway and she was no Madlenka to be cowed by such things.

She leaned down, planting a soft kiss on his lips. He stirred but did not wake.

“Garrick love, wake up”, she whispered, kissing his face, his bristly red beard tickling her lips.

His skin felt cold and clammy beneath her warm lips. She stared at him trying to decide whether she should shake him a little or not.

As she watched, three red marks appeared across his cheek, as though someone were carefully drawing with three quills tied together, using blood as their ink.

She choked in horror, reaching out to touch the offending marks. They were sticky with drying blood, the skin around them raised into red welts.

Garrick groaned in pain, his eyes opening slightly so she could only see the whites. It made him seem dead and she could see him now, floating amongst sea grass that was coiling sinuously around his limbs, his red hair fanning out from his face. His eyes were open, staring, a dead milky white.

The ship heaved beneath her feet so that she had to cling to the side of the bed to stop herself from falling onto him. She was not afraid to wake him any longer and she grasped him by the shoulders, shaking his heavy body as hard as she could.

“Garrick! Garrick wake up!”, she cried desperately.

His mouth cracked open in a hideous moan.

“Isabelle…”, her name rolled from his lips like storm clouds over the roiling sea.

“Please wake up Garrick”, she begged, on her knees beside the bed.

She lay her cheek on his icy shoulder, feeling her warmth dissipate into him.

“Please”, she whispered as the tears began to fall, sliding down her flushed cheek onto his chest. They rested there, tiny droplets clinging to skin that was too cold to absorb them.

“Isabelle…”, he croaked and she watched in horror as a steady trickle of blood began to run from his mouth to mingle with his beard.

It was then that she ran for help, as fast as her stumpy legs could carry her.