The Debt is Paid
“Mind your step, it’s narrow,” you said, leading them down the alley.
She would want them soon. All the omens are here. The tide is high, the moon is full, the old fishermen are refusing to take their boats out. They’re the only ones who remember the old stories, the only ones who can read the signs.
I sigh as I walk the cliff by the sea, inhaling deeply. These are the winds that carry her, bring her back when the time comes. And I’m sworn by blood to serve her.
Night is drawing around the old port and men are fleeing the cold, gathering inside bars and taverns and bottles and laughter and themselves. It’s that time of year when the days are almost spring, but the nights are still sworn to winter, like she is the only mother they will ever know.
But this is winter’s last finger, wrapped around the world. Tomorrow spring will be here, and my duty completed.
I must choose them tonight.
My steps carry me into town, away from the seafront, towards the rows of rundown buildings where the wives of the fishermen sleep. They’re alone all day and most nights, and they pray to still have living husbands at dawn. Their prayers are heard.
I head for the dilapidated church that sits between four buildings, where a courtyard should have been. No one comes to this place anymore, few still know what lies beneath it. The walls threaten to tumble down any moment, and yet they remain unchanged since the last time I’ve seen them. And that was 25 years ago.
The main gates are barricaded, with thick chains wrapped in spirals around the doors and rusted locks hanging off of them. I know better than to try entering here. Not that I can’t pick a lock or that rotten wood scares me, but there’s more than iron guarding this archway.
I walk around the church, through the overgrown weeds, slowly, keeping my eyes on the wall. With nothing but the moon lighting my way it’s easy to miss it. The wind picks up and suddenly the smell of the sea fills my lungs and I stop to breathe in. And then I see it.
The little hatch door is almost completely obscured by the tall grass grown around it, but the silver handle glints in the falling moon rays. The door needs a hefty pull to open, but soon the winding stairway comes into sight.
My skin prickles as a waft of air from the underground hits my nostrils. It reminds me of blood and oaths and stolen souls. The fishermen’s wives really will sell anything to keep their men safe at sea.
I walk down into the ancient temple buried beneath the church and find everything as I expect it. There’s a drawing of a gateway on the dirty brick wall faced by a semicircle of flaming candles. By the dust settled on the steps, I gather no one has been down here in years, but the candles always burn.
Inside the contour of the gateway, the bricks are wet. Seawater, they told me. But every 25 years it needs to be wetted by something else.
I climb out the way I came, two steps at a time, as quickly as I can. I know she’s not here yet, but I sense the veil between the worlds already thinning.
Outside, the moonlight is a welcome sight, but I only relax for a moment as I know where I’m supposed to be headed. Back to the docks is where the narrow streets take me and into the largest, rowdiest tavern there is. Here there’ll be no chance of being recognized, since the older, wiser sailors spend their time ashore in more private, quiet places. No, this bar if for the young, brave and stupid. And gullible, let’s hope.
I stop before going inside, my hand on the cold handle, the breeze blowing hard against my back. There’s no going back from here. I don’t know if I can be forgiven for what I’m about to do, but I’m sure I have no choice. The spell bound to my faith is clear: It’s either them or me.
I walk inside and spot them fast. A group of three boys, so young their smile and laughter still reaches their eyes, sitting at a corner table. They’re easy to chat up, I’m just a small, skinny girl with dimples in her cheeks, why wouldn’t they want to talk to me. I laugh at their seafaring stories, I pretend like I believe them. Why shouldn’t they feel good about themselves their last hours on this earth.
As the night progresses and the drinks keep coming, their laughter gets harder and their stares longer, fixating on all the parts of me that are different from their own.
I have to wait until the wind from out to sea stops blowing. In the time when the air is still, when the winter has gone, but spring hasn’t quite arrived, when the world is standing in the doorway between seasons, I must fulfill my task.
Getting the boys to follow me outside is easy. A smile here, a wink there, all women’s powers combined.
I lead them on the way to the old, hidden church. A secret place, where we can be alone. The stones that pave the way reflect the moonlight, marking the trail, and I know the time is come. The time to pay for all the people the sea doesn’t swallow, the time to pay my mother’s debt. My blood is boiling and I can smell salt and seaweed and dead fish, although the wind is still. I can hear her calling.
We’re almost there. We reach the passage between the buildings that’ll take us to the church.
“Mind your step, it’s narrow,” I say, leading them down the alley.
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