Franny Billingsley - The Folk Keeper

“Do you mean to say you don’t have the power of The Last Word?”

“I do now,” I said, thinking back to early August. Hadn’t Finian said that’s when the Folk grew quiet?

“I don’t know whether to be worried or relieved.”

“Be both at once.”

“Just tell me there’s a happy ending,” said Finian. “This Otherfolk story of yours is terrifying.”

“It still hasn’t ended, not until I return to the sea.”

I still remember his look of — of what? Puzzlement? Astonishment? Anger? What right had he to be angry?

Just a thin slice of canvas away, a merchant was charging a young man too much for two blue ribbons. “They will go with brown hair?” the young man said. “You’re sure they go with brown hair?”

“I see,” said Finian. “You came to warn me. I’d rather hoped — oh, there’s an end on it.” He seemed to change the subject. “I began leaving the Cellar door ajar for Taffy. He must have known where you were all along, poor fellow. Couldn’t you leave your own door ajar, Corinna? Go to the sea, just come back, too.”

But I couldn’t risk ending up like my mother, my Sealskin stolen or destroyed. “What would I come back for?”

“For the Folk. For me. You could marry me.”

He said this rather indifferently, but he peeled off his spectacles, and when he leaned forward, only our lips touched. Warm, hard fingers around my wrist; warm, soft lips against mine.

The press of air peeled away, and there came a moment of suspension, of liquid floating. I sank into those lips. I was still solid Corinna — I could feel it in the curious little shock that shivered through my middle — but like ice in water, I floated in my own liquid self.

And then my arm was flying wildly, connecting with his hand, with warm flesh and cold spectacles. The spectacles flew against the wall with a sharp crack, and I flew the other way, into the mud and clamor of the Harvest Fair. Finian could have caught me easily, but there came only his voice floating after.

“Listen to this. Corinna, listen! Midsummer Eve, the strands in my peat were silver!”

How I ran then! But I couldn’t run as far as I wanted. A fisherman stationed at the foot of the cliff path advised me to take a wagon inland, as the rains had washed out a section of cliff. And so I did, with a crowd of Harvest revelers, two crying babies, and five chickens.

I wait now at this tavern for a farmer who’s offered to take me the rest of the way in his cart — after he finishes his ale. I’d rather walk, but it would take me hours to reach the Manor, and my Sealskin.

All I can hear in my head is Finian’s voice. The strands in my peat were silver! Silver! Silver!

August 18 — later

Why didn’t I go? Why didn’t I seize my Sealskin this morning and plunge into the sea? Oh, foolish waiting, foolish human waiting. I wanted to warn Finian, I wanted to explain. I wanted to say good-bye. What a stupid thing to do — a stupid human thing! I swore I’d never let myself get caught as my mother had. And where has it left me? Trapped in the Caverns.

Should I have suspected something? But I’m sure everything was just as I’d left it, the doors to the Kitchens and Cellar ajar. At the top of the stairs, I pulled the pins from my hair. I needed no light to find my way to my Sealskin.

When I stepped into the inner Cellar, I felt at once a new texture, the fabric of the air pulled taut, as though . . . as though there’d been a candle recently burning. I swung my hair, reading the walls — Poor Rona! Poor Rona! — to the spot beside the Folk Door where I’d left my Sealskin.

In that instant, a flint scraped, a spark flared, a lantern cast a halo round Sir Edward and his angel smile.

I leapt for the Folk Door, hurled myself through. It slammed behind.

“Come out, Corinna.” Sir Edward spoke through the Door. “It will be worse if I have to come after you.”

“Come in, if you dare.”

“Oh, I dare,” said Sir Edward. “Didn’t I snuff my candle when I heard you coming down the Cellar stairs? That should tell you I’m not afraid of the Folk.”

That had been astonishingly brave. “Come in, then.”

Sir Edward’s footsteps drew near the Folk Door, paused. He did not dare.

I dived into my Folk Bag and lit a candle to start writing. Have I not told myself things through my writing I hadn’t thought of before? Hadn’t I told myself I could find my way through the Caverns without a candle? What can I tell myself now?

Sir Edward cannot keep me trapped here; in two days, the others will return. Don’t worry, Corinna. You can wait this out.

Why, then, am I terrified? Why have my bones turned to water? Am I melting, Corinna turned to liquid, trickling beneath the Door?

And why is Sir Edward laughing?

August 18 — night of the Harvest Fair

I must have known somewhere deep inside why I could not wait it out. Why, too, Sir Edward might laugh.

“I have your Sealskin,” he said. “The only question is how to destroy it. Fire, perhaps?”

I blew out my candle, as though to keep fire as far from me as possible. And there, in the dark, the spark of an idea flared.

“You think yourself powerful, don’t you?” I cried, as scornfully as I could. “Listen to this: The night of the Storms, it was I who threw the skin of your jungle beast to the hounds.”

“You!” Sir Edward said no more. He gave a piercing whistle, and soon I heard a soft panting outside the Folk Door.

“Liquorice is here with me,” he said. “With me and your Sealskin. At it, lad!”

I sprang through the Folk Door, already casting a net of hair to gather The Last Word.

The story of a maiden fair,

Sing briney, briney brink.

With shades of silver in her hair,

Sing briney, briney brink.

Shut off forever from the sea,

Consigned to Merton’s company.

Sing briney, briney brink,

Sing briney, briney bonnie doon.

Liquorice was screaming, a horrible dog scream, but I wouldn’t stop. He’d already sprung at my Sealskin; let him feel the lash of my words.

She found her way to Cellar small,

Sing briney, briney brink.

And stabbed her name in floor and wall,

Sing briney, briney brink.

And now in snow and rain and cold,

She lies alone beneath the mold.

Sing briney, briney brink,

Sing briney, briney bonnie doon.

Sir Edward swung the lantern as though he would pitch it at me. “Liquorice!” I cried. “At him!” Poor Liquorice, under my spell, he could not disobey. “At him, lad!”

The lantern hurtled through the air. I sprang aside, but it was not intended for me. The fiery arc ended where Liquorice had been standing, spattering oil and light on my Sealskin.

I could not leap at once to its rescue. I gathered up my hair and held it in one hand. If my hair caught, I would flare like tinder and flicker out.

Fire sizzled over my Sealskin. I wore stout boots, stomped on the flames, but they’d spread already, they were everywhere. I fell to my knees, fire licked at my skirts, I beat at it with one hand. No good, that was no good. I leapt to my feet.

I let go my hair to free both hands and flipped the Sealskin over. Fire flared bright in the gust of its movement, fire on my Sealskin, and on me, too. My skirts were still ablaze. I flung myself upon it, pressing the flames to the damp Cellar floor, suffocating also the flames lapping my skirts.