Ghost Story Challenge: "I Gave You My Heart"--Marlene Simonette

I Gave You My Heart

By Marlene Simonette

Roland paced his cabin. The dim firelight across the room cast the dark wood into further shadow. “Why does no one heed my warnings, Evgeni?”

At the mention of his name, the hearth sprite crawled out from behind the coals. He cocked his head, which set a cloud of soot hovering about him.

            “How long has it been now?”

            The sprite held up five fingers.

            “Five years, and no one heeds my warnings!” Ignoring the agitated scowl that narrowed the sprite’s eyes, he tilted his head towards the rafters. “I must change my tactics, for certes. Who is her next target?”

            Bearing a fistful of glowing coals, Evgeni scuttled towards him. Roland instinctively knelt to look into the fire.

            The form of a young lad—who had seen perhaps 16 winters—became apparent. “I recognize him.” Roland jabbed a finger at the image. “The young Clement Smith. Has he taken up apprenticeship with his father yet?” At the sprite’s silence, Roland frowned. “A pity. He would have made a fine smith.”

            Standing, he began to pace again. “Who was her previous target? Does breath yet tether them?”

            Evgeni held up the coals. There was no image, but the flames pulsed like a heartbeat. A weak, fluttering heartbeat.

            With a nod, Roland stepped outside. There were fewer trees than he recalled seeing last time he ventured outside his home. Otherwise, it looked the same as it always had: blanketed in heavy snow, the clouded sky lit silver by the moon, and the tracks of animals about the house.

            A blast of wind surrounded him. He leaned into it. In a flurry of snow, he vanished.

***

Roland materialized on the edge of a settlement, whose name had been Maur last he checked. Only, it was larger than before. It had suffered many more changes than his home had over the years. Several familiar shops were gone or moved. The people—bundled up in their long coats, red scarves, and leather boots—seemed more distant, and less inclined to talk with him. Even the cobblestones were changed.

            He shook his head. “No time,” he breathed. Normally, he would bind his eyes, and pose as a blind man. But the people of the town this year didn’t seem to notice him much at all. So, he closed his eyes, and began a slow walk through the town. The pulse called to him as clearly as a singer.

            He found the victim in an alley, between a bakery and a curio shop. The man appeared to have seen more than thirty winters; his hands were gnarled from work, and he had a neatly trimmed beard. His coat and boots lay against the wall further down, violently discarded. He seemed to be waiting for death.

            Roland knelt at his side. The man stirred, shifting his half-closed eyes. Through blue-tinged lips, he croaked, “You.”

            Roland just nodded.

            “Should…should have listened…” He sighed and closed his eyes.

            Hurriedly, Roland gripped the man’s shoulders. “Will you accept healing?”

            The man frowned. “My heart’s been broken. What could heal that?”

            Roland put his hand within his coat. He withdrew some of the coals from his fireplace. “Just hold these. Look into them. Hold them close.”

            The man opened his eyes. He looked at the coals, moved as if to take them. Then he dropped his hands and tilted his head to the side. “No. I don’t deserve…a second chance…leave me be…”

            Knowing the finality of the decision, Roland wasted no time. He stood. He vanished in another flurry. When he materialized, it was in a much more familiar place.

            “Ah, Hartlepool.” Thoroughly disheartened, Roland walked along the shore of the half-frozen lake. He wasn’t left to his thoughts for long, for shouts soon came to him from across the lake.

            Materializing among the trees, he watched the frantic group of men, young and old, clustered at the water’s edge.

            “Have y’i seen anything like it?” There was a wet thwap. “Y’ich!” One of the men reeled back, clutching his face. “Cuts like the ‘ithers!”

            “Hold it, hold it!”

            Roland tread silently around, so he could get a better look at whatever it was they were trying to drag from the water. He glimpsed flashes, a dark fin, and a thrashing tail that was far too large to belong to a mere fish.

            Siren.

            Stepping out from among the trees, Roland cupped his hands to his mouth. “Cease, miscreants!”

            Only one of the men—the one who had shouted “hold”—looked up. His grey stubble was coated in a mix of blood and the freezing water. “If you want a share, vagabond, you’ll have to help!”

            “I’ve not come to aid you; I’ve come to stop you.”

            The men gave one last heave, and dragged the now-unmoving creature onto land.

            One of the younger men straightened, swiping his damp brow. “What’s this nonsense?”

            Roland tramped forward. “Harm her no further!”

            The men looked thoroughly confused.

            “The world really has gone to the dragons if you think this is proper practice!”

            “He’s got to be tipsy. Trip, get him to the village.”

            The younger man who had spoken stepped towards Roland. Holding his hands up placatingly, he said, “Come on, old man, let’s get you home.”

            Roland side-stepped, and caught his foot behind Trip’s ankle. With a quick lift, Roland sent him sprawling. “I’ve not imbibed the drink of the gods for years. Now.” He planted a foot on the back of Trip’s neck, and the other on the flesh of his arm. Trip cried out in protest. Roland continued, “Let. Her. Go.”

            The men looked wary now. A few clustered closer around the body. Two others came forward, and Roland glimpsed dark green hair and skin so white it seemed the color of the snow.

            “She needs to get back in the water,” he said, hoping they would see sense. When they came forward, looking more angered than anything, he sighed. “Very well. Tally-ho!”

            In a puff of snow, he disappeared. The men started violently.

            “Where’d he—”

            “I didn’t sign up to mess with spirits!”

            “Got to be a wizard or somesuch.”

            “That’s even worse!”

            By the time Roland materialized behind the group, it had lessened by half. Howling like a banshee, he charged against the men. His hefty frame sent them stumbling away. A few tripped over their own feet and landed on their faces.

            “We’ll come back another day! Trip, let’s go!”

            “But those scales! They’ll sell—” Trip was hauled away by the man Roland presumed to be the father.

            Now alone with the beached Siren, he carefully nudged her shoulder. The Siren jerked. Her talons and teeth slashed at him. He let one blow fall—a glancing swipe at his leg—then disappeared.

            The Siren’s eyes were closed, and covered by her long green hair. She shrieked weakly, still trying to hit something that was no longer there.

            Re-materializing, he gripped the back of her shoulders. “I’m trying to help you, lady. Will you let me?”

            The Siren went limp. Roland heaved. Slowly, he dragged her back to the water. As soon as she hit the water, she twitched and swam out a little ways. To his surprise, she didn’t dive immediately.

            She adjusted her hair so that it covered her eyes like a bandana. “Who are you?” she asked.

            Though he was technically dead, her voice sent a thrill through him. Forcing himself to focus, he cleared his throat. “I am called Roland.”

            “Thank you, Roland.” After a few moments, she said, “Ask me anything.”

            Roland blinked rapidly. He nearly blurted, “What do you mean?” But, since she hadn’t specified if this was a one-question only offer, he clamped his mouth shut. “There is a female, whom I believe to be a Siren, who is killing my people. She calls herself Rochelle Greywaters. What is she?”

            The Siren cocked her head. “What is she like?”

            “Beautiful. I could listen to her voice all day.” He sighed. “She is coy, but in an oddly dainty way. She makes you fear to break her. Then, she breaks you.” He shuffled his feet. “Average height, slender, long silky hair; with eyes that look like the moon, they’re so big and silver.”

            “Oh, dear.”

            Roland looked up. “What is she?”

            The Siren didn’t answer at first. She swam in circles, ducking in and out of the water, for several minutes.

            Growing impatient, Roland tapped his fingers to his head. “I must be going, if you’ve nothing to tell me.”

            She stilled. “No, wait. I will tell you, if you promise me one thing.”

            “What is it?”

            “Promise!” Her voice rose in pitch, sounding frantic.

            “I cannot agree to that which I do not know.”

            The Siren ducked so that her face was half in the water. Slowly, she swam up to the shore. In a whisper, she said, “A selkie. She’s a selkie.”

            “And what is that?”

            “Someone who wants a soul very badly.”

            “Who’s soul?”

            “Not someone else’s soul; she wants asoul. Sirens don’t have them, you see.” She gave a bubbling sigh. “That’s what I wanted you to promise. To help me gain a soul. That way, I don’t become as desperate as Greywater.”

            Roland rubbed his chin. “What must I do?”

            “Find me someone to love.”

            “Er…”

            “You must find someone who will love me for me.”

            “I will do what I can. Now, how can I catch this selkie? Prevent her from breaking any more hearts?”

            “Find her skin. It will be nearby, possibly guarded.”

            “Skin?”

            “It would likely be something along the lines of a seal-skin cape, or a shark-toothed necklace; it all depends on what form she chose.” Before he could interject, she added, “I’m afraid I don’t know what form that would be. Hurry. Please.”

            She ducked beneath the surface. With a flick of her tail, she was gone.

            Roland himself vanished a few minutes later. He had work to do.

***

He found the selkie’s soon-to be-victim, not in the village near Hartlepool, but in a settlement halfway across the island. Clement crouched over a thin patch of ice. He ran a bone comb through his hair and was so focused on his reflection that he didn’t notice Roland. Until Roland shouted, “Halloo there!” that is.

            Clement leaped to his feet, face flush and hands held out as if he were being robbed. “Hello, tramp. I didn’t see you there.”

            Roland grunted. He’d tried several different approaches: subtle, direct, a blend of the two. Nothing seemed to work. As of late, he’d settled for direct. The reactions were always amusing. “I know about Rochelle.”

            The boy’s already red face turned a darker shade of crimson. “What about her?”

            “She’s a murderer, young Smith. Take leave of her as soon as possible.”

            Clement stared at him, mouth twisted in disbelief. He jabbed the comb in Roland’s face. “Who do you think you are?”

            “You do not recognize me?”

            Clement’s expression changed to a mixture of pity and alarm. “Should I?”

            Roland gave his full name, complete with titles earned under King Volos. Expecting recognition to win out, he waited.

            Expression the same, Clement cocked his head. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

            “No! I knew your father. I took you fishing several times during the winter seasons!”

            “What’s my father’s name?”

            “You ruddy rascal, it’s Trevor Smith.”

            “That…isn’t my father’s name.” Clement scratched his head with the comb. “It is, however, the name of my great-grandfather.”

            Roland stared at him for a minute. “I’ll be back in a trice.” He jabbed a finger at Clement. “Don’t go anyplace.”

***

“EVGENI!” Roland stormed over to the hearth.

            The sprite glanced up. He held up a fistful of coals.

            Roland shook his head. “How long has it been since my last arrival?”

            A shrug, then a rough seasonal chart scratched out in the soot.

            “Oh, why don’t you just use a calendar?”

            Clearly agitated, the sprite glowered. Through pictograms—and with many misinterpretations—Roland came to the understanding that, shortly after his last appearance, there had been a catastrophe of some sort that had caused the king’s advisors to cease use of the calendar. Since then, five winters had passed. And the winters were getting longer every year.

            “So why haven’t I come back, or you brought me, before now?”

            Evgeni took off his cap, wringing it in his hands.

            Roland felt queasy. He felt worse when Evgeni held up a hand. Blood.

            “Tell me.” Roland went down to one knee. “How have you kept me alive?”

            The sprite refused to make eye contact. A few half-hearted attempts at sketches later, Evgeni ran a hand through his massive beard. He removed a slim notebook.

            Recognizing the cover, Roland sucked in a breath. King Volos’s book, a gift from one of his many nieces. Roland had been there when the young girl had presented it to the king.

            It was made of a shimmery material, with decorative shells and embossed underwater plant life across the entirety.

            With utmost care, he took the book and opened to the bookmarked page.

            To Roland, my most trusted knight:…

            A majority of it was sentimental, to which Roland alternately chuckled and scoffed. Then, the sentences:

            I give my life blood willingly. Please, do not throttle or throw the sprite. He wishes for you to remain as much as I.

            Roland’s free hand was already curled into a fist. He glanced at Evgeni. It was difficult to keep his voice even. “You. Killed. Volos? I—I’m—”

            A sob choked him. Knowing no other way to vent his rage and sorrow, he dashed outside. More time had passed than he realized; it was early morning of the next day. He curled his hands into fists. A few heartbeats later, he vanished.

***

Roland eyed the cringing Clement. They stood in the woods, where Clement had evidently taken Rochelle to picnic. The girl was nowhere in sight.

            “I’ve lost all patience,” he snapped. “Where is it? She must have entrusted it to you.”

Clement stammered something unintelligible.

            “She has slain countless men and boys with the potential to serve their country well! This ends—” He glanced up at the sky. “—before the sun reaches its peak. I swear it.” 

            “You know, I could call for help.”

            Roland scoffed. He noted the way Clement was sitting, the way he kept trying to hide something behind his back. He began circling the boy. “What good would your father’s sickle do against a ghost?”

            Clement threw an empty tankard at him. It went through with a puff of snow, and struck a tree behind him.

            “What good can anythingdo against a ghost who has decided…” He began to move in closer, crouching slightly. “…that the death of his quarry is worth a bit of innocent blood?”

            Blanching, Clement scrambled up, screaming, “It’s in the basket, the basket!”

            Roland dove for the basket. Something dashed from the woods—as he’d expected. He turned. For a moment, he gazed at the face of a terrified and desperate Siren: eyes wide, sharp teeth bared, claws extended, skin tinged blue. Then she hit him.

            They grappled. Afterwards, Roland wasn’t able to say what had possessed him to forgo use of his powers.

            She struck, her blows lunging and desperate; Roland struck, his concise strikes fueled by the memories playing out in his mind.

            But this would avail nothing. Not unless he could find—

            The selkie was no longer there.

            Roland drew his hand back, trying not to reel from his missed punch. He whirled around. Where could she have gone?

            A fox with a ginger coat dashed among the trees.

            Snarling, Roland picked up a bit of cutlery. Before he could throw, a small bird took off close by. He whirled again. Rabbits, ermines, quail—everything seemed to be the selkie.

            He sank to his knees.

            “Thank…”

            Roland jerked his head around. Clement. He’d forgotten the boy was there.

            Clement hesitantly came out from behind a tree. “Thank you. I didn’t see…but I did. Now. Now that you’ve…” He gestured vaguely. “She turned into a wolf. All skin and bone and teeth.” Shuddering, he came closer and offered a hand. “I’m sorry for not listening.”

            Roland took his hand, heaved himself up. One life saved. One life. For the first time since his death, he felt tired. He nodded to Clement. “What attracted you to her?”

            “Would you believe personality?”

            “Ha!”

            “Fine, fine. She was gorgeous. I think, maybe, if I had gotten to know her, I could have loved her. But…well, I don’t really know how these things work.”

            Roland huffed. “Would you like to know a Siren who isn’t out to break your heart?”

            “I would rather wait a bit. This whole experience is a bit rattling.” He laced his fingers together.

            “I can’t promise I’ll still be around.”

            “No offense, but I wouldn’t mind risking that.”

***

A week and a half later, Roland and Clement waited at the edge of the lake. Clement shifted nervously, blowing into his hands and rubbing his face. “The water is nearly frozen over. Are you sure she’ll come? I thought Sirens were warm-weather creatures.”

            Roland sighed. “Be quiet.”

            For all of ten seconds, Clement obeyed. “You know, the strangest thing’s been happening to me.”

            Roland hung his head.

            Oblivious, the boy continued. “I’ve been finding it easier to notice those in need. Earlier this week, for example. A girl, homeless, just stood out to me. She wasn’t particularly beautiful. Yet I noticed her. And I think…I think I’ll have to forgo meeting the Siren.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “I mean the mute girl’s growing on me. That is,” he hastened to add at Roland’s concerned expression, “I think I like her. It’s almost like what I felt with Rochelle, but…different.” He preened agitatedly; ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his coat, tightened his scarf. “Never mind. I’ll just…goodbye.”

            Roland watched him leave with a bemused expression. He stayed where he was, looking out at the lake.

            Slow, hesitant footsteps approached.

            Without turning, Roland asked, “Out of all the people I pointed out, you chose him?”

            A hand rested on his shoulder. He patted it. “I wish you luck. If you ever settle down, I know a good house sprite.”