Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Eventually, his uncle and aunt would find the folder marked Qrs Ndps ja qrs Dggjhbqs Dhhbrbfdqjm. Aunt Maeve, good at puzzles, had taught him how to cipher in the first place. She would eventually break the code and read Dick’s notes, and want to talk with Sellwood. By then, it would probably be too late.

They gave the Brethren time enough to get beyond earshot before creeping out from under the trough. They unbent with much creaking and muffled moaning. Violet lit her candle.

Dick paced around the cell, keeping away from the Hole.

“I’m thirsty,” said Ernest.

“Easily treated,” said Violet.

She found the beaker and pumped water into it. Ernest drank, made a face, and asked for more. Violet worked the pump again.

Water splashed over the brimful beaker, into the trough.

A noise came out of the Hole.

The children froze into mannequins. The noise came again.

“Wah wah… wah wah…”

There was a pleading tone to it.

“Wah wah…”

“‘Water’,” said Dick, snapping his fingers. “It’s saying ‘water’.”

“Wah wah,” agreed the creature. “Uh, wah wah.”

“‘Water. Yes, water.’”

“Gosh, Dick, you are clever,” said Violet.

“Wat war,” said the creature, insisting. “Gi’ mee wat war, i’ oo eese…”

“‘Water’,” said Dick, “‘Give me—’”

“‘—water, if you please’,” completed Violet, who caught on swiftly. “Very polite for a sea-ghost. Well brought-up in Atlantis or Lyonesse or R’lyeh, I imagine.”

“Where?” asked Dick.

“Sunken cities of old, where mer-people are supposed to live.”

More left-overs from Violet’s myths and legends craze. Interesting, but not very helpful.

Ernest had walked to the edge of the Hole.

“This isn’t a soppy mer-person,” said Ernest. “This is a Monster of the Deep!”

He emptied the beaker into the dark.

A sigh of undoubted gratitude rose from the depths.

“Wat war goo’, tanks. Eese, gi’ mee moh.”

Ernest poured another beakerful. At this rate, they might as well be using an eye-dropper.

Dick saw the solution.

“Vile, help me shift the trough,” he said.

They pulled one end away from the wall. It was heavy, but the bolts were old and rusted and the break came easily.

“Careful not to move the other end too much. We need it under the pump.”

Violet saw where this was going. Angled down away from the wall, the trough turned into a sluice. It didn’t quite stretch all the way to the oubliette, but pulling up a loose stone put a notch into the rim which served as a spout.

“Wat war eese,” said the creature, mildly.

Dick nodded to Violet. She worked the pump.

Water splashed into the trough and flowed down, streaming through the notch and pouring into the pit.

The creature gurgled with joy.

Only now did Dick wonder whether watering it was a good idea. It might not be a French spy or even a maritime demon, but it was definitely one of Granny Ball’s sea-ghosts. If Dick had been treated as it had been, he would not be well disposed towards land-people.

But the water kept flowing.

Violet’s arm got tired, and she let up for a moment.

“I’ oo eese,” insisted the creature, with a reproachful, nannyish tone. “Moh wat war.”

Violet kept pumping.

Dick took the candle and walked to the edge of the Hole. Ernest sat there, legs dangling over the edge, fingers playing in the cool cascade.

The boys looked down.

Where water fell, the man-fish was changed—vivid greens and reds and purples and oranges glistened. Its spines and frills and gills and webs were sleek. Even its eyes shone more brightly.

It turned, mouth open under the spray, letting water wash around it, wrenching against its chains.

“Water makes the Monster strong,” said Ernest.

The creature looked up at them. The edges of its mouth curved into something like a smile. There was cunning there, and a bottomless well of malice, but also an exultation. Dick understood: when it was wet, the thing felt as he did when he saw through a mystery.

It took a grip on one of its manacles and squeezed, cracking the old iron and casting it away.

“Can I stop now?” asked Violet. “My arm’s out of puff.”

“I think so.”

The creature nodded, a human gesture awkward on the gilled, neckless being.

It stood up unshackled, and stretched as if waking after a long sleep in an awkward position. The chains dangled freely. A clear, thick, milky-veined fluid seeped from the weals on its chest. The man-fish carefully smoothed this secretion like an ointment.

There were pools of water around its feet. It got down on its knees—did it have spare brains in them?—and sucked the pools dry. Then it raised its head and let water dribble through its gills and down over its chest and back.

“Tanks,” it said.

Now it wasn’t parched, its speech was easier to understand.

It took hold of the dangling chains, and tugged, testing them.