The Binding

Nightmares run in the family.

I don’t speak much about them, or speak much at all. I know my captor’s foreign tongue, and can cipher and sum with the best of them. I simply have no need to brag like the lot of them, the pieces of limp, chewy seaweed that they are.

I woke up again from a dream where I was home, swimming in the cold North Sea. I woke up stiff, both hands making figs, and understanding now why the sunny Italians made it a warding gesture. It wouldn’t help prevent the evil that slept aside of me from keeping me here.

I have nothing against the Wise Ones, those with knowledge, who surround themselves with the tools of their learning. I have taken advantage over the years, of living in a cottage that is more like a library than a space for living.

I have read his collection – and it is quite peculiar.

I know there is a word for his – how do some put it? – “eccentric proclivities.” He certainly doesn’t have the money to be “eccentric,” since all he makes goes into buying more books. Not into clothing, not into food for myself or our children.

So I foraged, and I hunted, and I raised our children.

And when our boys turned out to be as hairy as I was, even without my skin, and he started showing “eccentric” interest in them as well, I protected them.

Due to our strange blood, I can handle an iron griddle. I can wield one very well, in fact. And I’m a light sleeper, and wake up often at the slightest noises. So I made it very clear that if he even thinks those thoughts aloud, or attempts action upon them, he will find himself tied to our “marriage” bed, and I will beat his human bones into mush. Because he must sleep some time, and he’s already proven he will break his promises, so I have no hope of seeing my skin ever again.

And believe me, I have hunted everywhere for it.

That’s when he began sleeping at his office in the center of town, and I began to feel poorly.

I have never been to his office. I don’t even know where it is located.

Of course I had suspicions, but what could I do?

So I taught my boys.

Foraging. Stealth. Letters. Ciphering. Sums. Swimming. Hunting. And other things that will help them later in life, like how to properly treat a woman, and cooking, and how to make clothing, both the man’s way and the woman’s way.

And some secret things, which would depend on which path they take.

I would love to call them my tree corbies, but my cousins would certainly take offense.

The oldest takes after his father in looks and temperament, but is very angry at his sire for the treatment I’ve received. He vanishes sometimes, and I do not see him for hours on end, and he refuses to reveal where he’s been. But he returns with food, reassures me it is not thefted. He says he will likely choose the human path, but is keeping his options open.

The middle is fair enough alike to be my twin in all things. He will take his skin when he comes of age, and live under the waves. He swears he will see me there with him, but I have given up hope.

The youngest is the spitting image of my brother. And for him, and him alone, I dared call up my brother.

And he came.

Well, if I am to be discomfited, I suppose it is only right for the rest of the town to share in it. Afterwards, not one soul in the whole area could sleep well, and I met many a being wandering around during the break between sleeps.

Including my husband, to his dismay.

Too bad.

My youngest and my brother had many a talk, out of sight of all. On the dunes, in the thicket, when running the trap lines in the part of the forest I could use.

And fishing. Lots of fishing.

Well, of course, we all eat fish, so fish it is. But when my erstwhile “husband” deigned to join us, all he would do is complain about the simple fare. I would reply that there is a simple solution, all he had to do was purchase some cottage pies or mutton in town, and bring it with the vegetables for me to serve. And he would sulk, and usually storm off to return to his office.

It was towards the slow-browning of the year, and I was cutting herbs in the garden, when my oldest returned from his wanderings. He was quite troubled. Said that he’d been spying on the townsfolk, and they were muttering about myself. That I brought the nightmares to the town, and they would do me a mischief on Hallow’s Eve if they didn’t cease.

What was more disturbing, he said, was that it was their father spreading the rumors.

So. It had come to this. And me defenseless, without my skin. And none of the boys of an age where they can make the change and protect themselves.

Then my brother appeared, and my youngest. Just sort of materialized in front of us, like apparitions. It startled me, and I do not do so easily.

They smiled, and it was not a pretty sight.

My brother spoke. “We have made a plan, we two, and would be honored to share it with our kin. May we come in?”

Ah, the old rules. Ask to cross the threshold, because where we trod, mayhem would follow.

We went inside.

Soon, there were new rumors. My feeling poorly allegedly led to my being bedridden, and my younger children were also stricken, but tending to me. Priest came to visit, saw enough to confirm the rumors. I didn’t pay attention to his natterings, I just moaned and thrashed in the water-soaked bed covers. Of course he added to that by sprinkling holy water on me from a distance. It does not hurt my kind, so it made no difference to me what he did, and he finally fled when my youngest started up with such a wet cough, fit to wake the dead.

While I stayed at the cottage, my boys sneaked into town.

Firstly, they entered the church, and made sure to erase their own names and mine from the rolls. True names can be traced, and we wanted those traces eliminated.

My oldest had been spying on the town, and everyone in it, for months. Like the tracker he is, he’d memorized every person’s patterns – including my “husband’s” penchant for eating his meals at the home of a recent widow living nearby, the source of the mutton and cottage pies he’d been moaning about.

And he’d been spending his weekends there, so it was easy for my darling boy to sneak in and steal the office key out of his pocket, from discarded pants.

While one kept watch, the other two broke in to look for my skin.

What they found was profoundly disturbing.

Books. Many, many books. As many as were at our cottage, in fact.

But these were bound in furskins.

Elk. Deer. Sheep. Goat. The process is well known, in the northern lands, and it seems that teachings of its methods had worked their way onto our well-traveled isles.

But the distressing tomes, were the ones with the gray-furred books.

They knew.

There were many.

For the sake of thoroughness, they looked through the other books. What they reported was beyond deranged; the subjects ranged from obscene to occult to outright banned.

They made some decisions.

One bundled the gray-furred ones and slipped out with his precious burden. One arranged the books in such a way to pull in much air, like when one is creating a bonfire. One ransacked the rest of the room, collecting money and other precious things. That last one also slipped out and to the tavern, where some money was given to certain persons to create quite a distraction in a few moments.

And a glorious distraction it was.

So much so, that when all the other persons in the building where my “husband’s” office resided emptied out to watch the spectacle, no one noticed my boys pouring a king’s ransom of whale oil on every surface they could, which included soaking the books. And they lit some witch lights, and locked up every room. They included the front door in their locking. And left out the back, locking it behind them.

When the conflagration was noticed, eventually, it was far too late.

I could hear the commotion at my isolated little cottage.

They were so worried, when they came and lay their treasure in my lap. They thought my hope was cruelly betrayed. I cried, seeing a part of me desecrated so easily. My people know of these beings, who are so obsessed with wildlings, that they do these horrible things. Had he wooed instead of taken possession, had he loved me, there are ways to share the skin.

But he would learn, to his pain. Soon, very soon.

I set about soaking the books in my washing tub, with sun-warmed salt water. Watching my skin bleed ink was so dizzying, I lay down aside the tub, basking in the sun like I used to.

I had no fear. My brother had sworn that I would never see him again, and I believed him.

Two of my boys stood guard anyway, and the third crept back to town. The distraction was working so well, in fact, that no one noticed the raging inferno two streets over. When it exploded, it had consumed everything inside, and was reaching out with flaming arms to feed its starving maw.

The whole town worked furiously to water any nearby buildings so they did not join the fiery dance. Only when there was a pile of glowing embers did my captor realize what he had lost – and who might be responsible.

In that time, meanwhile, I had softened the glues in the book binding, replacing the water time and again with fresh but colder water. Two of the big books were my skin, I could tell, and two more were a second skin of someone I didn’t know. I could touch it and feel the heartbeat, so I knew she was alive. But where, I had no idea. But I was taking her skin, and I would look for her when I was safe.

The fifth and final book, was a whole skin. A youngling. Taken before the time of change.

I had been forced to marry a monster. I could not imagine such depravity.

It took time, and when the books released their covers, my skin melded together like it had never been tanned or cut. I also no longer felt poorly – in fact, I felt years and years younger. I threw my skin about my shoulders with relief, and worked on the other three. By this point, my boys were taking turns running to town, watching, while the other ran back to report on the situation. I gathered what little I wanted to take with me into a small bag. One way or another, I would be home by nightfall.

My oldest wanted the cottage. The money he collected would be more than enough for some schooling, and he could sell the books he didn’t want for more money. He could take to my bed, and with a bit of art, look like the starving abandoned waif. My captor could be blamed easily for our disappearances.

My middle child wanted to come with me, and I could use the poor youngling’s skin to make that happen. Child also had his belongings in a bag, and I swung that little skin about his shoulders, muttering the beginning cantrip with a prayer for the dead.

My youngest would travel with my brother to his home. My brother was always an odd one, but I was in no position to disallow it. I hugged my oldest and youngest fiercely. Goodbyes were only for a time, we could visit, but my grief was none the less for it.

It was dusk when my captor realized he’d lost everything from his office.

He went mad.

I and my youngest were swimming joyously in the seas, with my kinfolk, far from land, when he realized I may have something to do with this sudden change in fortunes.

Enraged beyond all bounds, he barreled his way to the cottage, bellowing like a bull calf the entire way.

He was stopped in the woods.

There, across the path, was the most gorgeous horse he had ever seen.

Its blue-black hide glowed in the setting sun. Silken mane and tail looked like they had been brushed to perfection. One dainty hoof pawed at a tuft of grass, and the glorious stallion nickered like he was a little filly. Golden eye managed to look coquettish.

Of course, my captor couldn’t resist. This gift was irresistible.

With all the sweet hay growing by the wayside, it was nothing to twist off a handful and offer it to the vision. Another gentle nicker, and questing lips reached for the offering. A step forward, and another, and another.

And my captor gave it to him, and reached for that beautiful mane, and whisked himself atop like a practiced rider.

The horse laughed, and galloped away.

And perforce my captor went with, stuck like a cocklebur to his back.

I was told the ride was thrilling, and amazing, and so incredible, that my captor lost all sense of time. Through the night they galloped over moor, and heath, and thicket, and glade. A full moon rose, enveloping horse and rider in knife-edged shadows. As the sky’s galleon sailed, so did those two, taking in all the deadly beauty of the night. The horse’s eyes, now a sullen red, glanced back repeatedly to gauge his rider’s reaction.

Towards false dawn, I am also told, the terror finally set in. And realization.

All those books, and he was still taken by the glamour.

They came upon a quiet, deep, dark loch.

That fantastic horse galloped three times around the whole lake’s margin, whinnying to the silent skies. And as the sun rose, it turned and plunged into the lake at full speed. Only a few bubbles rose, because my captor had been screaming.

My youngest witnessed it from a small hut on the shore. Because he was too young to change his skin – but would someday soon.

Because my brother favored our father’s side, instead of our mother’s.

I told you Night Mares ran in our family.

If you are interested, here is the article that sparked this story: https://www.sciencenews.org/article/rare-books-seal-skin-medeival-trade