8 Elle To Commune
Elle
To Commune
I won’t let my sister ruin her own salvation.
Heat flows through me from the heart of the Devil’s power, a spiral into the depths.
The fuel of the island. My fuel. Its connection lights an ambition in me for, in some small way, my own revenge.
I whisper his incantations, the words and intentions he taught me to memorize for a sacrifice.
I don’t need to pierce their hearts or break their ship’s planks by hand.
I need only bring the tendrils to ensure their demise. Easy if Liney doesn’t interfere.
She asks about the oil. She kneels beside me. Cries. She’s only a red silhouette, warped and out of focus as I commune with the spiral of torment. A smudge, like the distant fog light of the ship through the old glass panes.
The oil in this lighthouse is useless save for our lanterns. It doesn’t fuel the main light. Not anymore. The power that flows through the island into me now instead of the lamp isn’t of sperm whales or black minerals beneath distant sands. It is a fuel made of suffering, sin, and sacrifice.
Liney’s still talking, indistinct but distracting. I place my hands on the floor, fingers spread. This is for your own good, I want to scream at her. But I can’t break concentration. Deaths without sacrifice are cruel, and worse—wasteful.
Tendrils of power from deep within the cave breach the surface, unaffected by the thrashing waves of the storm.
They’re immense, their dense substance dizzying as an extension of myself.
I don’t control them directly, merely channel the alchemical transformation that turns my intentions into action.
“You’re scaring me, Elle.”
I look up. She’s no longer a red smudge. She’s my sister again. The only person who’s ever mattered, cowering from me against the mirror lens.
This should quell the heat. Her shaking voice, her face crumpled in concern. I’ve always been able to swallow the coals of rage for her sake.
But I’ve never been interrupted up here before. The spiral presses with every burning breath. It wants me to ignore her, continue my work uninterrupted. All I want is to save her soul. She’s why I’m here, no matter what the tendrils coiling around my mind wish.
There’s a balance I must make for my monstrosity to be worth my living.
I stretch between this power and the girl I took it to protect like molten glass.
The red-hot rope becomes more brittle the longer I sustain it.
Should my tie to Liney break, I won’t merely be a person who consorts with the darkness of the world: I’ll become that darkness.
No more distinguishable than a shadow within a shadow.
I close my eyes. The fire within threatens to singe my eyelashes.
I smother the heat deeper within me. I peel the tendrils from their grasp around my mind and instead attach them to my spine, removing the flames from my gaze.
The spiral below is fully uncoiled now, performing its work thanks to my guidance.
My final task is to hold onto the devotion.
The desire to devour is a thread between the damnation and my body.
It could just as likely snap as weave tighter.
Eyes open again, I look to Liney. She’s so small in Douglas’s coat. Her braided hair is loose from sleep, golden strands spilling across her shoulder. Her lower lip wobbles.
“You’re babbling.” I remove the fire from my voice. As though scolding her for forgetting to wring out a washcloth or bring in the laundry before a storm. “You don’t know the first thing about this room.”
“Your—Elle, your eyes…”
I rise from kneeling but keep a consistent inner chant that lulls the tendrils into compliance. May these souls be of use to the most unholy. May they add fuel to the greatest of flames. Drag them into the deepest abyss for the glory of the highest evil.
Every chant is a different combination of the same intention: Grant these doomed souls the purpose of my sister’s preservation through the spiral. She’s the only redemption left for me.
“My eyes?” I repeat back to her. The two conversations threaten to confuse my tongue.
“The…” Liney stumbles over her words. My eyes are plain brown again. “Flames?”
It’s a question. A plea to prove this dark fantasy wrong. To make us make sense.
“The mirrors can cause illusions at night.” May these souls forge a new power for the Lord of Sin. “The light from my lantern, reflected.”
It should pain me to lie. It doesn’t. So many lies for so long have immunized me. Her expression wavers as a gust hits the window closest to her with such force, I fear the glass might shatter over us.
“Thank you for checking on me.” The distraction gives me back the composure I need.
My stomach roils in the heat I’ve channeled away from any exposed skin.
Something in the back of my throat tastes powdery.
She’ll find only her sister, no longer an acolyte of darkness, as long as I can keep it down.
“I’ll light the wick again. Go back downstairs. ”
Liney stands, though her legs shake with every movement. She needs proper rest. Not half a night of storm sleep. Not unlike me.
“I can get you more oil from the basement,” she offers, nearly too quiet to hear.
Is she trying to be helpful or find a crack in my new mask? I can barely sustain the chant without saying it aloud. I need her gone.
“If oil is needed, I’ll be the one carrying it.” I hold my hand out for Liney to take. “It gets plugged up sometimes. That’s all.”
Liney’s gaze moves to my hand, but she doesn’t grasp it. She needs a task.
“How about you check downstairs for any damage to the lighthouse? Windows broken. Water leaks.” I step forward to grasp her hand in mine. It’s still too hot but not enough to burn her. She’ll assume a fever.
“Elle…” My name reels out of her mouth like a fishing line.
“This is nothing to fuss over,” I lie. “I’m wide awake. I promise. You’ve been a great help—but this isn’t your problem to fix.”
I lead Liney to the trapdoor. Once she’s at the bottom of the ladder, I lower the lantern.
“I have a candle,” Liney protests, showing me. It’s thin, one of a boxful that I use for the dining table at night.
“Those aren’t for carrying! You’ll burn yourself. Or the whole tower.”
Liney’s face is a splotchy red as she grabs the lantern.
“But you’ll be in the dark,” she counters. I resist the spiral’s urge to close the trapdoor and lock it preemptively.
“Yes.” I don’t have the concentration to come up with a reason. “Go.”
Sweat pools at the tip of my nose and threatens to drip until Liney is a good dozen or so paces down the stairs.
I close the trapdoor and breathe out, releasing the hot coils of the island’s power to my whole body.
My fingertips glow red like I’m holding them before the sun.
The ashy taste lingers, but coughing doesn’t clear it.
My vision tinges red again, and the room is revealed anew.
I walk to the window. Sparks sound as each footstep leaves a scorch mark I’ll have to sand off later.
I peer out into the storm. The tendrils have reached the ship.
Their smaller cousins at my spine wrap around my throat, pulsing.
The crew will soon realize they can no longer turn.
The ship has one path: toward the island, then within it.
The cave is hidden except during feeding. Passing ships can’t see its deep spiral on their way in and out of port. Liney can’t find it on her walks about the island. The cave makes no sense on such a shallow spit of land. Yet I see it now. A maw at the edge of the water, awaiting its prey.
The guilt doesn’t come from my chest, where the heat overtakes any other feeling.
It starts behind my eyes. Pressure forms into a pulse to rival my heartbeat.
The tendrils and I strain against it, forcing it back to whatever still holds onto my humanity.
It can sense the panic of the sailors. This part of me proves I’m still mortal.
This evil was given. And it will eventually consume me.
I couldn’t save these sailors even if weakness won me over. The spiral will have its due.
Mr. Pratterman explained this during my first sacrifice.
I sobbed, tried to pull away, but he made me look.
Asked me if I wanted them dead for nothing.
If I valued myself so little. Did I want to leave Liney alone?
I watched the coiling of those dark tentacles as more tendrils slithered into my skin.
It was a fishing boat. A man and his son returning late. I felt everything as they were dragged into the depths. The father’s alarm at the unnatural movements of the ship. The son’s fear of being out of control. The realization that there was nothing the man could do to save his boy.
That fear of loss, the absolute understanding of doom for yourself and the most important person to you, has haunted me as closely as Douglas ever since. I was left retching while Mr. Pratterman soaked in the souls. I promised myself one thing.
I would never allow these sacrifices to go to waste.
I keep the connection between the bottom of the spiral and its tendrils taut. The ship will crash no matter what happens now, but I’m the mechanism that ensures their souls are captured properly.
The ship is entangled. Dark vines the width of city streets wrap it beyond hope of extrication. May these souls act as coals to the fires of the underground. May they find their place in the courts of hell. May they grant me freedom for their suffering.
The language of sacrifice isn’t ruled by grammar or tense.
While I may hate Mr. Pratterman for his tricks, I understand this language more than English, more than love or loss or livelihood.
Sacrifice has been in my veins since my birth.
My future for my parents to extend the bloodline.
My happiness to keep Thomas away from Liney. My parents for our escape.