Sea Hearts by Margo Lanagan

the roof over your head, for your meat and bread, for the shoes on your feet and the coat on your back.
    ‘And this you would pay me,’ I said, keeping my voice hard, ‘even should she escape you, find her coat and run off back to the sea? Or sicken to a burden, like my mam there, or my dad before her? Or die on you, childbirthing or otherwise? Or catch some land-disease, that she cannot fight off? The effort is the same for me, whether she stays or goes, Able. And you might gain not very much, if you don’t take care. But I cannot have your caretaking, or luck, or acts of God’s hands, be a part of the bargain. I can only extract the girl into your keeping. You undertake, do you, to pay me the same, good luck following or poor?’
    ‘Every penny,’ he said, ‘I promise.’
    He put out his hand, the way men do to make a bargain.
    I looked at it. ‘I don’t know, Able,’ I said. ‘Give me a day and a night, to sit with this, with the gains and the losses to me. It is no small thing.’
    He pulled back his hand, annoyed. ‘How could you be worse off?’
    I met his contemptuous eye. ‘Do you want this, Able?’
    He looked aside and clicked his tongue.
    ‘If you want it, you’ll perhaps think twice before insulting the person who can get it for you.’
    He cleared his throat, watched the floor between his boots.
    ‘Come back tomorrow. I’ll tell you yea or nay.’
    And I showed him out, my face serious, my heart as light as a floating feather.
    In the night, though, Mam slipped her moorings worse, going from wedding-day terrors to a full fight against all her imaginings. Such a strength came on her, most of the night I spent pinning her down, dodging her fists and feet and trying to calm her; in the end I had to tether her to the bed, and even then I could not bring myself to leave her to find some sleep myself, for fear she would struggle free.
    Morning rescued me from that nightmare at last, and I sent for a sister and for the Widow Threading for one of her sedative teas. Through the fuss of all that I saw Able loitering in our lane, unwilling to come knocking while others visited. I sent Lorel off, to go and tell my predicament and our mother’s to Grassy and Bee, and once she had gone out the lane-end I gave Able a sharp look and he toddled across to me most eagerly.
    ‘I will do it,’ I said, ‘what you asked for. But my mam’s beginning her dying now, and you must wait until she’s gone, for I won’t have the strength.’
    ‘Will she be long about it?’ he said.
    ‘She might go tomorrow, or fight on another month yet, is what the Widow said. Can you keep yourself in your trousers that long?’
    That sent him away blushing.
    Two weeks more Mam dragged on. From that night until the very end she fought away food, fought away sleep, struck out at any person who came near her, snarled and bellowed. And she nearly sent me mad along with herself; in my exhaustion and fear of her, I reached a point where I could barely remember a more human Mam, a woman with sense behind her eyes, and from whose mouth came recognisable words. One night in her struggles she pulled her shoulder-bone right from its socket, though, and the pain of that injury tamed her somewhat. She shrank and weakened quickly, then, snarling less and weeping more, and finally one dawn I woke from where I had collapsed asleep with my head on my arms on her bed, and found her dead before me. I watched her a long time, waiting to feel something more than the enormous relief of her leaving; then I rose and sent for my sisters.
    As soon as Bee arrived, I claimed the need for fresh air, and set out to Crescent Corner. There they all were, sleek soggy mams and furred sprightly babs, carpeting the rock and all but covering what little sand there was. Down the cliff path I went, and hurried across the rocks to the blunt sea-maiden I had drawn. I loosened my bands so that I should see her clearer, and the seals lifted and cried to me. Each dot of her