The Relic Diver
The Relic Diver
Chapter One
The boats were lined up against the horizon like mourners at a funeral. As Pa rowed the boat closer, the dark smudges became crisper, and Mary could see the faded bunting strung over the edges of the vessels, all gussied up for the occasion. Sunlight glinted off the pale robes of the villagers, standing stiffly in anticipation as their boats swayed beneath them. Mary wore white, too, as was the tradition at the summer solstices: bands of raw linen wrapped tightly around her limbs, a feeble gesture of protection. She shivered as the sea spray kissed her face, and her little brother Chase buried himself in her lap, his chubby arms grasping at her legs.
They drew nearer, alongside Peter’s boat. Peter shot Mary a nervous grin and she smiled back sweetly, then stuck out her tongue. The air was tangy with salt.
Their boats were the last to arrive. Pa rowed his boat into position on the far side of the floating circle that was forming around the church, opposite Peter’s family. Janet threw a glance in Pa’s direction, her mouth puckering and making a nearly audible tut. She had on a flowing white dress, and the wreath of tiny, exhumed bones that she liked to wear whenever called upon to say the words of prayer – which was every dive, because no one else volunteered, and everyone knew it was Janet’s thing. Mary suppressed a giggle as Janet drew her features into a deliberately solemn expression, and flung her arms out to trace a circle as if conjuring unseen spirits. She looked over at Pa, but his eyes were closed, his head bowed. He took all it all too seriously for Mary’s liking.
Janet began to intone the prayer, her left foot stamping out a beat. Her body swayed as though the mystical words were coursing through her. The villagers joined in, clapping and stamping. The pace gathered until the prayer became a frenzy. They’re mad, Mary thought, all mad. Looking out across the boat circle, she could see Peter, his face suddenly pale. His family were huddled in around him; his mother rubbed his back, drawing close to whisper encouragement. Peter peered grimly into the deep beneath.
Janet’s trance came to an end and the villagers fell silent. Their eyes settled on the crumbling spire at the circle’s centre, pushing proudly above the water. The rusted weathervane still clung on valiantly despite decades of being battered by the waves. Janet raised her hand and cried, ‘Children of Noah, save us. Go forth into the deep, and bring us relics of the past, so that we may live through them once more!’
Mary glanced again at Peter, at his body held poised. She’d give him a good head-start: it was only fair.
Janet’s hand came down and Peter tumbled into the water – awkwardly, Mary noticed, his limbs splayed when they should have been straight and taut. Around the circle, there were flashes of white as children slid from their families’ boats. Their bodies shot through the water like silvery arrows aimed at the church and the drowned village that surrounded it. All of the children – the few that were left in the village, at that time – had trained for years for this. They had learned to hold their breath, to work with the currents, to bear the silt thrown into their eyes by the waves. All this because the village elders wanted relics, and the children were skilled at finding them: the quickest swimmers, the best at easing their slim bodies through blown-out windows and cracked-open walls, their nimble fingers searching inside drawers and chests and sometimes, just sometimes, striking gold.
‘Mary, wha’re you doing, girl? You get on in there now, don’t let me down!’
Pa was at Mary’s side, his hand on the small of her back, pressing her towards the water. She sighed, sucked air into her lungs, and launched herself off the boat’s edge, her body tracing a smooth arc. She heard Chase’s gurgle of excitement before her head hit the surface. Then she was in, and there was only the dull thud of her own pulse, and the grumble of the currents.
She knew all too well where Pa wanted her to go; he’d told her many times in the weeks before the solstice, his voice dripping with a desperate desire. Not greed, not exactly, but something like it.
‘Go to the vicarage,’ he’d said. ‘The vicar’s wife ’ad two silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece in the dining room. I used to stare at ’em while I was doing my Sunday school lessons, when I was a littl’un. The patterns on them candlesticks, real delicate vines that wrapped themselves around ’em – I’d never seen anythin’ so fine. I can still see ’em now, still smell the Sunday lunch cooking in the back kitchen. Them candlesticks, now there’s a true relic.’
He’d sketched Mary a map and assured her the best way in would be through the front window. He’d described the layout of the room until she could picture every detail, down to the pattern on the curtains and the carriage clock on the dresser.
‘But won’t the family have taken the candlesticks when they left, before the Flood?’ Mary protested, her nose wrinkling. Silver had a different value in the Before; you wouldn’t have just left it behind if you could help it. Of course, in the village she knew, such materials were no longer prized: silver couldn’t be eaten or put to good use. It was worth nothing unless it could hold memories.