Author's Note; Special thanks to SanBearli for her exceptional beta reading.


Black Water Rises

Chapter One

Amidst a long journey back to Paris with his comrades, Aramis revelled at the vibrant colours of dying leaves framing the French countryside. Patches of maroons, yellows and bright oranges melded into a rich tapestry, and he breathed in its powerful woodsy fragrance.

Autumn brought crispness to the air that Aramis enjoyed. Tipping his hat off his brow he let the sun peeking through the clouds warm his wind-chilled face. It tingled his skin and awoke his senses while a mild wind blew across the open road. Mornings like this reminded him why he loved the northern coast. On his right, a cliff dropped away to the sea, the crashing waves across its shore a rhythmic cadence, and its pleasing sound made him smile. This time of year bolstered a symphony all its own, from the harmony of ruffled branches to the melody of birdsong that accompanied them all morning.

Nature in its grandness melded life and death through sound and colour, and Aramis could think of only one way to heighten the moment. Plucking the skin from his belt he took a long drink of wine, closing his eyes as he savoured its taste.

When he opened them again his brow furrowed, as up ahead, thick billows of fog swept across the forest road. Eyes appraising what lay before him, he returned his wineskin to his hip. Judging the cloud too wide to go around, he crept his mount slow and steady into the wall of white mist; smoky tendrils swirling around his horse's hooves like water flowing around rocks. He scowled and waved his hand in front of him, but the motion did nothing to disperse the cold white haze.

A glance over his shoulder revealed he was alone in the mysterious cloud. "Are you all still with me?" he called back to his comrades. "D'Artagnan! Porthos…"

The snicker of a horse preceded d'Artagnan's appearance through the misty veil. "You don't have to yell. I hear you just fine."

"Where are the others?" asked Aramis.

"I don't know. They were right behind us."

Silence followed d'Artagnan's last words, heavy and visceral, pushing against Aramis' eardrums until they throbbed. He stuck a finger in an ear and wiggled it. He cracked his jaw, shook his head, and a moment later the ache dissipated.

But he no longer heard birdsong amongst the trees or the branches creaking in the forest, or even the sea ravaging the steep cliffs not far from the road. The silence pressed in on him, crawling on his skin and sending a shiver slipping down his spine.

Behind him, d'Artagnan pulled at his earlobes.

"Do you hear anything?" whispered Aramis.

"Only us," replied d'Artagnan.

"Exactly. The fog is suffocating everything."

"Except our voices. It sounds like you're yelling."

"Yet, I'm not."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I don't like this. Athos and Porthos should have been here by now."

Aramis nodded and slid off his horse, his neck hairs prickling when his boots hit the ground. Shivering, he led his mount off the path, hoping their brothers joined them quickly so they could be on their way.

A patch of crimson amongst the ghostly gossamer caught his attention. As this wasn't a colour he could associate with any of his comrades, he stepped forward. Yellow, blue and green joined the crimson; bringing to life a pole made of painted creatures stretching nearly ten feet above his head. Carved into the wood, beastial monsters with bulging eyes stared back at him, drawing him closer to their twisted smiles and feral claws.

"My God," he whispered.

Ruby eyes of a wooden bird perched on top bore into Aramis. Its wings cast an eerie shadow around him as if trying to scoop him into its clutches.

"It's so haunting, yet beautiful," he said, reaching forward.

"Maybe you shouldn't touch that," said d'Artagnan, sliding off his horse. "We don't know what it is."

Vibrations shook the ground, breaking Aramis from his stupor. Deep within the mist, the stomping of hoof beats across packed earth grew louder and louder until Athos and Porthos burst through the fog and reared to an abrupt stop.

Aramis approached them, hand clutched to his chest to remind himself to breathe. "What took you so long?"

"We picked up our pace the moment you disappeared in this fog," explained Athos, climbing down from his horse. "And the next moment we were nearly crashing into you."

Porthos stared wide-eyed at the pole. "More importantly, what is that?"

"I don't know," replied Aramis, reaching again for the pole.

Porthos scratched his beard. "Maybe you shouldn't do that."

"That's what I said," huffed d'Artagnan.

Athos rolled his eyes. "Aramis, can't you just leave well enough alone? We need to get back to Paris before the weather worsens and don't have time to admire the artwork."

"What's the harm?" When Aramis pushed his palm against the wood, currents of buzzing energy shot through him. His eyes clamped shut, his body bucked backward, landing him on the ground at the base of the pole.

When his eyes opened, he was standing alone at the edge of a dark wood. Jagged peaks of treetops jutted into a black and grey sky, creating a serrated horizon. Blood pounded through him while panicked breaths rushed between his parted lips.

Pungent odours of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, he choked back bile. Cold penetrated his clothes, seeped through his skin and wrapped around his bones. He rubbed his arms turning slowly in a circle until deep rumblings shook the earth and trees, knocking him face first to the ground with his hands pressed into wet dirt.

He spared a hesitant glance upward, flinching when white lightning tore across the sky dripping thick crimson tendrils onto the earth until the forest glistened in blood. A shadow formed against the red canopy, growing larger with each moment, paralyzing Aramis with fear.

Not larger, Aramis realized with a gasp… closer.

Two wings unfurled from the shadow, beating frantically as it raced toward him with blood-red eyes and talons poised to pluck him from the earth.

Mumbling the Lord's Prayer, Aramis huddled on the ground anticipating the tearing of skin and muscle from his bones, when a sting on his cheek yanked him across time and space. He opened his eyes, and seeing his friends hovering above him he muttered, "What… what happened?"

"You passed out," Athos said. "Are you alright?"

Porthos shook his head while letting out a long breath. "I told you not to touch that thing."

Aramis cleared his throat and lifted an arm for assistance. "I'm fine." He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the images of blood and darkness dominating his senses, and saw a sheen of sweat covering his skin. He wiped it from his brow with trembling hands and wondered if his friends would think him touched in the head if he told them what he'd seen.

"Do you hear that?" whispered d'Artagnan.

"What? What's going on?" asked Porthos.

D'Artagnan cupped his ear. "Voices."

Soft murmurings from within the cloud displaced Aramis' vision from his mind. The voices grew louder with each step forward Aramis crept, until a dark shadow formed before him, stopping him short, and stealing his breath. His heart still pounded when instead of the creature he'd seen in his vision, the fog swirled away to reveal a weather-beaten cabin.

Bleak, tattered curtains draped its windowpanes, denying even the smallest glimpse of the happenings beyond. Malodorous brine and fish permeated the air; a layer of salt coated Aramis' lips. When a dozen people and more wooden cabins appeared around him, he stumbled back. "What? When…"

"What… the…" muttered Porthos.

"How did we not see this?" asked Athos.

D'Artagnan raised his brows. "The fog? It parted?"

Aramis turned to them, eyes blinking. "You believe this was here the entire time?"

"I don't know what to believe," answered Porthos.

D'Artagnan waved to a woman in a blue-chequered dress walking past. "Excuse me," he called. "What… What town is this?"

"Black Water," she replied. She walked over to meet them at the edge of the village and curtsied. "Welcome. My name is Madame La Salle, but you may call me, Jeanette."

D'Artagnan glanced at his brothers. "I've never heard of Black Water."

"Neither have I," said Athos. "How long has it been here?"

"Well, it's been here as long as I have," replied Jeanette.

Porthos frowned. "Whose land is this?"

"It's our land."

"You own it?" asked d'Artagnan.

"It is owned by the King of France, silly," said Jeanette. "We live here and tend to its needs."

Preoccupied by the village, Aramis counted at least ten structures surrounding a central square, their log beams tarnished black, which contrasted harshly with the white mist hovering around their foundations. Looming over the square, a church cast dark shadows over those who passed by.

Aramis grimaced when he noticed the church's boarded doors and broken shutters. Even the rosemary bushes planted around the entrance were unkempt and wild, deepening his frown. His gazed upward in search of comfort, but the broken weathered cross jutting up from the peak of the steeple roof, only broke his heart. He signed the cross and shook his head, then turned his attention to the residents of the village.

Men with prominent brows and shoulders covered in thick pelts moved about the settlement talking with other townsfolk and going about their business. They seemed pale in comparison to any Spaniards or Frenchmen Aramis knew, and he sensed a darker undertone to their skin, leaving him hard pressed to conceive their heritage.

"… Magistrate?"

Aramis turned back to the conversation when Athos' voice cut through his musings.

"Thunderbird," Jeanette said. "He's a very wise man. I shall bring you to meet him."

Aramis stuck his head forward. "I'm sorry. Did you say his name is, Thunderbird?"

Jeanette smiled. "Yes. Strange, I know. It took some time for us to get accustomed to their names as well. But once you meet them, you too will think nothing of it."

"Indians!" announced Aramis with a clap of his hands.

Jeanette nodded. "Yes, some of the residents here are Mi'kmaq." She gestured for them to walk with her. "Perhaps it is best Thunderbird explain things. He has probably heard of your arrival and is most likely waiting to meet you."

Eager to meet his first Indian, Aramis fell in line with his brothers. They followed Jeanette through the village square, but when they passed under the shadow of the neglected church, a tingle prickled his spine as if someone had walked over his grave. He looked over his shoulder to see the villagers engrossed with daily activities and paying him no heed. His unease intensified, urging him to try the other shoulder, but again he saw nothing suspicious.

"Must be the cold," he muttered.

Aramis typically looked to the church for comfort, but the sharp edges of the broken cross silhouetted by fog, now reminded him of the jagged treetops glistening in blood from his vision. When he crossed under its shadow, he averted his gaze, wrapped his arms around himself and quickly caught up with the others.

Arriving at Thunderbird's cabin, Aramis looked back on the village. Misty tendrils of fog crept around the cabins and townsfolk. Mesmerized by the ethereal beauty, and encumbered with lingering images of a bloody forest, Aramis jumped when a door creaked behind him.

"Thunderbird will be happy to meet you now," said Jeanette. After ushering them into the cabin, she took her leave.

When Aramis stepped across the threshold he laid eyes on a man in a rocking chair. Grey and black stubble dotted his wrinkled chin, while hair adorned with beads and feathers fell onto his shoulders in silver waves. Light from a lantern hanging above him made his dark eyes shimmer like pools of obsidian.

Transfixed in their depths, Aramis caught himself leaning forward and shook his head to break the trance. To avoid further beguilement, he forced his gaze downward to where ornate necklaces hung between the loosely draped fabric of Thunderbird's open shirt. Aramis had never seen jewellery like this before. He found it hard to tear his gaze away.

The man raised his hand, put a long pipe to his lips and took a puff before addressing them. "You seem a stout bunch of travellers," he said. "Welcome to Black Water."

Athos stepped forward. "I am Athos of the King's Musketeers. This is Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan, also of the King's regiment."

Thunderbird stood, revealing a stature that rivalled Porthos'. "I am called Thunderbird of the Mi'kmaq. And I must admit, I've never had Musketeers before."

"In this village?" asked Porthos.

Thunderbird's lips slithered into a smile, his dark eyes glimmered. "Yes," he said, staring at Porthos. "In this village."

"This is French land, is it not?" asked Athos.

"My people believe no land belongs to anyone," replied Thunderbird. He crossed the space between them with long strides and creaking floorboards underfoot. "And no one from Court has ever visited."

"Not even to collect taxes?" asked d'Artagnan.

Thunderbird dipped his head.

Porthos chuckled. "Do you have room for one more resident?"

Thunderbird took his time looking Porthos up and down, his mouth twitching as if trying to hide a smile. When the tip of a tongue darted between Thunderbird's lips, Aramis stepped in front of Porthos.

To each man their own, thought Aramis. But this is neither the time nor the place. Hoping to dislodge the man's perverse interest in Porthos, he cleared his throat.

A steely glare from Thunderbird turned Aramis' insides cold.

"We always have room for healthy men such as yourselves," said Thunderbird. "How long is your stay in Black Water?"

"We are merely passing through," replied Athos. "The weather seems to have brought us here."

Thunderbird looked past them out the open door. "The fog visits frequently. If you are just passing through, I would be careful it is not watching and waiting to snare you in its trap."

Aramis turned his head and whispered over his shoulder. "Interesting way of putting it," he said.

Porthos nodded. "Yeah. And I don't like the way he's looking at me either. I'm getting a strange feeling."

"I've had one since we arrived in this town," muttered Aramis.

"Bad weather does not concern me," said Athos. "But I am interested in hearing about this village. I'm quite certain there is no Black Water registered with the Crown. How long has it been here?"

Thunderbird pointed to an oil painting hanging on the wall above a hearth where chipped and weathered wood framed the portrait of a three-mast ship pushing through turbulent water, its bowsprit flag bearing a fleur-de-lis. "The frigate, Black Water. A privateer ship chartered to return French citizens back to France many moons ago after a harsh winter in what you call, the Americas. Like myself, several Mi'kmaq joined the voyage, eager to whet our appetites on new lands to explore."

Aramis walked to the painting where he stared at muted blacks and golds of an intricately painted forecastle, suggesting the ship possessed great wealth. "It's beautiful," he said. "Both the artistry and the ship. Where is it now?"

"All around us," replied Thunderbird. "The Black Water could not sustain the harsh weather that greeted us on our arrival. It splintered and sunk off the shore after a terrible battle with high winds and devastating waves. The sea took many passengers. But those of us who survived, salvaged the timber that washed on shore and built this village. Naming it Black Water after the ship."

"How many survived?" asked Aramis.

"Everyone you see in this village," replied Thunderbird.

Porthos raised his brows. "Didn't people go home? They must have had families they wanted to see?"

With a crooked smile, Thunderbird bowed slightly. "It is not my place to tell their stories. Perhaps at your welcoming feast this evening you can inquire. Everyone will be in attendance, including yourselves."

"I'm afraid we must decline the invitation," said Athos. "We have business back in Paris."

Aramis didn't care for un-ended stories, he wanted to speak with the villagers, hear their tales. "Perhaps there's time to stay for a bit and feed the horses?"

"I'm sorry, Aramis," Athos said in a strident voice. "But we must not keep the King waiting."

Aramis knew the King wasn't awaiting their return, but recognized conviction in Athos' tone. "My friend is right," he said, reluctantly. "We will not be able to attend this evening."

Thunderbird's eyes narrowed, his hands slid behind his back puffing out his chest. "To refuse is an insult."

"And yet… we are willing to accept the consequences of our impolite behaviour," stated Athos.

Thunderbird exhaled a quick breath. "You will be at the feast whether Paris needs you or not."

Athos pulled himself to full height. "Is that a threat?"

"It is what the weather wishes," replied Thunderbird.

"A little fog's never stopped us before," stated Porthos.

"So if you will excuse us," Athos said with a slight bow. "We'll be on our way."

Thunderbird nodded and gestured toward the door. "If you insist on trying, perhaps the fog will be kind enough to allow you safe passage. But I doubt it will be so generous."

Dread crept up Aramis' spine as he proceeded after his friends. Being a marksman, he'd always relied on his instincts, prided himself on his foresight, yet after hearing Thunderbird's last words, he didn't know whether to run from this village, or fight to stay so he could sate his curiosity.

"Anyone else feel their skin crawling?" asked Porthos.

"That was both strange and unique," replied Aramis.

Athos sighed and pushed his hat off his brow. "Let's just put this behind us."

"Will we be reporting this village to the King?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Of course," replied Athos.

Aramis ignored the rest of the conversation as they crossed through the village toward their horses. The Indians of this settlement had never met Musketeers, yet they pushed their carts, shared conversation and mended horseshoes as if four armed soldiers weren't walking through their central square. Even the French citizens seemed indifferent to them.

In Paris, where they presented a regular fixture, the citizens at least glanced at them with either respect or disapproval when they walked down the streets.

Aramis lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair. His instincts and apprehension be damned, he wanted to know more. "There's something bewildering about this village and it's people," he said.

D'Artagnan scoffed. "That's one word for it."

"The only bewildering thing about Black Water is that it doesn't appear on any maps I've seen," said Athos. "So I suspect these villagers returned from the Americas unannounced and are simply hiding from the King's taxes. I have no patience for such impudent behaviour."

"All valid points," said Aramis. "But that doesn't explain how it appeared out of the fog."

Athos sighed. "Like d'Artagnan suggested earlier, the fog was probably too thick for us to have seen it."

A logical explanation, but Aramis couldn't stop himself from testing Athos' limits. "I would enjoy learning about life in the New World. The Jesuits tell astonishing tales of the Indians and their gods. Perhaps there is a thesis…"

"It will have to wait for another day," stated Athos, his voice brooking no argument.

Aramis hung his head. "If it must."

They continued past the church and cabins, and when they reached the painted pole at the entrance, they climbed onto their horses. Athos pulled in front. Aramis and the others fell in behind him, clearing the edge of town and joining the road toward Paris as the wall of fog once again closed in around them.

When they entered the forest, crisp air burrowed through Aramis' clothes down to his bones. He shivered and pulled his cloak from a saddlebag, but felt no relief after shrugging it over his shoulders.

With the silence mimicked by the sullen weather around them, Aramis fidgeted in his saddle. He listened for waves crashing against the rocky shore and birdsong in the trees, hearing nothing but the snicker of Porthos' horse behind him. And when he looked forward to check on d'Artagnan and Athos, he could barely see them.

D'Artagnan spoke his thoughts. "Are we sure we're going the right way?"

"We entered the village from the north and we left heading south," replied Athos. "This road leads back to Paris… I'm sure of it."

"You don't sound so convincing, my friend," said Aramis.

"Well, it certainly leads away from Black Water," replied Athos.

Porthos pointed ahead. "Are you sure of that?"

Aramis followed his friend's line of sight, his jaw dropping when through the fog he saw a tall pole with a bird carved into the top. "How can this be? We haven't travelled long enough to circle the village."

"Then it must be a different pole," said Athos. "Now keep up, I don't want us getting separated."

Aramis hitched his cloak higher and continued on. A few moments later he was staring slack-jawed at the village square of Black Water.

"How could we have possibly gotten lost?" asked d'Artagnan.

"We are not lost," stated Athos.

"Of course not," said Porthos. "We're in Black Water."

"Again," added d'Artagnan.

Aramis' eyes were drawn to Thunderbird's cabin when he felt the old man staring at them. He squirmed in his saddle, wondering what to make of the man's judicious interest in them.

"I must have missed a path," said Athos, circling his horse to face Aramis and the others. "We will be more diligent this time."

Aramis followed his friends past the mysterious pole and back into the fog. Not long later he was standing in Black Water's centre square with Porthos and d'Artagnan while Athos went in search of directions.

"Let's face it," said Porthos. "The fog's too thick. We're better off staying here until it goes."

"Especially with that cliff nearby," said d'Artagnan.

"Wouldn't be so bad spending the night here though," Porthos said, sniffing the air. "Smells like something good is cooking."

Aramis inhaled scents of tarragon and sage. "It does smell good."

He looked at Thunderbird, who continued to watch them closely. If the fog didn't let up, and Athos stopped leading them in circles, Aramis felt he might get that chance to speak with the mysterious man and learn about the village and its people. His grumbling stomach also reminded him that a hot meal would certainly dampen the inconvenience of being stuck in Black Water.

"Here comes Athos," said d'Artagnan.

Athos approached with long strides and mouth set in a grim line. "Everyone says the road south leads to Paris."

"And yet…" said d'Artagnan, glancing around the square. "We are here."

Aramis saw an opportunity and pounced. "I agree with Porthos, the fog is too thick. We should wait till morning or until the fog thins."

Athos braced his hands on his hips. "I hate to admit it, but I think you're right. Aramis, Porthos, find us a place to stay for the evening. As much as this village irritates me, I don't want to be out in the woods in this weather. D'Artagnan and I will find shelter for the horses."

After Athos and d'Artagnan left, Aramis turned to Porthos with a coy smile. "Perhaps Thunderbird knows of a place to stay?"

"And maybe that invitation to dinner still stands?" replied Porthos, patting his belly.

"Always thinking with your stomach, my friend."

"And you just want to speak with that man over there," Porthos said, indicating the cabin with a nod of his head. "Strange, I could have sworn he was just there."

"So we meet again," said a soft voice.

Aramis turned around to see Jeanette La Salle standing behind him. "A friendly face," he said, smiling. "We were looking for Thunderbird. Do you know where he is?"

"Out and about I'm afraid. He keeps a small cabin a lieu outside the village. It's hard to find if one doesn't know to look for it. Perhaps he has gone there."

"What's it for? Why's it out so far?" asked Porthos.

"No one knows. Visitors are forbidden. But perhaps I can be of help?"

A soft smile pulled her lips, and for a brief moment Aramis forgot the details of their unfavourable situation and indulged in her pleasant appearance. Locks of long, blonde hair fell from a messy bun onto her shoulders, reminding him of someone back in Paris. A delicate nose and long lashes accentuated her pretty features, compensating for the greyish pallor of her skin. When Aramis gazed at the colourful jewellery around her neck, he stepped closer to admire it. "That is an interesting piece," he said.

Jeanette ran her fingers along the necklace resting on her chest. "Feathers and porcupine quills. And the bear pendant is carved from oyster shell. It was a gift…" She glanced into the distance, furrowed her brow. "From someone… I don't remember his name. But I believe he stayed in Acadia."

"Is Acadia the name of the settlement you left?" asked Aramis.

"Yes."

"I would love to hear more about it," said Aramis.

Porthos cleared his throat. "We were wondering if there was a place to stay for the night?"

Aramis stepped back from Jeanette. "Yes, right, a place to stay."

"The inn is across the square," she said, pointing out a two-story building beyond the church.

Aramis smiled, tipped his hat in thanks, then proceeded with Porthos toward the inn. After the grim silence outside, he looked forward to cheering and the clinking glasses of a boisterous crowd. However, when they crossed the threshold, he saw that the only patron was a pasty looking gentleman standing behind a counter across the room.

The empty space felt strangely uncomfortable to Aramis. To his left, a long oak table dressed with porcelains and cutleries sat without patrons, and to his right several smaller tables were surrounded by chairs that should have been filled this time of day. And when he approached the innkeeper, the loud clomping of his boots on the plank floor accentuated the eerie silence of the room, sending chills running up and down his arms.

Aramis swallowed his unease and removed his hat. "Good day," he said, to the innkeeper. "My friends and I are looking for four beds."

"And something to eat," added Porthos.

The innkeeper produced two keys from inside his beaded leather vest then pointed to the staircase to his right. "I have rooms upstairs with two beds each. Thunderbird has arranged a feast this evening in your honour that will begin promptly at eight. I advise you be on time. Thunderbird is very strict on protocol, so we oblige him as much as we can."

"He must have been very confident we would stay," Aramis whispered to Porthos.

"Thunderbird is a sage man," stated the innkeeper.

Aramis scowled and snatched the keys. "Thank you… for the rooms."

Neither of them felt the need to inspect the rooms, and since Athos and d'Artagnan hadn't returned from stabling their horses, Aramis suggested they stroll through the village then look for the cabin Jeanette mentioned earlier.

"You mean the one Jeanette said was forbidden?" Porthos asked.

Aramis raised his brows. "That makes it all the more intriguing."

"And foolhardy."

"When has that ever stopped us before?"

Aramis knew he won the argument when Porthos lowered his head and grumbled in reluctant agreement.

When they entered the forest, thundering waves roared in the distance, while a blanket of fog wrapped around them once more. With Porthos close behind, Aramis wove through the trees, pushing aside branches, his feet tangling with overgrown roots until he spotted a path. They followed it a short distance, until the sounds of crashing waves grew loud in their ears, indicating the path led to the sea, not a cabin.

Aramis loved the sea; he felt both peace and vitality standing on the shores of its great expanse. When he gazed out over the never-ending vista of waves coming from places unknown, his troubles seemed small in comparison. So he continued onward with only minor regret at not finding the cabin, and a short while later they were standing at the edge of a cliff.

The cliff face sloped away beneath their feet, and through a thin veil of fog, they witnessed the sea smashing against the shore, a relentless force annihilating earth and rock. No wind prevailed, but the cold air nipped at their exposed skin like tiny daggers.

Porthos rubbed his arms. "Maybe we should head back. Athos and d'Artagnan are probably waitin' for us by now."

Aramis had no intention of turning back now, at least not until he got one good look at the ocean. "Where's your sense of adventure? Besides, the open sea is a marvellous sight. Athos and d'Artagnan can wait."

"I'm more of a land lover," retorted Porthos. "And, I don't wanna chance getting lost out here."

"We won't get lost."

"That's what Athos said."

To his right, Aramis located another path sloping down to a sandy portion of shore where the waves didn't reach. They took it slow and steady until they reached sea level where Aramis stood facing the great expanse, watching long lines of whitecaps rushing toward shore and breaking at the reef to go their separate ways. Taking a moment to relish his first fraction of peace since entering Black Water, Aramis drew in a long breath, savoured the salty air filling his lungs and marvelled at the contradiction of lazy white mist hovering over an angry sea.

"Ah, Aramis," called Porthos. "You should come look at this."

Aramis turned to his friend who was standing and pointing behind a rock further down the shoreline. Aramis approached, peered over the boulder then drew his head back and signed the cross. "My god."

Porthos lowered his head and sighed. "We just had to go explorin' didn't we?"

The body of a dead woman lay on the wet sand; pale skin and muscle stripped away by either the sea or scavengers to reveal greyish-white bones. Aramis knelt beside her, disturbing a cloud of feasting flies. The odour of vinegar and brine stung his throat; he covered his nose with his handkerchief and studied the rest of her body.

Long reddish-blonde hair clung to her head, splayed out like crooked sunbeams. In the small cavern of her hollow skull lay dead minnows tangled in seaweed. Aramis choked back bile, sent his gaze further down the cadaver where broken rib bones jutted through a tattered dress, their jagged peaks dangling seaweed and flotsam.

Colourful beads around her neck caught his eye and he carefully pulled out a necklace out from under the neckline of the dress.

His heart turned cold and heavy. "Beads and porcupine quills," he whispered. "And look… a bear carved from an oyster shell like the one Jeanette is wearing."

Porthos' mouth dropped open. He closed it quickly and stood. "Naw. It can't be hers. This body's been dead for… for forever. It's probably just a similar necklace."

Aramis noted the corpse's faded blue dress with a cant of his head. "Jeanette was wearing… is wearing this same dress."

"It can't be the same dress," Porthos said, shaking his head. "So don't go puttin' strange thoughts in my head."

Aramis stood. "Porthos. What is going on here? Could this be Jeanette La Salle?"

"It can't be her, we just saw her in the village. There's no way she got down here, died and decomposed that fast."

"But Porthos…"

Porthos pointed a finger at Aramis. "Aramis. Stop. There's no funny business going on here and you're startin' to frighten me. This is not Jeanette, and I'll prove it." He turned and headed toward the path that led back to Black Water, the fog swallowing him whole before Aramis ran to catch up.