Holly Berries

20th December 1872.

Dearest Diary,

If you’ve never been treated to sweet melodies of last night's supper splattering against a tin bath first thing on a Friday morning, don’t waste your sorrows on feeling left out - i can assure you that it’s not at all fun.

“Cordelia!” My father bellowed down the hall in a curious tone of ire and interest as he scrambled down the stairs faster than a fisher could throw out a line.

You see, me and my father have an awkward relationship; he sees me only as my late mother. We appear much the same i suppose, dark, tawny hair and sea glass eyes. With each day passing I grow more and more into her elegant image. Despite how intelligent he claims he is, through her veil he can barely see me, it’s like I'm just as much a ghost as she.

“What are you doing?”

Baffled and idle, I paused, remnants from yesterday littered about my locks in an abominable green bile - some big shot scientist he is if he can’t figure this one out.

“Well clearly i’ve just been sick,” I noted in my favourite pitchy voice “haven’t i?”

“Cordie, dear, could you not’ve picked another day? You know i’m going out later,” His feigned concern wasn’t really shining through on this one. “Are you well enough for school?”

I wasn’t. Not by a long ways. My stomach felt like it could implode at any moment, causing another tsunami to grace the dingy inbetweens of the wistful wooden floor. Cunningly, I pulled forth a whiney, pleading voice from the depths of my searing throat and begged him to let me stay home. Even going so far as to let out a distraught “please”. How could he say no to that? To me? It is almost Christmas after all! Begrudgingly, he obliged (an action he would most certainly come to regret) and made me promise to behave.

Despite my tongue lingering with the foul odor of throw up, upon leaving the backroom i plucked some berries from the banister just as i had yester evening. They were the colour of rubies and scarlet and, at least to me, much more valuable than such. Much better than bread for breakfast! They popped in my mouth with an intoxicating explosion of syrupy glee, a flavour that could only be contested by perhaps cherries or almonds. It’s such a shame father only buys them once a year.

Boring quickly of flitting about my bedroom in daydreams, I clambered back down the stairs to pester my father. I assaulted his battered study door with an unpleasant ensemble of knocking, gnawing and scratching. Futile protests came from within but it was easy enough to ignore them. I knew it was wrong, I would certainly not be in Father Christmas’ good book, but wasn’t it also wrong of my father to deny me the sight of his life's work. He badgers me on and on about schooling and such and how I should be grateful that I do not work under some tedious, tyrannical factory man but he has given me no reason not to. Perhaps if my curiosity was allowed to fester I needn’t spend so much time with my head in the clouds. It’s preposterously silly, selfish even, to preach about all the marvels the ocean holds, then snatch up every opportunity for me to look upon it myself.

Pondering amidst my rampage was definitely now top of the list of “what not to do when annoying father” as it allowed some of his grievances to seep through the crevices in the door.

“Enough Cordelia!” his stern and steely voice rattled the wood, “I’m on a very tight schedule today, I’m sure i’ve told you what is happening tomorrow. So leave me be!”

“What could be more important than me! I’m your daughter! Your single heir!”

His breath grew still on the other side of the door, “You know i didn’t mean it like that Cordie,” - he most definitely did- “The challenger sets sail tomorrow, perhaps the most important voyage in oceanography to date! I’ve a meeting with one of the primary researchers later.”

The man was drowning in his fascination with the water, so devoutly obsessed he’d name his child “daughter of the sea”. It was utterly aggravating that a couple of cod could mean more than i. Though i might understand if he’d grant me access to his office.

“Now go to your room dear, I'll let you know when it is I am meeting Sir George Nares.” He spoke softly now, it almost made me want to comply. Almost…

As soon as I heard him pull on his stuffy coat and cap, I knew his niche of slamming the front door a little too loudly was not far behind. He called upstairs and I told him goodbye, and sooner than it was said, my father ventured out into the bitter air of a winter’s afternoon. This, of course, is when I devised my scheme. I hopped merrily down the stairs, plucking crimson berries from their green embrace and found myself at the looming study door. I traced my dainty fingers across it’s details, the oak had been clobbered many times and still retained it’s finer attributes. Nothing like my bedroom door which had more holes than a fishnet, that was if it even met the requirements to be defined as a door. Goes to show where father’s priorities were.

Everything becomes easier with practise, so unlocking the door and turning the knob came with less effort than blinking. Pushing the door forward, I was bombarded by a wave of smells, salt trickled down my nose and dampness slithered across my tastebuds. But once I'd overcome the initial unpleasantness, I found myself unable to keep my mouth from gaping open in awe. Tarnished and dusty paper engulfed the room's walls in an all manner of forms. Notes, book pages, newspaper articles and paintings of magical words and creatures I could never have conceived of. There was no way a dogfish could be real! And living just nearby. A dog and a fish? Ridiculous! But I adored it. The silver eel too, the name sounded so ethereal and alien to me. How could a fish be made of silver and still be able to swim? I understand now why my father was so secretive, if I had a fantasy land right in my grasp I surely would want to keep it all to myself.

Across the desk, in cabinets, stood hoards of jars and sculptures of all things oceanic. A little wooden boat and a blue tentacled creature which I must admit frightened me a smidge. Glass casings of amber scaled little things. It was as if seeing the world for the first time.

Upon his writing table, laden with books and pens and then more books underneath it all, was a tin can of water. Unbeknownst to me was anything wrong with the water and I was rather thirsty, so I took a sip. Several sips. And before I knew it I had drunk the lot.

Entranced in my exploration, so deep into the lore of this arcane emporium of aquatic life, I failed to keep track of the time. Father opened the front door with his signature boom and spared no time in trailing back to his study. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, is where I was.

I spied his silhouette in the door frame, - though i could’ve smelt the low tide and oak from the dockyard a mile away- and scanned the four corners for a place to conceal myself, but alas, he’d seen me.

He was furious. And by that i don’t mean he shouted and raved - he did that too of course- but his eyes seemed to glow a bloodshot vermillion and i had no doubt that at any moment he could start spitting fire. Aghast, I fumbled back into the cabinet, the mock of the now rising moonlight laughing in my wake. A shatter came and then silence. Not even the world knew how to react to my plunder.

I had broken my father’s special cabinet and along with it, part of him.

It was a blur from then on. In a tide of howling and yelping, I was hauled up to my bedroom by the hair. Under lock and key with no supper.

The hours ticked by, my stomach felt like it was full of ants and part of me wished it was, then I might not be so unapologetically starving. The growls became so frequent and deafening that they almost seemed more like friendly whispers than a jeering digestive system. With my mouth overflowing with hunger, I tried the door handle again, still locked. calling out to father was of no use, even a petty whimper would not coerce him into trusting me again, at least not for tonight. Father Christmas was definitely not visiting this year. Perhaps i could simply catch one of those eels made of silver, con it off to some sorry soul and purchase my own gifts. Though that defeats the point. Father was obsessed with Christmas spirit, always lectured me using a book called “A Christmas Carol” by Chalres Dickens. Father claimed he knew the man’s family - poppycock. No celebrities would ever come from Portsmouth.

Distracting myself with delirious anecdotes did not aid in quelling my hunger, until I turned from the door that is. I caught sight of the same berries that had been spotting the staircase. They tasted better than I could've imagined. Pungent flavours of divine sweetness danced across my mouth. One. Two. Three. By the time I'd broken free from the clutches of my trance I'd consumed the whole wreathful.

Mournful, I slumped back over to my bed and crawled in gingerly, it was late anyway. The pesky demands of my stomach still yearned to be fulfilled and I could feel the same sickness brewing. Darting, I frantically searched the other windows, when a smell crept up my nose. I peered through the glass panes and opened them. I felt dizzy and unoriented gazing at the sea; I closed my eyes and took in a deep longing sniff at the air when the most peculiar thing happened.

Encased in blue, it appeared as though I was trapped in a labyrinth of sapphire. To which I quickly deduced was the ocean. The ocean? But I could breathe. I investigated my body, I had tentacles now! Vast, swirling, putrid tentacles with suction cups and teeth. I can assure you, Diary, that i have always been a 10 year old girl and not a sea monster.

I had little time to figure it all out, my best guess was that strange water I'd drunk, perhaps it was a malicious poison or potion. Hungry - no- starving - no- dying. I need to eat.

I tore a bass to ribbons and shredded up a starfish comically but it didn’t suffice. I could sense something delightfully delectable somewhere close - the berries. I closed my eyes once more and appeared in a familiar room still as the monster. It was my bedroom. Desire fueled my consciousness, there were no berries here, i knew, until it dawned on me. All I ate today were berries. Delicious, sugary berries. Berries I needed. Craved.

I slithered maniacally under my own bed, watching as I slept, mouth watering with joy at the meal I knew I was destined to receive.

21st December 1872,

Dearest Diary, I am sure I will die.

I woke up caked in my own guts and vomit. Sweaty and cold. I know there is a monster under my bed who wants to devour me. Father won’t come when I holler, no more when I scream from agony of scare and starvation. The monster will get me soon, I'm sure because we both know I'll taste nice. Like Holly berries do.