The Bucca's Bride

The woman sat sipping coffee in a Cornish cafe, as she gazed at the surging waters of the harbour, the rising sea washing away the litter left by the tourists, cleansing the scene of their filth, and lifting moored boats afloat. The fishermen and crabbers began appearing out of every pub, nook and alley, to stream towards their vessels, as if summoned by the tides to do their bidding. A gibbous moon arose as a searing red sunset burned across the sky, blazing in a vibrant halo around a lighthouse, on an island towards the horizon. The longer she stared, the more the lighthouse seemed to pulsate with an angry, blinding red light. She grimaced as a sudden pain shot through her head and thunder rumbled in the distance.

“I see a pale moon rising, I see trouble on the way...”

Started playing full blast, snapping her back into reality, as the waitress snatched the cold coffee she’d inadvertently been nursing for hours, from in front of her, and aggressively began wiping the table. The waitress said “That’s Godrevy, the lighthouse you’re lookin’ at, now if you don’t mind, we were supposed to close an hour ago.”

Martha had fled to this place in a last effort to finally feel safe and start again. It is rumoured that the mad all board trains to Penzance, fleeing to the last stop on the line. And so, she had followed suit. Time to board the train to loony town, ‘Toot-toot.’ Exhausted she stumbled out of the station with her bags, and headed to the taxi rank, she started towards the nearest cab, when another driver leapt out of his car and yelled with a thick Cornish accent “Yeh don’t wanna ride with ‘im, his prices are extortion-uh’. I’ll take you wherever yeh wan’ fer a fiver!” She turned and said, “Where’s the nearest hotel?” With a grin and a glint in his eye, he tapped the side of his nose and said, “Don’t you worry me lover, I know jus’ the place” Too tired to argue she slid into the back of his cab and immediately nodded off. She awoke when the taxi slammed to a halt, the driver helped her with her bags and ushered her up the stairs and into a hotel room, yelling over his shoulder to the confused owner, “I’ve found us a special guest Gwennie, be sure to treat her the righ’ way.” The instant the driver left, Martha hurled herself backwards onto the bed. But then heard ‘Knock, knock, knock.’

“Evenin’ me lovely, jus’ Gwen ‘ere, I’ve brought you some tea to help you sleep.” Martha groaned. She unlocked the door and a teacup was thrust into her hands. Gwen stood gazing at her and gesturing for her to drink. Martha took a sip then smiled awkwardly at Gwen through gritted teeth. It was the most bitter tea she had ever tasted, with an awful gravelly residue, and a bilious aftertaste, but nonetheless she said, “Delicious. Thank you.” And with that she was finally left alone to gather her thoughts and rest at long last. 

When she awoke and began exploring the town, she realised that the cabbie had brought her out of Penzance all of the way to St Ives, an odd decision on his part, but not an unpleasant surprise. The old fishing village architecture, cobblestone streets, and vibrant blue waters, were quite beautiful to behold. She let out a sigh of relief; this was just what she needed. She grabbed a pasty and a cider and sat gazing across the harbour. She noticed an odd habit amongst the customers, tourists simply ate the entire pasty (unless the gulls stole it), but each local without fail would throw their last bite into the water, like an offering.

Gwen, the hotel owner, insisted that they were more than happy for her to stay at the hotel for as long as she needed, meals included, no need to worry about paying until she was able. Everything she consumed there tasted odd, bitter, too salty, but it was free, and as her father used to say, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Her room was on the ground floor beside the hotel bar. It seemed clean, cozy, and quiet, apart from the evening shanties, but these always ended at a reasonable hour.

For the first few evenings she slept soundly but then a distant rumbling started shaking her awake each night. She asked Gwen about it, and she replied with a laugh “It’s probably ‘em Tommy Knockers again! Don’t you worry yerself with tha’, likely jus’ the old plumbin’ creakin’ the floorboards.” Martha thought to herself, what the hell are Tommyknockers? But took it to be slang of some kind and ignored it. Whilst reading in her room later that evening, the hotel bar rocking with the sound of folk songs, she once again heard mention of the illusive ‘Tommy Knockers’, so went to listen.

“Oh Bucca Whidn’s gone Bucca Dhu

Churnin’ calm waters to a frothin’ stew.

The sun has gone dark, the sky has turned black,

Buccas righ’ angry with no more offerins from Cousin Jack.

The storm he’s a’summonin’ will wipe us all out,

Unless we fetch ‘im an offerin’ finer than trout.

Buccas got needs like any man do,

Best fetch him a woman before the Tommy Knockers do.”

As she creaked the bar door open, the singing abruptly stopped. The patrons all stared at her in silence before turning back to their beers and ciders with a low muttering. She ordered a half of ‘Tribute’ and sat awkwardly at the bar, in hopes of the singing continuing, but to no avail.

To recuperate from her past woes, she swam in the sea daily, and had found first one seal then another, and another, accompanying her in growing numbers each day. Such curious animals. She would often see a dark figure swimming beneath or alongside her, but when a seal head popped up nearby, her worry passed. One day mid-swim, she was wrenched backwards by what felt like seaweed entangling her leg, she reached down to free herself. Pain seared through her hand as she was bitten. It was rare for seals to nip people in this way. And when she got back to shore the teeth marks left upon her hand seemed disturbingly human...

That night’s shanty once again caught her attention; she opened her bedroom door to listen from her room:

“Oh row, oh row, oh row, oh row,

afore Bucca Dhu takes yer soul.

Loomin' dark down in the depths,

He’ll pull yeh down till yer final breaths.

Throw ‘im kipper and hurl him crab,

Or in fury he’ll rise and yer skipper he’ll grab.

Oh row, oh row, oh row, oh row,

Afore Bucca Dhu takes yer soul.

Treat ‘im well and his blessings ye’ll have,

But refuse him his gifts and he’ll cleave yee in half.

Oh row, oh row, oh row, oh row,

Afore Bucca Dhu takes yer soul.”

After the last orders bell had been rung and the regulars had begrudgingly filed out from the bar, Martha tried to sleep. But the rumbling awoke her once more, it reverberated all around her, seeming closer now, she got out of bed and put her ear to the floor, individual knocking and tapping sounds were discernible, as of tiny pickaxes. She asked to switch rooms the next morning, but Gwen insisted that it was impossible because all of the other rooms were taken, despite the fact that Martha had never heard nor glimpsed another guest.

The weather was becoming increasingly stormy, and with a turn of the winds or sea currents, suddenly hundreds of dead crabs and fish were washing up on the shore. Upon an evening walk she witnessed what she at first thought were local people cleaning up the carcasses. But then realised, that they were in fact carefully laying down freshly caught fish and crabs in a row upon the shoreline. She walked over to investigate, and over the winds, heard an elderly lady crying out upon her knees, her eyes closed, and hands clasped in prayer against her forehead.

“Oh, great one,

Oh, storm bringer,

Oh man of the sea,

I will thee to take this offerin’ from me!

May great Bucca forgive us,

And shine white this night,

May the dark one relent,

And free us from blight.”

The lady then drew strange symbols with her fingers in the sand, and kissed the crab she had left in offering, just as dozens of other old locals were doing all along the beach. They proceeded to form a line and head to the church. Martha tried to follow but the church doors had been barred shut. And she could not make out the words of the chanting within.

With little else for entertainment locally, she found herself once again sitting in the hotel bar. She asked Gwen about the odd ‘ritual’ she had witnessed, and Gwen merely replied “Jus’ some superstitious habits the older folk here ‘av. ‘Ere try some of my scrumpy. Freshly brewed. I made it myself.” It smelt like wet dog and did not taste much better, but Martha felt it too rude to refuse. A man in an old-fashioned looking fisherman’s coat, his face shaded by his hood, sat silently in a booth in the corner. She could’ve sworn he wasn’t there when she had entered. He had been staring at her intently for some time. When she inadvertently made eye contact, he began to sing:

“Oh, fair maiden come with me,

Such miraculous sights await you ‘neath the sea”

She turned away in embarrassment; he then rose and rushed up behind her. Leaning over her shoulder and grasping it tight as a vice, his face pressed close to her cheek, his breath laced with the salty stench of seaweed, he aggressively whispered:

“Time’s a tick-tockin’,

My Tommys will come a’ knockin’,

No use for door lockin’,

They’ll bring ye to me.”

She glimpsed shrivelled, brown skin, a crab pincer of a hand, and felt the brush of slimy fronds. He sharply released his grasp before marching off out of the door. Through the window she watched him storming down the street, down the stone steps towards the sea, before disappearing into the fog. A fury of torrential rain began to lash against the glass.

With a window rattling crack of thunder, she jolted awake, head so heavy with hangover that she could not remember the rest of the evening nor making it to bed. She brushed the encounter off as a scrumpy induced nightmare. Although her shoulder was mysteriously sore, and whilst walking the seafront the next morning, she noticed an unnervingly similar coat to that the stranger in her dream had worn, washed up onto the shore.

The streets were livelier than usual, the church bells had rung, and as the sun had set, a procession had begun. A group dressed in fish-like costumes with shining silver, blue and green scales, were dancing and singing down the cobbled streets from pub to pub throughout the town. Ignoring the torrents of rain and hurricane force winds. Led by a hake holding a tiny replica of Godrevy lighthouse atop a stick. Some costumes represented crabs, others jellyfish or pilchards. Two tall figures with skeletal, deer-like heads were lurching at the crowd. Martha approached and yelled to the man next to her, “What is going on?” He laughed, as rain poured down his face, and said “It’s Feast Day. Those are the Scaleybacks drinkin’ their due. Watch out for the Osses!” A skeletal headed ‘oss’ swung over her, capturing her beneath their cloak, and force fed her a throat-burning shot of what she presumed was alcohol, but whose bitter taste she could not place. It had an immediate and potent effect. She found herself swung around in a wild dance from Scaleyback to Scaleyback, a swirling of fins, tentacles, and claws grasping at her. Their monstrous faces leering in and out of focus. Seeming much realer than they had before.

“We’re the Scaleys, and we’re all in disguise,

We’re the Scaleys, now run for yer lives!

We’re the Scaleys and we come from the sea with fish in our hand.

Yes, we come from the sea and march on the land.

We're the Scaleys and we offer ye our hand,

Now we’ve come here for thee, so join our merry band!”

Once finally swung free she groggily made her way back to the hotel, collapsing into her bed. This time she was awakened so violently by the rumbling and knocking beneath her room, that she was shaken out of her bed onto the floor, which with an almighty cracking and groaning, abruptly collapsed beneath her. She fell several feet down into a shaft. Too deep for her to get back out unaided.

She was about to shout for help, when in the shadows she saw a scurrying of earthen coloured, little, wrinkly, man-like creatures in old mining attire, with picks and hammers. In shock she shouted, “Holy fuck!” And as if enraged by her cursing, a horde of them erupted from the soil, chattering and growling angrily all around her, and the shaft began to cave in. She dived forwards to avoid being crushed and found herself now trapped in utter darkness, frightened to move or cry out, in fear of giving away her location to these tiny devils. She remained as motionless as she could, it seemed like an eternity had passed, with only the sound of her trying to stifle her own breathing, when a far away, quiet tapping started, and a dim light appeared in the distance.

With little other choice than to head towards the light, she ventured to move a questing hand out around her, finding herself in a very low tunnel. Slowly she started to crawl forwards. Immediately there was a scurrying commotion and lots of whispers. A sharp pick strike from behind, grasping nails from tiny hands, and biting teeth, with a rising hum of enraged voices and snarling, sent her frantically scrabbling forwards along the tunnel. She felt side tunnels and potential turns she could take, away from the light, but the resultant punishing fury of scratches, jabs, and bites, or flurry of pick induced cave-ins ahead, repeatedly forced her back on course.

All of a sudden, the light ahead winked out, there was a cascade of high-pitched laughter on all sides, as the breath was struck from her lungs, when without warning she fell through to a lower chamber, slamming into the ground. She coughed loudly, choking on the dust, trying to breathe again in the darkness, when out of nowhere a blazing light blinded her. Squinting, the source slowly came into focus, an old lantern held by one of the creatures, who proceeded to swing his pick towards her eyes, as if he were going to poke them out, before deciding to instead cut a gash in her temple, laughing gleefully, he then ran off down the new tunnel.

She lost all concept of time crawling forever in that endless darkness, pain, and terror. Herded along by the creatures. Utterly at their mercy. Finally, the tunnel reached an opening to the surface, the source of an even stronger light. And she heard a familiar voice say:

“Well done me Tommy Knockers. You’ve served me well this night.”

She gazed up at the glow of Godrevy lighthouse towering above her, lit as of old, and as she did so, a large claw cracked down upon her head and as blood flooded her vision, Godrevy’s light appeared red.

There were reports of screaming heard coming from Godrevy and people swore that they had seen the main lighthouse lit but the authorities put that down to superstitious locals mishearing and seeing things due to the storms. An abnormally large assemblage of seals had hauled out on Godrevy Island, and hundreds of seabirds were also seen circling it. The following week the storms had passed, it became unusually clement winter weather, and it was noted that the fishermen were bringing in more catch than they had in decades. The only unusual event that finally drew the authorities attentions, was when a woman’s skin and hair washed up upon the beach, there were no obvious signs of severance involved, it was as if it had been shed.