Sirens and Scales

by Kellie McAllen

  Untying the ribbon, I drew the slate closer for inspection. I ran my fingers over the creamy surface, finding it waxen in texture, and the message seemed to have been etched into the wax using some sharp tool that injected ink as it went.

  Probably more octopus ink, I mused–though seeing as it was black as night, it would have come from a regular octopus, or squid, or cuttlefish, or what-have-you.

  But enough marveling over the tools of the trade employed down here under the ocean. There was a message to be read.

  Join us for a night of enchantment and mystique at the Atlantean Circus! Though written in cryptic cursive that I might almost determine was foreign outright except for the fact that I could, in fact, read it, I stumbled through the first sentence. An intrigued smile quirked my lips. A circus? How marvelous! Watch out your window when the aurora fades to a dim blue. Join the gathering merfolk and follow them to the drop-off. I will be unable to join the audience due to my obligation that places me squarely in a certain garish throne atop the pedestal of honor, but watch for my salute and know it is for you, welcoming you to the festivities that I shall pretend are in your honor, as well they should be.

  It was signed: Codexious.

  My intrigued smile turned just the slightest bit smitten. What a charmer.

  Snapping out of it, I glanced toward the stained-glass window across my tower, which had the best view of the aurora. Was it blue? Then I realized the different-hued panels of the window created colored lenses that made it impossible to tell, and I peered out my open window to gauge the shade of the wayward ripples that danced in the city streets instead.

  Still aqua.

  Now the swordfish had drifted into my room and was poking about, inspecting everything. I wondered how I might go about sending a return message, but I didn’t have the customary pen tool, and how did one direct the swordfish messenger where she wanted him to go?

  But I was not too disappointed ruling it out as an option, because I had ulterior motives regarding the wax slate. Had I not just been pining after some sort of tool to record my archaeological findings? I jumped on the chance to stash the slate, looking around for some place to keep it. There were none of the customary hovels in which to stash things–no chests, no drawers, no closets. But there were cracks and crevices in the stones of the wall, and one of those would do nicely for now.

  I stowed the slate and played with the swordfish for a bit, and then he wandered back out and went about his business, and I was left to wait for that magical moment when the aurora would change color. Was it a natural occurrence, this changing of colors? Or was there some sort of switch or projection that could be activated at will, such as when the circus had arrived in town?

  I was still mulling over outlandish theories when the phenomenon itself took place. The green hues of light dimmed suddenly to a deep, mystic blue, bathing the city in midnight allure. Rising from my thumb-twiddling sprawl on the tower floor, I propelled myself to the window to see if the gathering had started. Sure enough, finned forms were spilling out of the woodwork and rallying in the main avenue, and beginning a fluid parade down the street.

  I punted myself out through my portal to catch up, because even though they weren’t exactly hightailing it out of the city (no pun intended), their fins allowed them to move with a certain ease that I lacked, and knowing I would tire at a snail’s pace far before they would, I had no great desire to get left behind and find myself lost between here and the ‘drop off’ while everyone else had fun at the circus. Better to get a head start.

  At first I sort of stuck to the edges and darted from building to building, alley to alley, staying out of the main crush lest I draw attention as the misfit. But then a skinny, yellow-tailed, dreadlocked young merman noticed my elusive progression and called out to me.

  “Ay! Amphibian! Need directions?”

  Great, there was another hybrid label. But he waved me over with a wide, friendly sweep of his lean arm, jutting his chin in greeting, and given that I could really use a friend, I decided to give him a chance.

  I wriggled over to join him, and he flashed a beaming grin. His eyes, though, looked a little glazed, and the charcoal makeup framing his blonde-webbed lashes had a bit of a smeared, slept-in look. In pretty much every way, he reminded me of some beach hippie, maybe a rock star, that was likely high as a kite but as a result super laid-back and neighborly to all. Well, I supposed it was a start. Any ally at this point was a welcome step in the right direction.

  “Hey,” I offered, falling into ‘step’ beside him.

  “Hey yourself. I’m Dogga.”

  “Sayler.”

  “Sweet nom de plume.” Apparently he’d spent some time in French waters. “Joining us for the execution?”

  My mind blanched. “What?”

  He laughed. “I’m just inking with you. Never fear; we’re en route to the circus.”

  Relief tingled through me. I should have realized he was joking, but, well, it was an entirely new culture. For all I knew they did hold public executions, and they were all the rage. It just wouldn’t have been likely that Codexious would invite me to one and call it the circus, and a night of ‘enchantment and mystique’. Unless he was a certain kind of depraved behind those pretty, seductive silver lashes, which could always be the case. I’d known him all of five minutes.

  I gave a weak laugh. “You had me there for a second.”

  “I’m almost never serious,” Dogga informed me, winking.

  Good to know. Then the other thing he had said registered, now that the bit about the execution had been sorted out. He was just ‘inking’ with me? The way he said it sounded like ‘messing’, in the human world. And that would make sense as the underwater equivalent, I supposed, because when a cephalopod ‘inked’ you, it was essentially messing with your senses. Huh. I’d learned my first bit of Atlantean slang.

  Also good to know.

  “Good to meet you, Dogga who’s almost never serious.”

  “And you, Phibby.”

  “It’s Say–” I started to correct him, then realized ‘Phibby’ must be an abbreviation of ‘amphibian’. “Oh.”

  “You don’t mind if I call you Phibby, do you?”

  “It’s–sure, that’s fine,” I stammered, not sure how else to respond. “If I can call you ‘Puppy’.”

  His grin widened, verifying he got the joke. “Like a baby ‘dog’. I see what you did there, landlubber.”

  “Well, is it going to be ‘Phibby’ or ‘landlubber’?”

  “Perhaps Lubbie.”

  I almost groaned, then caught myself as I realized how easy the banter came with Dogga. I’d dismissed him as any lasting acquaintance due to his seedy, inebriated vibe, but maybe we’d be fast friends after all. It never hurt to have a contact with a loose tongue who would pretty much tell you anything you wanted to know, either. He would probably readily spout a monologue about any manner of lore I was interested in. If anything, he’d be happy to volunteer too much information.

  “Of the two, I’d answer to ‘Phibby’ before ‘Lubbie’,” I clued him in, and he nodded in finality.

  “Phibby it is! Well, Phib, you’re in for a treat. The Atlantean circus is a thing to behold.”

  “Can’t wait,” I gushed, meaning it. As if enough curiosities weren’t clamoring for awe all around me, I could only imagine what exhibits would capture my senses at the circus. It was highly likely my mind was about to be blown entirely.

  “It’s a short swim, but you should make it,” Dogga said. “If you get tired, just grab a hold of my fin; we’ll make a fish train.”

  I almost snorted. There I went again, getting along with the hippie mermaid like we were old friends. I felt suddenly disloyal to Axel and Tara, like it had been that easy to replace them.

  Pushing the stab of guilt away, I focused on the here and now, refusing to let the cares of the ‘real world’ permeate the underwater spell of enchantment that had me in its grasp. There were fantasies to relis
h in; I intended to milk them for all they were worth, experience the magic to its fullest, before entertaining any pesky notions of returning to the ‘real world’ in any shape or form.

  I’d been granted an unthinkable ticket into the heart of a legend. It was my duty to accrue a thorough account of everything I could possibly procure before even thinking of relinquishing the opportunity.

  That could take years.

  With that resolute excuse, I pushed all thoughts of my life on land to the farthest corners of my mind.

  The Atlantean circus was a thing to behold. We descended into a rather foreboding drop-off and crowded into a dark amphitheater, and soon Angler Fish drifted in and executed a firefly-like dance, then retreated to the edges to light the stage for the show. I bobbed in my seat, curiosity brimming at what wonders were about to take place.

  The first exhibit, it seemed, was Codexious’ arrival. Dogga elbowed me in the ribs and pointed to the side of the arena where the regent swam into the stadium accompanied by Inaja–of course–as well as three other ‘bodyguard’ type figures. All of them wore streamers tied to their fins for show and tritons wielded in their hands likely not for show, and as the audience roared with allegiance, the royal company ascended to a pedestal of throne-like seats that hovered above the regular terrace across from my side of the amphitheater.

  I was a little mortified as my heart beat faster with anticipation, and I caught myself watching Codexious’ every move for the ‘salute’ mentioned in his invitation.

  Seriously? Did I really expect him to follow through with that?

  Well, he’d said it. And yes, I expected men to follow through with whatever they said. To hope for it was another matter. I mean, I wasn’t holding my breath over the promised gesture. I was just…well, I didn’t want to miss it if he did do it. That would be rude of me after he said to watch for it. He was trying to welcome me, after all. It was the only decent thing to do to–

  And there it was. Having taken his seat, Codexious gave the audience a swift scan, singled me out in mere seconds–dang, was his vision really that sharp?–and touched his fingers to his temple before extending his arm in the salute he had promised. The audience cheered, thinking it was for everyone.

  A grin played with my lips as a few butterflies danced through my body.

  And then the circus began.

  First there were the seahorse chariot races. Seahorses were snapping, competitive things–contrary to my erstwhile preconceived notions that placed them somewhere between the sloth and slug spectrum–and groups of six faced off harnessed to humongous conch-shell chariots. Hair shaven for aerodynamic advantage, the mer-drivers clawed at multiple pairs of seaweed reins, holding back the anxious teams of horses until the great shell-horn was blown, and then they were off in a violent rush of bubbles, fins flapping and flailing in their wake.

  After that were the trick dolphins, swooping and swirling and darting through hoops. They danced in complex patterns, performed tandem tricks, rushed around and around in the same direction until an impressive whirlpool typhooned in the arena.

  Then there was the octopus tamer, a dark-finned mermaid decorated with black symbols and smudges, who danced between the aggressively lashing tentacles of the giant octopus until he spurted ink in agitation, but each squirt followed her motions in such a way that it painted a marvelous picture in the water around them, the audience oo-ing and ahh-ing at the artistic inkworks. The mural hovered in the water for an impressive amount of time, beginning to warp and run after the duo had taken their bow.

  Once the ink had sagged and dissipated and seeped away from the spotlight, the last number commenced. It was the humorously adorable show of a mermaid magician and her assistant crab, the latter of which crawled all over her and handed her props and popped up in unexpected places with major voila charisma, and in general captured the laughter and hearts of the audience from start to finish.

  The last trick of the duo’s number was a bit of intrigue involving a puffer fish, in which the magician flourished the palm of her hand as a perch for the spotted little fish, and when she leaned in to peck him affectionately with her lips, he exploded not only into full-blown puffer fish mode, but ballooned to fill the entire stadium. The audience gasped, leaning back as the hot-air-balloon sized creature loomed a little too close for comfort with his elongated spines. And then, that trusty little crab sidekick hopped down and scurried across the sea floor, and reached up with a gleam of terrible mischief in his eye, and clamped the taut fish-skin balloon with his pinchers.

  The giant puffer fish popped, exploding into a million pieces of iridescent confetti, which rained down into the audience and filled the amphitheater with festive luster.

  I ran a few pieces through my fingers, marveling at their rose-petal-like texture.

  Dogga was elbowing me again, mirth dancing through his eyes. “Heh? So what did the amphibian think of her first underwater circus? Not too shabby, right? Right?”

  I couldn’t help it; his mirth was contagious. “Not too shabby at all.”

  We filed out of the stadium and headed back toward the city, Dogga twirling circles like a wonderstruck child. “What was your favorite?”

  The octopus exhibit immediately came to mind. It was safe to say I was developing a small obsession with the creatures. “That bit of live art with the octopus was fascinating. Though I do hope it wasn’t all based on agitating him.”

  Dogga shook his head. “They train them to ink on command. Cookies, or some such motivation.”

  “Oh good.” That was a relief. Otherwise I was about to go on an escapade freeing all the circus creatures as well.

  “You sound especially concerned.”

  “Oh, I ran into some…juvenile mermaids tormenting a watercolor octopus. They seemed to be trying to extract the ink into shell pipes so they could smoke it.”

  “Ah,” Dogga nodded in disapproval. “Yes. Inking. Watercolor ink is a popular euphoric among the youth.” There was that term again–inking. Apparently, it was slang for more than one thing. “They cover their gills with eel skin, gills being the most susceptible catalyst to the effects of the ink, and any wayward ink slides off the eel skin like oil on water. If they are able to successfully extract any ink, they fill the chamber of a Pearl Crab shell, the size of which offers the perfect non-debilitating dose of the substance for their enjoyment.”

  “Aren’t they unable to breathe, covering their gills?”

  “Mermaids can hold their breath for quite some time.”

  “But then…they were smoking the stuff through their mouths, as if they have lungs.”

  Dogga shook his head. “They can ingest ink through their mouths same as they can ingest any liquid through their mouths. Same as you can.”

  “They swallow it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I also saw her exhale it.”

  Inclining his head this time, Dogga searched for the right words to explain the process. It occurred to me then he seemed to have a rather intimate knowledge of the process–and hadn’t I suspected he was high on some substance?–but given his amiable comment about training the circus octopus with cookies, and his evident disapproval when I mentioned the teenagers inking, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Mermaids have a slightly different process of consumption than humans. We are designed to swallow fish whole, separate the good from the bad in our stomachs, and spit the bones back out. It’s more of an in-out process, if you will, than perhaps what you are used to.”

  I blinked. “You regurgitate your food.” That was basically what he was saying.

  Dogga laughed. “Most would prefer to liken it to the tide going in and out, I think.”

  Of course they would. “So…they don’t ingest the ink through their gills, then?”

  “They could. It would be the more potent way to metabolize the drug, certainly. But the aforementioned measures are used as precautions to ensure they don’t end up blitzed out of their minds with a pre
dator lurking nearby.”

  I grunted. “And a provoked one at that.”

  “I am not condoning the practice, in any shape or form. Just illustrating it’s a bunch of ill-advised fun, not usually some dark game of courting death.”

  I hmphed. “Well I was quite offended by their lack of compassion toward Mr. Octopus’s comfort.”

  “I am sorry you had to see that. They should be ashamed of themselves, tormenting any living creature. We are all woven from the same abyss. To hurt another hurts ourselves. Those who turn cold toward others make the ocean a colder place. Harmony and tranquility, I always say. The ocean was meant to be tranquil.”

  Yep, he was a definite hippie. Peace, dude–and all that sort of thing.

  “But, not to worry–the creatures in the Atlantean circus are rewarded most kindly,” Dogga assured me. “I highly doubt, given the option, that they would wander back out into the open sea.”

  “Good to know–and in that case, I enjoyed myself immensely.”

  “Spot on. Hey, it was nice to make your acquaintance, Phibby. You’re not half bad for a landlubber.”

  “And you, not too disagreeable for a sea dog.” The city was swallowing us back into its ruinous jurisdiction, and it was time to part ways.

  “Be seeing you, I hope?”

  “Unless they kick me out, I don’t think there’s anything that could convince me to leave. Not for some time.”

  “Spot on. Let’s ride some waves sometime!”

  I chuckled. “Sure thing, Dogga. We’ll ride some waves.”

  He gave me his own little salute and flourished away in a rush of bubbles, and I shook my head a little ironically in his wake. You ended up with the most unlikely friends, sometimes. But I did feel slightly more at home as I returned to my turret and settled in, exhaustion catching up with me as I was able to let my guard down just a little.