The Merman's Mark

by Tara Omar

  “That was a dirty shot, Raphael,” said David, wiping his forehead. He and Raphael stood bare-chested in a windowless cement-block room that was covered in tiny beams of light, each holding an elegantly curved racket. A long, glass wall separated them from Imaan; through it she could see Raphael’s markings were not only at his wrist but up both arms, the back of his neck and also around the naval. She shrunk back into the shadows near the door, watching them through the glass.

  “You must learn to return them all,” said Raphael. He adjusted the sweatband that circled his upper arm as David ran to retrieve the rubbery ball that bounced in the corner.

  “Didn’t you say trick shots are only legal after the fourth volley?” asked David.

  “Oops,” said Raphael, shrugging. “Again.”

  He took the ball from David and nodded toward what looked like a glittering disco ball in the centre of the court. The disco ball turned several centimetres, sending beams of light in different directions. He threw the ball up and launched himself into the air, kicking his feet behind him as he slammed the ball with his racket. The ball sparked as it hit one of the beams of light, cracking like the sound of a whip. David ran and lunged, narrowly returning the ball with the tip of his racket; it bounced flatly off the wall, missing the beams. Raphael lunged and returned the ball with another spark. Imaan followed the scoreboard, which ran like a caption above their heads.

  Master of Larimar to light beam one, plus fifty

  Minion hits wall, plus zero

  Master of Larimar to light beam one, plus fifty

  Minion to light beam seven, plus five

  Master to wall, plus zero. Readying a trick shot?

  Minion to light beam two, plus thirty. AND…

  Raphael ran toward the side wall and threw himself into the air, twisting his body into centre splits as he slammed the ball with the centre of his racket. It bounced off the wall with a shower of sparks; David launched himself toward it and missed, falling flat on the wooden court. Raphael landed lightly on one knee, offering a slight bow toward the empty seats in the spectator’s area.

  “Is that really necessary?” asked David, glaring at him.

  “Yes, it is. Points are awarded for form also, not just for throwing off your opponent and hitting light beams. It is part of the game.” He adjusted his sweatband again, “Unless you’d prefer to play like a monkey.”

  David threw him the ball and they started another round very similar to the last. As Imaan watched, she noticed from the corner of her eye a tiny green blur following David back and forth like a shadow. She moved nearer.

  “What in Aeroth?” she whispered.

  A cobalt-winged parakeet with tiny earmuffs was running back and forth near the glass, in perfect timing with David’s movement. As David crossed in front of her, the bird hopped near Imaan’s skirt, looking for a way past. It let out a loud, shrilly chirp. David turned.

  “Kiwi? OUCH.” The ball slammed into the back of David’s head, sending off sparks as it hit him. He spun around.

  “I did warn you about distractions,” said Raphael, tapping his racket against his hand. David glared at him.

  “Lady, we did not expect you until the morning,” said David, rubbing his head. “We were just playing a friendly game of squelsh, a merish racket sport.”

  “I see,” said Imaan. “Please, continue.”

  “No, it’s fine,” said Raphael, unhooking the glass door in the middle of the wall. “It will take longer than the time we have to correct his form. He will have to go as is.”

  David followed him off the court.

  “And how do you find the game, David?” asked Imaan.

  “Enjoyable enough, Lady,” said David, filling two glasses with water from a nearby sink. “A bit challenging with the location of the light beams changing every serve, and the form of course.”

  “Well, I can see it must be daunting, playing against the ‘Master of Larimar,’” said Imaan.

  “Yes, it is,” said David. He handed the other glass to Raphael before drinking his own.

  “You look… different,” said Imaan, watching him. David rubbed his naked abdomen.

  “All part of becoming a mer, I’m told,” said David.

  Imaan nodded, looking to her feet.

  “Is that bird wearing earmuffs?” she asked.

  “We made it for Kiwi to help him handle Mozart’s singing. Now he won’t take them off,” said David, chuckling.

  “He follows David everywhere,” said Raphael.

  “Are you ready to go?” asked Imaan.

  “Yes, I guess so,” said David, finishing his glass. “Please excuse me. I’ll just shower quickly and collect my things.” He jogged out the door with Kiwi hopping close behind.

  “Are you still set on your plans?” asked Raphael, staring after him.

  “Everything is in order.”

  “You are not a murderess, Imaan,” he said.

  “Leave it. In any event, my part in the plot is through at present. It all rests with David and Avinoam now.”

  She took Raphael’s glass from him.

  “Oh, and I thought I should tell you, the King is getting married,” said Imaan, drinking.

  “Really? To whom?”

  “Liza.”

  Raphael’s eyes widened.

  “Your assistant?”

  “Yes,” said Imaan, taking another gulp.

  “Is she not supposed to succeed you?”

  “She has abdicated.”

  “That is very strange. Your letters were always filled with the utmost enthusiasm for her virtues. She seemed quite committed.”

  “I was misled.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “At least there is still a glimmer of hope on my horizon. I thank Avi for that,” said Imaan, handing the glass back. “Tell David I’ll be waiting in the pteroduck.”

  Raphael nodded.

  Imaan and Raphael left the squelsh courts and made their way to the cottage through the hidden staircase above the map room. Not long after, David joined Raphael, who waited for him. He nestled Kiwi to his chest as they headed up the staircase and toward the bridge.

  “Now you must remember your training. Where are you from?” asked Raphael.

  “I’m a mer from Scuttlebrook,” said David.

  “Occupation?”

  “Domestic.”

  “Do you have the map of Larimar?”

  “Yes.”

  Raphael reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small packet of bandages, placing one on David’s neck over the merman’s mark. It melted into his skin like an invisible cover.

  “Here, take these to cover your neck. Ibex is everywhere. Your only advantage is that to our knowledge, no one is expecting you, so they will not be looking for you. Do not give them a reason to do so.”

  David nodded.

  “If you’re ever in doubt, play stupid. They won’t expect much from someone from Scuttlebrook,” said Raphael.

  “Stupid as in reckless?” asked David.

  “Stupid as in unintelligent,” said Raphael. “Remember to study the information you must give the guards should they run an in-depth background check. Hopefully it won’t come to that; if it does you must leave immediately,” said Raphael, touching his arm. “May the stealth of Silence be with you.”

  “Thank you, Raphael, for everything. I know this wasn’t easy for you,” said David. He handed the parakeet over to Raphael. Kiwi squirmed and chirped, dislodging his earmuffs.

  “Don’t worry, little guy, I’ll be back,” said David. He stroked his finger down Kiwi’s back, fighting back a tear.

  “He’ll be waiting for you,” said Raphael.

  David wiped his eyes.

  “Well, goodbye,” said David.

  He turned in the direction of the pteroduck
when he felt a hard yank on his arm, pulling him back. David fell backward.

  “In the next few weeks you are going to hear many things, some of which may disturb you,” said Raphael, speaking into David’s ear. “You must decide the truth as you will, but remember—everything I have done or told you has been to try to make things easier for you. As you are a mer now, I feel I should tell you—mers do not kill.”

  “What?” asked David, pulling away.

  “Mers do not kill. They cannot. Remember it.”

  David spun around, but Raphael had already plunged through the bridge’s trap door, offering a quick sign of goodbye as he fell through the spraying water.

  C H A P T E R 2 2

  Imaan sat in the velvety pilot’s seat of the S-5 Phantom pteroduck, flipping through an open Rosy Herald on her lap. She tucked her feet under her as she scanned its glossy centrefold, grimacing at the gushy picture of Saladin and Liza that beamed at her from alongside the article. David entered through the pteroduck’s open rump.

  “Is something the matter?” asked David.

  “No, I’m fine. Please, sit,” said Imaan, folding the paper.

  She pulled a metal card from behind her breastplate and inserted it into a slot on the dashboard; the pteroduck let out a screech and stretched its folded wings, humming to life.

  “As I doubt you remember what you need to know, it is best to review the safety procedures,” said Imaan, handing him an acrylic booklet from a pocket near her seat.

  David fastened his seatbelt and opened the booklet, which unfolded a fanned screen like a pop-up book. A smiling, freckle-faced woman was standing in front of the screen, her heels clicking on the open pages as she moved around her crystal stage.

  “Welcome to the flight deck of the S-5 Phantom, the amphibious pteroduck luxuriously designed with your comfort in mind,” said the woman, motioning her arms as though selling cookware. “My name is Fae, your personal in-flight attendant. I shall be with you for the duration of your journey.”

  Imaan pressed a series of buttons and released a lever; the pteroduck beat its wings, lifting its heavy body into the air. It dropped and swayed awkwardly as it gained altitude. Fae fell backward onto the booklet; she glared at Imaan for the lack of warning.

  “Your current flight pattern is programmed for King’s Beach. Cruising altitude is 2 300 metres, with just over nine hours of flying time, and an estimated arrival of 5:35 am,” said Fae, smoothing her skirt as she stood. “Current weather is clear, with a smooth flight anticipated. If you would kindly look to the screen behind me, we shall now review the safety procedures—”

  The pteroduck bounced again, and David closed the booklet, sealing Fae between the pages. He shut his eyes and gripped the side of his armchair, squirming upward as the pteroduck dropped slightly.

  “Are you afraid of heights, David?” asked Imaan.

  “Only of falling from them.”

  He shifted his body in the opposite direction of the pteroduck’s swaying, as if his movement could somehow coax the Phantom to level out. Imaan smiled.

  “No need to worry, David. The S-5 pilots itself except in the most difficult of circumstances. It is quite safe.”

  David nodded absently, his hands still twisting on the armrest.

  A dull, clinking sound echoed next to his ear; he jumped. Fae was smiling at him from behind a screen in the centre of a veneer cabinet built into the wall next to him.

  “Pardon me, Sir, what can I offer you?” asked Fae.

  “Liquorice drinking chocolate, if you please, Fae,” said Imaan, leaning over the ivory consul separating the two seats, “in a teacup.”

  “As you wish, Ma’am,” said Fae, nodding. “And for you, Sir?”

  David squinted at her.

  “Make that two, Fae,” said Imaan, “and some shortbread as well.”

  “As you wish, Ma’am,” said Fae again. She looked to an empty cubby underneath her screen, which was lined with tiny shelves suitable for a doll’s house. A small drawer opened, on which sat a painted porcelain teacup no bigger than a bottle cap. Another drawer opened in a smaller cabinet next to Imaan, holding a similar cup and a plate of shortbread cookies the size of beads.

  “Thank you, Fae,” said Imaan, placing the miniature cup and plate on her foldaway table.

  “Sir?” asked Fae.

  “Oh, uh, thanks,” said David, taking the tiny cup. A miniature marshmallow shaped like a rosebud floated at its centre. He raised it to his lips.

  “What are you doing?” asked Imaan.

  “What?” asked David, pausing.

  “Your cup,” said Imaan. “You have to let it breathe first.”

  “Oh,” said David. He set his teacup on his table and waited, glancing around awkwardly. The shining windows in front of him were now awash in the pinks and purples of twilight as the sun faded into stars.

  “That should be enough,” said Imaan.

  David looked at his cup, which was now the size of a small bowl. The marshmallow bud at its centre had bloomed into a rose. He took a sip; the thick drinking chocolate melted over his tongue like the loveliest of dreams. David relaxed into his chair.

  “So how was your training? Do you feel well prepared?” asked Imaan, sipping her chocolate.

  “More or less,” said David. “I guess we’ll soon see, won’t we?”

  “You don’t sound too confident,” said Imaan.

  Imaan’s shortbread cookies were also fully grown to the size of her palm; she snapped one in half and offered it to David.

  “No, it’s nothing.”

  “A stare like that is never nothing,” said Imaan.

  “It’s just Raphael said some things that were peculiar,” said David.

  “Like what?” asked Imaan.

  “Well, like now. I’ve been with him three weeks, and he just told me that mers cannot kill.”

  “That is true,” said Imaan slowly. “Mers are physically unable to kill any mer, human or animal. Something snaps in their brain; they can’t follow through.”

  “But the Leviathan? The war?” asked David.

  “Just because the mers cannot kill does not make them innocent; the mers are, in fact, far crueller than humans and are responsible for many horrific deaths.”

  “What do they do, then?” asked David.

  “They make you kill yourself.”

  “Oh,” said David, staring down at his cup. Imaan snapped another piece of shortbread.

  “Is there anything else Raphael said that you found curious?” she asked.

  “Well, he also said humans come from apes,” said David.

  “From apes? Why in Aeroth would he tell you that?” asked Imaan.

  “I sort of asked. He mentioned it in passing once, and it sort of stuck in my mind. I pressed him for more information, and eventually he told me a story about Paradise being a Nephil development project, in which humans were bred from apes to be slaves for the mers.”

  Imaan rubbed the rim of her cup with her finger, staring intently ahead.

  “Perhaps in your amnesia you are less poisoned than the rest of them. It is an interesting concept… also quite possibly true,” said Imaan.

  “Are you saying you agree with Raphael about the Sacred Memories being inaccurate?”

  “Quite the contrary. What the mer has proposed would mean the Sacred Memories has far more depth than I anticipated.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The memory concerning our origins was written by Adam after Paradise had separated from the mainland, which we believe was a punishment from Avinoam for actions caused by the poison. The reference to the ground in the Sacred Memories could also be an inadvertent reference to the poison.”

  “You must remember I don’t recall any of this,” said David, taking another cookie from the plate. Imaan sighed.
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  “As we’ve established, mers can’t kill, right? Yet for whatever reason—jealousy, land—we all agree the mers wanted Adam dead. So how does an assassin who can’t kill get Adam to die?”

  “He leaves a poison?”

  “Exactly,” said Imaan, snapping a biscuit. “But the Leviathan made a mistake. Instead of killing Adam outright, the poison simply infected his mind, making him desire reckless things that would hasten or cause death. He passed this poison onto his children, like a virus.”

  “So how does this relate to the Sacred Memories?” asked David.

  “What happens to you when you die? You return to the ground, do you not? When Adam wrote, he may have already been saying he was of the ground—of death.”

  “So you are saying the Sacred Memories is inaccurate because it is also poisoned?”

  “It was written by man and Avi, and as such it could have some elements of poison, yes. In all honesty, we just don’t know. The High Priest Eli lost many of the memories; much of what we knew of the past was lost with them. I am afraid the only definitive answers are locked away on Paradise Island. We have no access to them.”

  “What happened to the Leviathan?” asked David.

  “The legend says Avinoam entrapped him in the body of a snake, and there are reports that a water snake used to be seen lurking around the coast and near the river, but that was centuries ago. Mers do live an exceptionally long time, though. I suspect the Leviathan somehow escaped his imprisonment and came back as a human, as a certain Mr Gabriel Silbi.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “I have lived many years; my knowledge of humans is unequalled. Their embracing of destruction has increased exponentially since Gabe has gained influence. He encourages them to forget the priesthood which was established to protect them—encourages them to forget their humanity. And it’s not a case of the blind leading the blind; he knows exactly what he is doing, that snake. He is hatching something.”