by A. L. Knorr
Copyright © 2019 by Intellectually Promiscuous Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Glossary of Foreign Words
Ancient Mer
Foniádes - Slayers
Apotreptikó - An inhospitable place
Dyás - Interval
Dyás Kyatára - Interval Curse
Álas Kyatára - Salt Curse
Polish
Nikt cię nie skrzwdzi. - Nobody will hurt you.
Jesteś wolny. - You are free
Also by A.L. Knorr
The Elemental Origins Series
Born of Water
Born of Fire
Born of Earth
Born of Æther
Born of Air
The Elementals
Mira’s Return Series
Returning
Falling
Surfacing
The Siren’s Curse Series
Salt & Stone
Salt & the Sovereign
Elemental Novellas
Pyro, A Fire Novella
Heat, A Fire Novella
The Kacy Chronicles
Descendant
Ascendant
Combatant
Transcendent
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Salt & the Sovereign
The Siren’s Curse, Book 2
A.L. Knorr
Intellectually Promiscuous Press
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by A.L. Knorr
Prologue
“I can’t find him,” Antoni said as he strode into the parlor and tossed his coat over the back of the couch nearest the door. “No one knows where he is.”
My heart sank and I made eye contact with my daughter––Targa. I had wanted Jozef here with us when I began recounting my story, refusing my children’s prompts to get started without him. Just the thought of seeing him again––now that my memories had returned to me––put me into a cold sweat of anxiety. Nerves were not something I normally suffered from, but in this case, under these circumstances…only a dead person wouldn’t have butterflies.
Targa glanced from me to Antoni and back again. “How can that be? It’s middle of the day on a Tuesday, he works for our salvage team. Shouldn’t he be at work?”
“You might not believe this, but he gave his notice.” Antoni sat down beside Targa, shooting a nod of hello at Emun, who was sitting beside me.
Targa goggled. “He resigned?”
I closed my eyes as guilt and remorse washed over me like a bucket of ice water. The last time I’d seen Jozef had been in the front yard, and I’d rejected his invitation to dinner. It was far from certain that he’d quit because I’d declined his offer, but I couldn’t halt the notion that the two were somehow linked.
I opened my eyes and swallowed down the tears that wanted to come. It was too much all at once. “Do you know why?”
Antoni shook his head. “I talked to his boss––Lizster. Jozef didn’t give a reason and he didn’t give much notice either, only forty-eight hours. No forwarding address or number, and his apartment is up for rent already.” Antoni’s hazel eyes were full of sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Mira.”
I had wanted to go searching for Jozef myself within hours of recovering my memory, but neither Targa nor Emun would allow me to leave the manor until they were sure I wasn’t going to lose myself again. Shock went through our little circle in waves. Even Antoni––who was not related to me and not directly affected––hardly spoke for a few hours as he processed what had happened.
Truthfully, I had never felt so exhausted as I had in the days following Targa’s calling me home, and Emun giving me the aquamarine which now sat at the base of my throat on a chain.
I had tried calling Jozef’s cell but got a message saying the number had been disconnected. I’d sent him emails which went unanswered, and had finally begged Antoni to go find him for me.
“I’m truly sorry we’re not able to find your friend, Mother.” Emun shifted against the sofa for a better look at me. “But since he can’t be found, and I think I could actually die of anticipation if we wait another minute, do you mind very much if we get started without him?”
His words were tentative, uncertain, and full of longing. I looked at my son and reached for his hand. He grasped my fingers and squeezed. Emun had waited a very long time for this moment, and with or without Jozef, I didn’t want him to wait any longer, either.
I cleared my throat and began, “I was born on March 4, 1810, and given the name Bel Grant…”
“Wait, Mom.” Targa reached for her bag from the coffee table in front of her and dug inside. Retrieving her phone, she activated the screen and selected something. “Do you mind if I record you? This is way too important to relegate to something as infallible as human memory, let alone siren memory.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” I told her. “It’s a good idea. While it might not be as vivid as the memories provided by the Hall of Anamna, it’s a lot more convenient.”
The kids (I knew they weren’t kids, but I couldn’t help but think of them that way) glanced at one another.
“The Hall of Anamna?” Targa echoed. “What’s that?”
“I’ll explain, but first we have to go back to London, England. The war with France was over, but as I was just a young child, I had no interest in the war. My life revolved around my mother.” My throat tightened as I thought about the last time I had seen her, and I shoved the awful scene aside. “She was like a god to me.”
One
Everyone called my mother Polly. It was a name for sweet young girls, kind old ladies with knitting nestled on their laps, or clever feathered pets from tropical countries. I remembered thinking from a very young age how much the name did not suit the imposing character and visage of Polly Grant.
At six feet tall and with eyes so dark they appeared black, my mother was difficult to miss in a crowd. When she spoke, her words came out with an authority that convinced all those within hearing range that she was a woman not be tested. She wore her long, dark hair in a high circular braid like a crown, which only added to her air of austere royalty.
I was five. Looking up at my mother was like looking up at a giant. Standing on the platform at a train station in London, she did not hold my hand, but instead rested her own heavy one on my shoulder. She was gazing off to the left, still as stone, her dark eyes trained on the tracks in the direction our train would ar
rive from. Her hand seemed to grow heavier by the moment. The suffocating weight and the heat of it made me feel like I was being slowly crushed into the earth. I wanted to push her hand off and take a deep breath, but I dared not. Polly was swift to quell rebellious behavior.
A short, elderly man in a black bowler stood a few feet away and to the right of me. Holding a newspaper in his hands, his face was not visible behind the pages. I could only see the gray tufts of hair curling out from under the brim of his hat. I stared at him, waiting for him to move the newspaper so I could see what he looked like. Waiting for trains was boring.
Sending my right foot out to the side, I slowly moved away from my mother, just enough to begin to slide out from under her oppressive grasp.
“Do not wander, Bel,” she said quietly, not looking down at me. But she dropped her hand, and that was all I wanted. I took a deep inhale, relieved.
“No, Mama.” Reaching into the pocket of my wool coat, I pulled out a piece of crinkled paper. “Just putting this wrapper in the bin.”
She cast me a brief glance but didn’t reply, and returned to her sentinel stance. I had learned to keep little bits of trash in my pocket for just this reason––small planned escapes of the kind only children reveled in.
Stepping back and turning, I scanned the station for a garbage receptacle. There were only a few passengers on the platform because it was just after lunch on a week day. I spotted the bin and made my way over, walking slowly and quietly, because only unruly and disobedient children ran and screamed on train platforms and on roads and in the parks.
Savoring my bit of freedom, I tossed the wrapper and watched it fall. When I returned to the platform, I made sure Polly could see where I was, but I didn’t return to her right away. I stood to the side a little, watching the old man reading the paper.
Some sixth sense told him he was being watched. His gaze finally dropped to the little girl in the blue woolen coat––me. I was impressed with his thick white moustache. The moustache was curled up at the ends, like a small set of horns. We made eye contact. His moustache lifted and his pink cheeks rounded. The corners of his eyes crinkled.
I smiled too, drawn to his sparkling eyes and kind expression. The full-grown human male was captivating to me, since I’d interacted with so few of them. Not very many people looked at me the way he was looking at me––like he really saw me. Polly drew all attention to herself, and I didn’t mind. Sometimes I felt like a small insect flying low to the ground, busy and invisible.
The old man glanced at my mother and back at me. “You must have gotten your eyes from your father,” he said. “So blue. Like the sky, or a tropical sea.”
I didn’t know what to say to this. My father was not a part of my life and I had no memories of him. I knew other children had fathers, of course, but Polly was enough parent to fulfill the role of both, as she liked to remind me. I had never questioned the source of my eye color before that moment. The idea of getting some feature of mine from my father had never occurred to me. It was true, my eyes were very different from my mother’s. We had the same dark hair, the same white skin, and we were both slender, but her eyes were dark and round, while mine were bright and tilted up a little at the outer corners. That my eyes were different from my mother’s had never before been pointed out to me, and it was a moment that changed something. It was a moment of growing up, of questioning, of realization. One’s features were inherited, not given as if by magic, but bequeathed.
“Where are you going?” the kind man asked, and I liked his voice. It was gentle and soft, and he asked me this question as though he knew that if he said it too loudly it would alert Polly and our interaction would be over.
“To the seaside,” I said, just as quietly. “Where are you going?”
“Bel,” my mother said sharply, looking over. She snapped her gloved fingers and pointed at the ground beside her.
Slowly, a little sheepishly, I walked over to my place. My eyes closed as the weight of her hand descended on my shoulder once again. I opened my eyes to see the stranger watching my face. Somehow he knew better than to answer my question. But he watched us until my mother’s gaze turned away again, returning to the tracks. A whistle sounded in the distance.
The old man released one hand from the newspaper, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. He held it between two fingers so I could see his train ticket. The letters spelled ‘Cornwall’ on the billet. He winked and his moustache lifted again. Me too, he mouthed.
I never saw the man again, but he’d given me something to ponder.
Some time later, as the train chugged its way across the rolling green moorlands, I was given a sandwich from Polly’s bag. After I had eaten it, she took the kerchief it had been wrapped in, scattered the crumbs on the floor of the carriage, and put it back in her bag. She’d eaten as well and seemed relaxed, even relieved. It was as good a moment as I was going to get.
“Mama, why do we have different eyes?”
“Because you were born that way,” she replied quickly.
I went back to staring out at the passing green, disappointed. But this was the best I was likely to get from Polly. It was not important for children to know why; that privilege was reserved for adults only. And I supposed, that one day when I got older, I would understand a lot more, too.
We arrived in Brighton to gray skies and drizzle. Stepping down from the train, I took as deep a breath of the sea air as I could hold in my little lungs. The salty humid air of the coast thrilled me to my very core. Though I knew better than to ask what we were doing here, I knew it had something to do with the ocean, and something to do with a recent event in my life that Polly referred to as my salt-birth.
Only a few weeks earlier, Polly had taken me to a place outside of London called Allhallows. It was an overnight trip, like the ones before it, and always to the same empty beach. I knew what to expect. Mama and I were to go swimming in the ocean together, under the cover of darkness, and away from the gas lamps of civilization. During these swims, Polly would lie in the shallow water of the beach, watching me play. I delighted in the way the water felt on my skin and the sand felt beneath my feet and between my toes. She simply watched me—calmly, patiently, and without explanation.
At Allhallows, I expected the same sort of delightful evening swim. These little outings had become my favorite thing, and though Polly never told me when she’d planned one for us, they’d become frequent. I learned that there was never a night swim that far away.
But something different happened at Allhallows––I transformed.
Though the transformation felt right and even good, I was frightened by what was happening to me. Polly had never shown me her true nature, so I didn’t understand my own. But when she saw the way the muscles and bones of my legs were knitting together, the way the skin was changing to scales, she slid over in the water.
“Just relax, Bel,” she whispered. “You’re becoming what you were born to be.”
It was then that she transformed beside me, allowing me to understand that this was normal, and this was what she’d been waiting for all along.
After Allhallows, life became a flurry of activity. I didn’t understand the change in my mother’s behaviors and routine, but I did understand that it had something to do with what had happened at Allhallows––that my salt-birth had triggered something in my mother’s mind.
An aura of excitement radiated from Polly, and though I couldn’t say her manner had changed, I sensed this new energy. She seemed happier, and eager for some objective to be met. She had meetings with people, people I understood she either had worked with or who had worked for her. These meetings seemed to have to do with getting ready to leave England.
Now, standing with my mother on an empty beach not far from Brighton, the night sky starless and flat with clouds, I understood that this was the moment she’d been preparing for.
“We’re going to swim, Bel. For a long time. We have a long
way to go.” As she said this, she took off her dress, her petticoats, her shoes and stockings. She shed every last article of clothing and left them in a pile in the sea-grasses. She bade me do the same until we had no covering but the hair on our heads.
Walking into the water up to her knees, she held her hand out to me and beckoned. I ran to her, splashing in the water, my little heart pounding and my mind full of exploding stars.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we waded deeper.
Just before Polly dove into the waves, she answered, “We’re going home.”
We swam with very little time to rest or explore, which––as a young and curious siren who had only recently had her salt-birth––was both emotionally painful and physically exhausting. Though I worked hard to keep up, it was far more difficult to swim through this new underwater universe and not be allowed to stop. There was so much to explore, so much to learn about. And we were so beautifully equipped to enjoy the environment that I couldn’t understand how my mother was not drawn to every incredible feature we passed over and through.
We saw every kind of sea creature imaginable: huge masses of graceful rays, some individuals so large they were like underwater ships passing by, their strange square mouths double the length of Polly’s entire body from one end to the other. We swam through forests of brightly colored seaweed, swaying gracefully and coated with fuzzy algae. Vivid orange and red fish sheltered there, peeking shyly from within the fronds. Large, prickly crustaceans crawled across curved pale landscapes. The terrain was caked with sand and spewed bubbles from cracks, around which small yellow crabs liked to cluster. But the natural wonders were only part of this striking realm, for we also passed over countless wrecks, not only of ships but also other strange, unidentified forms, alien shapes half buried in sand and crusted with coral.