Waking Storms

by Sarah Porter

  “Okay, already,” the ragged man said loudly, staring into the whispering air just ahead of him. “At least let me have some peace while I eat, all right?”

  Luce's tail gave an uncontrollable flip, sending up a shower of bright water, and a small sharp cry burst from her throat. The man didn't seem to notice. He was already straggling away from her, up the hill and into the woods, small dislodged rocks skittering down the slope behind him. Luce watched helplessly as he left. There was obviously some unknown magic at work here, but beyond that she didn't know what to think. After a while she saw a thin coil of smoke rising from the far side of the island and knew that the man was cooking his fish over an open flame.

  There was something in the tone of those whispering voices that suggested faded memories, sleepless nights, and things lost forever. But the voices also suggested something more specific to Luce—or someone. The voices had seemed to be nudging at her, trying to recall someone to her. She just couldn't quite tell who it was.

  But the man's voice had also seemed astonishingly similar to another voice Luce had once loved. And in his case she had no trouble recognizing whose it was.

  He'd sounded exactly like her father.

  19. Voices Remembered

  Luce spent the next several days circling the island, getting her bearings and searching for the man she'd seen. Her memory of hearing her father's voice mingled with the muttering voices of the island, blurring and shifting until she wasn't sure what to think. Maybe the voices had unsettled her mind, colored her thoughts, tricked her. Probably that hadn't really been her father's voice at all, and the castaway living here was a stranger. After all, it seemed crazy to hope that her father could have made it to this obscure island after the High and Mighty went down. And even if he had, what were the odds that she'd have somehow washed up in the exact same spot? But if there was any chance, however slight, that Andrew Korchak was miraculously still alive and that she'd found him again—Luce could hardly let herself think about it—she'd do whatever it took to bring him safely home.

  Sometimes she'd catch sight of the man in the distance, his shapeless figure perched on an outcropping of rock or pacing along a beach. But by the time she'd raced to the spot he was always gone, always climbing inland where she couldn't follow, and she'd go back to exploring. It was something to do, something to keep herself from thinking too much and sliding into alternating bouts of frantic hope and sluggish moodiness.

  The island wasn't all that big, really, and the temperature of the water surrounding it varied from patches of uncomfortable, upwelling heat to areas that were almost as cold as it had been in her home territory. It was warm enough, though, that the shores were free of clinging ice. Ice floes drifted past, but there was none of the rubbery nilas that had formed in her old cave. It took Luce a day to realize that there must be underwater volcanic vents and that the steam she saw rising between rocks high on the island probably came from some kind of hot spring. The tiny waterfall she found in a bend of the coast was much warmer than the surrounding air and gave off an unpleasant mineral stench she couldn't identify.

  The jagged coast bent into deep rocky inlets sheltered from crashing waves, then opened onto stretches of pebble beach. Shellfish massed along the shore, growing in heaps near the warm zones. Even if Luce spent the whole winter here there would definitely be plenty to eat. When she dove down to inspect the crevices where the hot water gushed, she found spiky, pink-legged, lobsterlike creatures; anemones with crimson extrusions like pulsing mouths; and ruffled, gelatinous animals in shades of mauve and saffron. She'd never seen anything like them before. She found strands of kelp and began wearing its leaves as a bikini top in case the man saw her again. There were no caves she could find, but other than that the island was an excellent place for her to wait out the winter.

  Her only concern was the possibility that the man might come across her while she was asleep; even the island's most secret crevices wouldn't be completely inaccessible to a human. It seemed clear that the man was alone in this place, or as alone as he could be when every passing breeze carried swirls of formless chattering. But Luce had to admit to herself that he might be insane, even dangerous. And if he was some kind of sorcerer—which seemed fairly likely after the bizarre episode with the fish—she couldn't be certain that her own powers would be a match for his.

  It would be better if he didn't realize she was here. Not until she could be completely sure.

  ***

  The horizon was always lost behind choking clouds and webs of mist. But Luce was almost certain she'd seen a remote stripe of land when she'd first arrived, though she couldn't guess if it had been Russia or Alaska. Luce didn't like to admit she was frightened, but the idea of trying to return home in the spring seemed a little daunting. She lay sprawled in the hazy blue daylight, scanning the far horizon and hoping to catch sight of that distant land again. She was back on the same beach where she'd collapsed on her arrival, eating seaweed and daydreaming about Dorian. Assuming today was a weekday he was probably sitting in a classroom right now, drawing in the margins of his notebook as he half listened to the teacher. He would be thinking of her, sketching pictures of her face...

  Something snapped in the woods at her back, and Luce spun around. The fur-clad man was standing twenty feet away under a shabby, half-dead birch tree. He was looking straight at her, though his face stayed strangely blank. The breeze was alive with whisperings, warm suggestions of excitement, and again Luce had the sinking, hungry sense that she knew more than one of those voices from somewhere.

  Luce stared at the man. His face was mostly concealed by dangling clumps of hair and by his matted beard, but she could see his eyes. Wry and smart, the color of cinnamon. Luce tried to call out to him, but her throat felt like one big knot and no sound came.

  He wasn't even looking at her anymore. His gaze drifted somewhere over her head, and his mouth tightened with annoyance.

  “Oh, that's not right,” Andrew Korchak complained vaguely to the air. “That's just going too far!”

  The floating voices seemed agitated. They sounded as if they were engaged in a passionate conversation, whispering urgent confidences into one another's invisible, shapeless ears. And Luce was more certain than ever that the voices were gathered around her father, circling him like a swarm of bees. And though she couldn't have explained why, she also had the distinct impression that the voices were suddenly aware of her, and that they hadn't been before. Cold ran through her body like a sickness and she struggled to regain control of herself. She had to say something.

  “Dad?” Luce finally managed, but the word cracked in her throat. Her father stayed where he was, dully striped by the shadow of the birch tree. He didn't so much as glance at her.

  “I told you,” he snapped at the air, waving one calloused hand in disgust. “That'll be enough.”

  He spun on his heel—the movement was much more energetic than the weary shambling Luce had noticed before—and stalked back up the hill.

  Luce gazed after him, torn by shock and grief and, as a few wisps of muttering air grazed against her face, by an icy panic that squeezed up inside her and crawled like fingers over her heart. Garbled whispers began to leak into her ears and dance under her skull. She could feel a kind of frothing breath glide across her tongue and explore her throat. Luce gasped, horrified at the awareness that there was no way she could fight this shapeless invasion of her body. For the first time Luce began to sense a few distinct phrases in the muttering flow that echoed through her head. “Battery’s going,” Luce thought she heard, and “getting too small for her.” Then, “If I didn’t love you so damned much...” Somehow it was worse to know what they were saying, and a long, unwilled shriek unraveled through the air.

  Only in the abrupt silence that followed did Luce understand that she was the one who'd screamed. There was a kind of lull as the strands of wind gradually vacated her head. She could feel them go, hissing out of her nostrils and cascading over her
lower lip. Tears flooded her cheeks. Her heart was beating so fast that it felt like one sustained, rolling roar in her chest. More than anything she wanted to dive, to slash away from this haunted, hideous place and never return. But as long as her father was trapped here that was the one thing she couldn't even consider doing...

  The muttering winds backed off a little, and Luce could hear them hissing again as if they were debating something. And Luce's terror began to yield to rage. Whatever these airy presences were they had control of her father, and they'd torn his mind apart until it seemed that he couldn't even recognize his own daughter anymore. She could hear a cluster of voices just above the steeply sloping beach and feel a subtle flickering motion in the air as they approached her again. Luce sat up straight, low waves curling around her waist, and faced in the voices' direction. It was hard to glare at them when they were invisible, but she did her best. They stopped in front of her, moaning and sighing, and Luce got the distinct impression that they were making an unaccustomed effort.

  “Child of Proteus,” one crackled, old-sounding voice breathed distinctly, and a fingertip of oily wind stroked along Luce's closed lips. “We have no need of you.”

  A sensation like freezing gusts of static swept through Luce's skin, and at the same time outrage flared inside her. What did she care what these uncanny voices needed?

  “We have the man. We have the memory. We have the man,” the voice pursued. Its speech was halting and ragged, as if forming these words was an act of strenuous labor. “He has lost much. We do not need you here.” Now the voice sounded very determined; its tone was that of someone entirely convinced that everything was settled and that no further argument was possible. Luce considered the best way to respond, but she could already hear the airy babble sailing away from her. The ash-colored grass at the top of the beach churned in one abrupt swirl as it passed. The voices were almost at the edge of the forest. They were heading the same way her father had gone.

  “Wait,” Luce called after them. Her voice still sounded strange, broken and peculiarly empty. “What are you?”

  There was no response. The empty gray sky rolled over the island's snowy peak, and the sickly trees groaned and fidgeted in the wind. They bent as if they were trying to scratch themselves and couldn't quite reach the spot that itched so terribly. Everything was gray and ash and dull, sad green apart from a few blots of golden lichen growing on the boulders. Still, Luce realized, the day was a little brighter than it had been recently, and it seemed to be lasting longer as well. The night's door was starting to swing slowly open again.

  A miserable thought occurred to Luce: she'd blamed Catarina for murdering her father. Even worse, Miriam had committed suicide in the belief that the mermaids were responsible for making Luce an orphan. And now Luce knew that wasn't true at all.

  Her father was still alive, and dark, delicate, vulnerable Miriam—Miriam who'd cared for Luce and tried to be friends with her—had died for nothing.

  ***

  Each day the sun flung itself a bit higher above the horizon. Each day the patch of brightness where the sun burned behind endless clouds hovered for a little longer before dusky blue swallowed the sea again. Luce circled the island restlessly, always looking for her father. But it was soon clear that he was looking out for her as well. Whenever Luce glimpsed him on a distant beach he'd be scanning the waves, and the instant he caught sight of her he'd hunch his shoulders angrily and stomp off into the woods. It was impossible for Luce to guess how much he understood about the girl in the water, but two things were obvious: he was determined to avoid her, and he'd figured out that she couldn't follow him inland. Luce got the impression that he came to the beach now only to get fish and then left as quickly as he could.

  Even the voices didn't pay any more attention to her, though she sometimes heard them jostling and sighing in the trees or tumbling like a cluster of argumentative molecules along the beaches. Usually the noise of their chattering meant that her father was somewhere nearby, and Luce would dart along searching for him. If she saw his bundled shape through the snow-laced trees she'd call out to him. Each time he'd act as if he hadn't heard her, and each time her hope would crack again. It wasn't that her heart broke, exactly; Luce clung stubbornly to the idea that eventually she'd get her father back to the mainland, even if she had no idea how she'd manage it. But every time he ignored her call it was as if a fresh hairline fracture ran through her, a fine trace of pain, until her chest seemed to be webbed through and through by thin, cutting wires. And these moments of grief were all that relieved the tedium of her days.

  Luce spent her time daydreaming, mulling over memories of her childhood with her father, of more recent times with Dorian and Nausicaa, Dana and Catarina. She couldn't even soothe her frustration by singing. There was no way she could be sure her father wouldn't hear her, and he was already a broken man, spirit-needled, ridden by the gasp and twitter of bodiless voices. Even a healthy human could easily go completely insane at the onslaught of mermaid song. Dorian could withstand it as long as Luce was careful, but he was exceptional. Luce couldn't bear to think of what her song might do to her father in his damaged condition.

  The days slowly brightened, and the approach of spring struck Luce as inexplicably threatening. But the waves were still dotted by pack ice, though not nearly as much of it as there had been back in her home territory, and the wind was still bitterly cold. Storms rolled through now and then, though in the comfort of the island's sheltering coves Luce didn't mind them at all. Spring might be coming but it was still far away, and Luce told herself that she'd definitely rescue her father in time to keep her promise to Dorian and be home as soon as the ice broke up. It might be late January now, or maybe it was already February. She had at least another month.

  And if she had to be a little late, well, Dorian would wait for her. "Wouldn't he?

  ***

  One day Luce woke to a dab of sunlight playing on her face and looked up to see a rip in the clouds and behind it a patch of sweet, pale, porcelain blue, utterly different from the murky dusk blue she'd lived in for months now. She stretched luxuriantly for a minute. For all her dread of the coming spring, that bolt of sunlight and clear sky sent exhilaration coursing through her body. She thought of swimming far out—far enough that there was no chance her father would hear her—and letting her pent-up song shimmer up to meet the pale sun. She was in her favorite little cove, its small beach tucked between two tongues of rock. Luce rolled onto her stomach and looked at the wet stones gleaming in the unexpected sunlight. The golden shine was interrupted by the shadows of a few birch trees high above her and by another lumpier shadow that Luce couldn't identify. Possibly it was the shade thrown by a small boulder with a few ferns swaying on its crest, though now that she thought of it, she didn't remember any boulders up there.

  The shadow-shape tipped like something shifting its weight. Luce realized that what she'd taken for the shadow of ferns was cast instead by wind-stirred hair. And with the shadow's movement came a sudden burst of breezy muttering.

  Luce froze and forced herself not to look up right away. If she stared straight at him she was sure he'd bolt again. Instead she pushed herself up on her elbows and gazed into the clouds, slowly tilting her head until she could just see him out of the corner of her eye. He was crouching up on the rocky shelf to her left, no more than fifteen feet away, shapeless in his mass of furs. And he was watching her. Maybe, Luce realized with a rush of anxiety and longing, he'd been watching her for hours as she slept. Above her the whirlwind of voices gabbled and spun. Then another, stronger voice interrupted them.

  “You know,” Andrew Korchak snapped irritably, “my Lucette wasn't actually that pretty. Beautiful girl, okay, but not like that. And I don't know where you got the idea she had a tail!”

  So he did recognize her, at least in some confused way. He just didn't believe that what he was seeing was really his daughter. Very gradually and gently Luce turned her head a little farth
er. Her stomach clenched so tight it felt like wadded foil, nauseous and aching. Anything she said might send him running again, but at the same time she couldn't let the opportunity to finally speak with him slip away from her. “If you'll talk to me,” Luce said softly, “I'll tell you about the tail. I'll tell you everything that's happened to me, and then we can try to figure out how to get you out of here.” And at last she turned far enough to meet his eyes.

  She knew he must have heard her—he just wasn't that far away—but from the blank look on his face it seemed as if she hadn't spoken or as if her words were meaningless. His eyes slipped around, always focusing just over the top of her head or just to the side of her face. He looked tired and much older than Luce remembered. Gray knots mixed with his matted brown curls, but his warm cinnamon eyes were still the same. Clouds gusted across the sun so that his face flared with golden light and then dimmed again, and for a minute he hunched there unspeaking.

  “I've been waiting for you to knock it off,” he said at last. “Bad enough you take Luce's voice and torture me with it all the time. I know how completely I let her down without that! But now using her face, too...” He shook his head. “It's too mean. It's just too damned cruel. I'm about ready to starve myself to death so I don't have to see this anymore!”