One year later, Lapuente was shriveled to death in a swamp somewhere on the southerly Atlantic coasts of Florida, and Thomas Crowe had vanished into the night, carrying a valuable talisman he had been ordered to help steal for Lapuente. Captain Lapuente had previously made a deal with the mermaid Oi’alli (an Atlantic ichthymorph). She, the chieftess of the Oi’tan tribe, had struck a deal with Lapuente: if he could reclaim the talisman (originally stolen from the Oi’tan) he could keep it for five years. Well aware of Lapuente’s dishonesty, Oi’alli went to his ship and spoke to Thomas there, instructing him to follow his captain ashore and get the talisman for her. In return for the favor, she would free him. Oi’alli was so pleased with Tom’s success that she told Tom he could keep the talisman for five years, honoring her original bargain with Lapuente. However, he was required at the end of that time to return it to the Oi’tan. By merfolk law if the talisman was not returned after five years, he would be guilty of theft, and Oi’alli would not be able to defend him from the consequences. Five years later, Thomas Crowe and Molly Bishop left Barbados for the second time since they’d met. The Oi’tan were waiting for them.
Geoffrey Mylus,
June 23, 1833
****
Tom sat alone on the deck of the Scotch Bonnet, legs crossed and eyes shut. Holding out both hands, a jade in each, he calmly maintained a stream of green magical essence that flowed from one palm to the other, right to left and left to right, changing direction with each long breath he took. Manus Magia required much practice and discipline, and Tom had made a point to sit for hours on end each day while out at sea, learning to dance the delicate dance of the magical martial art. For years it had been an important hobby, since often it was the most reliable form of defence he could muster as an outlaw. He’d spent his share of time reading notebooks full of magescript and learning to speak Scriptic, but magic, as powerful as it was when used in its purest form, did not offer him the practicality of prepared gem magic. Scriptic was the magesmiths’ calling. The lucky ones with the gifted eyes would always outperform someone like Tom in a confrontation, and so Tom meant to augment his already acquired gifts of strength, speed and agility.
Manus Magia was an art Tom had picked up from another werewolf onboard Marcos Lapuente’s ship when Tom was eighteen and a slave, with no other means of power. Gaspar de Mota was the first father figure Tom had since the last time he’d seen John Crowe as an even younger boy. Every time he sat to practice, Tom thought of Gaspar—his first real friend and only teacher. Gaspar tried his best to teach Tom patience in life and solace under the curse, but he died long before Tom ever relinquished his interest in finding his brother, Harlan. Ever-faithful to Gaspar’s method, each time Tom sat to practice outside, he’d sit with his back to the sun, so when he opened his eyes at the end of the afternoon he could see his shadow, longer than it had been when he shut his eyes. It was to remind him how one grows. When you shut your eyes to the past, Gaspar had said, you’ll be surprised how far away it is when you next look back at it. As you get older, the dark things behind you get smaller if you let them go. One day, you won’t be able to see them anymore.
Eyelids slowly parting, Tom’s gaze rested upon his elongated shadow, stretched out for two or three metres ahead of him. Next to his was another. It was a bit longer. It shrank and blended into his. Tom felt a head of soft hair on his shoulder.
“You’re a living ghost, Thomas Crowe,” said Molly, her voice muted by the wear of the day. She rested one hand on Thomas’s back and the other on his thigh, moving her cheek to his shoulder and looking up toward his tan face. She imagined his cheeks as broad plains, surrounding an untamed peak of a nose, overlooking two rolling-hill lips: a young and wild wilderness encompassed by an ocean of wheat hair. “How did you ever survive before I came along?” She smiled and waited for his sarcasm.
“Got into less trouble,” he said, staring at his shadow and putting away his jades. Tying them in a pouch, he rested his hands on his knees.
“I thought you said you had more trouble before you met me,” Molly corrected, rubbing his back and watching his face.
“I also said I’d shoot you,” he reminded her. “I’m a terrible, terrible liar. But, lies are like a strong drink. Use them with discretion, and no harm is done.”
“Have you ever considered that perhaps you just have the most damned luck of any man alive?” Molly flashed Tom a smile and clung to his arm.
“I have.”
“And?”
“And I think that’s a damned optimistic way of evaluating my life.” Tom turned his head to look at Molly and grinned. Her eyes had two personalities. They were an angel’s in shape and dressed with the lashes and almond lids of something more exotic. Perfect thief’s eyes, he thought, laughing. Her Spanish nose scrunched as she laughed at him and her expressive lips parted in a broad smile.
“One of us has to be the sunshine in this affair,” she joked.
“Speaking of affairs,” he said, getting to his feet and helping her up, “Are you excited for All Hallows Eve?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” The ball meant more to her than anything she could remember, and she wasn’t sure if Tom would understand. It meant a return to normality; to happiness, and the chance for Tom to clear his head long enough that Molly could remind him what love was like…just like theirs had been in Spain. Ever since Pamplona, Molly had held on to the belief that one day she and Tom would be free to feel for one another like they did that summer.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Tom did understand. He didn’t have the sharpest mind for interpreting women, but he could read eyes, and Molly’s looked like any young woman’s eyes when she has hopes that she does not realize shine on her face.
Evening spilled on the horizon slowly and quietly like honey down a tablecloth. If Tom squinted hard enough, he could see the sandy Florida coastline. Before he had time to reminisce about it his past came looking for him.
A commotion broke out on the main deck. All the men gathered around the railing and one man was waving his arms around excitedly. Tom, never trusting of the sea, took a brisk walk toward the crowd to find out what all the fuss was about.
“A maiden! A maiden!” one man was proclaiming.
“I saw her too! A fish-woman! There, not more than a few arms’ length beneath the water!” another man said.
“What’s it you saw?” asked Tom insistently, approaching the men swiftly, not sharing their enthusiasm. Slowly, he scanned their faces and then leaned over the railing to examine the jostling waves.
“Sirens!” a few of the crew burst.
“Wasn’t sirens, fool! Mermaids, Captain,” another argued, nodding his head and folding his arms.
Tom turned to look at the man, who quieted when he saw the unhappy scowl of his captain. “If you’re mistaken or trying to fool me, I’ll have a mind to throw you over, Mr. Carpenter,” he warned. The man, if anything, had seen a thresher shark or some sort of large fish, Tom reasoned. What disturbed him was how close his ship was to land, and how unusually startled the men had been. Not wishing to take any chances, Tom ordered his helmsman to head for shore.
“Captain! Sir!” someone called from across deck.
Tom turned to the voice. One of the crew was pointing at the railing and backpedaling nervously. As he descended the quarterdeck, Tom was met by a messenger. Two pale grey-blue arms slung themselves over the railing and hoisted up a human torso, met at the waist by a large, scaly body that ended in a single tailfin. His back was lined with a spiny dorsal arrangement and along the flanks of his lower half were a handful of flowing, translucent fins. Decorative scarring patterned his upper arms, ribs and forehead—rows of tick marks made with sharks’ teeth. Slinging his long, steel grey, braided hair from his face, the messenger lifted himself upright, looking like a gorgon in stature. His upper body was mutely speckled and shone like a porpoise’s, having similar coloration and texture but with scales covering much of his lower half, except on hi
s underside. With a heave of both arms, he slid himself across the deck to meet Tom.
“You’re far from Oi’tannan,” Tom said plainly, looking sternly into the silver eyes of the messenger.
“I am Wui’an. I bring a decree from Oi’alli,” he replied, very formally, reaching into a netting pouch on his back and retrieving an inch-thick slab of what appeared to be a giant clam shell. Tom accepted it, eyes lingering on the stranger, and turned it over. He couldn’t read the characters. They were all handwritten in a mid-Atlantean language. He didn’t have to read them to know the man wasn’t lying. His skin was scarred in a unique fashion: the cuts on the backs of his hands signified his status as Oi’alli’s highest-ranking subordinate.
“What is this?” Tom asked, handing back the shell slab. He walked around the messenger and out onto the main deck, ordering the crew to return to work, intentionally letting the merman know that his chieftess’s message meant little. A long, reverberating whistle broke the air and drowned out Tom’s orders. Annoyed, he turned an irritated glare on the messenger, who put away his J-shaped coral whistle and stood aside as the rest of his party climbed up and over the railing, drawing long spears. Their flat, double-edged heads were fashioned to look like a stingray’s tail, ending in lengthy, narrow points. Tied round their waists were hard, volcanic stone clubs, handles wrapped in seal skin and bludgeons barbed with tiger sharks’ teeth. Through the crowd came Oi’alli, approaching Tom calmly and unafraid.
“Five years have passed, Thomas,” she said, her voice dry yet youthful. Her sleek body curled round in a horseshoe and she rested upright, her elegant, elongated human torso swaying rhythmically as she put the butt of her staff to the deck.
“Have you forgotten what we decided?” Tom asked, crossing his arms and cocking his head, meeting Oi’alli’s eyes with his own. The silver in her irises reminded him of the night in the swamp. Lapuente came to mind; Gaspar, too.
“I am aware that our agreement changed, and I agreed to grant you ownership of the talisman,” she replied respectfully, having anticipated what Tom was going to tell her.
Having noticed the uncharacteristic silence on deck, Molly set down her knife on the chopping board in the galley. She wiped her hands on her ragged apron before tossing it over a low beam above the stove. She then casually climbed the stairs to the main deck. Upon seeing the congregation of strange creatures on deck, Molly’s hand went immediately to her hip, but she scolded her trigger finger and forced down the urge to get defensive just yet. When one of the creatures cast its gaze on her, she smoothly pretended not to notice and strode across the deck toward Tom, her eyes jumping from face to face, spear to spear, staring at the pale blue bodies rocking and sliding with the tumbles of the ship. Nearing Tom and the unfamiliar figure speaking with him, Molly let go of her pistol belt and listened intently. Her thoughts affixed on the oddly beautiful creature standing, or rather, seated, in front of Tom, tossing its beaded hair and moving its torso fluidly.
“As I said,” Tom was saying, “after I retrieved it, you were not as concerned about its return as you were before, and your counsel granted me ownership. You vaguely mentioned what I could or could not do with it.” Tom paced around Oi’alli in half circles, pointing a finger at her each time he said you. Oi’alli narrowed her eyes each time, growing impatient.
By that time, Morgan Shaw was standing with Molly. He had been quick to figure out what was transpiring between the captain and the visitors.
“When did they come aboard?” he asked, turning his hazel eyes to Molly, one arm across his shoulder, the elbow of the other propped on that one, fingers playing at his lips in a confused manner.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “Who are they?”
“Oi’tan. They’re sea people. Men and women who transform their bodies, like werewolves.” Shaw put his hands on his hips and listened in.
“I am not here to collect the talisman because of our previous agreements, Thomas Crowe. I am here to accept it as payment for damage you caused to Oi’tannan!” Oi’alli suddenly shouted, drumming her staff against the deck. Her guards tensed, hands wringing the shafts of their spears, brows furrowed and silver eyes monitoring Tom.
“Then would you care to explain why you have impeded my trip?” Tom stood in place, facing Oi’alli and refusing to yield.
“Dun-Tok killed several of my warriors after being provoked by your recklessness! Much damage was done to Oi’tannan and our neighbors. I am giving you the chance to atone by conceding the Uyl Talisman. By law, I should kill you!” she raged, her large, slick body forcing Tom backward as she leaned to meet him face to face.
“I was not the one who provoked it! There were other ships! It attacked my ship and I was not going to watch my crew devoured by that monster!” Tom shouted, seizing the handle of his sword and drawing it from the sheath. Oi’alli backed away with a jerk and her guards hurried to her side. Tom’s eyes burned yellow.
“What is she talking about? Dun-Tok? What is that?” Molly asked Shaw, her hand itching to pull a pistol if any of the creatures should dare as much a cough with aggressive intent.
“The Leviathan,” Shaw explained, fingering the hilt of his saber. He kept his eyes on the guards. He knew how to read the captain’s voice well enough to know when to prepare for a fight, and Tom wasn’t ready quite yet.
“I am not here for blood, werewolf,” Oi’alli said, reasserting herself and motioning for her guards to relax. Most of them did, but only after Tom lowered his blade. “By law, I am free to kill you, and know this…I could.” The mermaid slid forward, her staff raised, not stopping until her resplendent beaded necklaces touched Tom’s chest, clicking and chiming in the breeze between them. “I would have already, but regretfully, I see you have a new object of affection,” she whispered, “And despite your crimes, I refuse to risk coloring my actions with jealousy.”
Tom smirked, chuckling and turning to step away.
“I think it would do much more good to use you as an example, Thomas. That is why I have decided to grant you a special punishment.” From her elaborate headdress Oi’alli snatched a strand of black cloth. Closing it in her fist, she squeezed hard. The guards retreated to a safe distance. “Hear this!” she bellowed, “Let your misdeeds exemplify the folly of your kind. Henceforth, whoever bears the Uyl Talisman will suffer a curse. A curse of great power.” Her lips spread and she smiled, white teeth hiding something Tom didn’t understand. The black cloth rose from her hand and flew to Tom’s chest, where it fixed itself firmly. Before he could claw it off, Oi’alli thrust the tip of her staff into it and pressed painfully hard. The black cloth melted away and Tom felt a light pulse against the back of his eyes. A slithering sensation crawled up his right arm. Pulling up the sleeve of his shirt, he saw the Uyl Talisman rattling. He had been using it to speed up the trip to London thus far. Molly and Shaw were speaking to him, but their voices felt like soft rabbit fur in his ears. Turning around, things dragged slowly and caught up with time after he stopped long enough to focus. He caught a glimpse of several tailfins sliding over the railings and heard their departing splashes. Moments began to pass in blinks. Tom successfully and quite dexterously made his way to his cabin. Nothing warned him he was losing consciousness; rather, he knew he was losing much of his sensual clarity.
“Thomas, please, let me take a look,” Molly pleaded with him as he urged her and Shaw to leave him, shutting his cabin door. Tom’s muffled reassurance and some quick orders for the crew came through door, and the two were left with no choice. Shaw corralled the men to their duties and Molly, hesitantly, walked to the galley stair, pausing momentarily to look over her shoulder. Tom seemed to be fine. Who was that woman, though?
Ichthymorph (ICK-thee-morph) is the term that describes what, for ages, sailors called “mermaids” or “merfolk.” Their origins are quite similar to werewolves in that magical practices interfered with generation after generation of children until automorphosis was possible from the moment the individu
al left the womb. Ichthymorphs fall under the category of “automorph”, along with lupomorphs, felomorphs and a handful of other known half-human groups. In contrast, vampires are not automorphs because they are a biological hybrid, not a product of biomagical hybridism. Ichthymorphs share some automorph qualities of werewolves, but are still unique beings. They are exceptionally strong, very spry in water, and as opposed to experiencing hyper-recovery, their bodies are highly resistant to harm. Their scaled skin is not unlike armor, and it is very thick. Of course, these features apply in full only when transformed, as is true with all other automorphs—as well as vampires, for that matter.
Because the oceans are so vast and deep, it is tempting to assume that many tribes of ichthymorphs exist, but what I have learned is that they are no more numerous and varied than other half-human societies. The largest concentrations live between the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn. The only exception is the Nu’yr (NOY-er) tribe—a specially adapted people living in the Arctic Sea. Not much is known about them. This is mostly due to inaccessibility.
Ichthymorphs are most associated with aquamancy—a specific brand of water-based elemental sorcery that most relies on Gresh and Scriptic (languages of spoken spells). Second to this, their next most common practices are faunamancy and floramancy, or in other words, animal and plant-based magic. Mortals have always feared their will over the sea and have avoided contact with them more fervently than with werewolves or vampires.
Oi’alli (Wee-AH-lee) was born into Jaega Indian society. Her parents were both ichthymorphs, but her father, a high priest, rejected the notion of living as such and attempted to raise her on land against her mother’s wishes. The Oi’tan (Wee-TAHN), living offshore, claimed the right to Oi’alli because her mother belonged to their tribe, and they came to land to seize her during a raid. Oi’alli, who disliked her life on land, readily left with the raiders. As a Oi’tan mermaid she learned Scriptic and greatly enjoyed the art of magic. Perhaps because of her father, she was gifted as a spiritual conduit, and she was able to rise to the position of chieftess of the Oi’tan before the age of twenty. She had great potential, being the only one of her kind able to control a beast as ferocious as Dun-Tok (DUHN-took), the Leviathan that Thomas and Molly had encountered prior to their return to Bridgetown in Barbados.
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