It is a more than adequate consolation.
A section of farmer Pinkney’s field is marked off with flaming torches, each as tall as a man. Within this boundary, rows of benches face a raised stage. Above the stage, lanterns hang from a wire and cast a warm glow on the plank floor.
The villagers gather at the boundaries, seeming to hesitate, as if going any farther would be equivalent to entering a fairy circle or haunted place. Only a few young people venture to the benches. They are wearing their best clothes, and so is Maren—whether it’s to impress one another or in honor of the rare event, I do not know.
Maren pulls me by the sleeve of my second-best dress until we reach the center of the third-row bench. Immediately, Simon Shumsky and Daniel Roberts take seats beside us. Daniel sits close enough to me that I can feel the warmth of his thigh through the fabric of my dress and petticoat. His breath makes no secret of the fact that he had onions for supper, washed down with beer. I slide closer to my sister and make use of my fan.
Simon flirts with Maren, and she flirts back. She is only playing, but he has asked her to marry him at least three times this year. He is neither very bright nor very handsome, but he is rich and determined. I wonder if she would have said yes to him someday—for all the wrong reasons—had she not been destined to become a mermaid.
The thought of Maren’s future form sends a shiver of dread through my body. How long will she be able to remain with us on the mountain? And who will take her to the sea when the time comes? I could never be brave enough to take her there alone. I have heard far too many stories of perilous roads and dangerous strangers. And beyond that, how could I keep her safe and hidden? Perhaps with O’Neill’s aid . . .
I stare at Maren’s pretty profile and try to comfort myself with the truth: my sister is not afraid of becoming a mermaid. She has spoken of it since we were very young, and never with dismay. Quite the opposite, in fact. I think the romance of life in an underwater kingdom appeals to her greatly.
If I were more like her, I might relish the thought of the feathers and wings I will grow one day if or when I become a stork—instead of accepting my possible fate without joy, as I do now.
The music of a flute wafts over the crowd and distracts me from my woeful reverie. Finally, the villagers dare to step into the bounds of the show, finding seats and shushing noisy children and spouses. Near the back of the platform, a red velvet curtain parts, and a woman walks to center stage. Her skin is the color of caramel, and her small, lithe body is wrapped in a sunset of silks. Gold rings adorn her ears and a diamond sparkles on her nostril. She spreads her arms wide and begins to sing.
She sings in deeply accented English, a song about a caged bird’s longing for freedom. Her voice soars and dips like a swallow in flight. Suddenly, or so it seems, the song is over. The audience applauds and cheers. Beside me, Daniel Roberts whistles—and then looks at me sheepishly and apologizes.
A short, stout, impeccably dressed gentleman takes the stage. He sweeps his top hat off his balding head and bows low. Then he says, “Ladies and gentlemen! I, Dr. George Wilhelm Hieronymus Lewis Balthazar Phipps, welcome you here tonight. You have just had the great privilege of hearing the beautiful songstress Madame Soraya of Gojanastani, the darling of the crowned heads of Europe and Asia. And now I present to you the handsome, the masterful, the celebrated Jasper Armand and his captivating violin!”
Dr. Phipps steps behind the curtain. He is replaced on the stage by a tall young man with a boyish face and a mop of brassy curls. He has the same eyes as the singer: golden-brown, like those of a mountain lion. He lifts the violin and, as promised, the audience is captivated.
Jasper plays with abandon, his face changing with each melody’s mood. He moves from gentle lullaby to mournful ballad to rollicking jig. The jig brings the crowd to their feet and into the aisles. Simon and Maren twirl and canter and laugh. I am pulled and spun about by Daniel until I am quite dizzy.
“Take your seats, if you please,” Dr. Phipps calls out when the music ends. “The great Jasper Armand shall entertain you again momentarily,” he says. “First, I must deliver unto you a message of the greatest import. As a practitioner of the medical arts, I am bound by conscience to speak to you plainly, to reveal the deep secrets of healing I have gathered. Open your ears to the sound of my voice, ladies and gentlemen.”
Dr. Phipps paces like a wildcat and extols like a preacher. “Have you aches and pains? Anxieties or doldrums? Skin rashes, stomach ailments, or digestive weakness? Have you women’s problems? Coughs or colds? Wheezes or sneezes? Palsies or poxes? Poor memory or trouble sleeping? Would you like to feel young again? Behold, I bring you glad tidings! I, Dr. George Wilhelm Hieronymus Lewis Balthazar Phipps, possess the miracle you have been longing for. For every health issue you might be facing, I have developed an effective curative.”
He pauses for a moment, using a bright-blue silk handkerchief to dab his damp brow. “How, you might ask, could one man find the cures for every sickness known to humankind? Well, my fine folks, I have consulted with physicians, scholars, shamans, wise men, wizards, scientists, and men of faith from across the globe. And the fruit of these studies is what I offer you here tonight: Dr. Phipps’s Special Formulas. I offer you balms, elixirs, pills, and syrups—each suited for your specific affliction, and priced fairly so that I can help as many folks as possible.” His expression of earnestness is every bit as theatrical as his speech.
He spreads his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Do not suffer another day, I beseech you. Visit the tables behind the stage after the show and purchase your new, healthy life tonight. We also offer fine soaps, tooth powders, painted fans, and gifts from faraway lands. Now, do not hesitate, my dear friends! Your miracle awaits you!”
I know he is a liar, for Auntie has warned us well of such men. But he is a skilled liar, and there is no way that I can stem the tide of customers rushing to buy his sham cures. As if to contrast the hectic movement, Jasper plays a mellow tune on guitar.
Simon takes Maren by the gloved hand. “I’ll buy you something pretty, Miss Maren. Whatever you choose.”
“That is very kind of you,” she says. My sister is never one to refuse a gift.
I follow close behind Maren and Simon, losing Daniel in the throng. Every resident of the mountain (except Auntie) must be here tonight. And most of them seem extremely anxious to waste their money.
When we reach the tables, Maren points out a pair of embroidered silk gloves. Madame Soraya, now shop mistress, picks them up. “Try them. They will look beautiful with your ivory skin,” she says. “Give me your hands and I will show you.”
As quick as a striking snake, Madame Soraya takes hold of Maren’s hands and pulls off her lace gloves. I gasp, and so does the show woman.
It is too late for my sister to hide her “affliction” from Madame Soraya. I look about, terrified that others might have seen. Auntie has kept our bits of magic (and our pet wyvern) secret all these years. She has warned us of the possible consequences of revealing our uniqueness: the loss of our home, our friends, and perhaps our lives.
To my relief, no one is staring at us. Even Simon seems not to have noticed Maren’s hands. He stands half-turned away from the table, deep in conversation with the village mason.
Madame Soraya says, “I have seen this before. If you will meet me when the show is over, I will take you to Dr. Phipps. I am sure he can help you, child.”
“It’s nothing,” Maren says, escaping Madame Soraya’s grip and hiding her hands behind her back. “Just something that runs in my family, like freckles or large ears.”
“You come and meet us,” Madame Soraya insists. “It is a matter of life and death, child. You know this as well as I.”
Maren turns away from the table. “I want to go home, Simon. They have nothing I want.” Her pretty face is pale and her lower lip trembles.
“I will drive you home in my father’s carriage,” Simon says as he guides us through the crowd. “I
could not call myself a gentleman if I allowed you girls to walk two miles up the mountain in the dark.”
“Thank you, Simon,” I say. “We appreciate your kindness.”
Maren is uncharacteristically quiet during the ride home, no matter how hard Simon tries to amuse her. Poor Simon.
Later, safe at home in our shared bed, Maren says, “Perhaps you were right to want to stay home tonight. Perhaps I should try to be more sensible, like you.”
I roll over to face her. “What fun would the world be if everyone was sensible like me?” I say. “What fun would I have if you allowed me to sit about reading all day? You make me live, sister. You keep me from being boring and bored.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Still, I would like to be better. Not always horrifying you and Auntie with my bad manners.”
“Go to sleep, dear,” I say, yawning. “You may reform in the morning—if you still wish to.”
She is quiet for a moment, and then whispers, “I will stay home from now on, although I will most certainly hate it. I do not want to scare the boys with my scales and fins; I would rather remember them thinking me pretty.” She rolls away from me and takes my share of the blankets with her. “Good night, Clara.”
“Good night,” I say.
Truth be told, I do wish we had stayed home. And I wish the medicine show woman had not caught a glimpse of Maren’s webbed fingers. I hope Maren’s careless revelation is quickly forgotten and does not bring consequences upon our little family.
My most fervent wish tonight, the last wish I will allow myself before surrendering to sleep, is for Madame Soraya and the dreadful medicine show to leave Llanfair Mountain before dawn and never return.
CHAPTER FIVE
August melts into September. Auntie and I harvest our crops of beans, potatoes, carrots, and beets. We gather herbs and hang them to dry in the attic. We pick grapes, pears, and apples. Every apple I pick reminds me of O’Neill, the apple tree child. I can no longer tell myself that I think of him only as my brother. I love him, and when he returns, I . . . I will most certainly not tell him.
Here on Llanfair Mountain (too many miles from wherever O’Neill may be), even the nosiest gossip fails to mention Maren’s odd hands being revealed by the medicine show woman. For that, I am exceedingly grateful.
Maren is changing. Osbert follows her about, hanging his head and whimpering.
While Auntie and I work, Maren sits in the shallow end of the Wishing Pool if the weather is fine, or on a chair with her feet soaking in the washtub if there is a chill in the air. She must always be touching water now, as being completely dry causes her anxiety and discomfort.
She is losing her voice. Her loudest words come out as a whisper.
And the fishlike scales no longer hide beneath her skin’s surface. Cool to the touch, they adorn her sides in silvery-green layers.
She hobbles on feet that are closer to fins.
When the pain of her body’s transformation causes her to weep, tiny pearls fall from her eyes. She catches them in a bowl and buries them in the garden when she thinks Auntie and I are not looking. The garden is full of little mounds, as if an army of very industrious moles has taken up residence there.
I am glad we live two miles uphill from the village and rarely receive callers this time of year. But what if someone were to arrive and catch Maren unawares? She could not run to safety on her unwieldy fin-feet. She could not fight off even a salamander in her weakened state.
In a few weeks, Maren and I will be seventeen. I desire no gift more than the return of Scarff and O’Neill. Their presence would lift our spirits and distract Maren from her sufferings better than any medicine. And with any luck, O’Neill will bring some potion, pill, or enchantment to heal her, as he has sworn to do.
Day after day, I listen for the sound of clanging pots and pans and the music of Scarff’s fantastic collection of wind chimes. I dream of it, and awake disappointed.
CHAPTER SIX
Christmas is next week. Auntie is stirring a pot of spiced apples on the wood-burning cookstove. The kitchen air is warm and when I breathe in, I can almost taste the cinnamon, cloves, and fruit. I knit clumsily, my stitches uneven and lumpy, while Maren dozes in the rocker at the hearthside. Her feet, which no longer look human at all, are soaking in a bucket of warm water. Bits of silver on her cheeks and brow catch the firelight. She looks beautiful and tragic, ill yet perfect.
Osbert bays like a hound and hurls himself into the cellar just before the pounding begins on the kitchen door. I throw a blanket over Maren, covering her from her neck to the floor as the visitor lets himself in, uninvited.
“A happy Christmas to you,” says Simon Shumsky. He presses a wooden crate into Auntie’s hands and then removes his hat. “Mother sent you a fruitcake, a jug of elderberry wine, and her greetings.” His attention quickly turns to the shawl-covered girl. “Is she feeling poorly, Mrs. Amsell?”
Maren opens her eyes. “Oh, hello, Simon,” she whispers.
“Well, thank you for stopping,” I say. I grab his elbow and attempt to steer him toward the door, but he is built like an ox. And this ox is bent on getting closer to Maren.
“I am in no hurry to go, Miss Clara,” he says, brushing past me.
Simon gets on one knee beside Maren, his square face inches from her sparkling cheekbone. “I came to ask you to the Christmas dance, Miss Maren. Father says I can use his new carriage. Your sister can come along, too. I bought a new suit last week just for the occasion.” His adoring, eager smile makes me feel quite sorry for him.
“Too sick,” Maren mutters. Her eyelids close.
“Well, you have eight days to get well. Doesn’t your aunt have the cure for everything?” He places a small box in her blanket-covered lap. “I brought you a Christmas gift. I’ve been saving it for months.”
Her eyelids flutter. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“I am sorry, Simon,” I say. “She simply cannot stay awake at times. It is her condition. I am sure she will enjoy opening your gift later.”
He stands, still wearing the same lovesick face he always wears in Maren’s presence. “I will pick her up for the dance on the twenty-sixth at three, Mrs. Amsell. And Clara, too, if she cares to go.”
Auntie puts her hands on her hips. “We do thank you for your kind invitation, but Maren is too ill to go to the dance, Simon.”
“Surely the sickness will pass,” he says. “I will say many prayers, and I know you will nurse her well. If I may tell you a secret, I plan to announce our engagement at the dance.”
“She has not agreed to marry you,” I say. “She would have told us if she had.”
Simon fingers the buttons of his woolen coat. “She has implied her consent. She likes to tease me, and that is why she pretends to refuse my offers. I know I can make her happy. I swear I will.”
Auntie puts an arm about him and somehow maneuvers him to the door. “Good night, Simon. Thank your mother for the foodstuffs, will you?” Before he can don his hat, he is outside. Auntie shuts and locks the door.
“I’ve never seen a boy so smitten,” Auntie says, turning back to the stove and stirring the preserves. “Perhaps I should brew up something to relieve him of that.”
The box rolls off Maren’s lap and I pick it up. “Can you do that?”
“Infatuation is easy to cure, if that is his problem. A little dandelion root, a sprig of hare-foot plant, a shaving of nutmeg, and a drop of moonrose nectar mixed into a cup of chamomile. True love is another story, I’m afraid. There is no cure for true love.”
“I thought as much,” I say. I turn the little box over in my hands and I think of my long-absent, much-missed friend O’Neill. I wonder if I could be cured of my feelings for him. It is not at all what I wish.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I recognize the thick, muffled feeling of snow in the air before I even open my eyes. I roll over to wish my sister a merry Christmas, but she is absent from the bed we have shared since we outgrew
our extra wide cradle.
After slipping on woolen socks (hideously lumpy, made by me) and a robe of purple Chinese silk (last year’s Christmas gift from O’Neill and Scarff), I hurry to the kitchen. The aroma of Auntie’s special Christmas apricot scones meets me halfway.
With her fin-feet in a festively painted coal scuttle filled with water, Maren sits at the kitchen table. She has roses in her cheeks and a bright smile on her lips. The sash of her pink silk robe is tied in a huge bow.
“Merry Christmas, sister,” she says, offering her cheek for a kiss. Her voice is stronger this morning. I am certain of it.
“Isn’t this a Christmas miracle?” I embrace her. My ear to hers, I hear the sound of the ocean. I draw back with a start.
“Doesn’t she look lovely?” Auntie says. She sets a steaming plate of scones on the table beside jewel-colored jam and a saucer of pale yellow butter. “I brewed up a tisane of dried kelp, crushed shark’s tooth, and powdered mussel shells. Perked her right up.”
“And look!” Maren points to the window. “It’s snowing.”
Osbert stretches his long neck to get a glimpse of the weather. His barbed tail bounces up and down, drumming a happy beat on the floorboards. Our wyvern loves to play in the snow.
“After breakfast, could Clara harness Osbert to the little sleigh and take me for a ride to the meadow?” Maren asks. “Please? I feel ever so much better, Auntie.”
“Well, maybe for a few minutes. Girls of your particular temperament are not meant for the snow, Maren dear.”
“I am not a mermaid yet, Auntie.” Her familiar pout returns. It makes my heart sing to see her so much herself again.
“I suppose,” Auntie says. “But just a short ride, mind you. We have Christmas gifts to open.”
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