Maren and I wolf down our breakfasts. Auntie indulges our lack of manners. In her eyes I see her thought: This will be Maren’s last Christmas with us. And Auntie cannot tell a lie, cannot even think one.
Auntie wraps Maren in coats and capes and every spare blanket she can find. Outside, I buckle the red leather harness around the exuberant wyvern. His wings flap snow into my eyes. His wagging tail has swept three inches of snow from the ground to reveal sprigs of brown grass.
Together, Auntie and I settle Maren into the sleigh. She is light as a feather, even covered in woolens and down-filled quilts. Her sparkling face peers out of Auntie’s paisley shawl. Has anyone ever been more beautiful than my sister?
“Just a short trip,” Auntie cautions as I lead Osbert across our white-clothed garden.
After the kitchen door shuts with a thud, there is silence—the holy silence of winter, broken only by the pings of snowflakes meeting their siblings on the ground, and the soft shushing of the sleigh.
The glorious meadow twinkles and glimmers in its winter finery. Towering pines stand at its edges like ermine-clad kings. Maren sighs and squeezes my mittened hand. We do not need to speak.
From a distance, a sound reaches my ears. First, it seems like the scratching of some animal’s claws against metal. As it grows, I recognize the sound of bells.
“The Halsteds must be taking a sleigh ride,” I remark. But a moment later, a small horse trots out of the forest, his black coat almost painful to behold against the white snow. His mane is woven with silver bells and ribbons, and on his back he wears fat saddlebags of green leather, but no saddle. He stops when he sees us and bows his head as if in greeting. Steam rises from his nostrils in roiling clouds.
“He is darling!” Maren says. Her voice is muffled by a thick, woolen scarf.
“You poor, frozen dear,” I say to the horse. “Follow us and we will warm you by our fire.” I shake the reins. “Home, Osbert.” The horse trails behind the sleigh, his bells jingling merrily.
“What have we here?” Auntie says from the doorway. “The poor creature! Bring him in before he freezes solid!”
The horse just fits through the kitchen door. Auntie stations him by the fire as if he were a human friend come to call and not an animal that ought to be in the barn. Next we carry Maren in. She is squirming with delight, enthralled by our odd Christmas visitor.
Once Maren is comfortably arranged in the rocker, I shed my coat and scarf and set to rubbing the horse dry. He nickers and nods with gratitude.
“Now, my fine fellow,” Auntie says, “might we see what you carry in your pack? Perhaps a clue as to where you ought to be this grand day.”
The horse nickers again and shakes his mane of silver bells. After Auntie takes the pack from his back, she sets it on the kitchen table. I work to undo one of the buckles and Auntie works at the other. With sleepy eyes, Maren watches us from the fireside. The horse lies down and places his head next to her steaming footbath.
“You do the honors,” Auntie says to me, stepping aside.
I open the flap. On top of several brown-papered boxes, I find an envelope. “Mrs. Verity Amsell and Nieces,” it reads. I gasp, recognizing the loopy penmanship. No one but O’Neill has such a hand. “It’s from O’Neill. But how?” I say excitedly.
“Open it and see, for goodness’ sake,” Auntie urges.
Inside, I find two letters. One is addressed to “Mrs. V. Amsell, and also the Young Misses Maren and Clara.” The other is addressed solely to me. I slip my letter into my skirt pocket before tearing open the letter to us all. I read it aloud.
Dear ones,
I beg your forgiveness for our lack of correspondence, and most especially for not returning in October as is our habit. Scarff and I have been beset by ill luck since leaving you last summer. We have been burglarized, we suffered two broken wheels in the space of a week, and we capsized in a river—a harrowing adventure I will expound upon when I see you again. We also lost our way in a most peculiar forest for nine days, and recently, both came down with a terrible fever, which even Auntie Verity’s best elixirs could not eradicate. As I write this, Job and January are fighting off some sort of equine cough.
We are currently camping with a band of jovial gypsies on the banks of an alligator-infested lake. They are good with the horses (the gypsies, not the alligators). Madame Vadoma burns the foulest of incense, swearing that it will keep the toothy reptiles at bay. Yet I do not trust the beasts (the alligators, not the gypsies). There is hunger in their eyes and ill will in their toothy grins.
Through all of this, our hearts have been constantly aching to return to you, our dearest friends. How we have fretted over Maren’s health! To that effect, we have enclosed a few items she may find helpful. You will find them in the small square box.
Scarff begs me to inform you, Auntie, that when we return in spring, he will bring you the one thing your heart and his have most greatly desired for all your years of acquaintance. He says this with an impish smile and will tell me no more of it.
Since you are reading this, you have met our friend Zedekiah. I am confident that he will enjoy life with you on Llanfair Mountain, as he has a great affinity for clovers drenched in dew.
Scarff and I send our love to you all. If wishing got a body something, we would wish to spend this Christmas in your snug cottage. And now I am imagining Auntie’s delectable pies and hot spiced cider and drooling on my best waistcoat. Scarff bids me to stop immediately.
Your faithful servants,
O’Neill the Magnificent and Ezra Scarff
“Gypsies and alligators,” Maren whispers. “Can it be true?”
“Of course it is,” I say. “Why would O’Neill make up such a tale?”
“To impress us with his brave exploits,” she says.
Her words awaken a defensiveness of O’Neill I had not realized was lurking in my heart. I open my mouth to rebuke my sister, but Auntie interrupts.
“Shall we see what gifts they sent? Poor Zedekiah carried the burden of them for hundreds of miles, and yet it seems that you girls would rather bicker than open them.” Auntie has her hands on her hips in her best “maternal authority” pose.
Without another word, I peel the brown paper from the first box and remove its lid. Inside are smaller boxes, each adorned with a gilt-edged tag naming the recipient.
I deliver Maren’s into her hands. She smiles, the sparkles around her eyes glistening. We silently forgive one another for our squabbling.
Within my sister’s little box is a necklace: a gold locket engraved with an apple tree. She sighs and presses it to her breast before slipping the delicate chain over her head.
Auntie coos over her gift: an illuminated book of herbal recipes collected in a volume small enough to fit in her apron pocket. “So pretty and practical at the same time,” she declares.
Holding my breath, I open the box meant for me. I am ready to be amazed. And ready to be disappointed.
Wrapped in crinkly paper is a miniature painting in a wooden frame. It could easily fit inside a soup spoon. I hold the scene close and examine its subjects: a white stork perched in a fruit-laden tree, a rippled pond. At the edge of the pond, almost too small to see, is a pink conch shell.
Auntie leans in over my shoulder. “O’Neill painted that himself,” she says. “He was working on it in August when he was here. My, how lovely! Such a talented boy!”
I cannot decide whether I am pleased with my gift or jealous of Maren’s. I despise myself for such selfishness. Does not my sister deserve all of the best gifts? Her time with us seems to be dwindling so quickly. She may not spend another Christmas with Auntie and me. She may never celebrate the holidays again, for who knows what customs mermaids keep?
From each of Maren’s ocean-colored eyes falls a pearl the size of the head of a pin. They roll down her pale, twinkling cheeks, over the smooth silk of her robe, and tumble to the floor. She does not try to catch them. “I will miss Christmas most, o
f all the days in the year,” she says, as if she has read my mind.
“Come now,” Auntie says. “We must not dwell on what will or will not be. Today we have Christmas. Today is all we have, my dears. Today is all we ever have.” Despite her brave words, Auntie has tears in her eyes as well.
Outside, Osbert scratches at the door and howls. In all the excitement over Zedekiah, we left our faithful wyvern in the snow. Auntie lifts the latch and he bolts across the kitchen, dragging a snowdrift in with his tail. Little icicles hang from his chin like a beard. His wings stick out stiffly at his sides. Maren laughs as he turns three circles in front of the fire and flops onto his belly with a pitiful moan.
Auntie places a basin of warm peppermint tea under Osbert’s snout. “Merry Christmas to you, beast,” she says. “There’s your favorite.”
After we open the other packages (a tin of dried seaweed, six oranges, several yards of scarlet and black brocade, two drawing pencils, a harmonica, eight well-polished clamshells, and a jar of vanilla beans), I slip away to the bedroom to read my letter from O’Neill.
Perched on the edge of the bed, I stare at the loops and swirls that make up my name. What was he thinking when he penned the letters? That he missed me? That he missed his almost-sister? Or that he needed to hurry and get to his chores, or into the arms of some lovely gypsy girl?
My trembling fingers pry the flap loose and the letter falls into my lap. The folded paper is onion-skin thin. Words crisscross over words like the dark tracks of ice skates upon a frozen pond.
With great care, I coax the missive flat and begin to read.
Dear Clara,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that Zedekiah has arrived before Christmas. He promised to do his utmost to reach you before December’s end.
I am writing to you privately because I do not wish to alarm Auntie. But I feel compelled to tell you the truth, dearest friend. That truth is, Scarff is quite unwell. The fever has left him weak as a kitten, yet he manages to cough as if he might bring up a lung. His clothes are suddenly too large for him. I wish that I could deliver him into Auntie’s care, as I know she could fatten him up and restore his vim and vigor in no time. Unfortunately, Scarff is constrained by rules that you and I cannot comprehend, rules that dictate the days and seasons he may set foot upon your splendid mountain. This is a mystery to me, as I know it is to you. In Auntie’s stead, the incense-burning gypsy Madame Vadoma looks after him in her way. She is a hundred years old if she is a day, and seems to have a way with medicines and charms. Scarff is as gruff as a bear with her, but it only makes her cackle.
How I miss you and Maren! My greatest fear is that the mermaid will overtake her before I return. I enclose Madame Vadoma’s receipt for a tisane that she claims will slow the transformation, and ease any pain Maren might have. I beg you to try it (with Auntie’s permission, of course).
Please tear the receipt from this letter and then burn it. (I mean burn the letter, not the receipt.)
In the spring, we will dance in the orchard with the honeybees. I will teach you how to eat fire and throw knives (skills my gypsy friends have taught me). These things I swear, dear Clara, by all the alligators in the lake.
Your faithful servant,
O’Neill
Madame Vadoma’s Receipt for Maren
2 teaspoons dried seaweed
Shredded rind of ½ orange
1 teaspoon dried lavender flowers
½ teaspoon salt (preferably sea salt)
2 pinches of crushed clamshell (use mortar and pestle to make like sand)
1 strand of hair from the Person Who Needs This Medicine
Dash of black pepper
Tie ingredients inside a square of cotton cloth and steep in 1 cup of boiled water for 5 minutes. Add 1 teaspoon of honey and drink all within 3 minutes with eyes closed and a silver coin in left hand. Drink once before breakfast and once at bedtime.
I read the letter again and again. Why does O’Neill’s odd penmanship make it difficult for me to breathe?
In spite of his instructions, I tear the letter into three pieces. One is the receipt to give to Auntie, one is the paragraph in which O’Neill promises to dance with me and teach me to eat fire, and one is the rest of the letter. I set the receipt on the nightstand. I tuck the paragraph about dancing and fire-eating beneath my pillow. I toss the largest section into the coals of the bedroom’s fireplace and watch as the paper turns gray and then black before bursting into flame.
Watching the flames, I picture O’Neill. He extends his arms and I step into them as a shower of apple blossoms descends around us. He begins to hum, and we waltz around the apple tree. There is no one else in the world but us, and I am happy.
It is one more wish for my collection.
Auntie is asleep in her chair by the fire, her embroidery hoop in her lap. Osbert snores beside Maren’s footbath. Maren hums softly, a song I do not know. If I had to give it words, it would tell of undersea princesses riding dolphins to their undersea weddings.
My sister seems content. Perhaps it is only my imagination, but I think her countenance has brightened since Auntie dosed her with Madame Vadoma’s tisane—although less than an hour has passed since Maren drank the murky, dark-green liquid.
A glint of gold on the mantel shelf catches my eye. Gold ribbon wrapped around a tiny cherrywood box. Simon’s Christmas gift to Maren! How could I have forgotten it all this time?
I take the box down and give it to Maren. A note is tucked beneath the ribbon.
“Will you read it, sister?” Maren asks. “Reading tires me so.” I can see several rows of silver-edged scales through the fabric of her nightgown, ending just above the curve of her hip. She never wears a proper dress anymore; a corset would be unbearable, for it would crush her new scales. Besides, mermaids were not meant for clothes. Even the thinnest of nightgowns seems to irritate her.
I unfold the note. “Are you sure I should read it? It is from Simon. It may be private.”
“Read,” she says. She closes her eyes, and I begin.
Dearest darling Maren,
Here is a gift for you. It is very special. I bought it at the medicine show on the second night, when you were not with me, from the woman who sang and almost sold us gloves. She said it was from her country, and that if you kept it close to you, it would ease any sufferings you might have. She seemed to think you were unwell. Regardless, I thought it pretty. But not as pretty as you, my dearest darling.
Ever yours,
Simon David Shumsky
I groan. “Dearest darling? Ugh.”
“He cannot help his feelings, I suppose,” Maren says. She lifts the lid of the box and takes out a small stone. It is deep brown with a stripe of bronze down the center, like the eye of a cat. “It is rather pretty.” She pries open the locket O’Neill sent and places the stone inside. “It will be safe there, and if it has the magic the woman said it does, it will be close enough to me to do its work. Perhaps it will lessen the pain of changing. At times it is almost more than I can bear.”
“I will be glad if it helps you. But I do not think that anything they sold at the show was genuine,” I say. “Remember how Auntie had to make special tonics for many of the villagers who took Dr. Phipps’s mixtures?”
Maren yawns. “Yes. But this is only a bit of rock. What harm could it do?”
Auntie awakens with a start. “Goodness me, it’s nigh on midnight. Time for bed, my girls.”
Auntie and I each put an arm about Maren’s shoulders and help her hobble to bed. We wrap her greenish-blue legs in damp towels and kiss her good night.
“Merry Christmas, sister,” Maren and I say at the same moment. A tiny pearl rolls down Maren’s cheek and onto her pillow.
I lie down with her and press my hand against her cool, glittering cheek. “We have had the best of Christmases, haven’t we, dear? Snow and gifts from Scarff and O’Neill, that funny little horse, and Auntie’s good food. I am grateful for it, and you.” I s
wallow hard, tasting unshed tears in the back of my throat.
She closes her eyes. “I wonder if they celebrate Christmas beneath the sea. If I will.” Her voice is fading again. Whatever Christmas miracle returned it to her is diminishing.
“That is a mystery,” I say. “A very great mystery.”
Next year, unless O’Neill procures a very great miracle to reverse the change, she will know for certain what the merfolk do at Christmas. Will she send a message by seagull to share with me the customs they keep in the deep? Will she send gifts of sea glass and pirates’ lost coins? Will she remember us at all?
Time will tell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In my nighttime dreams, I am brave.
Maren rides behind me on Zedekiah. He is not the small horse who has taken up residence in the barn with our three goats. He is a splendid stallion, sixteen hands high, regal and fearless. He carries us over mountains and through rivers, across barren plains and through tangled forests.
I sit up as straight and tall as a princess, but I am dressed as a boy, and a long sword bounces against my leg with each of Zedekiah’s prancing steps. We journey through many days and nights until we reach the sea.
Zedekiah gallops into the water. He slows as the water reaches his chest, and stops altogether when it reaches the base of his neck.
Something is approaching, moving fluidly toward us, moving fast under a layer of water as thin as glass. I draw my sword.
Out of the water appears the head of a giant sea horse, and enthroned upon the sea horse is a bare-chested man. Or rather, a bare-chested merman. His hair is white and as wild as the waves, and his crown is made of coral and pearls. His fishy half starts just below his navel, scales of iridescent green and orange and gold. His brow is furrowed, but he is smiling. “Daughter?” he says, his ocean-colored eyes on my sister. He urges the sea horse closer and reaches for Maren.
“Stand down,” I command. “We have not come to surrender, but to demand that you release her from your realm. We demand that you grant her freedom from the sea and return her to her human form.” My sword is pointed at his head. I do not tremble before this king.
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