And as O’Neill said in his note, Pilsner is a bird of extraordinary talent. If his only talents had been the finding of dropped sewing needles and lost buttons (besides the delivery of letters from afar), he would have been amazing enough. But he is also a fine opponent at checkers, and a gifted dancer. His best talent of all, however, is making our Maren laugh.
Osbert’s jealousy is both pitiful and comical. His attempts to be a lap dog are ridiculous. Who wants to cuddle a hundred-pound dragon, for goodness’ sake? His mournful whimpering for attention is most unwyvernlike. Occasionally, I catch him eyeing the bird with a hungry look and remind him that he is the one who chose to be a domestic creature, and therefore must not give way to his wild urges.
Amusing ravens and envious wyverns aside, I am worried.
Worried because it is now the second week of March and Scarff and O’Neill have not yet rattled and clanged their way to our gate. But more worried because I am certain that my sister is shrinking.
Auntie sees it, too, I know. Although she has not said a word about it, I have watched Auntie run her gaze along the length of our mermaid girl, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.
Auntie lifts one of Maren’s hands and kisses her pale, glittery skin. Maren stirs but keeps her mother-of-pearl colored eyelids closed. Auntie’s brow furrows with concern and sorrow. She sprinkles a teacupful of salt into the tub and stirs it with her hand, swirling the warm water and causing Maren’s floating locks to tangle.
My sister is no longer human. From her coppery hair to the end of her glorious, iridescent tail, Maren is a mermaid. She is beautiful in a way that no mere human could ever be. The only remnants of humanness she retains are O’Neill’s locket (which she refuses to remove), and the shawl that covers her breasts.
I will not ask, “How long can she survive this way?” or “Is she truly growing smaller each day?” I fear Auntie’s utterly honest answers. And in my heart of hearts, I know what they would be.
Osbert nuzzles my leg with his snout and I scratch him between his pointy ears. He could live five hundred more years, he could grow bigger than the cottage and boast teeth as tall as O’Neill, but he will never forget any of this. Wyverns never forget a thing, not even silly pet wyverns like our Osbert.
Suddenly, he lifts his head and perks his ears. His wings twitch and his tail slaps the hardwood floor. With a hearty howl, he dashes into the kitchen and berates the door for being shut. In between his complaints and barks, I hear the faint sound of pots and pans banging together, the tinkle of many wind chimes. My heart races so that I can barely catch my breath.
Auntie is on her feet before I can persuade my own feet to move. Happy tears stream over her plump cheeks as she gives me a gentle shove. “Go on, girl,” she says. “Hurry out and welcome the wanderers home. Thank heavens the winter is finally over!”
Osbert and I race to the wagon, with Pilsner soaring above us. As soon as O’Neill’s boots meet the ground, I throw myself into his arms.
“Well,” he says, “I did not expect such a welcome from you, my well-mannered lass.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I say into his shoulder, breathing in that O’Neill scent I have missed: spices and strong soap, sun-dried clothes and happiness. I feel rescued and hopeful—and in love. “I thought you’d never come.”
He pats my back. “Ah, but I always do, don’t I? As surely as the spring, Scarff and I always return to our girls.”
I step out of his embrace, still clutching the fabric of his colorful vest, and I look into his face. “It was silly of me to think otherwise.” I blush like Mr. Peterman’s awkward son and let go of his clothes.
“You’re even prettier than the last time I saw you, Miss Clara,” he teases.
“And you’ve grown taller, haven’t you? Has Scarff been forced to buy you new trousers again?”
O’Neill holds out a leg. “He gave me his old boots instead. Says people won’t notice how short my trousers are if my boots go to my knees.”
Scarff and Auntie face one another, holding hands. She is fussing over his gauntness, the hollows in his cheeks, the thinness of his pale wrists, how his beard needs trimming and his jacket needs mending. He smiles like a leprechaun beholding an overflowing pot of gold.
“Take me to Maren,” O’Neill says, tugging me along by the hand.
“You will not like what you see,” I warn as we cross the threshold into the kitchen. “She is quite changed, O’Neill.”
“Madame Vadoma’s receipt did not work?”
“It helped a little. Have you brought nothing else for her? A charm or another receipt?”
He shakes his head. “The gypsies had nothing else to offer. I’m sorry.”
From the doorway of the bedroom, the back of Maren’s gold-speckled hair is just visible above the edge of the tub. He releases my hand and approaches her slowly, each step noiseless. When he rounds the tub and sees her fully, all color drains from his face.
“O’Neill,” she mouths, her voice all but gone. Joy expands across her features, making her skin sparkle even more than usual.
“Oh, love,” he whispers. He falls to his knees and reaches for her, cupping her cheek in his palm. “Look at you.”
Maren lifts her silvery-green fin from the water, without any indication of regretting its presence. In fact, she seems proud of her strange appendage. “Beautiful,” she mouths.
O’Neill stares at her in wide-eyed wonder. “Does it hurt? Are you in pain, dearest?”
She shakes her pretty head and motions with her hands. She touches her heart, then points outward, then pantomimes the waves of the ocean.
“She longs for the ocean,” I translate. “She’s been losing her voice.” But I do not think he hears me. Every bit of his attention is directed toward Maren, and I cannot mistake the presence of pure love in his gaze and his gestures.
How I hate myself in this moment. I hate that I am jealous of his undisguised devotion. I hate that I love him and that he does not return my love. I hate that I can so easily think of myself and my desires when my sister is in danger of dying. I leave the room. What is between them is not meant for spectators.
I wish . . .
I wish, above all things, that none of this had ever happened.
Grateful that Scarff and O’Neill have brought sunshine with them, we throw open all the doors and windows to let in the warm air and the sounds of birds rejoicing. Auntie bustles about, gathering ingredients and supplies to prepare a celebratory feast. At Auntie’s command, I stir and knead, baste and slice, chop and arrange. She alternately hums and fusses over the food. Will there be enough applesauce? Are those carrots cut thinly enough? Does O’Neill still hate cabbage?
Scarff and O’Neill are entertaining Maren. For once, she is wide awake and able to enjoy herself. Scarff’s terrible jokes follow close upon O’Neill’s fervent ballad singing (slightly off-key but still moving). Scarff’s deep voice echoes through the cottage as he tells outrageous tales of his youth—which may or may not be true.
When the air is saturated with the scents of ham and fresh bread rolls, candied carrots and apple pie, and once the perfect sprig of parsley is plucked from its pot on the windowsill and placed atop the steaming platter of potatoes, Scarff and O’Neill drag Maren’s tub into the kitchen—mermaid and all. She is given a view of the table and a cup of seaweed tea, for she no longer eats anything.
Other than the bathtub in the kitchen, the celebration resembles every other return-of-Scarff-and-O’Neill party we have ever had—complete with overeating and the exchange of stories and fond glances. Finally, Scarff stands and raises his glass of elderberry wine.
“A toast to the present company,” he declares. We clink glasses and take sips, despite our full bellies. “Now, an announcement.”
Maren claps her hands. Water droplets splash into the fireplace, hissing as they evaporate.
“For many long years has this wonderful creature been the very heart of my heart,” he begins. He lo
oks at Auntie as if they were both seventeen and stricken with first love.
“Do sit down,” Auntie says, “and try not to embellish things too much!”
With a harrumph, Scarff settles into his chair beside Auntie. He takes her hand in his and rests them upon the table. “Shall I start at the very beginning, my love?”
Auntie nods, eyes twinkling.
Scarff leans back in his chair. “If I were to tell you how long ago this tale begins, you would doubt the entire telling of it. So, I will use the traditional beginning. Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young maiden.”
Auntie rolls her eyes heavenward.
“’Tis true, ’tis true,” Scarff insists. “No ordinary girl was she. It was said that her mother was of full faerie blood, and her father was a warrior prince of a far northern land. But she was placed in the care of a pair of spinster ladies. They raised her in a rambling redbrick mansion beside a blue lake. They taught her manners and dancing and how to sew a fine seam. What they did not teach her, what she already knew in her half-faerie bones, were the names and uses of every herb and plant in the forest. Why, without any lessons or books, the lass could make up medicines to cure almost anything. And when the spinster ladies—the Furstwangler sisters, they were called, Inga and Hilma—when they realized the depths of their adopted daughter’s unusual talents, they sent her to be apprenticed to a healer woman in Bremen by the name of Frau Albruna. Some said Albruna was a witch, but I’d never call her such. She did not like the word, and crossing her never did anyone a lick of good. Well, our girl—who came to Albruna with the unlikely name of Veritude—had a mind like a thirsty sponge and before long she’d soaked up all Albruna had to teach. After that, young Fräulein Verity taught Albruna a thing or two!” Scarff pauses to sip his wine and wink at Auntie.
“Enough flirting,” O’Neill scolds. “Get on with the story, old man.”
“Yes. Well. Where was I? Oh, yes, Bremen. I was a strapping lad then, you see. Sixteen, and just back from a year at sea. I’d seen such things on that ship! Six-headed sea monsters that would give your Osbert nightmares! Squid bigger than the ship itself. And even mermaids, though none as lovely as our Maren.”
Maren blows him a kiss. He pretends to catch and pocket it.
Scarff clears his throat and continues. “I was feeling poorly, so my grandmother sent me to Albruna’s place on Otto Strasse. Now as world-traveled as I was, my first sight of Albruna gave me a fright. The tallest woman I’d ever laid eyes on, broad shouldered as the most strapping seaman, wild haired as Medusa, with eyes like two spheres of polished coal afire. I trembled in my boots. My mouth went dry and my pulse roared in my ears. Ready to die standing up, I was. And then a sweet voice came from behind the dreadful woman, saying, ‘Who is it?’ Like music, those three words. A second later, a face peered around the dreadful Albruna, and my poor heart stopped. Just stopped.”
Auntie grins. “It stopped, and he fell like a sapling before a woodsman’s ax. Flat onto Albruna’s enormous feet, squashing her new doeskin slippers.”
Scarff’s chuckle rumbles like far-off thunder. “When I awoke, there was that beautiful face, peering into mine. My heart was beating right as rain, but it no longer belonged to me, and never would again.”
Auntie chimes in, “And I felt the same, from the moment I saw the scrawny blond boy all aquiver on Albruna’s doorstep. Albruna knew it, too. She never said a word about it, but after we’d dosed our patient with tonics and tisanes for three days and nights, and the color had returned to his cheeks, she handed me a satchel holding all my earthly goods, placed a gold ring in Scarff’s hand, and shooed us out the door as if we were a pair of trespassing chickens. I looked back from the street to see her wipe away a tear, and we waved good-bye to one another. I never saw her again.”
Scarff lifts Auntie’s hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles tenderly. “Before we took to the roads, we visited the old priest. Poor Father Matthias, as ancient and holy as he was, he greatly feared Albruna and her pupil, and so did not refuse to marry us—even though it was midnight, with only a pigeon in the chapel rafters as witness. Afterward, he gave us woolen blankets and a lantern and the room above his stables for the night.”
“Married?” I exclaim in wonder and delight. “All this time!”
“You rascal,” O’Neill says, poking Scarff in the shoulder. “Keeping such secrets from your own son!”
“Wait,” I say. “Why have you not lived together? Why have we not all lived together? What fun we could have had!”
“If I could continue without you children interrupting, perhaps you might learn the answers to your questions.” His tone is serious but his blue eyes merry.
“Do go on, forgiving us our rudeness,” O’Neill says with false penitence.
“We wandered for years, my bride and I. I did odd jobs in the towns we visited, and Verity (no longer Veritude, since I changed her name on our wedding night), Verity earned coins aplenty healing the sick. A happier couple there never was. We had each other, a fine tent, a cooking pot, and all the world before us.”
“Until?” offers O’Neill.
Caressing his fluffy beard thoughtfully, Scarff continues. “Until, my boy, until Verity and I took a notion to see the New World. The ships bobbing in the ocean in an English port sparked in her a longing to sail the seas. Remembering my seafaring youth more fondly than I should have, I agreed. Besides, I could deny the enchantress nothing. She might have slipped me a potion and made me into a hairy toad.”
Scarff’s wife (what a grand thing for Auntie to be Scarff’s own wife!) slaps his arm playfully. “If only I could, you old buffoon!”
“Silliness aside,” he says, “the crossing proved a nightmare. Half the passengers perished from a fever, and a third of the crew, as well. Verity nursed as many as she could, using up the box of herbs she’d brought, and much of the captain’s own supply. Yet each morning brought the sounding of the ship’s bell and splash after splash of shrouded bodies slipping into the sea. And days from America, the sickness ceased. For all but my wife, that is.” He stops speaking and squeezes Auntie’s hand.
O’Neill, ever the tease, says nothing. Maren rests her head against the back of the tub. Even Osbert and Pilsner seem to hold their breath in anticipation of Scarff’s next words.
Finally, quietly, he continues. “My Verity fought the fever tooth and nail, and lived. But the child she bore did not. So tiny, she was, our daughter. Verity named her Violet and wrapped her in a length of snow-white silk. The sailors wept as the waves carried her little body away. We were all so heartsick that not one person cheered when we dropped anchor in Boston the following morning.”
“Your only child,” I whisper.
“Our first child, my dear,” Auntie says. “The seashell, stork, and the apple tree gave us three more.”
Standing and stretching like a bear fresh from hibernation, Scarff says, “It’s late. I believe the rest of the story can wait until tomorrow.”
O’Neill and I groan in unison. O’Neill says, “You didn’t explain why you’ve lived apart. You can’t leave us wondering!”
“I can and I will,” Scarff says with authority. “Now, O’Neill my boy, hurry and fetch your things from the caravan. Tonight my darling wife will occupy your place in the bed. You may sleep in the kitchen or the barn, your choice.”
Like a new bride, Auntie blushes. So do I.
“For heaven’s sake,” O’Neill grumbles. But he is smiling widely, looking just as happy as the old married couple. Or almost.
After the couple departs, O’Neill helps me replenish the warm water in Maren’s tub. Next, I wash Maren’s face and hands. It is silly, I know. She lives in clean water from the mountain springs and does nothing to become dirty. But we have always washed our faces together at bedtime. If we cannot share our bed anymore, cannot whisper secrets from our pillows or hold hands after nightmares, at least I can preserve a small piece of our former routine.
She is fas
t asleep before I finish dabbing the water from her alabaster cheeks; it would be pointless to move the tub back into the bedroom now. Osbert promises, with a nod of his head, to alert me if she needs anything during the night.
“That’s done, then,” O’Neill says as he places the last refilled kettle onto the stove. “I’ll soon be off to the barn to share the hay with Zedekiah.” He turns toward me, his expression strange and wistful. For a moment I think he might sweep me into his arms and kiss me, but no. His gaze is on the sleeping mermaid. His tender, loving gaze.
I drop my towel onto the table and hasten toward the bedroom. “Good night,” I say without looking back.
“You don’t want to stay up and talk? Like we always do? Come on, Clara. It is not even midnight.”
“I am tired,” I say. I close the door behind me and dive onto the bed, burying my anguish in the depths of my feather pillow.
I hate myself. I hate O’Neill.
I hate everything in the world. But mostly myself.
I dream.
My wings are long and white, with tips of black as if the feathers had brushed along a sea of ink. On ocean winds, I soar and circle. I angle my elegant red bill downwards and dive toward the water. A coppery head breaks through the top of a wave, and then the pale-skinned torso of a young woman: Maren. She reaches above her head with both arms and flips over into the churning ocean, her iridescent fish tail catching the sunlight before she disappears beneath the surf. My bill opens, but I cannot speak. No matter how I try, I can only make an ugly clattering sound. I dive after Maren, and the water swallows me up like a huge, toothless beast consuming its prey.
I awaken, my heart heavy. Is this prophecy, this strange dream? Will I truly be a stork, as Maren is a mermaid? Could it be confirmation of what I have long expected but attempted to ignore?
The truth is (in spite of all my attempts to ignore it), Maren has shown mermaid-like peculiarities since infancy: a love of water and a taste for salt, the uncanny ability to swim as deftly as a dolphin before she could even speak. But I am nothing like a stork. I haven’t the slightest affinity for eating frogs and minnows, and have never desired to fly. My legs are not long, and I am far from graceful.
The Mermaid's Sister Page 6