The Mermaid's Sister

by Carrie Anne Noble

  “Please do not tap upon the glass or bother the mermaid with loud noises. She is a sensitive creature,” Soraya says.

  From behind the curtain, the teenager says, “Oh, glory!”

  “Move along, sir,” Soraya says. “Next please.”

  The boy emerges, rubbing his forehead and smiling like a drunken clown.

  Time and time again, the male customers come out from behind the curtain with similar expressions, somewhere between lovesick and stupefied. The females look jealous or skeptical. All the children have shiny Christmas-morning faces.

  Guilt washes over me. I should have been able to protect my sister from being put on display for profit. From being ogled like the two-headed lamb or the collection of eyeballs. I want to hop off my crate and rescue her, but I feel Dr. Phipps’s gaze upon me, and I know that to attempt to take Maren now would buy my death and leave her at his mercy however long she might live.

  An hour later, or maybe two, the last gawker exits the tent. Every bone and muscle in my body aches from remaining still for so long. My feet throb, and I wonder if real Japanese princesses are forced to wear such uncomfortable shoes.

  “It is time for bed,” Soraya says. Her money box rattles as she saunters past me. “You will need your rest. In the morning, we pack and take to the road again. This is hard work, is it not? The life of the entertainer.”

  Wearily, I nod.

  “One thing before I go,” she says coolly. “You will not assault a paying customer again. If you feel you are being threatened, cough loudly and I will come to your aid. Your behavior this evening was most undignified, and could have meant a loss of profit for Dr. Phipps. And you know it is our duty to keep Dr. Phipps happy.”

  I nod again with the poise of Princess Hatsumi. Inside, my anger simmers.

  “I am glad we understand one another,” she says. “Now, douse all the lamps in the gallery, and then go straight to bed.”

  I do not go to the wagon to sleep. Instead, I go to Maren. On her bed of pearls, she slumbers as peacefully as a baby.

  “Good night, sister,” I say. I kick off the horrid wooden sandals and wrap myself in the blue velvet formerly used to cover her jar. I lie down beside her on the dirt floor.

  I sleep, and I dream of growing white feathered wings and a long red bill. I dream of pulling Maren from her jar with my clawed toes and lifting her above the tent. My wings catch the wind and I carry my sister through cloudless skies all the way to the sea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In the next town, I beg to be taught a show-worthy skill. O’Neill spends two hours schooling me in the art of juggling. He is a patient teacher indeed. When he stands close to me, the warmth radiating from his skin makes me weak in the knees. He cups my hands in his, forcing me to toss the balls high into the air. He whispers instructions and encouragements into my ear. I could melt into the earth.

  Silently, I scold my wayward heart and remind it that O’Neill loves my sister, and she loves him.

  As I fumble with the colored balls, O’Neill groans and rolls his eyes. Jasper howls dementedly, seeming to find it especially hilarious when the balls bounce off my head and shoulders.

  I am not so amused. I do not relish the thought of spending another evening as Princess Hatsumi. Still, if that is my fate, at least I will be in the same room as Maren.

  Jasper sits down on a tree stump and sighs. “You will never be a juggler, Clara. Unless . . .” A wicked grin blossoms between his nose and chin, “Unless you become Clumsy Clara the Clown. I believe we have a clown costume somewhere.”

  O’Neill laughs as if he and Jasper are great friends. He should not behave so.

  “Well, that is out of the question,” I declare. “I dislike clowns, and I will not be one.”

  “Hmm,” O’Neill says, regaining his composure. “What about a magician’s assistant? I’ve been studying a book I found in the wagon and I recall reading of several illusions we could perform together.”

  “Will I be sawed in two? I would really rather stay in one piece,” I say.

  “No sawing, I promise,” O’Neill says. “But I could make you vanish. Or you could hand me props for other tricks.”

  “Smashing idea,” Jasper says. “And Mama has just the gown for you, all spangled and barely decent.”

  I think he is serious. I refuse to further his amusement by expressing my horror at the thought of the immodest dress.

  Jasper jumps to his feet. “I’ll just hurry over and ask Papa doctor and Mama what they think of the idea. Then I’ll find that fabulous gown for you to try.” He winks at me roguishly before walking away.

  “There,” says O’Neill. “Problem solved.”

  “One of them,” I say. “And not the most pressing one. We are no closer today to finding a way to deliver Maren to the ocean than we were the day Phipps first dosed us. Time is passing, and her chances with it.”

  “Not so loud, Clara,” O’Neill says. “First of all, do as I do, and feign friendship. Or at least submission. You must not cause the slightest suspicion.” He leans closer, resting his cheek against mine as he whispers in my ear. “I have been thinking about Maren’s dilemma, every minute of every day. I will find a way to take her to the ocean, Clara. If I have to die to do it, I will.”

  “What’s all this?” Dr. Phipps’s voice bellows behind us. “Lovers’ murmurings, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” O’Neill says without missing a beat.

  “Well, fair Romeo, you are needed for some honest work. Madame Phipps wishes to rearrange the artifacts in the Gallery of Wonders and requires brute strength. Get thee hence before she becomes a gorgon and transforms us all to stone.”

  I do not care for his attempts at humor. I know he is a devil, and nothing he can say will make me smile.

  O’Neill tips an imaginary hat and leaves us. I watch him go, glad to see that he is hardly limping today. Dr. Phipps grips my arm with one leather-gloved hand and grabs my jaw with the other. His touch is neither gentle nor kind.

  “Be careful, little Clara,” he says. He calls me little, but he is only a few inches taller than I, and his shoes are made with extra-thick soles to elevate him. His breath smells of stale coffee and sardines. “Your face betrays your rebellious thoughts. You think you are so very clever. But you must remember to whom you belong now. You must remember whose power holds sway over your very life. You should remember and be in awe.”

  I shudder. Not from fear, but from revulsion.

  “You are trembling, little one.” Dr. Phipps laughs grimly and drops his hands to his sides. “Now you have given me my due. Be a good girl and get the fire going. And no more silly lovers’ meetings. Affairs between servants never end well, especially when the servants are addicted to my Beloved Bondage tea. Ask Jasper if you do not believe me.”

  I stare at my shoes until the sound of Dr. Phipps’s footsteps fades away.

  Such an evil, evil man is Dr. Phipps. I almost wish Osbert would eat him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I am gathering firewood in a grove of birch and hemlock trees. It is just after dawn, and I must feed the embers of last night’s campfire so that Dr. Phipps may have his morning porridge on time. The man lives by his pocket watch—a strange practice for a nomadic fellow. Scarff, the true wayfarer, has always hated clocks and watches. O’Neill told me that Scarff once threw a gold pocket watch into the gaping mouth of an alligator because the incessant ticking drove him to distraction. I suspect there is more to that tale, as Scarff is not the sort to toss valuables aside so easily.

  Something stirs in the branches above my head. Something much bigger than a squirrel. I look up just as the thing swoops down and knocks me to the ground.

  A rough tongue bathes my face. “Osbert!” I cry, hugging the scaly beast.

  The wyvern sits back on his tail and grins. He lifts one foot to show me the suede pouch between his talons.

  “Is that for me?” I ask.

  He nods and opens his mouth. The pou
ch falls into my hands and I quickly pry open the cinched top. Inside I find a small leather scabbard, and within the scabbard is a dagger. The dagger is plain—without jeweled hilt or engraving—but the blade fairly sings with sharpness.

  “Osbert, what am I to do with this?”

  He wags his barbed tail and cocks his head to one side.

  “Well, thank you,” I say, patting him between the pointy ears. “Good boy.”

  “Clara!” Jasper’s voice echoes through the trees. “Where are you?”

  Osbert flaps his wings and returns to the camouflage of the treetops. I sheathe the blade and hide it in the deep pockets of the skirt Soraya gave me to wear for servant work.

  “I’m here,” I say. “Collecting firewood.”

  “Hurry back,” Jasper shouts. “Papa wants an early breakfast. He has decided to move on today instead of tomorrow.”

  “Grand,” I mutter. “It seems that even the reliable cannot be relied upon.”

  I pick up the sticks I dropped in the wyvern attack. “Osbert,” I whisper to the treetops. “Follow closely, but not too closely. I will meet you again as soon as it is safe for us both. I’ll use the mourning dove cry, in three groups of three. Wiggle a branch if you understand.”

  Far above, a hemlock bough sways, raining tiny fir cones upon my head.

  “Clara!” Jasper shouts impatiently.

  “Coming!” I reply just as testily. But for all my irritation at being disturbed by Jasper, my heart is glad. I have been with dear Osbert, and he has armed me well—even though I do not intend to stab anyone anytime soon.

  O’Neill is brushing one of the horses as I pass by with my armload of wood. Without slowing my gait, I whisper, “Osbert paid me a call.”

  “Good morning,” O’Neill says, emphasizing the “good.”

  “Hurry, child!” Soraya calls from beside the smoldering embers. “Dr. Phipps is a bear this morning. We must soothe him with his breakfast. Drop the sticks there and fetch the sack of dried berries from the hutch in the wagon. Second drawer.” Her forehead is creased with worry.

  Jasper follows me into the wagon. “Stay clear of Papa today,” he warns. “The last time he was in such a foul mood, I was forced to dig a grave. Our clumsy young servant girl Florry—or was it Nadine? Well, no matter. She tripped and splashed him with hot coffee, and that was the end of her. It was a shame. She was the most talented harpist, and she had the body of a goddess.”

  “What did he do to her?” I ask, but quickly change my mind about wanting to know. “No, please don’t tell me.” I locate the small sack of berries and turn to go.

  “Listen,” he says. “I like you and O’Neill. More than I should. You must be careful.”

  “I will,” I say, surprised at his great concern.

  He reaches out and cups my shoulders with his hands. “Papa swears that last night he saw in the flesh the thing of his nightmares, the thing that a fortune-teller once said would bring his death. He is frantic with fear. And when Papa is fearful, his temper is short. We are all in danger at such times. Even Soraya bears scars to testify to that.”

  “I promise to be wary,” I say. “Thank you for your advice.”

  Soraya calls me again, and I brush past Jasper and hurry to do her bidding.

  I wonder about Dr. Phipps’s nightmare monster. Strange how its sighting coincides with Osbert’s visit. Could Osbert be the instrument of his doom? I cannot imagine Osbert killing a person. The largest thing he has ever killed was a fox he found digging its way into the chicken coop. But a wyvern is a dragon, and dragons do have a history of man-killing.

  I wish to escape, certainly, but there must be a less violent way to go about it. One that does not involve my pet wyvern acquiring a taste for human blood.

  The dagger bumps against my hip as I walk. I wonder if it has tasted human blood, and if it might do so again.

  What would I do to save my sister? What might I do to save O’Neill? I would give my life. But would I give someone else’s? Could I?

  I hope that it will never come to that.

  I wish I could be certain.

  Jasper was right.

  Today, his father is a black cloud full of explosive thunder and dangerous lightning. He leaves in his wake broken dishes, nervous horses, and a wife drenched in tears.

  Dr. Phipps paces and mutters like a madman. He commands Jasper to bring the mermaid into the large wagon. Jasper is to watch over their priceless main attraction as Dr. Phipps drives. Jasper must also keep an eye on O’Neill and me, in case we are plotting mutiny or elopement. Soraya must drive the smaller wagon alone. When she hears this, her wailing grows more and more intense until Phipps threatens to beat her if she does not cease at once.

  When the packing is done, and Soraya is installed upon her driver’s seat, Dr. Phipps whips the horses into a gallop that almost lifts the wagon wheels from the ground.

  Every dish, treasure, and artifact rattles as we rush along. The water in Maren’s jar sloshes to and fro; her small body bumps into the glass over and over. If mermaids bruise, she will be black-and-blue by nightfall. No one speaks. No one dares to mention that Dr. Phipps is killing the horses by running them so mercilessly for so long.

  Pearls the size of poppy seeds fall from Maren’s eyes and drift about her like snow. O’Neill and I exchange concerned glances. But there is nothing we can do to end her discomfort.

  Jasper stares at Maren, his expression detached—as though he is observing a tadpole instead of a thinking, feeling, and cherished person.

  I decide to test him to see if he will tell the truth about his protective tattoo: “How are you able to gaze at Maren that way without consequence, while the men who pay to look at her for a single minute become blathering fools?”

  “Mermaids are not so fascinating once you’ve known a few. And perhaps I’ve built up a resistance. Anyway, I find girls with legs much more appealing than girls with fins,” Jasper says, leering at me. “That pink bodice suits you, Clara. The color makes your skin look like fresh cream.”

  My face heats. “You are not behaving like a gentleman,” I say. I look to O’Neill and see anger in his eyes. I shake my head, silently warning him not to get into trouble with Jasper on my account.

  “You never want to play, Clara. I find it quite disheartening.” Jasper leans back into a pile of fat cushions. “I might as well nap. Just remember, I’m only a few feet away if you get lonely.”

  “Jasper, please show some respect,” O’Neill says in a polite but strained tone.

  “You both bore me terribly.” Jasper closes his eyes. Soon, his head lolls and he sleeps—in spite of being jostled about in the careening wagon.

  I reach deep into my skirt pocket. O’Neill raises his eyebrows.

  I move to his side and am almost thrown into his lap as the wagon whips around a corner. He takes my arm to steady me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, kneeling beside him. “Look. Osbert brought this.” I place the scabbard in his hand.

  Carefully, he slides the dagger from its sheath. “That is dangerous looking indeed.”

  “My thought exactly. You should keep it,” I say.

  “No. It is yours. Osbert chose to give it to you. He must have had his reasons for doing so.”

  “But I could never use such a thing,” I say. “Except to open letters or slice cheese.”

  “Save it for cheese, then. It is yours.” He returns the weapon to me. “But perhaps you will need it for something else. To save me from a sea monster. To defend my honor among unruly wenches.”

  “Very amusing,” I say. I put the scabbard back into my pocket.

  “I would not be surprised if it is endued with strong magic of some kind. Sometimes the plainest of things conceal the most unimaginable wonders,” he says. He peers at me oddly, as if searching for something behind my eyes. Then he sighs and lays his head upon my shoulder. “This is not the way I thought this story would be told.”

  “Story?” I rest my head on h
is. The speeding carriage hits a bump and knocks our skulls together painfully. We both sit up straight and check for blood.

  He rubs the sore spot above his ear. “You know, the story of our lives. I meant to be the great hero. I meant to save Maren and to make both of you blissfully happy.”

  “O’Neill,” I say. “You have always made Maren and me happy.”

  Jasper snores in piglike snorts. O’Neill continues. “I had a plan: a big house for all of us, with a solarium for Auntie’s herbs, a huge workshop for Scarff, a fine parlor for Maren to take tea in, and a library for you. Rooms for a dozen children. Even a ballroom for dancing. We would have had the most magnificent Christmas parties. But I suppose none of it is possible now.”

  “This story is not yet finished,” I remind him. With all my being, I want to reach out to comfort him. Instead, I keep my hands folded in my lap. “You have told me again and again to hold on to hope. You must do the same.” I will not remind him that Maren is a mermaid now, and will never again be a tea-drinking young lady.

  O’Neill reaches inside his jacket sleeve and pulls out a daisy, its slim white petals perfect and uncrushed. “For you,” he says.

  I accept his gift and try not to blush. “Thank you.”

  “What ending would you wish for, Clara?” he asks.

  “Have you forgotten the message carved into the tree beside the Wishing Pool? ‘Wishing gets you nothing.’ ”

  “Who is the pessimist now?” He nudges me with his elbow. “That sign is ridiculous,” he says. “It should be destroyed.”

  “I dare you to do it!” A smile invades my face and heart.

  “All right, I will.” He raises his right hand and speaks solemnly, “I swear by the stars and the moon and Auntie’s plum cake that I, O’Neill of the Apple Tree, shall destroy the fallacious sign that maligns the Wishing Pool on Llanfair Mountain. I shall burn it and throw its foul ashes into the cesspit!”