The Mermaid's Sister

by Carrie Anne Noble

  I remember his kiss.

  “What?” I do not know what else to say. My knees begin to tremble and I hug them more tightly. The memory of his mouth touching mine is the strongest memory I have, so strong that it makes my chest ache.

  “If we fail, if we die here—”

  “You must not say that,” I say. “It is bad luck.”

  “Well, then,” he says.

  “Come, Neelo,” Soraya beckons from behind us. “Come hold this bottle for me so I may fill it.”

  He looks into my eyes and I think he must see my soul. He must know what I have tried so hard to deny. He must know that I love him beyond all reason.

  But he stands and leaves me without another word.

  Dinner is over, the dishes have been wiped clean in the river, and Soraya has gone into the wagon to tend to the doctor.

  With O’Neill’s help, Jasper sets Maren’s jar beside the fire, regarding me as though he expects me to repay him with adoration. In the firelight, Maren looks like a cursed and feverish fairy-tale creature. Her eyes are glassy and she lies very still upon her bed of pearls.

  I hang the kettle over the fire, pretending to make tea. With my back to Jasper, I empty my packet of mixed herbs into the water. I pray that this concoction does not betray me by creating a foul stench. And I wait for it to boil.

  I turn and catch O’Neill’s eye. He nods, signaling that he has seen my furtive activity.

  “Sing something, Neelo my lad. Make us swoon with your grand talents,” Jasper says as he sits down on the wooden chair closest to where I stand. He reaches beneath the chair and brings out a black bottle. He uncorks it with his teeth and takes a swig. “Come sit beside me, Clara. Better yet, try my lap.”

  “I will sit when this tea is done,” I say.

  O’Neill taps on Maren’s jar. “This was your favorite when we were young,” he says. He sings to her as if she is the only person—or mermaid—in the world. The song is an old English ballad (or so Scarff has always claimed) about a young husband who goes to sea, promising to bring back treasures for his bride. Instead, he falls prey to a siren whose song makes him steer his ship into a whirlpool. Of course he dies, but he does so with his true love’s name on his lips.

  “La, that’s an awful song!” Jasper says, slurring his words. “Truly dreadful.”

  “I never cared for that one, either,” I say. Jealousy churns in my stomach. It is an ugly thing, and I hate it. But I am weary to the bone of waiting to escape . . . and of wishing O’Neill would love me, and wishing that I did not love him.

  O’Neill shrugs. “Maren adored that song when we were six. She used to demand to hear it ten times in a row.”

  I remember all too well. “Scarff always refused and called her a rascal, but she never failed to charm him into singing it again,” I say. The pleasant memory eases my jealous heart—a little.

  Jasper hands the bottle to O’Neill. He plugs the hole with his thumb and pretends to drink. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve for good measure. O’Neill passes me the bottle, and I do the same.

  “We shall be famous,” Jasper announces. “The three—I mean, the four of us. You two and me and our mermaid. We shall perform before the crowned heads of Europe. Queens will fall in love with me, and you can have the duchesses, Neelo. And Clara here will wear fancy gowns and rub our tired feet with her hair.”

  Jasper is definitely drunk. I shove the bottle back into his grasp.

  If he drinks himself into unconsciousness, we will not need the sleeping draught. I question O’Neill with my eyes. He motions for me to remain still. I hear the mixture bubbling in the kettle behind me. In another minute, it should be ready.

  “Neelo, my lad,” Jasper continues. “You should quit dilly dallying and marry Clara. Because if you don’t, one of these nights . . . one of these long, lonely nights, I am going to make a dishonest woman of her. And after just one night with me, she will never want anyone else but me. Especially not you, juggler boy.”

  “You are a pig, Jasper!” I glare at him and clench my hands into fists at my sides.

  “See? She is a tigress, Neelo. A tigress who wants taming.” Jasper sucks on the wine bottle like a calf at an udder.

  Let O’Neill serve the tea. I have heard enough. “I am going to bed,” I say, immediately regretting my choice of words.

  “Is that an invitation? And is it for Neelo or for me?” Jasper doubles over with laughter.

  O’Neill springs to his feet. “That is no way to speak to a lady,” he says. His nostrils flare and I suspect he wants to punch Jasper as much as I do. But he breathes deeply and says, “Why don’t you get us some of that tea, Clara? We are out of wine and Jasper seems to still have a thirst.”

  “Tea? Bah! I will get more wine,” Jasper says.

  I lift the kettle and fill Jasper’s favorite mug with reddish brown liquid. “But I made this for you, Jasper,” I say. I step close to him and offer the drink, smiling as sweetly as I can. “Try it, for me?”

  He takes the mug and pulls me into his lap at the same time. “Ah,” he says. “I feel like a king. I am a king.” He swallows the draught in a few loud gulps. I try to stand but his arm holds me to him like a vise.

  “What was that you said before, Clara? About going to bed?” His breath is hot on my neck.

  O’Neill has panic and confusion in his eyes. “More tea?” he says.

  “La, no! Terrible stuff, that was.” Jasper stands with me in his arms, cradling me close to his chest. “You finish it, O’Neill. I have better plans.”

  “Put me down,” I say. “Please, Jasper.”

  “Why would I?” he says. “You have teased me long enough.”

  “Just for a few moments. I want to wear the red costume for you. Let me put it on, and I will dance for you.”

  He sets me down. He sways a little, putting his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. “Hurry, then,” he says. “Come to my tent. Or I will come and find you, little vixen.”

  I walk to the wagon, hoping against hope that Jasper will topple like a tree before I get inside.

  My right foot is on the lowest step when I hear an unearthly moan and a resounding crash from inside the wagon. I step back.

  “Sit down, my love!” Soraya’s voice pleads. “You are unwell!”

  Another crash. The sound of glass breaking.

  “You have poisoned me, you faithless whore!” Dr. Phipps bellows.

  “No! You are better now! See how your strength has returned!”

  Soraya backs out the door and stumbles down the four steps. I move out of her way.

  “Calm yourself, my love. You need to rest.” Her eyes are wild with fear. “I think your new medicine has disagreed with you, my darling. Hush, now.”

  Jasper’s legs buckle and he sits down hard in the dirt, watching his frantic mother and yawning like a spectator at an uninspiring show.

  O’Neill pulls me farther away from Soraya as the doctor emerges. His face is purple, streaked with red. Bright blood flows freely from a gash above one eyebrow. His rumpled clothes hang from his emaciated body. His hands are curved into claws.

  Soraya hums a shaky lullaby and steps backward, arms extended to ward off her husband’s approach.

  With a springing leap, Dr. Phipps catches her by the throat. He growls as he crushes her delicate neck between his dusky hands.

  O’Neill rushes toward them, and at that moment, a gunshot rends the air.

  As if tripped, O’Neill tumbles forward, knocking Soraya and the doctor to the ground. And I scream.

  “Stay back, Clara,” Jasper says. He moves toward his fallen parents and O’Neill, still clutching the gun.

  “O’Neill!” I cry. My feet refuse to move.

  “Shut up or I’ll add both your names to my collection.” Jasper says through clenched teeth.

  The names on his leg. They are not the names of his father’s victim’s. They are the names of Jasper’s kills.

  Jasper uses the toe of his boot to roll
O’Neill off Soraya’s still body. O’Neill moans, and I see blood seeping from his shoulder. But he is alive!

  The speed at which Dr. Phipps pushes Soraya from his chest and gets to his feet is nothing short of supernatural. His fists pummel Jasper’s face and neck before Jasper has a chance to raise his gun. The force of a blow to his ribs causes Jasper to drop the gun and collapse onto the ground.

  “How do you dare, son?” Phipps rages. “How do you dare attempt to murder me?”

  From where he has fallen, Jasper lifts his empty hands in surrender. “I shot O’Neill to save you, Papa,” he says quickly. “He has a knife! He would have stuck you with it!”

  Dr. Phipps kicks Jasper in the side and then in the head. Jasper curls into a ball and whimpers.

  “After all that I have done for you!” Phipps shouts. “After all I have given for you!” He staggers toward the fire. “For you, my son, I created the most spectacular shows! I gave you all that you asked! I washed the blood from your guilty hands time after time, and I gave you everything!”

  Phipps pulls a blazing branch from the fire. “Enough is enough,” he proclaims to the stars. “Enough!” He lifts the branch above his head and brings it down upon Maren’s jar. The glass shatters and the water floods out, and Maren lies helpless on spilled pearls and glass shards. Her mouth is open in the shape of a scream. Her body flops like a beached fish’s.

  “No,” I cry, “no!” She must not die like this, alone and afraid, suffocating for want of water.

  “The show is over, son!” Dr. Phipps shouts as he wobbles and swerves his way toward the wagons. He brandishes the makeshift torch and sets the large wagon ablaze with it before tossing it through the open door of the small wagon. “By the flames of Hell, I disown it and you, Jasper! The devil take you both! You were more his son than mine.”

  As the doctor paces and rants about demons and betrayals, flames engulf the wagons, roaring and crackling and sending black smoke into the starry sky.

  I rush to Maren and scoop up her doll-sized body. “Maren, Maren,” I say desperately. She grips my arm with a tiny hand and shuts her eyes. “You must not die, sister. Please hold on.”

  I hurry to a bucket of water near the campfire, and I set Maren inside. It is a tight fit, but for now it must suffice.

  Carrying the bucket tight against my breast, I run to a cluster of bushes and hide it under the lowest branches. “Wait for me,” I say to Maren. One tiny pearl rolls down her sunken cheek. “O’Neill is hurt, and I must go back for him. Are you listening, Maren? Do not die, sister. Rest and wait for us to return. Understand?”

  She nods.

  I run. The flames leap above us, tongues of fire trying to lick the stars from the heavens. Dr. Phipps’s maniacal laughter sends chills through my body—but it occurs to me that I am not at all afraid.

  I am beyond fear’s reach. I will do what I must to save O’Neill.

  I run past Jasper, who’s still rolled up like a scared hedgehog, muttering. My draught has not worked, after all. No wonder Auntie found me a frustrating student.

  Phipps grabs Soraya by the hair and drags her along the ground. She moans faintly as her veil slips off and her beautiful yellow sari snags on sharp stones. Between her breasts, like a hideous flower, a bloodstain blossoms. The bullet that pierced O’Neill must have passed through his body and into hers.

  “Look, woman,” Phipps says as he yanks her into a sitting position. “Your life is in flames, ruined by your treachery and your son’s wickedness!” He looks down at her then, with the smug face of a pitiless conqueror. But his whole aspect changes when he sees the spreading blood. He is transformed from vanquisher to vanquished in the blink of an eye. “My darling Soraya,” he cries as he falls to his knees. “My love!” He draws her limp body into his arms and covers her with kisses. Deep, heaving sobs reduce him to a shuddering heap.

  “O’Neill.” I crouch beside him and gently pat his pale cheek. He opens his eyes. “Come,” I whisper. “We must get away.”

  “The doctor is mad,” O’Neill says as I haul him to his feet. “The seven-needle root has turned his brain.”

  “And you are wounded,” I say. “Now be quiet and come along.” He takes a halting step, leaning heavily on me.

  “Where do you think you are going?” Jasper says from behind us. I turn. His gun is pointed at my head.

  “Please,” I beg. “Let us go. The show is over, and you do not need us anymore.”

  “Oh, but I do need you. I will make a new show: The Great Jasper and Company. But if you would prefer not to join me, O’Neill and the mermaid’s names will go here,” he says, pointing to his left thigh. “And I will put your name here, Clara darling.” He pats his right thigh. “So that even in memoriam you shall be parted from your sister and your lover. It is your choice to make. I do not wish to kill you, truly, but if you insist on opposing me, you will leave me no other option.”

  O’Neill’s body goes limp as he faints. Unable to support his weight, I slump to the ground, settling him next to me as carefully as I can. I look up at Jasper. Around his throat hangs a very familiar gold locket and chain. “That is Maren’s locket,” I say, scrambling to my feet.

  “Yes, and inside the locket is the eye-stone we used to track you, so that we could possess the mermaid. Mama knew from the first time she saw Maren that she would become a valuable commodity. She sold the eye-stone to Maren’s stupid suitor, and the rest is, as they say, history.” His grin is pure evil.

  “Did you set fire to our caravan?” I ask, my voice trembling with anger and disgust.

  “It was a shame to destroy that splendid conveyance. But I did rescue you, didn’t I? You should be grateful. Could you show me gratitude, Clara? Could you try to love me?” His gun is still aimed between my eyes; his expression is one of yearning mingled with madness. “I adore you, Clara. You have bewitched me. If only you would allow me to teach you the deep secrets of the night, you would forget all that was before. We could begin a new and exciting life together. What do you say, Clara?”

  “I say you should go to the devil, Jasper Phipps.”

  I hear the whoosh of wings, followed by a piercing shriek. Osbert’s claws root themselves in Jasper’s scalp, and his sharp teeth lodge in the muscles of his shoulder. The gun falls to the ground with a clatter.

  “Get off!” Jasper shouts, slapping and pulling at Osbert’s talons.

  A shadow passes between us and the moon. The shadow of another wyvern.

  I hold my breath as the great wyvern swoops lower and lower. This dragon is no house pet. He would not fit through the door of any house.

  The monstrous wyvern shrieks again, and Osbert releases Jasper and moves aside. When I see the great wyvern’s jaws open wide enough to swallow a horse, I squeeze my eyes shut. Cracking and crunching and gulping come from where Jasper once stood.

  Shivering, I open my eyes. Jasper is gone. Vanished, as if he’d never existed. Not a scrap of clothing has been left behind. Not a shoe or a fingernail.

  The big wyvern belches with satisfaction.

  “Great gods above!” Dr. Phipps cries, cowering beside Soraya’s lifeless body. “It has come to pass!”

  Both wyverns turn and eye him. Red drool drips from the big one’s bared fangs.

  “Osbert, no,” I say. “Your friend must not eat the doctor. Please, Osbert. I have seen enough violence.”

  Osbert nods at the beast and it whines in disappointment. It spreads its massive wings and lifts from the ground with a rush of wind.

  “No!” Phipps cries as it circles above us. When the monster dives toward him and roars, Phipps clutches his heart and screams, “Have mercy!” And then his eyes roll back in his head and his mouth slackens. His body crumples onto Soraya’s, and I know that he has joined his wife in death.

  Osbert scampers over and drenches my face with kisses. He kisses O’Neill until he awakens from his faint. And then our pet wyvern unfolds his wings and takes flight, following his fellow wyvern into t
he night with a happy waggling of his barbed tail.

  I sink to the ground beside O’Neill, and he lays his head in my lap. “My brave Clara,” he says.

  I do not feel brave. I feel a hundred years old and very, very tired—yet wide awake with worry. My mermaid sister sits in a shallow bucket, growing weaker by the minute, and O’Neill has been shot and can barely stand.

  The smell of burnt wood and cloth and singed metal lurks about us as the wagons’ contents smolder and crackle. The smoke forms wispy clouds above us, obscuring the stars and dimming the moonlight.

  “The horses,” O’Neill says. “I tethered them over there.” He points to the east. “Just beyond that hill, in a patch of grass. If you bring them, we can leave this place. We can finally take the road to the sea.” He speaks boldly, but his forehead is creased with pain.

  “Yes,” I say. “But first I must tend to your wounds.”

  With unsteady fingers, I unbutton his shirt and peel the blood-soaked fabric from his skin. “I need more light,” I say. “I cannot see the wound properly.” All I can see is dark blood oozing steadily from a hole in his chest. “Can you move closer to the fire?”

  “If you will help me,” he says. His breathing is not right. Too much blood dampens my dress as I help him stumble to the fireside.

  I kneel beside him. The firelight shows me what I do not wish to see. Far too much blood. His color is wrong, his breathing ragged.

  “The bullet passed through, did it not?” he says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Yet I do not think I will live to see the sunrise, Clara,” he says. He grips my hand.

  “You will,” I say.

  “I must tell you some things before I go.”

  “You are not going,” I say. I pull the dagger from my pocket and unsheathe it. “What it cuts, it mends,” I say, repeating Mrs. Smith’s words.

  “It is a healing blade? I did not recognize it before. You must use it on Maren, not me,” O’Neill says. His skin is gray now, as gray as a corpse’s. “Make her a girl again. Save her for my sake. Keep my promise for me.”

  “The blade can only be used once,” I say.