The Mermaid's Sister
Page 20
I wish I were a stork and not a girl without a sister.
In the nearby town, we use the Sea King’s coins to purchase a covered wagon, clothes, horse tack, cooking supplies, food, soap, and a tent.
That night, we camp in a meadow beneath a million stars and a fat moon.
“I feel as rich as any king,” O’Neill says, patting his full belly. His tone is cheerful, but his eyes are swollen and red from shedding countless tears.
“Does your wound bother you?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “There is no sign of it, not even a scar to boast of.”
I pour tea into two earthenware mugs. “That is good.”
He looks at me strangely as I hand him his mug. “Clara?”
“Yes?”
“I promised you, in a letter brought to you by a very fine raven, that we would dance together. And the dancing Jasper forced us to do does not count.”
“Drink your tea, O’Neill,” I say. “Before it gets cold.”
“A man must keep at least some of his promises.” He sets his mug onto the ground, then he takes mine and sets it beside his.
“I do not want to dance,” I say as he grabs my arm and pulls me away from the fireside. My heart races like a spooked pony.
He begins to hum, and steers me through the wildflowers and weeds. “Dance, Clara. Do not just clomp along.”
I pull away from him. “I do not wish to dance.”
Hurt and disappointment are in his eyes. Even the moonlight reveals that much. I turn my back, afraid my face will shame me by exposing my true feelings. I have surprised myself. I had thought that my grief had erased the last vestiges of my unsisterly love for him, but I love him still. I love him terribly and completely.
“Clara,” he says, “why do you turn away from me?”
I do not reply.
He takes my arm and spins me around to face him again. “Do you not know?”
Gently, he lifts my chin and forces me to look into his sparkling eyes. Suddenly, I do know. He does not need to say the words, but (miracle of miracles!) he does.
“I love you, Clara.”
“But you love Maren. That was why you tried so hard to save her,” I say.
“Of course I love her. We have been together since we were babies. But I have never loved her the way that I love you. The way I have always loved you.”
I shake my head. “But I saw you with her, so many times. The way you looked at her. The way she looked at you!”
“She did love me. She wanted me to marry her. Asked me more than once, bold as brass, in that way she had. I told her that I loved her only as a sister, although she never accepted it. When I sat with her, when I held her hand, it was only to comfort her in her suffering. I would have done the same for Auntie. Or Osbert. I had planned to tell you in March—even Madame Vadoma knew—but when I arrived and saw Maren, and she demanded my attention . . . things did not go as planned.”
“You kissed me,” I say. “In the forest.”
“That was not just for Jasper’s sake, Clara. I had waited years for that moment with you.”
All of my manners flee as I grab him by his shirtfront and pull him to me. I kiss him shamelessly, and long.
Finally, he steps back. With gentle fingers, he wipes the tears from my cheeks. “Come with me,” he says. He leads me by the hand back into the camp.
“It’s here somewhere,” he says, rummaging through the crate full of the Sea King’s gifts. “Ah, here it is.”
He kneels before me and slips a ring onto my finger. “Will you be my wife?” he asks. The Sea King’s rubies and gold glimmer in the firelight, and O’Neill’s eyes reflect the flames. “After your forward behavior this evening, you must say yes.”
“Yes,” I say. “In the next town, at the next church.” I kiss him again, and I swear I can hear the mermaids’ sweet songs even though we are miles from the ocean. How can one heart be so full and so empty at the same time?
I shove him away suddenly. “O’Neill,” I say, panicking. “I cannot marry you! What if I become a stork? It could happen at any time, perhaps even tomorrow.”
He laughs. “You are no stork, Clara. You are no more a stork than I am an apple.”
“But Auntie said a stork brought me to her. And after what happened to Maren . . .”
“It was Scarff,” he says. “It was Scarff who found you and took you to Auntie.”
“But Auntie cannot lie, and she said it was a stork.”
“Scarff’s given name is Ezra Corraghrian Scarff. Corra-ghrian means stork. It was his Scottish mother’s family name. He found you on the steps of an abandoned orphanage.”
“Why did they never tell me? All this time I have dreaded growing feathers and a bill!”
“Your story was so unromantic compared to Maren’s and mine. They wanted you to feel special, too. To have some magic of your own. None of us thought you actually believed you would become a bird. How could you have kept such a worry to yourself all these years?”
“I did believe it. I was resigned to it, in fact. But I would much rather be your Clara. I have seen enough magic,” I say. “And what does it matter where my journey began, as long as I end it with you?”
O’Neill takes both my hands. “I feel foolish, you know. Almost as if I ought to ask for your pardon.”
“For what could you possibly require pardon?”
“I swore to save Maren and to protect you. But you were the hero, weren’t you? You were the one who made me brave when I might have given up. You were the one who stood up to Jasper—without knowing Osbert would come to your aid. You used the healing blade to save me. You made sure Maren reached the ocean alive. You were your sister’s hero, and you are mine. My brave, brave Clara.”
A blush warms my face, and for once I do not mind. “How could I have been brave if you had not been beside me?”
“You would have been.”
In silence, we watch fireflies rising up from the grass like little freely moving stars. And I think about not being a stork, about never becoming a stork. Yet I have changed. I have left childhood behind, and it is true—I have been braver than I thought I could be.
“It is all fine and good being brave,” I say as the moon peeks out from behind a cloud. “But could we take turns at being the hero? It is a lot of work, you know.”
“I rather like being the damsel in distress,” O’Neill teases. “I was about to ask to borrow a dress.”
“Never!” I shove him hard and he rolls into the grass. And we laugh as we have not laughed in months, as I never thought we’d laugh again.
CHAPTER THIRTY
With one hand, O’Neill raps the brass doorknocker against the wooden parsonage door. With his other hand, he clenches my hand. His palm is damp, and I suspect it is not from the heat of the day. Even a willing groom is likely to have nerves just before his wedding.
He knocks again, and we wait. “What if no one is at home?” I say. “Perhaps someone else in the town could marry us. A judge or a justice of the peace.”
“Hello,” a voice calls from behind us. We turn around to find a black-robed priest carrying a basket brimming with blueberries. “I was in the gardens and did not hear you arrive.”
“Good afternoon,” O’Neill says. “My name is O’Neill, and this is Clara. We would be most grateful if you’d marry us, Father.” His words come out in a rush. His nervousness is most endearing.
“O’Neill, you say?” The priest grins, showing all three of his teeth. “Isn’t that a wonder? My name is O’Neill, Patrick O’Neill, although I’m called Father Patrick by most.” He brushes past us and opens the door. “Come in, come in. My housekeeper’s gone away to see her son, so don’t mind the dust.”
He takes us to the kitchen and gives us cups of cool water and bowls of blueberries doused with cream. “Lad,” he says, leaning close to O’Neill. “You put me in mind of someone.”
“Perhaps we have met before. My guardian and I are traveling merchant
s and might have stopped here, although I do not remember it,” O’Neill says. He spoons the last of the blueberries into his mouth. Cream runs down his chin, and he wipes it away with his hand.
“Glory be!” the priest says. “That birthmark! Now I know you, lad.”
O’Neill fingers the heart-shaped birthmark on his chin. “I was an orphan.”
“Yes. Yes, you were. It was in Virginia, my parish. Near my childhood home. And I found you under the apple tree where my brother was buried, a babe with a birthmark just like he’d had.”
“Your brother Seamus,” O’Neill says. “My guardian has told me the story many times. He named me O’Neill for your brother because he did not think I looked like a Seamus.”
“He raised you well,” Father Patrick says. “That I can see, even with these old eyes. Glory be to the Lord, who doth provide.” His face is alight with happiness. “And here you are with your fine young lady, asking to be wed. I am blessed to witness this day.”
Seeing the priest’s joy makes my heart sing. Everything that has happened in our lives, from O’Neill’s babyhood under the apple tree until now, has worked together to lead to this one perfect day.
“Will you marry us, Father?” I ask. “Today?”
“It would be quite unorthodox, without banns or special dispensation. I am sure my superiors would not approve. But how could I refuse the boy with my brother’s birthmark?”
Father Patrick marries us in the parsonage garden, beneath an arbor of fragrant pale-pink roses. The gardener, his five-year-old daughter, and her crooked-tailed kitten are our witnesses. O’Neill and I exchange rings we found among the Sea King’s treasures—gold bands that are perfectly sized and matched, as if the Sea King had somehow known our future. Perhaps he had.
The little girl claps when we seal our vows with a kiss, and the kitten startles and runs to hide in the hedges.
“Come here,” I say to the girl. I take a pearl from my pocket, one of three I kept from Maren’s jar to remember her by. “My sister gave this to me, and it is very special. Keep it so that you may always remember this happy day.”
“Is it a treasure?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, “a very great treasure. It came from sadness but led to joy.”
O’Neill kisses my cheek. “Mrs. O’Neill Scarff,” he whispers in my ear. “You are sweet and kind as well as brave.”
“I do not know if I am any of those things,” I say, “but I am happy.”
“Not as happy as I am.”
“Do you pick a fight with me so soon? Five minutes after the wedding?”
He quiets me with a kiss. If that is how he chooses to win our arguments, so be it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Smoke funnels out the chimney of the cottage where I was raised. Twilight is upon the mountain, and the lamplight glows golden through the windows.
How they knew we were coming, I do not pretend to know. But as the horses halt, Auntie and Scarff spill out the door and run to us. Osbert scampers at their heels, howling with wyvern delight.
Kisses and tears are exchanged in abundance.
“She is safe, our Maren?” Auntie asks, gripping my elbows.
“Safe with her Sea King father,” I say. “And she is happier and more beautiful now than you could ever imagine.”
“For that, I am glad,” Auntie says. “And I am glad you are home safe as well.”
“Hear, hear,” Scarff agrees.
O’Neill lifts my hand to show them my rings. “We are married,” I say, blushing as befits a bride.
“By the very priest who found me under the apple tree,” O’Neill says. “That is a story you will enjoy, Scarff and Auntie.”
“So young!” Auntie clucks her tongue. “But no matter. It was meant to be. We have always known it, haven’t we, Ezra my love?”
Overcome with emotion, Scarff replies by gathering O’Neill and me into his arms again. His eyes and beard are wet with joyful tears. “All our children are safe and happy,” he says. “Who could wish for more?”
After breakfast the next morning, O’Neill leads me to the Wishing Pool. His face shines with love and mischief.
“Look,” he says. He points to the tree whose vandalized trunk has always warned us of the fruitlessness of wishing. Someone has changed the words.
“‘Swishing gets you nothing’? Honestly, O’Neill!”
“Well, I couldn’t leave it as it was. It was a lie. Besides, I made a solemn pledge to my true love that I would destroy it, and I could not bear to burn the poor tree down.”
“It was a lie,” I agree. “Sometimes wishing gets you something.”
“Wishing got me everything,” he says. “Eventually.”
I dive into the deep water of the Wishing Pool, new dress and all.
Just as my sister would have done.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe a debt of gratitude to the many dear friends who have encouraged me on this exciting journey. I could not possibly name each of you here, but I think you know who you are!
Special thanks to:
My husband, John, for putting up with me and quietly believing in me. You mean more to me than words can say.
My sweet grandmother, friend, and fellow book fanatic, Shirley Thomas. You read it first!
My wonderful parents, Tim and Shelley Selleck, for a million reasons.
Williamsport NaNoWriMo cohorts Brenda Crowell, Amanda C. Davis, Laura Rook, Kristina Solomon, and mascot Codi Zanella. Extra thanks to Amanda for being an incredible beta reader and for sharing your knowledge of weird nineteenth-century stuff.
Jenny Brown (writer’s care-package queen), Christine and Jeff Doty, Cindy and Rodney Knier, Mary and Sarah Stover, and Lara Hughey. Friends like you are priceless.
Sunday Parfitt, for inspiring the first line with your parental wisdom.
Pastor Brian C. Johnson and the Kingdom Writers, for accountability and prayers.
Marianna Baer and Courtney Miller at Skyscape, for your expertise and enthusiasm.
And now, I’d like to thank my children even though I promised them I wouldn’t, because they make fun of me every year for being somewhat crazy during National Novel Writing Month. So, Spencer, Ellen, Joel, and Matthias, this is me not thanking you. I love you anyway.
Most of all, I want to thank God. You made beauty from ashes, just as you promised you would.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2014 John Noble
Carrie Anne Noble is a former staff writer for a Pennsylvania newspaper. A member of Kingdom Writers and St. David’s Christian Writers Association, she also eagerly participates in National Novel Writing Month each November and meets bimonthly with other NaNoWriMo writers in her area. Besides making stuff up, she enjoys reading, encouraging fellow writers, spending time with her family, and attempting to garden. The Mermaid’s Sister is her first published novel.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THI
RTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR