Sea Witch

by Sarah Henning

I fall into the river and am pushed under Iker’s log by the current. There’s shouting above the rush of water in my ears, but I can’t make out what’s being said. Then comes a flash of white and navy followed by a great whoosh and water droplets splashing upon my face.

  The crowd is making a hearty noise, but it’s not until strong fingers tuck into the back collar of my dress do I realize Iker jumped in the water. He’s clinging with the other arm to the log, in an attempt to keep from rushing downstream.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod, somewhat shocked by the water as much as by the fierceness of his voice.

  Iker gives me a gentle push, and I swim the final yards to the edge, working hard against the downstream pull of the current. Annemette is leaning over, reaching for me, her beautiful dress hemmed in mud.

  Nik is on the bank, yelling. More than that—he’s yanking the boy who threw the stick out of the crowd and tossing him from the competition. I’ve never seen Nik so angry.

  Annemette tugs me up the slick bank. Iker follows, hoisting himself up, hands sinking in the mud. We’re a mess, the two of us, dripping water and globs of mud everywhere.

  The crowd is silent and so are we. Nik joins us and we turn without a word toward the trail. Not even Nik says anything, the anger still simmering off him.

  As we walk away, Nik keeps glancing back at me, muttering to himself. He almost looks as if he wants to grab my hand, but Iker’s arm is around my shoulders, and so all he says is, “I’ll see to it he never competes, never attends again.”

  I don’t know what to think—Nik isn’t one to throw around his royal power like this, but I won’t deny it feels good. Of course, it’ll only make the whispers continue. More reasons for the townspeople to say I don’t know my place. I rub at the bruise forming on my neck, a parting gift from the stick, and look over at Annemette. Her expression is withdrawn, her mouth in a line and her brow furrowed. She’s walking a few paces from Nik’s side, giving him room, leaving him be.

  I’ve done it again, though, haven’t I? Found another way to distract Nik from what’s important. I just want to be alone, let everyone go on without me, but when we make it to town, Iker tugs me back, taking a moment to scrape the mud off his boots on the jumbled edge of a cobblestone. Boots clean, and Nik and Annemette out of earshot ahead, he grabs my hand.

  “Why did you stay here?”

  I blink at him. “What do you mean?”

  “When I left to go whaling a few days ago—why did you stay where you knew people would throw sticks and say awful things about you?”

  Iker could give Tante Hansa a run for her money in the observation department, but his words also ring hollow. “It’s not anything different from before,” I say. “Besides, your offer wasn’t real. You and I both know that.”

  He shakes his head, his eyes fierce. “That’s not true, Evie. And it’s real now, whether you believe me or not. The moment my duties at the ball end, let’s leave. Just you and me on my boat. And if we catch a whale, all the better.”

  It sounds perfect. My dreams flash before my eyes—of freedom, of Iker, of the sea we could conquer together, one whale at a time. But it’s too perfect. I can’t go, even if it’s only for a few weeks—why can’t he see that?

  But at the same time, Annemette fills my thoughts—she’s risked everything for the one she loves and I’ve risked nothing. Even if she dies—and it hurts just thinking that—she will have lived more in these few days than I ever have.

  I look up at Iker. My imperfect Iker. The right choice couldn’t be clearer.

  “Let’s catch ourselves a whale,” I say.

  Iker pulls me in for a kiss, and I sink into him, my mind already thick with dreams of days on the sea and nights snuggled together with my cheek to his chest.

  FOUR YEARS BEFORE

  The raven-haired girl couldn’t stay on the beach. She couldn’t just lie there while the people she loved like family were in the water.

  She pushed herself upright but felt as weighed down as if the tide still held her. Her feet stumbled and her lungs seized, and she fell back into the sand.

  The townspeople who watched didn’t help her up, didn’t rush to her aid. They whispered into their hands but weren’t quiet enough. She’d heard it all before, and the words played in her ears like memories.

  That girl—she’s allowed access to the castle and she’s dull enough to think she lives there.

  The prince isn’t your brother, girl.

  Wouldn’t put it past her to be behind this whole tragedy—social-climbing cow.

  The raven-haired girl forced herself to her feet again, eyes on Iker’s form, swimming deftly through the water. Her fingers flexed at her sides. There was so much she wished she could do.

  She took a step forward. And then another. Moving under her own power, breathing deeply to push herself along. Her heart pounding in time with the names of her loved ones—Anna, Nik, Anna, Nik, Anna, Nik.

  And Iker. So strong. He had to save them.

  Her toes splashed in the water and she stopped. Fingers flexing again. What she wouldn’t give for her mother’s inks and crystals, for her aunt’s books and knowledge. For a world where she could use their magic—and not burn or be banished for trying.

  Iker surfaced. He threw his head back, pulling in a long heave of air, and then dove, his feet splashing over the top of the churning waves.

  He’d found one of them. Maybe both of them. How long had they been under? Could it be too late?

  The girl looked to her toes, to the minnows swirling about her ankles like the worst thing in the world wasn’t happening right then in their slice of the sea.

  Like her friends weren’t dying and it wasn’t her fault.

  Though it was. She’d been the one to suggest to Anna that Nik might be impressed by her bravery. That he always seemed thrilled with hers—why wouldn’t it work for Anna? Anna, who had such a crush.

  It was the girl’s own fault. She’d suggested the race. She’d planted the idea of bravery in her friend’s head. And now it was all so wrong.

  Anna. Nik. Anna. Nik. Anna. Nik.

  But she wasn’t powerless, was she? A memory crashed forth in her mind and suddenly the words slipped onto her tongue. Old and dark. And worth a try. She didn’t have inks or potions or crystals. But she had these words. They were a breath of life. And they were all she had.

  And so, the raven-haired girl stood in the shallows, reciting the last spell her mother ever cast.

  Immediately, her skin grew hot, the seawater there evaporating into dry salt streaks. Her blood sang with magic, her back to the people who would have her burned or banished. She knelt into the waves, put her hands in the water—the more of her touching, the more power there would be.

  She shut her eyes.

  The words continued and she began to shake. Violently. Steam rose from the waves lapping at her petticoat.

  A splash. A large splash. Male voices.

  Her eyes opened and looked to the faraway surface.

  Nik.

  Iker had Nik in his arms.

  They were yelling at each other, both full of life. Nik’s voice cut through the splashes, a single clear word rising above it all, enough to be heard.

  “No!”

  The girl’s stomach dropped. The words stopped. She was too late. They were all too late.

  “Oh, Anna. I’m so sorry.” She began to cry, the spell dead on her tongue, her skin cooling.

  She blinked and saw black. Swirls of dark viscous liquid pooled in her eyes. Startled, she shot to her feet, thick black tears dripping down her cheeks and into the water.

  Not again.

  The girl scrubbed at her eyes, wiping her hands on her petticoat. And when she could see clearly again, she looked at her feet. Dead minnows floated on the tide’s surface, seaweed shriveling black.

  She stumbled backward, onto dry land. The magic gone from her lips, one best friend swimming for land, another lying with her tears in the sea. Te
ars that had killed the life at her feet.

  The girl turned to face the crowd, black streaks staining the heels of her hands as she rubbed her eyes again. The magic sinking into the skin.

  The collective gasp was unmistakable.

  “Oh, stop, it’s just sea grit. She nearly drowned!” Tante Hansa. The old woman came toward the raven-haired girl and pulled her close. Whispered in her ear: “We must leave. Hurry, your life is more important than seeing those boys to land.”

  19

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE ALL RIGHT?” ANNEMETTE ASKS as we leave the palace, a bundle of strawberries in our hands. We went back to change so I could put on dry clothes and Annemette less muddy ones. I suggested a snack and a walk so I could clear my head. Everything was just feeling so muddled—did I actually just agree to run away with Iker? But I can’t talk to Annemette about any of that.

  “I’m fine. It wasn’t a big deal. Really.”

  “I just don’t understand why these people are so horrible to you,” she says. “You’re generous and smart and beautiful and best friends with their prince!”

  I sigh and pull my hands away from my eyes. “That’s exactly why. You see, I’m poor, but that’s okay because nearly everyone is. But in Havnestad, and probably everywhere else, too, the poor do not befriend the royals. They serve them. Being friendly as children was fine, but it should have ended long ago.”

  “So why didn’t it?”

  “Tante Hansa. She saved the king when he was a boy, cured him of some terrible illness, and then again years later after a boating accident. My family was rewarded. My father was named royal fisherman, and Nik and I were allowed to remain friends. No matter how much Queen Charlotte protested, even after my mother died in the way she did.” Annemette doesn’t push further on that topic, and I go on. “The great irony is that Tante Hansa has never approved of my friendship with Nik, either, but she knows me well enough to criticize yet never to bar. But the people, they just think I’m using Nik to act better than them, to be more than them. They hate me for it. And it’ll never change.”

  We walk by a row of brick cottages, each with a small garden out front.

  “Anna? Anneke?” someone calls from behind.

  Annemette blinks and I twist around.

  Standing there in the lane, weight on her wooden cane, is Fru Liesel—Anna’s grandmother.

  A crooked finger points toward Annemette, and a smile crosses the old woman’s lips. “Anneke, come, give Oma a hug. It’s been too long.”

  Annemette glances at the old woman and then to me.

  “Fru Liesel, this is my friend, Annemette. She is here from Odense.”

  The old woman ignores me. As she always does. “Anneke, come, give Oma a hug. It’s been too long,” she repeats.

  Annemette takes a step toward Anna’s grandmother.

  Just as I’ve felt so many times this week, it’s as if I’m glancing through a looking glass at another present. One where Anna is alive, well, beautiful, and singing about boys and strawberries before embracing her beloved grandmother in the street.

  But for Annemette, this is not a reunion scene.

  “Fru Liesel, my name is Annemette, it’s so lovely to—”

  Stronger than she looks, Fru Liesel ditches the cane and hauls Annemette to her chest with the force of both knotty hands. Annemette goes along without a fight, her face buried against the old woman’s heartbeat.

  “Anna, my Anneke, why haven’t you visited? Where have you been? Your father is worried sick—I’m worried sick.”

  Annemette pulls herself up and places her hands gently on the old woman’s shoulders. Kindness wraps her features. “I’ve been away, Oma. I’m so sorry. How have you been?”

  My throat tightens as I watch Annemette give the old woman what no one in Havnestad ever allows her—compassion.

  “Oh, I’m trying to be good, but at my age, I’d rather fly with the witches.”

  “A safe bet, Oma.”

  Fru Liesel is still clutching onto Annemette with both hands. Annemette bends a bit and picks up the woman’s cane and holds it out for her.

  “Here you are, Oma. Now, where were you off to?”

  Fru Liesel grabs the cane with her right hand but stays grasping Annemette with her left, all her weight pressed into the girl’s side.

  “Home, dear. I was headed home.”

  Annemette catches my eye. “Let us help you, Oma.”

  I walk a few steps behind as Annemette and Fru Liesel walk arm in arm down the sea lane, up to the castle and around to a row of grand manor houses on the sunny side of the Øldenburg Castle grounds. Fru Liesel is surely guiding Annemette, the way home being one of the few things she likely hasn’t forgotten, but Annemette seems so at ease, it’s hard not to think there’s something else calling her forward.

  Anna’s childhood home is three down to the right—red brick and clean lines. It was Fru Liesel’s childhood home, and she refused to leave it when the rest of her family fled to the Jutland. I watch Annemette’s face as Fru Liesel points to it, and I tamp down the little flutter inside me that hopes she will recognize it—that this girl born of the sea really is my old friend in a shiny, impossible package. But if Annemette recognizes the grand lines of the home, it doesn’t flash across her features.

  “Here we are, Oma.” Annemette’s voice is clear and sweet as they maneuver the foot stones to the front door.

  “Thank you, child, my Anneke.” She rests her cane against the threshold and opens the door. “Let us have some portvin and talk of your travels. I want to hear it all, especially about the young men queuing for your hand.”

  Annemette laughs gently. “Yes, Oma, we shall. But can we do it later? I have plans with Evie.”

  “Oh, you and Evie, always running around. Only two fish in your school. Asger’s boy always did try to join, but even a crown can be a third wheel.” She chuckles to herself.

  “That’s right, Oma.” Annemette pats Fru Liesel’s arm, finally freeing herself completely from the woman’s grasp in the process. But that freedom lasts only a moment before Fru Liesel snags her hand yet again.

  “But you be careful with that girl, Anneke. Bad things follow her. Black death. Minnows floating at her feet.” Annemette catches my eye, and I don’t know what to say. “That little witch will be the death of you if you’re not careful.”

  20

  WE ARE NOT EVEN OUT OF VIEW FROM ANNA’S HOUSE when Annemette stops me short by grabbing both my hands, tugging me to a thatch of trees just outside the queen’s tulip garden.

  “The first time you saw me, you called me Anna. And Tante Hansa mentioned an Anna too. Now this woman insists I’m her grandchild. Who is this girl? How do you know her?”

  “Knew her. She’s dead.”

  Annemette’s gaze softens.

  I swallow but hold her eyes. The tug-of-war in my heart has ended—the little voice in my head has received a chance to be heard.

  “She’s the person I think you were before you were a mermaid.”

  She pitches a brow. “What do you mean before I was a mermaid? Like my soul? What is it that they believe in the spice lands . . . reincarnation?”

  “No, not reincarnation—the person you were before, the person you were made from.”

  “I was only made of my mother and father,” she says with certainty. “There’s no other way to make a mermaid.”

  “But what if there is?” I flip our grip, and I’m now grasping her wrists. “I know it’s crazy, but my best friend, Anna Liesel Kamp, drowned four years ago. She resembled every inch of you but younger—blond hair, deep-blue eyes, freckles across the bridge of her nose. Beyond looks, she loved to sing. She was spirited, she was—”

  “Evie, how many blondes have we seen here these past few days? A hundred? A thousand? I’m sure that Malvina has three blond sisters of her own. There are more blondes in Havnestad than under the entire sea. How many girls have blue eyes? Like to sing? Give cheeky answers?”

  “
I know, but—”

  “That’s not evidence, it’s coincidence.” Annemette shakes out of my grasp and points in the direction of the hordes on the beach. “All these people must remember Anna, but except for that ancient woman, your old tante, and you, not a one has mistaken me for her this entire time.”

  “Because they think you’re dead!”

  Annemette throws down her arms, clenching her fists. Frustration has gotten the best of me, too, and I feel as if I have no measure for how loud my words are. I don’t know if I screamed them or whispered them. All I know is that Annemette’s face has shifted from annoyed to concerned. I open my mouth to say that Nik and Iker see the resemblance too, but she’s already speaking.

  “You think I’m her—you have this whole time . . .”

  “In the beginning yes, and then, no. It was you I became friends with, Annemette, but has a part of me hoped—believed—you were always Anna? Of course!”

  The second the words are out, I realize how strongly that belief has been driving me. I haven’t just been imagining what an alternate future would have been like with Anna; I really believed it was happening. And is happening now.

  I lower my voice and turn my back to the tulip garden. “Anna drowned. Her body was never recovered. And then, suddenly, you pop out of the same water, the spitting image of her. What am I supposed to think?”

  Annemette’s face is completely buttoned up. Her lips are screwed shut, her eyes closed; a wall of hair shields her ears. I realize she’s preparing to answer me, but I can’t take the silence.

  “How well do you remember your childhood?” I ask. “Do you remember it at all? What were you doing five years ago? Ten? Who is your oldest friend?”

  Finally, when she opens her eyes, there is anger there, though her tone is subdued and her words completely ignore my questions.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Evie, but I am not your friend. I am not her. I am Annemette.” She lowers her voice here, her voice cracking with pain. “Besides, your dream isn’t possible for almost the very reason why I’m here.”

  “What do you mean?”