How she coaxed him here I’ve no idea. He looks displeased to have been drawn from his home into the deep blue of the evening. How desperate is she that she risks this? Knowing what he has done to her once, and what he has the potential and will to do to her again, still she obeyed me.
“Go to the edge,” she urges like a mother trying to get a difficult child to eat. He does so with ill-grace, grunting. I can see his fingers are thick with muscle and he’s clenching his fists as if desirous of hitting something. Before he turns on Kitty, I make myself visible, standing on the water, just a few yards from the bank.
He looks amazed to find me real. So many men simply think me a women’s story, a myth, a jape. In his face: fear, desire, shock, but mostly greed. A tale is told, I believe, of the Mari-Morgan’s treasure and perhaps that’s the hook Kitty used to lure him. How can she, knowing something so venial would bring him, still love him? Still want him? I might shake my head were I so inclined.
I smile, gesture for him to come to me. He does this willingly, heedless of the liquid he splashes through even though it soaks his boots and trousers. He reaches out to take hold of me—as if he will hang on until I tell him where riches lie, as if I should be afraid of him, as if he might do me harm. His hands pass through my body because I do not wish to be touched. My hands, though, are solid enough, strong enough to take a good grip on his shirt.
I pull him down. Kitty’s screams grow softer and softer as we go further into the muddy-green, dulled by the depths.
He struggles for a while, but is no match for my age-old force. He may as well fight against a statue. The bubbles escaping from his mouth at first obscure his face, then he stops trying to breathe, to live, and simply gives up. Stops moving. The tiny spheres dissipate, heading urgently away as if they might carry his screams and release them into the dry-world. The water turns his face a sickly shade. I let him go, watch as he disappears into the deep dark, rolling and rolling, the white of his shirt like a fish’s belly, until I grow bored.
I float upwards.
Kitty is weeping with all her might. She does not see me for I keep myself hidden. If I leave her here, she will cry her heart out, pouring salty tears into my home. She will put on widowhood and wear it until her dying day, as if the man I drowned deserved her devotion, as if he was such a wondrous husband she could not bear to take another. She will waste the time left to her. I have made her life better, but whether she can recognize it I am doubtful. If I leave her to her own devices, she will curse this place and me and perhaps no one will come anymore. I waver, reach out.
I put my hand on her head, feel her soft thick hair; she starts. Before she can rise and run, I sink into her. She will feel it as a splashing on her skin, cold and momentary. Then I am swimming through the entirety of her: blood, heart, lungs, mind, soul. The soul, oh yes! How fascinating a thing. I do not have one, so I think it most peculiar.
This soul, this heart, this mind all work in concert to create a human and this one is ineffably sweet. She truly believed her husband could be changed, that he could and would be changed. She still loved him no matter what he did to her face. I could have told her he was not sorry for it. That he marred her only so no one else would want her. So she would believe herself worthless and never think to leave him. I cringe away from this cloying need I sense. I push down my contempt—I owe her this much. I can and will give a life of freedom; what she does with it will be her own concern.
Oh my, and the feelings surging through this lovely girl! How they taste! So strong, viscous, and bitter as the ooze at the bottom of my lake. The ache of love and longing and of not being loved. The sharp fear and nagging guilt. At last, here at the very base of it is the tiniest, sharpest of all: relief. Hidden deep down, but it is there. And a thrill at the idea of liberty, if only she will allow herself to recognize it and not be so ashamed that she refuses to let it fly.
I walk her to the edge of the lake and jump in.
We swim.
We swim for almost a week. I do not let her rest often, but only when I have no choice, when it seems she will drown, that her body will simply give up and sink like a stone through sheer exhaustion. Remaining inside her is tiring for me—being confined by blood instead of my natural element makes me sluggish, but I do not leave her for I know she will run if released of my hold. So I stay cooped up inside the cage of her.
The stream becomes wider, then turns into a tributary, then it spills into a great river. We pass castles and towns, villages and farms, mills and ruins.
Sometimes people see us—see her—and they watch until we are out of sight. Kitty looks a strange soaked creature for there’s nothing of the water-sprite about her. She simply appears to be a depleted girl, wet as wet can be, slowly making her way against the current.
At last we come to the cathedral-city and I can take her no further. Neither of us will last: I feel poisoned by my imprisonment and she can barely lift her head. I do believe, though, that she will be far enough away that she won’t think to return to Briarton. And I have spent these days washing through her mind, watering down her memories and her hurt and her painful pointless love, trying to give her a clean slate and a heart that isn’t so spotted with blood. When I leave her, I hope she will be free, that she will not feel the memory of love as a tug in her stomach, as something that will draw her to the past.
She climbs out of the water and I let her go. I pool at her feet and then run back into the river. I do not take up my shape in front of her, for fear she will see me and remember. Back in water, I resume my form with relief. I feel the liquid cleansing me of the reek of humanity. I let the current take me as it wishes. Eventually, it will lead me back home. Until then I am content to drift.
Letters to a Body on the Cusp of Drowning
A. C. Wise
The Narrator’s Tale
Every tale must have a beginning. So what harm in starting here?
Once upon a time, a young girl ran away to sea with dreams of becoming a sailor. She bound her breasts and cut off her hair; she learned to lower her voice and swear like a man. Her hands were never a problem, she already chewed her nails ragged, much to her mother’s consternation, and she had palms made for callusing.
By the time she signed to a crew, she could already drink most men under the table. Those she couldn’t, who were spoiling for a fight, always calmed at her offer to buy the next round and share a filthy new drinking song. No, it wasn’t her body that betrayed her—she could haul line and climb rigging with the best—it was her heart.
Seven days out from their latest port, the Bonny Anne came across a wreck with a lone survivor. Once pulled from the waves, the men saw the survivor was a woman, and most were for throwing her back overboard—women and ships, after all. Only the young girl, Kit by name, was silent when the vote was called. She’d been heart-struck in an instant at the scent of saltwater drying on the woman’s hair and skin, enchanted by the sea-green of her eyes, lulled by her voice, stitching the faintest threads of a storm inside the sweetness of her tone.
The men were right to fear her, but it would go worse if they cast her overboard, Kit was sure. They voted to let her stay, and that was how Kit knew she’d guessed right. The woman was a witch, and it seemed more than likely vote and shipwreck both were her doing.
The next night found the Bonny Anne becalmed. Kit, unable to sleep, walked the deck. Everything was still—not a breath of wind, and the water smooth as a mirror. Kit traced the path the moon made from deck to horizon; in all that stillness, it seemed a bridge solid enough to walk upon.
“What do you think is over there?” the woman asked, startling Kit, who had thought herself alone.
“On the far shore?” Kit remembered to drop her voice, but unable to keep it from breaking.
“No, beyond the horizon.” The woman considered Kit, not the line dividing sky from water.
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Kit gripped the rail, trying to still her hands from trembling.
“Tell me,” the woman continued, “when you look in the water, what do you see?”
Kit looked down, startled by the brilliance of her reflection and that of the woman beside her. The smell of saltwater had sharpened, even though the woman was a full day out of the sea. Her eyes, reflected in the water’s glass, shone as luminous as things risen from the deep.
“The ocean is a trickster,” the witch said. “It is both false and true. But on nights like this, when everything is still and the moon is clear, it shows us our true selves and it cannot lie. Except when it does.”
“What do you . . . ?” Kit started to turn, but the woman pointed.
“Look.”
Kit, pulse wild with nerves, leaned out over the rail. In the moonlight, it almost seemed a few days growth of stubble shadowed her jaw; her shoulders looked broader, her fingers thicker. Kit gasped.
“Is that what you wish?” The witch withdrew, giving Kit space and leaving her cold; Kit shivered.
She faced the woman, putting the rail at her back, feeling the immense danger of both woman and sea. The curl of a smile remained on the witch’s lips, a wisp of rising smoke, and the light in her eyes brightened.
“You know what I am?” The words came out before Kit could stop them.
“Do you?” The witch raised an eyebrow.
Kit shook her head, sick suddenly; her eyes ached and stung, but no tears fell. She loved the sea, the deck beneath her feet, the ship’s song, creaking in the wind. But she missed her sisters’ voices, and the way her mother would brush out their hair all together—fifty strokes for each of them until their locks shone.
“What if you could have it both ways?” the witch asked.
“At what price?” Kit’s heart thumped.
“Clever girl.” The witch stepped close again, fingered a lock of Kit’s hair. “I think this is getting a bit long. You need someone to cut it.”
Dazed, Kit followed the woman to the small cabin she’d been given. The witch had made a makeshift dressing table from a plank of wood and several empty crates. The table was laid with three silver objects—a hand mirror, a pair of scissors, and a comb—even though the woman had nothing when she was hauled aboard.
With the gentle pressure of fingertips on shoulders, the woman pushed Kit onto an upturned crate acting as a chair. Picking up the comb, she began to work salt-matted knots from Kit’s hair.
“It’s easy,” the witch said, catching the thread of a conversation Kit barely followed. “You can change, but every time you do, it will stitch a ghost under your skin. You can become a man, and as easily become a woman again, but each time you do, you will remember an entire life not your own. Or perhaps it is very much your own, only from another time, and there will always be the risk of losing yourself beneath the layers. That is the price.”
Kit’s hair lay smooth by the work of the witch’s comb, the edges curling to tickle her ears and the back of her neck where it had indeed grown too long. As the witch lifted the scissors, Kit twisted to look at her.
“How do you know all this?”
“Oh.” Light slid through the witch’s eyes, a crescent moon, wicked-sharp as a smile. “I’ve had occasion to borrow a ghost or two in my time.”
The witch set the scissors down, and in a smooth motion, undid the buttons of her borrowed shirt. Kit’s breath caught, pulse snagging at the sight of the witch’s breasts, full round and visible for only an instant before the witch wound the shirt around them, binding them as Kit bound hers. As the cloth went round the witch’s chest more than flattened, it broadened; the texture of her skin became rougher and hairier. The witch took Kit’s hand, and pressed it to her throat; Kit was shocked to feel an Adam’s apple.
“You see?” The witch’s voice was deep, rough like a stone not yet worn by the sea. Only the eyes remained the same—green as tide and weed.
“Teach me.” Kit exhaled.
The man turned Kit toward the wall again, wielding the scissors. As each scrap fell, Kit felt the subtle shift as bones arranged themselves to a new form.
“And when I want to change back?” Kit asked, voice caught between male and female, both and neither.
“Like this.” The witch brushed out Kit’s hair, making the strokes long as though tresses fell halfway down Kit’s back; soon enough, they did.
“And here.” The witch produced sweet-smelling powder, dusting it onto Kit’s cheeks with his rough palms so she felt the cheekbones shift again, her face narrow. “We all wear masks, it’s just a matter of choosing to make them more than skin deep.”
The witch handed Kit the mirror, and Kit met her startled reflection—the girl who had run away from home, not the sailor boy she’d become.
“It’s that simple?” Kit set the mirror down.
“Nothing is ever simple.” The man sighed, running his hands through his hair, lengthening it where Kit had barely noticed it shortened. She unbound her breasts, and Kit’s cheeks warmed before the witch re-buttoned her shirt.
In place of slivered-moon mischief, a well of sadness filled the witch’s eyes.
“Why?” Kit asked.
The witch shrugged, tone husked slightly. “Perhaps I’m lonely.”
Kit studied her, the turn of her shoulder and the weight visibly bearing it down. She understood in her bones: The witch offered both blessing and curse, all rolled into one.
But Kit had been heart-struck the moment the half-drowned witch had been pulled aboard. She touched the witch’s shoulder lightly.
“Yes.” Kit leaned forward, but her voice was barely a whisper. Teeth caught lip, uncertain, but she made herself look into the witch’s eyes.
She could feel the witch’s pulse, the warmth of her, the steady beat of her heart. The witch shifted stance, an agreement and an invitation—a shared moment of sorrow and joy.
“How . . . ” Kit faltered, throat dry. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the witch’s face if she guessed wrong. “How do you want me?”
The witch’s fingertips brushed the edge of Kit’s shirt, loosed the first few buttons, and traced the edge of the bandage still binding Kit’s breasts.
“However you choose.”
Every word of this is true. Every word is a lie. So it is with witches and things brought up from the sea.
Kit finds the letter atop the crisply made bed five hours after the cruise ship sets sail. The paper is wrinkled with the memory of damp fingerprints and smells faintly of the sea. At the right angle, the ink shines with a green reminiscent of lightless places, and for a moment it reminds him of something, someone. The letter is addressed: To a Body on the Cusp of Drowning.
His pulse stutters. As long as he can remember, Kit has been terrified of water, especially the sea. His first memory, one his family and countless doctors have told him can’t possibly be real, is drowning.
A trick by the service crew? No, they mostly work on tips. Another passenger? How would they gain access to the cabin? With shaking hands, Kit slips the letter from its envelope and reads.
You will drown. We saw it in your eyes as we swam below you, just under the glitter of light on the waves. Your eyes searched the water, and they were hungry. You did not see us, but we saw you. We know you. There are ghosts beneath your skin, and every one of them, every one of you, is made to drown.
But before you do, let us tell you of the sea.
Kit drops the page as if burned, and presses her fingers to the aching space between her brows. Something has changed; something is wrong. A moment ago she was someone else, and what is she doing here? On a . . . boat? That can’t be right. Kit is terrified of water. No, now she remembers. The doctor said it would be good for her, contact therapy.
Yes, Kit remembers lying in the netting around the ship’s bowsprit, stretched like a hammock over the waves, fighting
stomach-cramping fear. She’d forced herself not to look away. That was when she’d seen the flash, there and just as quickly gone.
Dizzy, Kit lowers herself to the bed, trying to catch her breath. It had been a trick of the light. After so long staring at the ship’s carved figurehead—the woman with arms spread as though to gather the sea, and in place of legs or a tail, the ship itself flowing behind her—Kit had merely imagined seeing something impossible beneath the waves.
Kit glances at the letter again.
Every one of you is made to drown.
At night, with the cabin’s porthole cocked open to the breeze, Kit listens to the timbers creak, the sailcloth flutter, the waves slap the hull. The sounds should be soothing, but Kit gathers the sheets in clenched fingers until his knuckles turn white. The ship is only a recreation of a grand clipper from the golden age of sail, but the roll of the deck feels hauntingly familiar. How is it that lying under soft sheets, Kit’s body remembers the sharp cut of hammock rope, being suspended among other sailors, listening to them breathe? Phantom calluses harden Kit’s palms; bare feet itch to scale the rigging. Kit’s arms, roped with invisible muscles, long to swing into the crow’s nest so salt-chapped lips can taste the air.
She releases a breath. If she fails to concentrate she slips—memories, nightmares, dreams. Ghosts. Kit’s body tumbles from a high cliff and shatters on salt-washed rocks far below. Kit walks into the waves, pockets full of stones. Kit lets go of a ship’s splintery rail, relinquishing control to a storm.
How can these memories be hers? Kit is lost, some elusive truth constantly slipping just beyond his reach, falling through his hands. Something about the sea; there is something about the sea.
Tired of sleep eluding her, Kit paces the small cabin. The roll of the ship rises to meet her bare soles, bringing a sudden, sharp awareness of her body. It feels wrong; it does not belong to her.
These are Kit’s hands: fingers blunt, nails short—strong hands, nimble, but the skin is neither calloused-rough nor silken-smooth. This is Kit’s hair: cropped short, but not salt-tousled or finely coiffed. And Kit’s frame: short, muscular, but beneath the skin, the bones are too fine for a sailor’s bones and not delicate enough for a noble’s. None of the pieces fit except Kit’s eyes. They are the gray-green of the sea.
Mermaids and Other Mysteries of the Deep Page 36