I am Mercy

by Mandi Lynn

  The crew is quiet in the night. Most have gone to sleep, but others are awake and tending to the affairs of the vessel. If I try, I can make out individual conversations, but they are all in the backdrop of my mind. The night is clear enough to see the stars and constellations—not a cloud in the night sky—and I can see far into the horizon, far enough that I know I am a long way from home.

  The crates on the boat remind me this is no place for passengers. But Sabine and Clara had become part of this unwillingly—and now so have I.

  I look around the ship, searching for her captors, hoping they look and talk differently, but all the men seem the same: vulgar, uneasy, and short-tempered.

  I walk across the deck to the spot the boy that had been scrubbing earlier. The blood has faded with his cleansing, but there is still no sign of Sabine; no female on this boat screams for help. My stomach drops as I look around the ship now, not searching for kidnappers but maybe murderers. They had been laughing, laughing out of their mind as an infant struggled for life.

  A lifetime’s worth of guilt presses down on me. Could I have saved Sabine?

  ~~~

  I watch Clara as she breathes. The small wheezing continues in her lungs, reminding me that she is one loose thread away from death. But the world is taking mercy on her when it did not on her mother. The boy, the only boy who is even aware that Clara exists, ran away and has not spoken of the infant nor of the ghost within the hold. He keeps silent for reasons I don’t quite understand.

  Up above, the world continues without note of what’s lurking below. The men within the crew shout orders to each other and speak of awful events. Though their words are muffled, from where I rest with Clara I can make out their conversations just enough to know that, yes, they had kidnapped Sabine.

  They had found her roaming near one of the ports where they had docked. A man they call Dimitri had taken her. As the men talk about it, they laugh, mocking how she had screamed and kicked all throughout her capture. Dimitri had kept her on the ship, storing her in the hull where she had stayed. His voice is louder than the rest when he speaks, talking of how he invaded her, stripped her of the only thing she had left—herself. He scoffs to his crew, telling them how he had done this almost every night and how now he’ll need a new princess since Sabine is gone.

  But he didn’t even know her name. Whenever I hear him speak of her, he calls her Princess. At some point she must have become pregnant. For nine months Sabine had lived with these men, mothering a child that she loved despite the fact she was only given the baby because of dreadful circumstances.

  I sit with Clara curled in my arms. The gown drapes over my legs, and I hold Clara close to my heart, my ears always piqued to hear her breathing. The infant amazes me. Just her existence in this world is a miracle. Sabine somehow cared for both herself and her child in this hellhole.

  Wooden crates are scattered about the room. Most are bolted shut, but those closest to me have been tampered with. One lies on its side, canvas bags pouring out. I lift myself, placing Clara on the floor once again. The candle in the corner of the room brings a dull light to her face, so pale.

  The canvas bag is about as big as my torso, and when I come closer, I see it has been torn open, grain spilling out. I finger the frayed edges of the canvas, realizing Sabine had been brave enough to seek out food for herself.

  I take a handful and turn to Clara, and just as quickly, I let the grain fall between my fingers. It rains down to the wooden floor like a tropical storm, a constant rhythm until nothing is left. I look at Clara—an infant of only days—and realize I am useless to her. Her only source of nutrition—her mother’s milk—is gone.

  ~~~

  It all passes too quickly. The men must have been kind enough to bring Sabine fresh water when she was their captive, but now they leave the hull alone. To them, there is nothing more down here than crates of goods to be sold.

  I sit with Clara in my arms, watching her fade away. I know I can’t feed her, but I’m helpless as her thirst goes unanswered. She’s too silent in my arms; I’m not even sure if she’s sleeping. She moves and stretches in my arms, clearly uncomfortable. The infant opens her mouth, seeking her mother’s milk, but always coming up short.

  At one point she begins to cry. The sound is piercing, a constant ringing, and I fear the men will come down to quiet the child. But they never do.

  I watch Clara cry. For the first time she opens her eyes to reveal mossy-green irises. But she doesn’t see me. And just as soon as her eyes had opened, they close again.

  I imagine Garren is here to save me, to save this small child. That by some miracle, he might just appear and breathe life into her pale skin. Instead there is just the creaking of the ship as the waves push it side to side.

  I watch Clara as her life slips away in my arms, and all I want to do is run my finger over her skin to let her know I’m with her. I can’t help her, but I’m here. Any attempt at touching her skin results in my finger passing through her. I hold her in the gown, the fabric acting as one of the few solids in my world as an Essence.

  And then she grows silent, and I wish she would cry. Cries mean she’s alive, alive enough to scream to the world for help. But now she’s giving up. Every few moments she coughs, just so silently. Her skin grows pasty before my eyes. Whenever she opens her mouth I see her small tongue and how dry it has grown.

  Through it all I can do nothing. I hold her tight, willing myself to be here with her while she leaves me.

  With her silence, stillness grows. At first she would just stop moving, making me think she’s finally given in, but then she would bless me with a cough—a reminder she is still here. It all lasts so long, yet passes so fast. I keep wishing she would move on, wanting her torment to be over, but then I grow selfish, willing the infant to keep fighting like it may make a difference. But eventually it all gives way.

  I don’t know how, but I know she’s gone. It’s like a whisper has passed through the room, the ghosts I can’t see welcoming the newest member to their family. And I am here, an Essence. Not human, not ghost. So unwelcome in this world.

  And it’s all so unfair. Those men on board this ship rape, kill, and yet they live. They live and prosper, like they deserve riches even though breath shouldn’t be passing through their lungs. A mother is tortured and killed, and for what? For their mere sport?

  A baby who has only seen the world as a dark place within a ship is dead. Infants are the epitome of innocence and those who are innocent should not be hurt. But I look at this child in my arms and realize it doesn’t matter. Life comes and goes. We are nothing but pieces of a game, betting wages on our lives, seeing how long we will last until our luck runs out.

  And I’m afraid Clara had little luck to start with.

  XLI.

  I don’t know how long the voyage lasts. Time seems endless as the sun sets and rises on the deck above. The only way I’m able to keep track of days is by the light that filters in from the opening at the ladder. The lit candle in the corner eventually darkens, using up the last of the wick and sputtering away.

  In the darkness I think of how I’ve failed Garren, of how he may never forgive me for leaving him—all for a child and her mother, both of whom could not be saved.

  I hold Clara in my arms for a long time, like she might just be asleep. The ocean rocks the boat and it acts like a lullaby. Every now and then I find myself humming, finding rhythm in the ocean waves.

  I don’t look at Clara after she has passed. Instead I hold her in the gown, always looking forward, mesmerized by the changing light near the ladder from the deck above. If anyone from the crew walked by the opening, their figure would cause a shadow to dance across the floor.

  I can feel Clara’s body stiffen in my arms. When I adjust my hold, she won’t give. It’s like she’s a rigid doll. As long as I sit here with her, I’m telling myself that she is okay.

  When I finally look down at her again, I see her face, and it’s nothing lik
e the child I had first seen. Her skin is ashen and almost bruised looking. She looks so cold, so frozen with her lips still hung open. Clara’s eyes are closed, and for that I am thankful. But through it all she finally seems at peace. Her brows aren’t hunched like they had been—always in discomfort. Through her death I suppose she found a place where there was no such thing as thirst or hunger or pain.

  I pick myself off the floor and walk toward the candle that has gone out. It’s just a pile of wax fused to the floorboards of the cabin, but I settle Clara’s body next to it. It all seems so futile. I look at the child and see nothing. The body in front of me is but a carcass of the past. I back away from Clara, leaving her wrapped in the gown. The orange silk of the fabric makes Clara appear all the more pale and lifeless. I lean forward to drape a corner of the gown over her face and retreat once more.

  I hope and pray for the small child, wishing for her soul to find her mother’s. Through all of this, at least they can be together again.

  ~~~

  The ship shudders and for a moment everything has stopped moving. The constant sway of the ocean that I had grown used to, over what must have been days, finally stills. Above me the crew is loud with activity, but it isn’t one of chaos like it had been when I had last heard Sabine’s cry for help. The sounds from above are shouts of men at work—a controlled action.

  Daylight filters in from the ladder. Shadows pass by and footsteps ring out across the boards of the ship. All the voices and shouts of the men mingle together into a black noise that fades away into my subconscious.

  The ship sways again and I feel the steady rhythm of waves pushing and pulling against it. The shouts from above grow louder and movement comes more often.

  It continues like this for several minutes and I sit in the hull, waiting for all to quiet. But then the light filtering into the dark cabin is blocked by the figure coming down the ladder, and while the darkness lasts for only a moment, I find myself cowering beside the crate I had been resting against.

  The man turns to one of the closest crates and drags it to the rungs of the ladder. I watch as a rope is dropped down into the hull and the man ties it around the frame. Just like that the crate is being pulled upward to the deck. The wood whines and creaks as it ascends, but it never gives. The man continues until few crates are left. I watch as he works his way across the room, and as he grows closer fear instills me.

  I turn to the gown piled in the corner. The remains of Clara’s body still rest within the fabric, undisturbed. What would they do with her?

  After all the crimes they had committed, it is the blatant disrespect for an infant’s passing that angers me most. After a soul has passed the body deserves to be put to rest. Yet as I watch this man grow closer, I fear he may take Clara and throw her away like they had done with her mother.

  When the man’s back is turned I scoop the gown in my arms. I run across the hull toward the ladder. He faces me then, still blocking the only exit. And just like the boy, he doesn’t see me. To him, the only thing that exists is the gown that floats in the air. He isn’t aware of me or of Clara’s small body held within.

  He freezes once he sees the gown. I can’t be sure whether it is shock or amazement on his face as he gawks at the gown. His jaw hangs slack before he tries to compose himself. His eyebrows furrow and his face turns to stone as he observes the scene.

  “Dimitri,” he says in a low voice.

  The name shocks me, causes me to stumble backward before regaining my footing. At my reverse movement the man tilts his head like a docile dog may after hearing something.

  “Is that the last of the crates?” another shouts down from the deck.

  I freeze and hold Clara closer to me. The gown cradles her figure, blurring the outlines of her limbs. To the man watching the gown, there is only fabric.

  “There’s still more to be brought up, but I think you’ll want to see this,” the man says. He seems intrigued, as he watches the gown. Feet come down the rungs of the ladder as the man Dimitri comes into full view.

  I’m face to face with Sabine’s killer. He’s nothing. Just a man in need of a bath and a good shave. His body reeks and holds weeks’ worth of filth. His hair has grown long and greasy with the salt from the ocean air glossing and knotting it. And then as I see him, I see Clara’s eyes. His eyes, so much like hers, are a bright green. They scream of life—something I had not seen when Clara had opened her eyes for me.

  “What is that?” says Dimitri. He stands next to the other man. His face is all harsh lines and seriousness as he stares at the gown.

  I look at Dimitri—Clara’s father, her mother’s murderer—but I don’t find myself afraid. I want him to realize what he has done. I want him to see his dead child that I hold in my arms, but I’m selfish. As much as I wish for the man to know the distress he has caused, I don’t want to gift him with the ability to see his daughter.

  “You killed her,” I say, knowing he cannot hear my voice. My speech is hoarse, going so long without any words, but as I continue, I find myself gaining strength. “You raped Sabine. She bore your child and loved your child, and you killed her.”

  My arms tighten around Clara, and I feel her alive with me. Her soul, though gone, whispers through the hull. And I swear Dimitri feels it also. For just a flash his face goes wan, the slightest of frowns crossing his lips, and it’s all I can do to relish the moment. His hand, which has been a fist at his side, goes slack as his fingers hang down.

  I want to push him away, to escape this awful place and to bring Clara someplace where her body can finally be at peace, but I know whatever attack I make on Dimitri will go unnoticed when my hands slip through his body.

  Dimitri returns to his old self, tensing up, like he wants to jump across the small space between us and rip the gown from my arms. When I look at his green eyes now, all I see is hate, like he knows what is in the gown and wants to destroy any evidence of the crimes he committed against Sabine.

  “Dimitri?” the other man asks. He stands to the side, firm but wavering. The man maintains a strong front, but I can see it in his eyes as he watches the gown float in the air, how he wishes to run from the scene. He can’t explain what he sees and wants to escape before the memory becomes a permanent fixture in his mind.

  “Coward,” I say. I face the man when I say the words and he flinches away. He doesn’t hear me when I speak, that much I am sure, but he turns to look at Dimitri.

  “What?” Dimitri faces the other man, slightly annoyed.

  The man waits before he speaks, as if he’s waiting for some movement in the air. “Nothing,” he finally says.

  Dimitri turns his attention back to the gown. I make no movement to shift. With all my will, I tell myself to stay completely still, waiting for the men to lose interest and walk away. But I know that no matter how long I wait, they will not leave. I’ve found their attention, and now all that is left is to satisfy them.

  I glare at Dimitri, begging for him to see me, the ghost. But he focuses on the gown. His eyes roll over the silk and he gropes at it like a woman still wore it. And I think how sick it is for him to look at his dead daughter and to bear no grief for her.

  I try so hard to stay still, but something builds in me that I cannot control. Energy radiates around my body, twisting and winding over my limbs, hugging me to this spot in the universe. I feel my arms shake, but I don’t look down to see if it makes the gown move.

  It must because, at that moment, as my arms lift and lower the gown, Dimitri looks at me. His eyes shift and our gazes lock. When he sees me, he doesn’t cower away like I wished he would. Instead he smiles, like my appearance is a sign of weakness. And I want to rip the smirk from his lips.

  “You killed her,” I say, and I’m surprised by the measure of control in my voice.

  And just like that, I feel my energy flicker. Dimitri looks away, avoiding my eyes, and I fade from the human world once again. His eyes drift to the gown that floats in my hands, but I see hi
s disappointment. It’s like seeing a ghost satisfies him—another prize to the game he plays.

  And I hate him because he looked me in the eye and didn’t back away. He is the one person I had hoped would look into my silver eyes and see a monster. But he didn’t. He smiled, thinking I was something else to mock, another show.

  I don’t know if he’s heard any of my words or why he was able to see me, even if it was only for a handful of seconds. But I push away those thoughts as I rush past him, cradling Clara and the gown in one arm, then pulling my way up the ladder.

  The man whose name I don’t know jumps in my direction, but he holds himself back, both afraid and waiting for direction from Dimitri.

  Dimitri stands back, watching as the gown floats away, never giving the other man permission to stop me. Dimitri does not flinch as I take his daughter from him forever.

  We escape without looking back.

  XLII.

  The inhuman ability of an Essence to run forever is never stopped. My limbs never tire. My body has no need for food or water or energy or sleep. Fatigue is just a word, a concept, but it doesn’t actually exist. So I run. I run until time passes too fast to be sure what is presently in this world. I run toward Garren, hoping to find him but knowing I won’t.

  The ship is docked at an unknown port. People were there as I ran across the deck, over the wooden ramp, and down the dock, never seeing me, only what I carried in my arms.

  Voices mingle and languages I have never heard fill my ears. Foreign words are all around me, but only a murmur of a lullaby is in the back of my mind. The voices of strangers are the sounds that keep me grounded, that tell me I am here in the universe.

  Most people don’t notice as I run by. To them I am only a gown. Some eyes linger and watch as the silk floats by in a quick dash, but they never follow my path. If people see it they look away, thinking it may have only been a trick of the eye.