The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea

by Maggie Tokuda-Hall

  Genevieve returned with a tiny gilded box, which she opened and presented to the ladies. Inside were sugar-coated pink jellies shaped like seashells. The Lady Ayer plucked one with the tiny pair of tongs that were fitted inside the box.

  “They’re strawberry,” she said, and dropped one in Evelyn’s palm. “Let it melt on your tongue.”

  Evelyn obliged and was soon rewarded with a delicious burst of flavor that could only be described as summertime. Even in the dark of the cabin, Evelyn could feel the sun on her skin, the tickle of green grass beneath her feet — her first kiss with Keiko, stolen in the garden.

  “It’s marvelous,” she said.

  The Lady Ayer smiled. “They’re made by Genevieve’s own cousins. I ship them in especially, to remind the dear girl of home, but also just because they’re so yummy. The colonies do serve us well, Quark especially. Genevieve here is a shining example of the good labor that’s to be found if one looks hard enough.” She paused, clearly savoring the gelée, her eyes closed in pleasure. “Men can have their mermaid’s blood. I hear it tastes like drowning. But these . . . they’re just for our sort.”

  “Our sort?”

  “Women.” She motioned for Genevieve to partake as well. “We may be the inglorious sex, but I do think we are better at finding pleasures to which men are not invited.”

  Evelyn thought of Florian and the biscuits. She fought the urge to request an additional gelée to give to the boy. It seemed unlikely he received much kindness, let alone glory. Certainly he deserved a treat now and again, too. She thought again of his unusual neck.

  “I am inclined to agree with you,” she said instead.

  “I knew your mother long before she was ever wed,” the Lady Ayer said. “We were the closest of friends.” She motioned to Genevieve, who left them to their privacy once more.

  Evelyn nodded. She did not care. When she left Crandon, Evelyn had decided rather pointedly that she left all cares of her mother on the same gray shore where that woman had feigned sadness at her leaving.

  “Until her mother married her off to your father, we spent as many of our days together as we could. She was a different person then. Vibrant, impulsive. I was so surprised, I suppose, to see who she’d become in our many years of being parted. So solemn, she is now.”

  So terrible, Evelyn thought. So hateful.

  “You carry much anger for her,” the Lady Ayer said. It was not a question. “I admit, I do, too.”

  At this, Evelyn looked up, meeting the Lady Ayer’s eyes for the first time since she’d mentioned her mother. “May I ask why?”

  “What I tell you, I tell you as a close friend,” the Lady said. Her face was impassive. Evelyn nodded, her curiosity rising. The Lady rested her teacup in her saucer and looked out the porthole, out at the gray sea beyond. “We knew, when she married your father, that our — particular — friendship must come to an end. I suppose I thought she would still at least speak to me. If only in letters. But she never wrote me back. And after a few years, I stopped trying.”

  Evelyn suspected she was missing the point entirely. Just a moment before, the Lady’s face had been without feeling, but now it was wrought with practically theatrical pain. For several long moments, Evelyn did not know what to say. What was right to say. “Particular?” she asked finally.

  “I loved Edith — your mother. And I know, in my heart, she loved me back. In her way. We couldn’t be together, we knew that, never pretended otherwise. But those were our feelings just the same.”

  Evelyn flinched. She’d never heard anyone refer to her mother by her first name before, not even her father, who only ever called her “your mother.” It was like a slap, the realization that once, however long ago, however distant it had become, her mother had been a girl, a girl in love.

  It seemed improbable. Not only that, but impossible. But why would the Lady Ayer lie?

  “But then . . .” Evelyn trailed off.

  “Yes. But then. But then she was married and she was gone from my life. And anyway, there are many different kinds of love. She did not contact me, not until now, to ask me to guard you against sin and ruin on this voyage.”

  “And you said you would.”

  “Of course.” The Lady Ayer sighed. “Love does not work in terms of convenience. Or any kind of sense.”

  While Lady Evelyn dined with the Lady Ayer, Flora ducked into the stores to check on the mermaid. It was a foolish impulse, and her time would have been much better spent tracking down some hardtack for herself, but neither she nor Evelyn had checked on the creature for days. I’m just checking to see if it’s even still alive, she told herself. Nothing more.

  To Flora’s horror, the mermaid bobbed at the surface of the filthy, lukewarm water. Flora nudged her with her finger. How many days had it been? Only two? Maybe three?

  “Shit!” She poked her once more. The gills fluttered slightly, giving Flora hope. “Come on, you,” she begged, desperate. If only she could keep one thing safe, one thing whole. She drew out her pocketknife and made a deep slit in the pad of her palm. Blood coursed from the wound freely, and, belatedly, Flora wished she had not chosen her dominant hand. Now both her hands were injured. Oh, well. As best she could, she aimed her dripping blood at the mermaid’s fishy mouth.

  The mermaid stirred. She opened her eyes and cast them about wildly, looking for the source of the blood. Flora lowered her hand into the water, and the mermaid was upon it in an instant, drinking deeply with no regard for the pain she caused Flora. It was different, Flora could tell, how the mermaid drank from her as opposed to how she drank from Evelyn — while she was delicate with the Lady, never sipping for too long, she was rough and greedy with Flora. She did not kiss the wound closed.

  Her blood, Flora realized, was only a stopgap. The mermaid was dying, regardless of Evelyn’s visitations.

  She needed the fresh seawater.

  She needed the Sea.

  As if reading Flora’s thoughts, the mermaid caught her eye. Home, said a voice. Stupidly, Flora checked around her, but she was alone save for the mermaid. It was not a man’s voice anyway, not a human voice. Home, the voice said again. It was a plea. Home home home home home.

  “Shouldn’t you be with the Lady?” Alfie’s voice was a splash of cold water. He put a tentative hand on Flora’s back and peered over her shoulder at the mermaid. Sensing Alfie’s shadow, the mermaid darted to the bottom of the barrel.

  “She’s dying,” Flora said. “Even with the blood. It’s not enough.”

  “Death comes to us all,” Alfie replied. When he said it, it sounded almost cheery. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Remember what Rake told us, about the mermaids?”

  She shook her head. Alfie remembered their life before with much more clarity than Flora.

  “He said that they’re the hinge of nautical justice — the Sea punishes those that punish the mermaids, and rewards those who grant them clemency. I believed him, too.”

  “You don’t anymore?”

  “In justice? Nah.” He met Flora’s eyes and smiled, the empty smile she’d seen so often since they joined the crew of the Dove. It was less of a smile and more of a wince. “There’s nothing out there to punish evil, no one out there to reward the righteous. We’re all just adrift.”

  The mermaid floated listlessly to the surface of the barrel again, her gills fluttering.

  “We’ll be putting them belowdecks soon.”

  “Yep.” Alfie smiled. “Better them than us, eh?”

  “The Lady Hasegawa, too.”

  He sighed. “Was losing your finger not enough?” He was angry. That was fine. So was Flora. It had been a long time since she’d contemplated rightness or wrongness, but letting the Lady Hasegawa be sold was wrong.

  The whole thing was wrong, and it always had been.

  “She does not deserve this, Alfie.” No one had. Mr. Lam certainly had not.

  “There’s no such thing as deserving. Only what we get. And for the first time in t
hat girl’s life, she’s getting the shit end of the deal.”

  “Alfie,” Flora whispered. “I care about her. I —”

  He pulled Flora in a tight hug, his skinny arms a vise around her. “No, you don’t. You can’t. Buck up, now. You can do this, brother. You can because you have to. You can and you will.”

  It will do no good to argue.

  “There is no such thing as the right thing,” Alfie had told her once, long before they joined the crew on the Dove. He had just robbed a pair of children not much younger than they were, a brother and sister, too, of their bread and moldy cheese. Flora was upset by this — the children were even more frail than she and Alfie were, and did not look as though they had even seen bread for days.

  “There is only what you must do to survive. Either you do it and you live, or you don’t and you die.”

  Flora had eaten the bread. He was right, after all. Perhaps a week later, when washing herself in the Crandon River — corroded and muddy and full of sewage as it was — she saw two little bodies, frozen stiff, huddled beneath the bridge. They were not moving, nor would they be again. Crandon winters were terrible and fierce always, but that winter especially.

  That could have been me.

  She was glad it was not.

  She had returned to her post outside the Lady’s cabin and fallen asleep almost immediately. She missed her hammock, which was stiff and uncomfortable but preferable to sleeping sitting up outside Lady Evelyn’s door. The storm had been vicious and the work had been hard, so Flora slept more deeply than she had since being assigned as Evelyn’s bodyguard.

  Her dreams were turbulent, frantic and fragmented. She saw the mermaid and fires, Cook’s copper pots, the short silver blade.

  She dreamed that Lady Evelyn was a sea turtle.

  Get on my back, the turtle said.

  She pulled Flora through deep black water and into a cave.

  This is where we belong, the turtle promised. When they reached the shore, Evelyn was human again. But an explosion rang out and blood flared from the Lady’s belly, black and thick and viscous. A piece of wood was embedded in her flesh.

  I’m OK, she insisted, though the blood pooled at her feet, though it stained her dress.

  You are not! Flora shouted, breathless and panicked. You are bleeding!

  A gentle nudge to her shoulder pushed Flora from her dream and into waking life. Lady Evelyn stood over her, blessedly intact. Despite herself, Flora felt her shoulders relax with relief. She’s OK. She was warm and safe, and beautiful in her wholeness. To her horror, Flora felt herself smiling like a lunatic up at the Lady.

  Evelyn, though clearly confused, smiled back. “Good morning, Florian,” she said.

  Florian.

  The name was less like a spell and more like a shackle. Flora shook what little sleep remained from her mind and stood, with some effort. She offered Evelyn her arm like a gentleman. As she should. “Shall I escort you to breakfast, milady?”

  With all the visits to the mermaid, Florian’s lessons in reading had slowed but not stopped. He did not need as much guidance as he had before, and besides, he seemed as eager to see Evelyn happy as he did to read a new story. He was reading on his own now, borrowing her books as he watched her door at night. He seemed to prefer the ones with a love story, which surprised Evelyn. He wasn’t sentimental otherwise.

  He never asked for lessons, never asked for anything, really. The lessons only happened when Evelyn offered. So it was with some shock that Evelyn agreed to help Florian with a book he was reading by his request.

  It was after dinner, the sun having set hours earlier. The Dove rocked and creaked in the waves, but Evelyn was used to the movement now. She’d heard the sailors saying a storm was coming. Selfishly, she was glad she would be safe in her cabin, but doubly glad Florian was charged to stay with her. He’d be safe that way as well. And close.

  She invited him into her cabin, and they both took a seat on her bed.

  Florian was in an unusual mood. His eyes were pensive and constantly darting toward Evelyn. She wished he would just look at her, just hold her gaze. His eyes warmed Evelyn’s skin, and she yearned for that warmth. He opened the book to the story of the Patient Lady.

  It was a stupid story, probably Evelyn’s least favorite. She did not much care to discuss it, but, it seemed, neither did Florian. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Evelyn tried not to stare at his lips, but it couldn’t be helped when he bit the bottom one in thought.

  “Evelyn,” he said, “there’s something I haven’t — You see, I wish to tell you —”

  “Your throat,” Evelyn said.

  Florian blinked. “’Scuse me?”

  “You don’t have the boy bump.” She motioned to her own neck. Then, gently, she touched her fingers to Florian where typically men had a protuberance but where his neck was likewise smooth.

  There was a long pause but not an uncomfortable one. Florian’s eyes met Evelyn’s. They were sitting so close, Evelyn could feel the heat of his skin. The drumming song of her heart played in her ears, as loud and insistent as the winds of the coming storm.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  His eyes — her eyes? Did it matter? Evelyn thought not; her feelings were the same whichever way — shone in the lamplight. Footsteps echoed from the decks above them, voices calling.

  Florian reached out and gently brushed Evelyn’s cheek. Where his fingers had been, Evelyn felt the echo of his touch sparkling.

  “May I kiss you?” Evelyn asked. And before her eyes could meet Florian’s again, Florian’s lips were on hers.

  He tasted like the sea.

  The world that was not this kiss faded into nothingness. It was an abyss of inconsequentiality, of noises unheard and sensations unfelt. She was unclear if it was one kiss or many as their lips moved softly in concert. She thought of the way the sea stirred against the shore in constant, gentle motion. She thought of nothing.

  His lips were not soft, and they were perfect in the way that they shaped around hers.

  She felt his heart beating within them.

  His fingers found her hair, carefully wrapping themselves in it. The book fell to the floor between them, but neither said anything; neither stopped. Instead, Evelyn pulled Florian over her so that their bodies pressed against each other, warm and right and sure.

  It was the sureness that made Evelyn’s throat catch. Florian’s hand sought her neck, his skin coarse from years of labor. Evelyn heard herself gasp.

  And then, as if the captain knew what was happening and would not allow it, the bell that called all sailors to the deck rang. Florian heaved a shuddering sigh and extricated himself from Evelyn’s grasp.

  “Stay,” she whispered. But he shook his head.

  “Duty,” he said simply. He turned and looked back at her, his eyes still shining. He tried to smile, but the dimple did not appear. “Evelyn,” he said. He took her hand, kissed it, and then was gone.

  When the knock at her door came later, Evelyn assumed it would be Florian. She flung the door open with unbridled gusto, ready to pick up exactly where they had left off. To her acute shock, it was not Florian. Not him at all. But rather the terrible man she’d heard called Fawkes stood at the precipice. His face was split by a knife’s cut of a smile.

  “It’s time,” he said. His voice was all pleasure.

  “Time for wh —?” But before Evelyn could finish, he reached out one of his giant hands and grabbed her by her hair. The shock of it, the pain of it, stole the words from Evelyn’s mouth. Fear forced the world into a tunnel, where all she could see was Fawkes as he pulled her — sputtering and crying, tripping and stumbling — up the steps to the main deck.

  He didn’t release his hold on her so much as he flung her to the deck, where she landed with a clatter at the feet of some of the other passengers. The force of her fall split the skin on her knees, on her hands, but she could hardly register the pain. They were gathered, but for what Evely
n had not the faintest clue. There was the merchant man she’d seen loading cartons of silk onto the Dove. There was the Lady Wakida, who clutched her kimono closed with an arthritic hand. As Evelyn rose to her feet, she saw that all the other passengers were there, murmuring their confusion and fear. Except the Lady Ayer.

  The night air whipped cold around them, and Evelyn shivered against it.

  The men were holding pistols. And they were aimed at the passengers.

  Captain Lafayette watched. And it was the smile on his face that redoubled Evelyn’s already unmanageable fear. He was so pleased with what he saw, so comfortable. This was intended. This was planned. But what was this?

  He cleared his throat and clapped his hands to catch the passengers’ attention.

  “It gives me no great pleasure to announce to you fine people that the Dove is no passenger vessel,” he said. “She is a slaver. And all of you aboard are now her chattel.”

  Slaver? He was mad. Surely this was some kind of off-color sailor’s joke. She looked to the faces of the other passengers, but they mirrored her own. Comprehension creeped at the edges of Evelyn’s mind but could not find purchase.

  “The hell we are!” one of the passengers called. He was tall, with the posture of a man who’d served in the Emperor’s forces. And indeed, there on his chest was the eagle pin that denoted a former officer. He looked sure and unafraid. Good, Evelyn thought. He’ll set this right.

  But the captain nodded, and three of the sailors stepped forward. To Evelyn’s horror, she saw that one of them was Florian. There was a very brief tussle in which the man tried to stay on his feet, but Florian leveled him with a blow to his gut that knocked his legs out from under him. The sailors of the Dove cackled with delight.

  “No!” Evelyn shouted. Not Florian; surely he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, be a part of something so evil.

  The men chuckled at her horror.

  The two other sailors held the man fast and forced him to stay on his knees.