And of course. The mermaid was lying still now, but she was not weightless. Evelyn only hoped they were far enough from the Dove to have cleared its nets. With somewhat less care than she would have liked, she extricated the creature and lowered her into the water.
The change was immediate.
As soon as she touched the sea, the mermaid began to change. She stretched longer, her fins firming with strength returned. Evelyn dropped the mermaid entirely, and she disappeared beneath the black water for a moment. When she resurfaced, she was entirely transformed, her wide eyes set now on a face that fit them, her skin the healthy and tawny gold of the sun, high cheekbones illuminated in the scarce moonlight. Black hair cascaded behind her, and she regarded Evelyn for a moment through thick black eyelashes.
Evelyn felt the breath catch in her throat. She was beautiful.
Then, silently, she ducked under the water once more and was gone.
At least, Evelyn thought, at least she had done this one good thing in her life.
Behind them, the men were closer. Evelyn could hear their voices.
The crack of a gun rang out, and Evelyn could hear the bullet strike the water not far from where the mermaid had been.
“Damn it all,” Florian muttered. More shots rang out. Though they could not see the boat that pursued them, they could hear it growing ever closer. The only reason they still lived, they both knew, was the thick fog.
Under her seat, Evelyn found it. The pistol. She had never held one before, let alone shot one. She looked at Florian hopefully.
“Do you think I could —?”
“No.” There was no time for explanations, Evelyn knew. She felt herself deflate.
But before she could let resignation settle into her completely, the boat shuddered and picked up speed. It was not Florian’s doing; that much was made abundantly clear by the look of utmost bemusement on the boy’s face. He’d all but stopped rowing and yet forward the boat moved, at a faster pace.
“The mermaid,” Evelyn whispered, as Florian shook his head in wonder. It did not do to question the gifts of the Sea.
“Give me that pistol.” Florian traded spots with Evelyn, an awkward affair that nearly tipped the boat. “Stay down and keep your eye on the water.”
Evelyn did as she was bidden. Even with the borrowed speed from the mermaid, the men gained on them and bullets screamed past them. When one hit the side of their boat, cracking the wood, she could hear the voices of the men rise in collective victory. They had placed them now. Florian cursed again, and with a deep sigh of what emotion Evelyn could hardly even imagine, he opened fire back upon them. He took his shots slowly, pausing thoughtfully between them, and with the sound of a pained shout, Evelyn knew at least one of his shots had hit home.
They could make it, Evelyn thought wildly. They could make it. With one less man to row, the other vessel had slowed, and still the mermaid propelled their boat from below.
But then two shots rang out at once, both with catastrophic effect.
One hit the boat just below the water, creating a hole through which seawater poured mercilessly.
The other hit Florian.
He let out a cry of pain. For one terrible moment, Evelyn thought it had hit him in the heart. That all was lost. But then he reached up to clutch himself in the shoulder and crumpled forward. And before Evelyn could reach him, before she could try to stanch the bleeding, the boat started to sink, too much weight for the mermaid to bear. The water was cold and ghastly, first around her ankles, then her waist. Evelyn did not know how to swim well, but she also knew she could not let them be recaptured. Florian would be killed; that was certain. And so, praying that perhaps swimming in the ocean was not all that dissimilar from swimming in a pond, and that there would be something to alight upon and rest soon, she took Florian in her arms. He’d passed out, from the shock or from the pain. She kissed his forehead lightly, whispered her apologies, and tipped them both under the water.
It was a foolish choice.
The sea was not like the ponds she’d grown up swimming in; it had been stupid to think it might be. It fell endlessly below her, and she frantically tried both to keep Florian’s face above water and to fight the pull down, down, down, on her, on her skirts, and on her shoes — why had she kept her shoes on? The salt water stung her eyes and nose, and in her panic and fear she inhaled a great gulp of it, burning her throat and lungs.
Water pressed in. Into Evelyn’s ears, her nose, down her throat. She kicked wildly, but still, down she went. If she freed Florian, would he float to the top or simply drown even faster? Not knowing, Evelyn held him close, fighting for the surface for them both. For surely, she may have deserved to die — she’d been an indolent youth, and had done little to nothing to improve the lives of those around her at any stage.
But Florian.
Florian had been given no chances, no kindness, and no mercy, and yet he still risked himself for her, whom he hardly knew and who had done nothing but cause him pain. She would not be the death of him, not if she could help it.
She swam.
Gunshots on the water.
The Lady Ayer straightened in her hiding place, heart racing. It did not bode well — she knew, of course, of the many dangers on the sea, and she was prepared. But gunshots? Now? Deep within her trunk, wrapped in corsets, several ornate pistols waited for her.
Obedient Imperial noblewoman though she may have seemed, the Lady was no fool. She whispered to Genevieve, bade her ready her blade, small and silver and strapped to her ankle with a leather thong for the entirety of the trip.
She ordered Genevieve to stay close and to stay silent.
Gunshots on the water.
Rake feigned ignorance for as long as he could, before ordering the men in pursuit of the runaways. He prayed silently to the Sea that they would find freedom, but the alarm had been sounded so early, too early. Their safety was not his ultimate goal, however, and so he could not sacrifice his mission for their sake, nor even for the mermaid’s.
The captain emerged from belowdecks, his eyes still bleary with drunken sleep. His breath smelled of rum and sick as he pulled Rake in close and gave a mess of orders, of which only several made any sense.
Rake thought of his many commands from the captain, the man he hated. Someday, he told himself, he would no longer take orders. Not from him. Someday soon he would know justice. Someday soon Rake would hand him to the Pirate Supreme and see his true duty done.
But this night, Rake only nodded and did as he was told.
Gunshots on the water.
Alfie woke with a start in his hammock.
He looked wildly about for Flora, but she wasn’t there.
He steadied himself, his legs wobbling mutinously beneath him, as he went abovedeck, joining his fellows. Rake was barking orders to secure the remaining prisoners, to find the Lady Ayer, who was still — somehow — missing. Someday, he told himself, we’ll live in Tustwe and these days will just be a blur of memories we never visit. Someday, we will be free of this ship.
But when he looked about for Flora, she was nowhere to be seen.
He was alone.
The mermaid is home.
The Sea knows at once from the warmth that gathers like a pinprick in her midst. She knows the mermaid as she knows herself, and she is home. Her daughter is home.
With her the mermaid brings the memories she was entrusted to hold: Of an island long since drowned. Of mountains moved, and of a continent shifted.
Relief spreads through the Sea, spreads over her surface, and she is anchored in her happiness.
Men and women stand upon her shore and remark, Have you ever seen the sea so still? And they have not, for never has a mermaid been taken and then returned. If ever a mermaid is brought home, it is only her shell, empty and lifeless. How many daughters, dead and gone, has she buried in her depths? How much despair still lingers?
Ah, but this time.
What kindness is this? Unprece
dented.
It was Evelyn, the mermaid says. She fed me and she freed me and I am home, Mother. I am home.
And the other? the Sea asks.
Freed us both.
Then they shall both be saved.
With care, the Sea lifts them both, cradles them to her breasts as she carries them, so that they might feel the beating of her many hearts.
A small pod of dolphins jumps in her wake, playing in the rolling waves created by her elation. They’re wise enough to know that it will be long beyond their years before the Sea will show such joy again.
She is as gentle as the Sea can be, as gentle as she is enormous.
She leaves them where humans belong, on the soft sand of the shore.
And still, as they sleep, she sends lapping waves against their feet to remind them of her gratitude.
Thank you, she says. Thank you.
The salt of the Sea licked her wound, burned it, sent pain through her whole being. Flora felt her body convulse, and she was sick into the sand that was in her mouth, on her face, everywhere.
Where am I?
She tried to move but found that she could not, not without being sick again. The pain was everything, it was everywhere, it was Flora’s whole world. She was adrift in a body that did not want her anymore, a body that was no more. Another wave hit her, and the pain doubled. Flora cried out.
Let me die.
Distantly, she was aware of voices. A shadow cast over her face, the beating of the sun mitigated, if only for a moment. She tried to look about her, but all she could see was light and darkness, both blinding, both infuriatingly disorienting.
A hand, gruff and without grace, shoved something against the wound in Flora’s shoulder, and even though she knew that it was to stanch the bleeding, she cried out and tried to free herself from the pain.
Let me die! she cried, though she was unsure if she had spoken or screamed. The hand pressed on, and Flora was sick again. This time the vomit stuck in her mouth and in her nose until she was tipped onto her side once more.
Vaguely, she was aware of being lifted by many hands.
In a far-off place, she heard her own moans, echoing, terrible, into a world she could not see.
She called for her release from life over and over again, but either no one heard or no one cared to listen. The result was the same. She remained, despite her wishes, despite her better judgment, despite the pain.
And as she faded back into a black sleep, she saw Evelyn’s face, tears streaming. And she wondered if the Lady Hasegawa was real or a taunt from her own cruel mind.
Above her, the cliffs towered. They rose straight into the heavens. From the narrow strip of beach where she stood, Evelyn could see the many rope-and-wood elevators that allowed for ascension along the stark side of the cliffs where homes had been carved out of sheer rock, could hear the creaks and groans of the many pulleys. She could not see the top of the cliffs, though, as they disappeared into clouds.
Florian lay on the sand. He was breathing again, at least; a fisherman had seen to that. Florian would make it, she told herself. He’d be just fine. The fisherman had promised in broken Imperial to send for an elevator to be brought down to the shore, which he said would take Florian and Evelyn to the witch for healing.
Evelyn had not argued. Witches, she knew, had been eradicated by the Imperial Guard, found and burned and gone. They were tricksters, hucksters, and worse. They’d preyed upon the weak and had not survived the colonization of the Floating Islands. They’d worshipped the sea, and could not, like so many others, be converted to the Imperial Faith. These things were for the best, she’d been told. There were no more witches. The fisherman just meant healer. Perhaps the truth of where he took her was lost in translation. Perhaps witch was the closest word he had to doctor.
So she waited for the elevator.
They were called the Floating Islands by Imperials, and for the first time Evelyn could understand why. They were not actually suspended above the water as legend had it, but the cliffs were so tall that they rose above the clouds. From far away, they likely did appear to be floating. From where Evelyn sat, they seemed equally impossible. It was as if the sea had eaten all except the apple core of the land. They were beautiful in the way that gallows were beautiful.
Finally, the fisherman returned. Sweat dripped down his wrinkled brow, and Evelyn could see from the deep lines carved by the sun that he’d spent his entire life outside. Probably coming up and down these elevators, carrying fish from the sea to the market. He motioned for Evelyn to come and to bring Florian, which she did with no small effort. He seemed reluctant to touch Florian, and he left Evelyn to drag him by his feet through the sand until she, too, was drenched with sweat.
“Look,” he said. He pointed to a flat wooden pallet resting on the ground that was connected to four thick ropes. “Elevator. Yes? You get on.”
Evelyn looked from the man to the elevator and back again. She did not trust it, but she could not afford to be choosy. She didn’t speak the language of the Floating Islands, and gesturing wildly and crying for a doctor had not gotten her terribly far with most people on the shore. If this elevator would take Florian to a doctor, then this elevator would have to do.
Evelyn turned to check on Florian once again. His face was pallid and drawn. He needed food and water and warmth and care, and Evelyn did not have the means to give him any of that, not until they reached the market. Hidden beneath her sleeves was a gold bracelet with a ruby clasp. She would trade it for all the things Florian needed.
And if she couldn’t?
Then Florian would die. Florian would die saving her. Florian would die without his brother. Aboard the Dove, Evelyn knew, Alfie remained. As did the Lady Ayer. And her girl, Genevieve. She hadn’t even stopped to think of them, not once, as she made her own escape. What a selfish thing she was, so in need of saving, without a second’s thought to those she’d left behind. To be sold into slavery. Punished by death, perhaps. That’s where their friends would be. On the Red Shore.
But then, when had she ever spared a thought for those who were left, wrecked in her wake? Keiko’s face came to her mind with startling clarity. She had not secured work before Evelyn had left.
She would save Florian. She had saved the mermaid; she could do this. She could master her fear. And so she pulled Florian onto the elevator and thanked the man with a kiss on the cheek. He smiled at this but left hastily.
With a shudder, the elevator began to rise. It was a little rocky at first, and Evelyn had to hold fast to a rope while trying her best to hold on to Florian. But once the ascent started in earnest, it was a remarkably smooth journey up and up and up, away from the sea.
How it was they’d survived, Evelyn didn’t know. The current had been swift and, fight as she had, Evelyn had only been able to catch a breath sporadically. She’d vomited as soon as they’d hit the shore, again and again, the salt of the sea burning her throat and her nose, her body exhausted from her fight. The only luck, so far as Evelyn could see it, was that Florian had washed up alongside her.
As they rose, the air grew colder. Evelyn shivered against it and tried her best to keep Florian’s fingers warm by blowing on them. Once they reached a great height, they began to pass the little houses, each with its own elevator stop along the many lines that punctuated the cliff sides.
The houses were in varying stages of disrepair, and it was evident the people who lived in them made do with what they had. Old barrels repurposed as seats on porches. Doors built of weatherworn wood that looked as though it had likely once been part of a ship. If she had not been so fearful for Florian, for herself, she might have stopped to remark on the genius of their ingenuity and the beauty that resulted from it.
“You’ll be all right, Florian,” Evelyn whispered. Being unconscious, he didn’t answer, of course. But speaking to him reminded Evelyn of her purpose. “I promise.”
The elevator stopped in front of a small house.
&nbs
p; The house was like so many they’d passed, carved straight into the side of the cliff. It was small and white, with purple shutters. The spindly vines of out-of-bloom bougainvillea spread like veins over the white plaster walls, giving the whole building the feeling of sickness. Evelyn wondered how her guide had recognized it — it looked so much like all the others, save for the golden hand that served as a door knocker, an incongruous signal of wealth amid so much evident poverty.
Evelyn knocked on the door with the golden hand.
It was several long moments before a woman, perhaps her mother’s age, stood before them. Her hair was stacked tall atop her head in a messy bun, equal parts black and white, with a red spurt of cloth that Evelyn could only assume kept it in place. She was black like Florian, her skin darker than his. She certainly did not look like the people on the shore. She was bigger, for one thing, taller. Her lips were full and her hair had tight curls. Her dress was gray and spattered with something Evelyn hoped was not blood. A long string of pearls hung loosely around her neck and dipped — improperly — into her cleavage.
Without speaking, she eyed Evelyn and looked beyond her to Florian’s prone body on the elevator.
“Well,” she said. Her voice, too, had a thick accent, but unlike the fisherman, her Imperial was clean and clear. “You’d best come in, then.” And she turned on her bare foot and padded off into the darkness of her home, leaving Evelyn to drag Florian inside unassisted.
She led them by a dripping candelabra into a small kitchen. The ceilings were low, and the room was night-dark compared to the bright of outside.
Evelyn hoisted Florian onto the low kitchen table. His legs hung off the edge limply.
The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea Page 11