The Mermaid's Sister(13)

A glint of gold on the mantel shelf catches my eye. Gold ribbon wrapped around a tiny cherrywood box. Simon’s Christmas gift to Maren! How could I have forgotten it all this time?

I take the box down and give it to Maren. A note is tucked beneath the ribbon.

“Will you read it, sister?” Maren asks. “Reading tires me so.” I can see several rows of silver-edged scales through the fabric of her nightgown, ending just above the curve of her hip. She never wears a proper dress anymore; a corset would be unbearable, for it would crush her new scales. Besides, mermaids were not meant for clothes. Even the thinnest of nightgowns seems to irritate her.

I unfold the note. “Are you sure I should read it? It is from Simon. It may be private.”

“Read,” she says. She closes her eyes, and I begin.



Dearest darling Maren,

Here is a gift for you. It is very special. I bought it at the medicine show on the second night, when you were not with me, from the woman who sang and almost sold us gloves. She said it was from her country, and that if you kept it close to you, it would ease any sufferings you might have. She seemed to think you were unwell. Regardless, I thought it pretty. But not as pretty as you, my dearest darling.

Ever yours,

Simon David Shumsky



I groan. “Dearest darling? Ugh.”

“He cannot help his feelings, I suppose,” Maren says. She lifts the lid of the box and takes out a small stone. It is deep brown with a stripe of bronze down the center, like the eye of a cat. “It is rather pretty.” She pries open the locket O’Neill sent and places the stone inside. “It will be safe there, and if it has the magic the woman said it does, it will be close enough to me to do its work. Perhaps it will lessen the pain of changing. At times it is almost more than I can bear.”

“I will be glad if it helps you. But I do not think that anything they sold at the show was genuine,” I say. “Remember how Auntie had to make special tonics for many of the villagers who took Dr. Phipps’s mixtures?”

Maren yawns. “Yes. But this is only a bit of rock. What harm could it do?”

Auntie awakens with a start. “Goodness me, it’s nigh on midnight. Time for bed, my girls.”

Auntie and I each put an arm about Maren’s shoulders and help her hobble to bed. We wrap her greenish-blue legs in damp towels and kiss her good night.

“Merry Christmas, sister,” Maren and I say at the same moment. A tiny pearl rolls down Maren’s cheek and onto her pillow.

I lie down with her and press my hand against her cool, glittering cheek. “We have had the best of Christmases, haven’t we, dear? Snow and gifts from Scarff and O’Neill, that funny little horse, and Auntie’s good food. I am grateful for it, and you.” I swallow hard, tasting unshed tears in the back of my throat.

She closes her eyes. “I wonder if they celebrate Christmas beneath the sea. If I will.” Her voice is fading again. Whatever Christmas miracle returned it to her is diminishing.

“That is a mystery,” I say. “A very great mystery.”

Next year, unless O’Neill procures a very great miracle to reverse the change, she will know for certain what the merfolk do at Christmas. Will she send a message by seagull to share with me the customs they keep in the deep? Will she send gifts of sea glass and pirates’ lost coins? Will she remember us at all?

Time will tell.





CHAPTER EIGHT





In my nighttime dreams, I am brave.

Maren rides behind me on Zedekiah. He is not the small horse who has taken up residence in the barn with our three goats. He is a splendid stallion, sixteen hands high, regal and fearless. He carries us over mountains and through rivers, across barren plains and through tangled forests.

I sit up as straight and tall as a princess, but I am dressed as a boy, and a long sword bounces against my leg with each of Zedekiah’s prancing steps. We journey through many days and nights until we reach the sea.

Zedekiah gallops into the water. He slows as the water reaches his chest, and stops altogether when it reaches the base of his neck.

Something is approaching, moving fluidly toward us, moving fast under a layer of water as thin as glass. I draw my sword.

Out of the water appears the head of a giant sea horse, and enthroned upon the sea horse is a bare-chested man. Or rather, a bare-chested merman. His hair is white and as wild as the waves, and his crown is made of coral and pearls. His fishy half starts just below his navel, scales of iridescent green and orange and gold. His brow is furrowed, but he is smiling. “Daughter?” he says, his ocean-colored eyes on my sister. He urges the sea horse closer and reaches for Maren.

“Stand down,” I command. “We have not come to surrender, but to demand that you release her from your realm. We demand that you grant her freedom from the sea and return her to her human form.” My sword is pointed at his head. I do not tremble before this king.

He laughs with the sound of a thousand waves crashing into the sands of a thousand beaches. Still, I neither tremble nor back down. “Release her,” I say. “Or your blood shall mingle with these waters.”

With a slap of his tail, the merman bids the sea horse to charge. He raises his trident and in that instant, I swipe at him with my sword.

I miss.

The points of his trident press into my chest. “Silly girl,” he bellows. “Would you exchange your life for her freedom?”