The Mermaid's Sister(16)

“If I could leave this place . . .” Auntie says, her eyes awash with regret. “But I cannot.”

“Perhaps I should try to take her,” I say, well aware that Auntie has not set foot off the mountain since long before my birth. Indeed, the thought makes my stomach clench with fear, but I speak on. “The worst of winter is likely past, and the roads are clear enough for the wagon. Zedekiah is small, but he could manage to pull Maren and me. I could dress like a boy to be safe. And when O’Neill arrives, you could send him to join us.” My voice sounds foreign to me, my words like someone else’s.

Auntie wraps her wrinkled fingers about my wrist. “You do not have to prove your love for Maren to me, my dear. Nor to her. Let us wait a little longer for Scarff and O’Neill. If they do not appear by March, I will consider your offer.” She smiles faintly, whether to reassure herself or me, I cannot tell.

I attempt a smile of my own—for Auntie’s sake alone. “I know you have done everything you could for Maren, Auntie. I only want to be able to say the same for myself.”

She neither agrees nor disagrees, just pats my shoulder. “I will make tea,” she says. “And we will cling to what hope we have.”



The days are a blur of repetition. I read to Maren. I sing to her. She smiles wistfully when I recount our childhood adventures, especially ones involving the mischief O’Neill always got us into. While she naps, I clasp her damp hand and daydream of happier times.

I admit that I daydream of O’Neill more than any other subject. Perhaps more than I should. But thoughts of him shore up my heart with moments of much-needed joy. I think perhaps I love him more each day. Is that how true love works? I will not ask Auntie.

Every few hours, I scoop buckets of cooled water from the tub and refill it with water from the kettles Auntie heats continually on the woodstove. I add handfuls of coarse salt. When people come up from the village in need of remedies, Auntie closes the bedroom door firmly, with a discreet turning of key in lock, saying that Maren is “not her usual self.” Auntie always tells the truth.

One afternoon, while Auntie is filling bottles of cough elixir in the kitchen, Maren naps, and I am drowsing over Robinson Crusoe, a tapping at our bedroom window startles me. Just the wind, I think. I begin to reread page thirty-seven for what must be the thirty-seventh time. And then it happens again. Turning my head, I see a dark shape outside the frost-starred pane.

After setting the book on the mattress, I tiptoe to the window. The tapping is pecking, I realize as I discern the outline of a bird. As soon as I open the window, the bird swoops into the room, accompanied by a bone-chilling blast of wind. With all my strength, I push the pane back into place and turn the latch.

Awakened by the commotion, Maren watches the raven perch on the edge of the tub and bow its head in salute. She applauds and laughs in tiny gasps. I have not seen her so delighted since her last autumn’s swim in the Wishing Pool.

“Kraa,” calls the raven, shaking one leg in my direction. Tied to the leg with a red string is a piece of brown paper.

“What have you here?” I say to the bird as I work to undo the complicated knot. “Sorry, Mr. Raven. I’m doing my best.” Finally, the string gives way and the paper slips to the floor.

“A message?” Maren asks in her soft, ocean-breeze voice.

“We shall see.” I retrieve the paper and it unfolds itself in the palm of my hand like an enchanted flower. I recognize the handwriting immediately and my heart rejoices. “It is from O’Neill!”

Maren claps her hands, sending water drops flying onto the raven and me. “Read it,” she mouths. “Out loud.”

“Of course,” I reply. “The message says . . . oh, my! Such small print!” I bring the paper closer to my face and angle it to catch the firelight. “There,” I say, and begin.

Dear Clara, Maren, and Verity,

I present to you the good raven Pilsner. He is a gift from our gypsy friends, a bird of extraordinary talent. He brings to you our fondest greetings and our news. And our news is this: Scarff is much improved, and Job and January in fine fettle. We leave here very soon, and hope to be with you by first of March. We beseech you, dear ladies, to keep well until we meet again. And ever after, of course.

Yours faithfully,

O’Neill, and Scarff also

Postscript: Pilsner has a great fondness for cheese, the sharper the better.



With a contented smile and a wriggle of her mermaid tail, Maren sinks a bit lower into the water. Pilsner hops along the edge of the tub until he reaches the point closest to the fireplace. He ruffles his feathers and closes his eyes, his task well done.

O’Neill is coming, my heart sings. In two short weeks, he will be here with us. In spite of Auntie’s predictions of Maren’s fate, I dare to hope that he might rescue us from our loss of her yet, that he might bring a charm or a potion or something that will make her fully human again. That he will be the hero who can change this tale of woe into a happily-ever-after story.

Perhaps I am a fool.

No, I know I am a fool. Why else would I keep wishing for a way for Maren to become a girl again when Auntie’s wise words echo in my head a hundred times each day: “There is no cure for being who you truly are.”

Why else would I wish something for my sister that she does not wish for herself?

Maren flicks her tail and droplets of water fly into my face. Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “You look far too glum for having read such good news,” she whispers. She flings another fin-full of water my direction and drenches my dress.