The Mermaid's Sister(25)
Once we are gone from the mountain, Scarff will make it known in the village that O’Neill, Maren, and I have gone to visit far-off relations. Scarff is able to speak falsely for our protection even if Auntie cannot.
And Simon will likely be labeled “touched in the head” if he goes about telling tales of seeing a mermaid in Verity Amsell’s kitchen.
Auntie weeps into her handkerchief as Scarff lifts Maren from the bath and lowers her into the washtub. Osbert moans and smacks his tail against the floor like a toddler throwing a fit. Pilsner watches from the mantel, the only calm soul among us.
Scarff and O’Neill pick up the washtub by its handles and carry it to the caravan, sloshing a good third of the water out as they go. Maren grips the sides of the tub to steady herself. She looks like a picture from one of our childhood books, one captioned “An Indian princess travels to her wedding by howdah atop an elephant.” Indeed, her face is as bright with bliss as any bride’s. She is glad to be going home.
“Promise you’ll come back,” Auntie says as she embraces me beside the wagon.
“Of course,” I say. I swallow hard, willing myself not to cry. I will keep my sadness to myself and not add to the weight of Auntie’s sorrow. “Take care of Scarff.”
And before our lazy rooster crows, O’Neill is shaking the reins and steering Job and January away from the only home my sister and I have ever known.
I sit inside the caravan beside Maren. Only her head extends above the oilcloth covering the washtub. Scarff tied the cloth down tight before we left—to keep the water and the mermaid from sloshing out. I worry that the rough roads will batter and bruise her. Perhaps we should have brought the bathtub; it would have given her more of a watery cushion. It is too late now.
The little window is open so that O’Neill may speak to us from the driver’s seat. The clopping of the horses’ hooves is barely audible above the sound of the pots, pans, and chimes. I wonder if O’Neill ever tires of those sounds. To me, they have always signaled the approach of joy itself, heralding the arrival of loved ones. What might they mean to me when this journey is finished and I have given Maren over to the tides?
She sleeps, my mermaid sister. Sleeps with a smile on her coral-pink lips, swaying with the motion of the wagon, as if she has not a care in the world. Not one regret, not a single sorrow, not an ounce of pain.
A snort comes from beneath a mound of blankets in the corner. A very familiar snort.
“Osbert!” I scold him as I whisk away his coverings. “You naughty wyvern! You should not have come along!”
Puppylike, he widens his eyes, flattens his ears, and whimpers.
“What is going on back there?” calls O’Neill from the driver’s seat. “Is something wrong?”
“That depends on how you feel about stowaway wyverns,” I say. And then I notice another creature lurking in another corner. “And stowaway ravens, as well.”
“Kraa,” Pilsner declares, ruffling his feathers haughtily.
“If you find a small black horse back there, do let me know,” O’Neill says, his voice light with laughter.
“As far as I can tell, Zedekiah had the good sense to remain at home.” I pat Osbert’s scaly head. “What am I to do with you? You must behave yourself, Osbert, and stay hidden. Imagine the trouble you could cause us! All we need is for someone to see you and get a notion to find out what else might be hiding in the caravan!”
Osbert promises to behave with a submissive bow of the head. And then he skulks to Maren’s washtub and curls his body about its base. Like the fearsome dragons of old, he is protecting his greatest treasure. I have no doubt that he would give his very life for her. Perhaps it is wise to have him with us.
I sit down again, resting my back against the sumptuous quilts overflowing from the built-in bed. I do not mean to fall asleep, but the rocking of the wagon lulls me into unconsciousness before I have a chance to consider fighting it.
The caravan is still. Mottled sunlight plays upon my closed eyelids. I listen to the soothing sounds of tinkling glass-and-metal wind chimes, and O’Neill’s deep-sleep breathing. For a moment, I am content. All is well here with us: happy mermaid, wyvern sheepdog, sleeping almost-brother, indomitable raven, and girl-brought-by-a-stork.
The prickly surface of Osbert’s tongue intrudes upon my peaceful moment, dampening my cheek with slobber. I simultaneously open my eyes and shove him aside. “Get off, you beast,” I whisper, trying not to disturb O’Neill and Maren. “You need to go out, do you?”
Wagging his tail, Osbert follows me as I tiptoe through the wagon.
I open the door to a gorgeous scene: Ancient hemlock trees encircle the wagon and tower above me. All the light here is stained green by the passage of sunlight through thick, high branches. Osbert pushes past me and rushes off into the forest as I step down onto a springy brown carpet of little needles.
Job and January stand nearby, unhitched and untethered, with buckets of water and oats at their disposal. They are used to the wandering life and have spent many a night in strange forests and fields. They nod their noble heads in greeting, and I reply in kind.
From here, I cannot see the road. Strangely, although I am surrounded by dancing bits of sunlight, I cannot see beyond a depth of five or six trees. I shiver, no longer so taken with the place. There is magic in this wood, and I am not certain which kind.