The Mermaid's Sister(4)
He bows to us. “Your most humble servant.” Arm in arm, Scarff and Auntie walk toward the cottage, their footsteps perfectly aligned.
“Come,” O’Neill says.
All of our troubles and disputes vanish as we enter the caravan.
“Be lit,” O’Neill commands as he turns the brass knob on the lantern suspended in the center of the room. An intense golden light floods every corner. I squint until the light fades to a more comfortable glow.
The caravan is magnificent. From hooks and pegs hang glass beads and strings of pearls, pendants of gold and enamelwork, chains of silver, and belts of leather as soft as a kitten’s belly. Spoons carved from wood, plain and sturdy. Fishing lures and lutes, lamps and baskets. Dazzling ornaments and common kitchen knives. Shelves of bottled spices and stoppered glass vials (filled by Auntie and me last spring) holding curatives. At the far end, the curtained bed stands in tapestried glory, its fat feather mattress covered with a crazy quilt of velvet and silks.
As always, O’Neill mocks our wide-eyed amazement. To him, it is simply home and work. To us, it is beautiful and wild and exciting.
“Here,” he says, pulling a richly lacquered chest out from beneath the sumptuous bed. He turns a key and the lid springs open. “We met a prince of the Ottoman Empire last month. He had been visiting a cousin in Philadelphia. He fell in love with the cousin’s kitchen girl. He said she had eyes like stars and skin as fair as goat’s milk. He sold us everything he’d brought from his faraway palaces so that he could buy her a little house beside the sea. His soul, he said, belonged to his bride, and he needed no other treasure but her.”
“Oh! How romantic!” Maren declares.
“Wait until she loses her looks and her cheer after bearing him a dozen rowdy sons. How romantic that will be, sister,” I say.
Maren and I sit on the Persian-carpeted floor and await O’Neill’s presentation. For he is a natural showman, and relishes any opportunity to perform.
He peers into the trunk with a devilish grin, humming what must be a Turkish melody, slowly rifling through the contents. Suddenly, with a flourish, he presents us with a pair of pointy-toed, yellow silk slippers. “Behold! The shoes of Prince Asil, great prince of Anatolia, skilled in music, hunting, and the wooing of ladies both dark and fair! Note the rubies on the toes.”
“Lovely,” Maren says, taking one of the shoes from him. She removes a leather slipper and slips her foot into the prince’s shoe. “What do you think?”
“They match your eyes, my lady,” O’Neill says roguishly.
Maren smacks his arm. “You’ll have yellow eyes if you do not mind yourself. Yellow, purple, black, and blue!”
One by one, O’Neill presents the prince’s treasures. He sets them on the floor around us. We marvel at the copper coffee set, the bejeweled dagger, the brass candleholders, the embroidered robes, the jewelry box with the tiny silver turtle inside.
“Anatolia. I will never see such a place,” Maren says. There is no regret in her words.
“I will take you to Anatolia,” O’Neill says, “when we are twenty and no one can tell us what to do or where to go. I will take you both. We will see London and Paris. We will camp in deserts and on mountaintops, and float upon the Dead Sea waters. We will ride elephants and camels and eat strange dishes and drink strange wines. I will douse you in the perfumes of the Orient, and cover you with silken saris, and pierce your noses with diamonds, and pierce your ears with pearls.”
Maren and I exchange a look.
“Keeping secrets, are you?” O’Neill asks. “From your best friend in the world? Your almost-brother?”
Biting her lip, Maren removes one royal shoe and stretches her foot toward O’Neill. “See for yourself.” She fans her odd toes, showing webbing that belongs on the foot of a frog, not the foot of a young lady.
He grabs her foot. “It is nothing,” he says. “I have seen worse things cured. I once saw a pig-headed man transformed into an ordinary banker. And on a Tuesday, no less.”
“It is far too warm in here,” Maren says. She removes her other shoe and pelts O’Neill in the chest with it. “Last one to the Wishing Pool is a slimy newt!”
In the moment before we chase after Maren, O’Neill grabs my hand. “I will see that she is cured,” he vows. “Trust me, Clara.”
And then we are running through the forest, and once again I am wishing. Wishing that I could trust in O’Neill’s promise. Wishing that he could be the hero of the story of Maren’s life, as he was once the hero of our games of make-believe.
CHAPTER THREE
The bonfire blazes. The visiting village children dance around it, their small feet kicking and stepping to the music of Auntie’s violin. Their parents sit on blankets nearby, or stand beside the long trestle tables, sampling peculiar pastries and miniature star-shaped cakes. An hour ago, Scarff and O’Neill set the tables themselves with brocaded cloths, silver candlesticks, and box after box of sweets and savories pulled from the depths of the caravan.
I slip a mysterious pastry into my mouth, wondering about its origin. Wondering if it will be stale and I will have to swallow it for good manners’ sake. I wondered for nothing. It is delicious. Despite the warmth of the summer evening, each bite cools the palate like snow while pleasing the tongue with curious flavors: lemon and sage, honey and black pepper.