The Mermaid's Sister(7)
Gretel repeats the news, her enthusiasm increasing by the minute.
“We must go, too, Clara,” Maren says, now wide awake and matching Gretel’s excitement. “We never get shows here. Well, hardly ever. And don’t say that O’Neill’s antics count, because they do not.”
“I am not interested in seeing silver-tongued salesmen and hearing bawdy songs sung by nearly undressed ladies,” I say. “We can entertain ourselves at home in a more appropriate manner.”
“Well, I’m going,” Maren says. “Unchaperoned, if you will not come with me.” She knows the word unchaperoned makes me cringe. “Auntie, please tell Clara that she must go see the traveling show with me tonight. I might never get another chance, after all.”
“You should go with Maren, Clara.” Auntie covers her basket of herbs and bottles with a clean towel. “Widen your horizons, dear. Dance with the village boys and enjoy your youth.”
“There—it’s settled,” Maren says proudly. “And perhaps O’Neill would like to come. Where is he? Out seeing to his horses?”
“They’ve gone,” I say. “In their usual way.”
“Scarff doesn’t care for a fuss,” Auntie says. “So we won’t pout over it, will we, my girls?”
Maren pouts.
“At least you have the show to look forward to, sister,” I say, even though I am not looking forward to it one bit. I pour a cup of tea and set it before her. “And they will be back before you know it.”
“True enough,” Auntie says. She picks up her basket. “Come along now, Gretel, and we’ll see what’s to be done about your brother.”
O’Neill’s note crinkles inside my pocket as I cross the kitchen to refill the teapot, a secret treasure hidden among the folds of my everyday garment. If I must go to the show, I will carry it with me.
It is a more than adequate consolation.
A section of farmer Pinkney’s field is marked off with flaming torches, each as tall as a man. Within this boundary, rows of benches face a raised stage. Above the stage, lanterns hang from a wire and cast a warm glow on the plank floor.
The villagers gather at the boundaries, seeming to hesitate, as if going any farther would be equivalent to entering a fairy circle or haunted place. Only a few young people venture to the benches. They are wearing their best clothes, and so is Maren—whether it’s to impress one another or in honor of the rare event, I do not know.
Maren pulls me by the sleeve of my second-best dress until we reach the center of the third-row bench. Immediately, Simon Shumsky and Daniel Roberts take seats beside us. Daniel sits close enough to me that I can feel the warmth of his thigh through the fabric of my dress and petticoat. His breath makes no secret of the fact that he had onions for supper, washed down with beer. I slide closer to my sister and make use of my fan.
Simon flirts with Maren, and she flirts back. She is only playing, but he has asked her to marry him at least three times this year. He is neither very bright nor very handsome, but he is rich and determined. I wonder if she would have said yes to him someday—for all the wrong reasons—had she not been destined to become a mermaid.
The thought of Maren’s future form sends a shiver of dread through my body. How long will she be able to remain with us on the mountain? And who will take her to the sea when the time comes? I could never be brave enough to take her there alone. I have heard far too many stories of perilous roads and dangerous strangers. And beyond that, how could I keep her safe and hidden? Perhaps with O’Neill’s aid . . .
I stare at Maren’s pretty profile and try to comfort myself with the truth: my sister is not afraid of becoming a mermaid. She has spoken of it since we were very young, and never with dismay. Quite the opposite, in fact. I think the romance of life in an underwater kingdom appeals to her greatly.
If I were more like her, I might relish the thought of the feathers and wings I will grow one day if or when I become a stork—instead of accepting my possible fate without joy, as I do now.
The music of a flute wafts over the crowd and distracts me from my woeful reverie. Finally, the villagers dare to step into the bounds of the show, finding seats and shushing noisy children and spouses. Near the back of the platform, a red velvet curtain parts, and a woman walks to center stage. Her skin is the color of caramel, and her small, lithe body is wrapped in a sunset of silks. Gold rings adorn her ears and a diamond sparkles on her nostril. She spreads her arms wide and begins to sing.
She sings in deeply accented English, a song about a caged bird’s longing for freedom. Her voice soars and dips like a swallow in flight. Suddenly, or so it seems, the song is over. The audience applauds and cheers. Beside me, Daniel Roberts whistles—and then looks at me sheepishly and apologizes.
A short, stout, impeccably dressed gentleman takes the stage. He sweeps his top hat off his balding head and bows low. Then he says, “Ladies and gentlemen! I, Dr. George Wilhelm Hieronymus Lewis Balthazar Phipps, welcome you here tonight. You have just had the great privilege of hearing the beautiful songstress Madame Soraya of Gojanastani, the darling of the crowned heads of Europe and Asia. And now I present to you the handsome, the masterful, the celebrated Jasper Armand and his captivating violin!”
Dr. Phipps steps behind the curtain. He is replaced on the stage by a tall young man with a boyish face and a mop of brassy curls. He has the same eyes as the singer: golden-brown, like those of a mountain lion. He lifts the violin and, as promised, the audience is captivated.