The Mermaid's Sister(8)
Jasper plays with abandon, his face changing with each melody’s mood. He moves from gentle lullaby to mournful ballad to rollicking jig. The jig brings the crowd to their feet and into the aisles. Simon and Maren twirl and canter and laugh. I am pulled and spun about by Daniel until I am quite dizzy.
“Take your seats, if you please,” Dr. Phipps calls out when the music ends. “The great Jasper Armand shall entertain you again momentarily,” he says. “First, I must deliver unto you a message of the greatest import. As a practitioner of the medical arts, I am bound by conscience to speak to you plainly, to reveal the deep secrets of healing I have gathered. Open your ears to the sound of my voice, ladies and gentlemen.”
Dr. Phipps paces like a wildcat and extols like a preacher. “Have you aches and pains? Anxieties or doldrums? Skin rashes, stomach ailments, or digestive weakness? Have you women’s problems? Coughs or colds? Wheezes or sneezes? Palsies or poxes? Poor memory or trouble sleeping? Would you like to feel young again? Behold, I bring you glad tidings! I, Dr. George Wilhelm Hieronymus Lewis Balthazar Phipps, possess the miracle you have been longing for. For every health issue you might be facing, I have developed an effective curative.”
He pauses for a moment, using a bright-blue silk handkerchief to dab his damp brow. “How, you might ask, could one man find the cures for every sickness known to humankind? Well, my fine folks, I have consulted with physicians, scholars, shamans, wise men, wizards, scientists, and men of faith from across the globe. And the fruit of these studies is what I offer you here tonight: Dr. Phipps’s Special Formulas. I offer you balms, elixirs, pills, and syrups—each suited for your specific affliction, and priced fairly so that I can help as many folks as possible.” His expression of earnestness is every bit as theatrical as his speech.
He spreads his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Do not suffer another day, I beseech you. Visit the tables behind the stage after the show and purchase your new, healthy life tonight. We also offer fine soaps, tooth powders, painted fans, and gifts from faraway lands. Now, do not hesitate, my dear friends! Your miracle awaits you!”
I know he is a liar, for Auntie has warned us well of such men. But he is a skilled liar, and there is no way that I can stem the tide of customers rushing to buy his sham cures. As if to contrast the hectic movement, Jasper plays a mellow tune on guitar.
Simon takes Maren by the gloved hand. “I’ll buy you something pretty, Miss Maren. Whatever you choose.”
“That is very kind of you,” she says. My sister is never one to refuse a gift.
I follow close behind Maren and Simon, losing Daniel in the throng. Every resident of the mountain (except Auntie) must be here tonight. And most of them seem extremely anxious to waste their money.
When we reach the tables, Maren points out a pair of embroidered silk gloves. Madame Soraya, now shop mistress, picks them up. “Try them. They will look beautiful with your ivory skin,” she says. “Give me your hands and I will show you.”
As quick as a striking snake, Madame Soraya takes hold of Maren’s hands and pulls off her lace gloves. I gasp, and so does the show woman.
It is too late for my sister to hide her “affliction” from Madame Soraya. I look about, terrified that others might have seen. Auntie has kept our bits of magic (and our pet wyvern) secret all these years. She has warned us of the possible consequences of revealing our uniqueness: the loss of our home, our friends, and perhaps our lives.
To my relief, no one is staring at us. Even Simon seems not to have noticed Maren’s hands. He stands half-turned away from the table, deep in conversation with the village mason.
Madame Soraya says, “I have seen this before. If you will meet me when the show is over, I will take you to Dr. Phipps. I am sure he can help you, child.”
“It’s nothing,” Maren says, escaping Madame Soraya’s grip and hiding her hands behind her back. “Just something that runs in my family, like freckles or large ears.”
“You come and meet us,” Madame Soraya insists. “It is a matter of life and death, child. You know this as well as I.”
Maren turns away from the table. “I want to go home, Simon. They have nothing I want.” Her pretty face is pale and her lower lip trembles.
“I will drive you home in my father’s carriage,” Simon says as he guides us through the crowd. “I could not call myself a gentleman if I allowed you girls to walk two miles up the mountain in the dark.”
“Thank you, Simon,” I say. “We appreciate your kindness.”
Maren is uncharacteristically quiet during the ride home, no matter how hard Simon tries to amuse her. Poor Simon.
Later, safe at home in our shared bed, Maren says, “Perhaps you were right to want to stay home tonight. Perhaps I should try to be more sensible, like you.”
I roll over to face her. “What fun would the world be if everyone was sensible like me?” I say. “What fun would I have if you allowed me to sit about reading all day? You make me live, sister. You keep me from being boring and bored.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Still, I would like to be better. Not always horrifying you and Auntie with my bad manners.”
“Go to sleep, dear,” I say, yawning. “You may reform in the morning—if you still wish to.”
She is quiet for a moment, and then whispers, “I will stay home from now on, although I will most certainly hate it. I do not want to scare the boys with my scales and fins; I would rather remember them thinking me pretty.” She rolls away from me and takes my share of the blankets with her. “Good night, Clara.”