by Plum Pascal
“My apologies,” I say, trying to keep the seething envy from my voice. It isn’t my place to question the princess’ decisions. Completely baffling as they may be.
Then I lean forward, seize a fistful of the human’s black hair, and mash my mouth to his. Aria is right. A kiss is pleasant, in its way. It makes my lips tingle. The human is feverishly warm to my touch, and his mouth sears mine.
The human pulls away from me with a chuckle and wipes his mouth.
“Feck me! Months o’ celibacy, an’ now I’ve got a comely lad an’ lass. ‘Tis almost worth losin’ the Jolly Roger.” His face darkens. “Almost.” Then he clears his throat and the mirth slips from his expression. “Ye’ll want to be careful there, mate. Ye’re pretty enough, but most the menfolk on land object to bein’ greeted as such. They prefer women.”
“But Aria just said kissing was a way of making pleasant greetings?” I ask, flummoxed.
“Aye, well, ‘tis a bit different.” Then he looks at Aria. “An’ ye, lass, shouldnae be goin’ aboot offerin’ kisses to every scallywag ye meet. They might well try to take more from ye than ye be willin’ to offer.”
I notice as his eyes travel to the center of her thighs and stay there. My eyes follow the same path and I find myself studying the strange clam between her thighs. Yet, it doesn’t quite resemble a clam, truly. It’s not the same color and I have yet to see it spit out sea water. Aria’s species of clam appears more like an opening, similar to a wound, but it does not reveal bloodied flesh. And there are bizarre lips that surround it. I should like to inspect it later.
“Then kissing is not meant for greeting?” I ask the strange human.
The man rolls his eyes skyward. “Nae, mate. Ye’ll learn soon enough, I’d wager.” Then he pauses and runs his eyes over my chest and arms. “Are all mermen as solid as ye?”
“Yes.”
He lets out another of those bleak chuckles and rolls his shoulders forward, stretching. “Good to know.” He turns to face Aria. “Now, what do ye say we make our egress from this depressin’ wee sandbar an’ find shore? Ye’re nae gonna be able to speak to the King of Delorood from here.”
“If only we could,” I mutter. Unable to help myself, I throw a vexed glance at the princess. “Opeia’s enchantment was activated the moment we stepped foot on land. If you’d waited until we reached Delorood before coming on land, we wouldn’t face this problem.” I take a breath and continue to glare at her, for this is her fault. And now I see why she didn’t wait for Delorood. The human is the reason we’re landlocked here. “We are, for the most part, human now.”
“What does that mean?” the human demands.
“It means we’re stranded on this island,” Aria answers. “No tails, and my wings are next to useless this far out to sea. They’d be sodden before we could even reach the thermals above.”
She’s shamefaced, shoulders curled forward, hands clasped before her in contrition. Instantly, my anger evaporates. It is not my place to question her. It is only my own bullheadedness and sense of entitlement that causes the rift between us. I am valued by her, clearly, if she reacts this badly to my censure. I want to comfort her. But what can be said? I’ve spoken nothing but truth. How are we to make it to shore without drowning ourselves or the human?
Hook just stares at us both. “Ye’re both pullin’ me leg, right?”
“Pulling your leg?” Aria asks as she glances down at his legs with a frown.
I admit, I am quite confused as well. “We are standing opposite you,” I point out. Does she find his foolishness charming, as well? It would annoy me. It already is. “Neither one of us is near enough to pull your leg.”
“Bloody hell, that’s nae what I...” He rubs a spot between his eyes and appears quite chagrined. “Travelin’ with the pair of ye is gonna be a right nightmare.”
He shakes his head and mutters darkly for a few more seconds before standing up straighter.
“Explain to us, please, Hook,” Aria says, smiling at him encouragingly.
He faces her and his eyes drop to her breasts again and the worm growth attached to the inside of his legs begins to stir and grow. I wonder if it’s eating him from the inside out? I wonder if the same will happen to me? I should hope not.
“There’s an option ye’re both clearly missin’,” he says. “I ‘spose it makes sense, since ye’re used to swimmin’ everywhere. But there be boats on this island, Popsy. At least one o’ them has to be in good enough condition to ferry us to the shallows outside Delorood, at the verra least.”
I exchange a glance with the princess. She looks as uncertain as I feel. A boat? One of the human death traps that fails as often as not, tossing sailors into the sea to drown?
“It doesn’t sound safe,” she hedges.
“Safe or nae, it seems yer only option. Unless ye’d like to try yer hand at swimmin’? Swimmin’ with a human body…”
He has a point. I dislike that idea immensely.
Aria straightens and then nods warily. “I suppose you’re right—we would not get very far swimming without tails or fins. Let’s find those boats.”
“First things first,” the human says, glancing between us and then himself. “We’re gonna need to... cover up.”
I make a face. Human outerwear. Ridiculous and cumbersome.
“I have a plan,” he says as he reaches for the pile of his own clothing.
“What is it?” Aria asks.
He tells us and I don’t like it. Aria doesn’t appear to like it either, which mollifies me.
“All right,” she agrees with a sigh at last. “Let’s put some clothes on and go. But I’m removing them the instant I’m allowed.”
Hook grins. “There’s naethin’ I’d enjoy more, Popsy.”
SIX
Aria
Human lives are a misery. No wonder Triton forbids excursions onto land. This day has been possibly the worst in my recent memory. The sun, which ripples and shines like a lovely golden disc from beneath the water, beats down on the land with a burning fury. My skin begins to bake after only a half-hour beneath its rays. And the color is already turning into an angry shade of red.
There’s some relief where the fabric of the clothing Hook fashioned me covers me. I heartily disliked the clothing Hook provided us, at first. It was already difficult to walk on these wobbly sticks that pass for appendages without being encumbered by portions of the heavy sails, tied around me as though I’m a mast. Now, I’m grateful for them.
Hook wrapped the sail around my chest and secured it in place so my arms, upper chest and back are uncovered, as are the majority of my legs, beneath my upper thighs. The skin beneath dews with sticky and slightly odorous liquid, but at least I don’t feel like a beached whale.
My arms burn with more than the heat though. Every muscle fiber is screaming for mercy as we paddle our way toward the shores of Delorood. Without the easy glide of water to buoy me, it feels like gravity has settled weights at my shoulders and elbows. Humans must constantly be aching from their daily toil. Thankfully, we’re nearing shore, so the tortuous journey is almost over.
We’ve been traveling most of the night and into the next day, taking shifts, with two of us rowing and the third sleeping. It’s Hook and I awake at the moment. How Bastion can sleep through the scorching day, I can’t fathom, but I’m grateful he can.
I’m not sure if the human nose can scent well, the way a merman’s can, but my clam, that odd place between my legs, grows sticky when I look at the human man. And the scent is quite different than the beads of liquid at my brow and beneath my arms. It’s muskier.
And I’m not certain, but I believe the clam might be responsible for the strange sensations that seem to blossom from it. It’s akin to a deep sense of yearning, a need that makes little sense to me. And the yearning need as well as the musky scent seems to increase whenever I catch a glimpse of Hook’s muscled arms or the way he stares at my body with unabashed hunger.
Part of me wa
nts to cross over to his side of the boat and press my mouth to his again. He’s kissed me, as he calls it, once more since we left Cassio Island. It makes my lips tingle and it makes my clam grow quite wet. It was perhaps a few minutes okay that Hook greeted me again. And I greeted him back, enthusiastically.
Hook’s eyes twinkle knowingly as he catches me looking at him.
“A pence for yer thoughts, lass?”
“I hate being human,” I gripe. “It’s miserable. You’re all so dry.”
Hook tilts his head and lets out one of those appealing laughs of his. “Guess I never thought o’ it that way. I ‘spose this place must seem like a desert to ye, after the way ye’ve lived. Awful moist where ye’re from.”
“And it’s hot on land,” I continue, a whine creeping into my voice. “I’ve lived in the deeps for over half my life. It’s frigid, and the pressure is immense. Yet, here I sometimes feel like I might fly away and then other moments I feel like I’m bearing a heavy weight upon my shoulders.”
“I’ll keep ye grounded, Popsy. Want me to hold ye?”
Yes.
“It would probably tip the boat if I were to stand up and move to your side,” I answer on a sigh.
He grins at that and inclines his head. “Aye, I ‘spose ‘twould. But ‘tis a pretty thought.”
Yes. A pretty thought indeed.
***
We reach the port shy of sundown. By that time, I’ve been able to sleep for a two-hour stretch and rest my aching muscles. The rest, while it helps my muscles, does little to help my baked flesh. My skin has begun to peel in places and it’s now a deep red. Do humans shed their skin like snakes? I don’t know but dislike this immensely.
Hook ties our small craft to the dock and swings a leg up and onto the wooden platform. He extends a hand to me, and I take it. It takes me a few miserable seconds of effort before I can clamber out of the boat. It sways, trying to tip Bastion and I into the sea. Eventually, with both men doing their best to steady me, I am able to make a somewhat graceful exit from the craft.
The wood grain is almost unbearably rough beneath my peeling flesh, and my eyes prick strangely. Still more uncomfortable wetness emerges from my human body, but this time it’s pouring from my eyes. Will this body ever stop producing water from strange places?
My breath hitches strangely and water continues to pour down my cheeks, salty and warm. It tastes a little like the sea.
Hook glances over his shoulder at me after helping Bastion from the boat. His expression twists in concern.
“What’s wrong, lass? Why are ye cryin’?”
Crying? Is that what humans call this outpouring of water? I struggle to form words around the hiccupping sound caught in my throat.
“It h-hurts... My skin hurts everywhere.”
“Morningstar’s balls!” Hook swears as he takes in the redness of my shoulders and arms for the first time. “O’ course! Ye’ve never had a sunburn. Come, Popsy. Let’s get ye inside. I’ll find somethin’ that will help soothe yer pain.”
Hook shepherds us toward the end of the dock, scowling at the night guards who patrol the edge of the port. There are three, all of them shorter than Hook and a great deal flabbier. One has a gut so large, it strains the buttons on his clothing, threatening to tear them off completely. It’s this corpulent, balding man who steps forward, holding a device with some sort of dart pointed at Hook.
“State your business. There ain’t meant to be another ship arrivin’ until next week. Last one we had on the record was ‘sposed to arrive two days ago.”
“Aye, ‘twas meant to be me,” Hook says testily. “The Jolly Roger, check yer bloody records instead o’ pointin’ a crossbow at me.”
“Name?”
“Ye know my feckin’ name, Jones,” Hook says and eyes the man angrily.
“Name?” the man repeats, glaring back.
“Cap’n Hook for feck’s sake!”
“What business do ye have in Bridgeport?” the man continues.
“I was meant to be carryin’ a delegation.”
“A delegation?”
“Aye. I was bringin’ provisions for the Prince’s army. Instead, we was forced to abandon ship when a beastie rose out o’ the sea. I’ve been delayed over a day. Now, if ye’d please excuse me, the bonny lass needs medical attention.”
The man narrows his eyes, examining me next. His attention is focused curiously on my breasts. What’s visible of them, in any case. Hook arranged the heavy sail around me into a flowing shape he termed a “frock,” leaving my shoulders, neck, and most of my legs bare.
Sometime on the journey over, he’d requested we do something about our hair. I hadn’t understood what he’d meant at first. It took some doing, but we were able to halt the ongoing colors that wave through our hair, in favor of just one. Bastion had chosen a light yellow. I rather fancied the color of Hook’s coat, and adopted a deep magenta color, though he told me to settle on something less colorful. When I told him I fancied the color of his garb, he relented and allowed me the magenta. Though I’m beginning to think it an unwise choice now, given how strangely the portly man regards me.
“She fae?” the man asks, with a thick edge of dislike in his voice. “Ye know there be laws ‘bout fae comin’ to the shores of Bridgeport.”
“O’ course she ain’t fae, ye bloody tosser,” Hook replies hotly. I’ve never seen him so undone.
“Only ever seen fae with hair like that.”
“Only Unseelie fae left, isn’t there?” Hook responds to which the man nods, but never takes his eyes off me. “See any horns, bat wings, or strange appendages on her?” Hook continues. “Nae? Damn bloody right! ‘Cause she ain’t a bleedin’ fae!”
“I heard there was Seelie fae left,” the man argues stubbornly. “One o’ their princesses. An’ that blue woman, right?”
“The Blue Faerie is dead an’ Tinkerbell is naethin’ more than a bloody myth,” Hook says dismissively.
“Then what the bloody hell is she?”
Hook motions to me with a wave of his hand. “She’s one o’ them werebears. They’re all strange lookin’.” Then he leans into the man and whispers loudly. “Dinnae disrupt her temper though, ‘tis an ugly thing.”
The man’s eyes widen slightly but he motions for the others to point the crossbow away from Hook.
“What’s wrong with her? Plague?” the one in front asks, pointing to my peeling skin.
“A sunburn, ye bleedin’ imbecile,” Hook drawls. “Her home’s situated in an old-growth forest with lots o’ snow most the time. She’s nae used to the heat an’ the sun o’ this climate. I need a balm or grease mix or she’s gonna hurt worse come morn.”
Worse? There’s worse pain than this in store for me? The very thought draws a whimper from me.
Hook’s expression tightens and he clenches the one good hand he has, brandishing the hooked appendage attached to the other wrist at them.
“I dunno,” the man starts as he looks all three of us over again.
Hook huffs out his indignation and appears frustrated. “Did ye nay hear who I am, lads?” he insists.
“Cap’n Hook,” the man answers with a yawn.
“Aye an’ have ye heard the tales o’ mean Cap’n Hook? How I lost me a game o’ cards owin’ to a cheatin’ rapscallion?”
“No.”
“Aye, I took his feckin’ eye with a scrape o’ me hook in return for his lyin’, cheatin’ ways. Ye dinnae want to find out what I’ll do when I’m truly angered.”
This does draw a reaction. The guard takes a step back from him, but Hook isn’t finished.
“Aye, that’s right. Ye’ve ignited me temper now, ye have. An’ ye’ve got thirty seconds to clear out before I start fishin’ for yer gizzards. I’m a wee bit rusty, so it might take me a bit to find what I’m lookin’ for.”
“Welcome to Bridgeport,” the portly man says through clenched teeth. “Take yer furry friends an’ go before we stop feelin’ so peaceful.”
Hook sneers and bows at the waist with a flourish that somehow conveys mockery. “How magnanimous o’ ye, bloody fecker.”
It looks like it might devolve into a brawl, but Bastion pushes past me, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with Hook, staring the men down.
“She’s hurting,” Bastion grits out. “And I am not rusty. I will rip your innards out without hesitation.”
“Go,” the man orders, jabbing his weapon toward the shadowy port town beyond.
Hook takes me very gingerly by the shoulder and leads me away, his posture not relaxing until we’ve left the guards a hundred feet behind us.
“It hurts,” I groan again. The stone underfoot is worse against my baked skin than the wood.
“All right, Popsy. Up ye go.”
Hook braces one arm against my back and uses the other to sweep my legs out from under me, lifting me easily from the ground. I let out another soft cry when the material of his coat rubs against my skin. It’s not as coarse as the stone or the wood, but any touch hurts.
“Shh. ‘Twill be over soon, lass.”
“My entire body burns,” I say as I lean against him, feeling bitterly sorry for myself.
“I’m sorry. I wasnae thinkin’. I willnae let this happen again.”
I’m acting like a wretched little fingerling. Bastion has to be as badly burned as I am where the material doesn’t cover his skin. Granted, he wears more fabric than I do, as we’d managed to find a few articles of clothing in the shack. Hook also fashioned a cloak made of the sail for Bastion and it’s done a fine job of keeping his upper body covered. I hadn’t been able to stand wearing mine in the heat. Now, I’m paying the price for that choice.
As to the city of Bridgeport, it exists on top of the sea, on a long and narrow slip of wooden pier that teeters over the water. The streets are incredibly narrow, compared to the wide open avenues I grew up swimming along in Aspamia. They remind me unpleasantly of the tunnel in the deeps I’d gotten myself wedged into when I was a mere girl, new to the cold, dark place. No matter how hard I’d tried, I couldn’t wriggle free of the space. How much worse would it be to be stuck between one of the buildings here, with the miniscule spaces between the houses. The thin, spindly legs I sport would certainly not be up to the task of kicking my way free.
