Lorali

by Laura Dockrill

  I am weak. I’m not strong. I am tired. I am ill. Feed me to them. I want it to be over now anyway.

  ‘Brothers.’ Otto combs his hair into place. ‘Give the birds the boy.’

  I start to tremble. The Sirens begin to jump up and down, overexcited, with their craggy teeth and panda dark-circled eyes. I wait to be thrown overboard. The bird women lick their teeth. Crack their necks. And then two of the Ablegares in one quick move grab Elvis. He screams, panicking, and drops his try-hard amateur telescope; it rolls to the floor and towards my feet.

  ‘WAIT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’ he screams. ‘YOU’RE CONFUSED. I’VE BEEN RECRUITED, REMEMBER? I’M A PIRATE!’

  I am shocked. I couldn’t help him even if I wanted to. His wail. The noise that is coming out of his throat. It hurts my chest. It is young. He is just a boy. We grew up together.

  He struggles. He tries a gentler approach: ‘Please, please, please, I’m a pirate, remember? You said I could be a pirate? I’ll do anything!’ he cries and then yells for me – ‘RORY! Rory! Please don’t let them, don’t, don’t. I’M SORRY. I only wanted to mean something. I just wanted to mean something. I’m sorry. I’ll give you anything. I’m sorry!’ He tries to fight their grip. But the pirates are too skilled at this. It’s like getting rid of a spider from the bath for them. Easy-peasy.

  Elvis screams on, his voice breaking. I try not to care. No one who cared for me could hurt me this bad. The women can’t wait to have him. As he falls into their feathered embrace his mouth is wide open, ripping out, ‘MUM! MUM! DAD! DAD! MUM!’

  And they begin unpeeling his clothes, running their fingers through his hair, sniffing him, inhaling his jeans like dogs. I can’t watch.

  ‘Should have been a better friend, you little rat!’ Otto spits on the ground next to Elvis and then with a fist in the sky he cries, ‘Let’s bounce!’ and the ship’s anchor comes up, and we are away. I can’t believe it. I hear Elvis’s screams as we make our way across the water whilst Otto sings ‘Feed the Birds’.

  HUNG UP TO DRY

  My grandmother. Netta. Her skeleton still hangs from the front of the Cetus. It is a beautiful skeleton. The tapestry bones. Like a fish tail. But more beautiful. I try to imagine her. Alive. With flesh. Working organs. Blood. Hair. Her eyes. How kind she was. How my mother loved her. How they respected her. I think of how she salvaged my own mother.

  How would she have reacted when she realised she had salvaged a pregnant woman?

  That I was a tiny organism inside of her? The same size as a prawn.

  She probably never thought I’d make it.

  But I did.

  I wonder how her face looked when she saw me for the first time. The miracle that I was. I was against the odds. Did she decide to lie to me too? To hold the truth back?

  When she was caught. In a net. The whole of the Whirl went silent. Drowned into quiet. Mer laid flowers at the palace. We were all in mourning. The Cavities hurt her. She was beautiful and her tapestry would be lucrative. They patched her for eleven months. Tiny. Tiny. Tiny bits of scale at a time. It was torture. They hung her from the front of the mast of the Cetus. Like a warning. They wanted us to watch her suffering. Bleeding.

  She would scream at the Mer not to watch. By watching we were giving them what they wanted. When she wasn’t screaming she was pretending she was strong. That she could take the patching, even though we all knew the horror stories of the blinding, excruciating pain.

  That’s probably why I wasn’t allowed up to see the stars. My mother didn’t want me to see my grandmother roaring and crying and pleading and screaming for her life.

  That’s probably why I was so precious to them.

  They constantly sprayed her with saltwater fresh from the sea. So she didn’t dry out. So she continued to grow more skin on her tapestry. So her body thought she was underwater. Safe in the Whirl. Her own body betrayed her. They would wait for the scales to heal and then attack and cut again, and when it was all cut away they would wait and start again. Even though it was dark in colour and dry, it was still beautiful. Unlike anything any Walker from anywhere in the world had seen before. They would still sell it. Poachers, Walkers. They would all pay. My grandmother cried, begging the Mer not to see her like this any more. She didn’t want their support. She believed it only encouraged the Cavities to keep her alive. To taunt and provoke them, allowing them to catch more Mer, using her slow death as bait. The Mer obeyed. And so the Cavities tied a bell round Netta’s neck. So we would hear her clanging when she sailed past on the front of the Cetus. A knell. If we couldn’t see her we would have to hear her. A near-dead mermaid on the front of a deadly ship. So she tried not to move. She tried to be silent, always. My grandmother. So we wouldn’t have to hear. But the pirates on board would shake her. Dance with her. Ridicule her. Harass her. Humiliate her. Abuse her.

  The bell would ring and ring and ring.

  GA-DANG

  GA-DANG

  GA-DANG

  I would see my mother being sick every time she heard the clang. It hurt anyway but it hurt more that such a strong and valiant Mer was being put through this level of torture.

  Then one day. On the eleventh month. When it became too much. My mother, she went up. With her bow and her arrow. Even though she was not meant to. Even though it was dangerous and she was risking her life. And she shot my grandmother right in the chest. Right in the heart. Just like she had practised on the clay crabs. She says she remembers her mother’s eyes seeing her blonde hair. Happy to see her daughter but happier still that it was over.

  The birds pecked those eyes out.

  And now they cut her down. Her skeleton. It collapses to the floor beside me, where I am face down. Tied up.

  Grandmother. Grandmother. My heart.

  They drag me up. I am bloody. Bruised. Pale. Veiny.

  They haul me up the mast. They are sniggering. Laughing. My hair in the wind. The height is great. The sea. My home. Spitting at me. The Cavities. Their dirty hands on my skin. Leaving marks.

  My ending will be the same as my grandmother’s. My next thought is my mother. Then, my father, Zar. I don’t want them to see me like this. Where Grandmother Netta was. Dying. Ending the same way my mother began. Dying.

  With legs.

  FREEDOM

  Oska unties me. My wrists crack. They are already scabbing, and the salt in the sea air is making them smart.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ Otto says. They lead me down into the boat. Underneath. It is like a museum. Rich fabrics, silk, velvet, gold threads. A mantelpiece covered in ornaments. Works of art on every wall in big gold frames. Swords and armour on the wall. It smells of posh scented candles. Rich people. There is a platter of food. Food I wouldn’t normally touch with a ten-foot pole as it isn’t really to my taste. But I am starving and it looks proper inviting. Mussels. Crab. Lobster. Squid. Prawn. Oyster. This is hundreds of pounds’ worth of fresh seafood, all mounded up. Something about the way the feast is spread out makes me dubious of the boys. It is too fancy, too impressive. The carved lemon, the little bowls of warm water to clean your fingers. Curly parsley. They are gentlemen. They are proud.

  The Ablegares sit around me.

  Vodka is poured. They are treating me like a guest. They take their time. They look in my eyes when I speak. They don’t interrupt.

  ‘Drink,’ Otto orders. ‘Please.’

  I sip the vodka. It is clean. Like ice. Freezing cold. It quenches my sore throat. Then I knock back the rest. It eases the pain. The bearded pirate, Momo, tops me up, winking at me. Like mates. I thank him instinctively.

  ‘Call me Momo,’ he adds after smacking his lips.

  ‘We are too hungry, too tired to talk. Let’s fill our bellies,’ Otto announces, and we eat. Occasionally Momo casts me a signal of how to crack open a shell, split a prawn, get at the fleshiest parts.

  I shake off the guilt. I can’t be stubborn with these villains. I need my strength. There is nothing else to do. It is them against me. A
nd I am glad not to have to talk anyway.

  I feel better after the food; it was nourishing. Tasty. And the environment feels fine for now. The alcohol has gone right to my head. I am dozy and as relaxed as I’ll ever be.

  ‘Now you sleep,’ Egor instructs, but not too bossy, and leads me to the bunks. They are as pristine as the boys. Neatly made individual beds, militarily clean and straight and pressed.

  I won’t be able to sleep. Too much has happened. I am stressed. Anxious. Angry. Worried.

  ‘I can’t sleep, Egor.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t. What about Lorali?’ The words hazily topple out of my mouth. I don’t want them knowing I still care for her, because they could use that against me. I can’t show weakness. But I am just too tired and don’t even care any more. Maybe it is too late to pretend.

  Egor lifts me into a top bunk and sleep comes surprisingly easy with the low hushing of the boat rocking, a full belly and the swashiness of the vodka in my brain and veins effortlessly tying me down. I am so tired. I am so tired. Egor peels open the sheets. He pulls my blood-stained, ripped T-shirt off. I try to pull it back, try to fight it, but I can’t. He wriggles my jeans off. They are rank. The sheets are so clean. Like a hotel.

  Egor takes a brown bottle of something, a liquid, and I try to push it away. He shushes me, like I am a child. He dips it onto cotton and lightly dabs it on my wrists.

  ‘This should heal them. It’s magic, this stuff.’ He grins. He looks kind for a second.

  It hurts and I wince. It smells of swimming pools. I think of Lorali swimming in Mr Harley’s pond. I could almost laugh. I’m so delirious but it feels good to know my hands are cleaned up. One less thing to worry about.

  I dream …

  It’s familiar. But I can’t place it. No. Of course I can. It’s my … my house. But from when I was small. Things are done differently. The couch is the same but brand new, back before it was soiled from the stains of life. The pattern not faded. The mug rings on the arm gone. The carpet is fluffy. The TV is different. Old. Things have moved around.

  My old living room. It even smells like how it did. These were my toys. One of my old shoes is there too. A half-drunk cup of orange squash. The radio babbles. I want to call out for my mum.

  And then he comes out. From the kitchen. With a big smile on his face and a beer in his hand. My dad.

  ‘Dad!’ I shout. I run over to him. Like I am a small child again. I don’t know why I do. I want to hold him. Touch his face. Squeeze his beer gut. Breathe in his sweatshirt that smelt of engines and wood and dust and warmth. He looks exactly how I remember him. Blue eyes. A naturally tanned face. White inside the crow’s-feet wrinkles branching out from his eyes. A big cheeky grin. Straight teeth. I grab him. Under his arms. How I used to do when I was small. My head dipping into his stomach. Then he would pat my back softly, try to calm me down. ‘All right. All right, kid, I’m home now.’ He would pretend he didn’t care that I was this excited to see him. Like it didn’t make him want to giggle and cry at the same time. That none of it mattered to him.

  I want him to react like that now …

  … but he doesn’t.

  He doesn’t even acknowledge me.

  I hug tighter. Clinging.

  Has he not even noticed me? Recognised me? Felt me?

  ‘Dad? Dad, it’s me, Rory.’

  He looks right through me. With his cold beer he walks towards the couch, dumps himself down, turns the TV on and checks the football scores. Sips his beer some more. I can see it is cold. The beer. See his fingerprints leave marks on the glass. And he is warm. Even the way he sits, the way he was. It is him. For real.

  I am angry with him. But happy to see him too. I miss him. I climb on top of him. ‘Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad.’ My knees are on him now. He doesn’t flinch. He looks through me still. Eyes on the TV. He burps. He blows the burp away. I don’t exist to him. I don’t understand. I shake him. I shake him some more. He is like one of them soldiers at Buckingham Palace. Not reacting. Not even flinching.

  I sit next to him. Try to remain calm. I watch the football scores too. I feel Dad’s hand next to mine. His rough, worn worker’s skin. His bitten nails. His faded, paint-sodden jeans.

  ‘Dad,’ I say softly. ‘Dad. I know you can’t hear me but I hate you for leaving. I hate it that you have another family with another person. Kids. I always wanted a little sister. I hate it that you don’t love Mum any more or love me. That you hurt Mum the way you did. That you embarrassed her like that. That you left without even saying where you were going and that you never came home. But guess what? Mum’s strong now. She doesn’t need you and neither do I.’

  My dad sips his beer. Ignoring every word I say.

  I get angrier. ‘It’s not that I’m a child. I’m not a baby. I don’t need you to hold my hand or need your shoulders to climb on. It’s just not that hard, is it, really, to say goodbye?’

  His dull eyes fade into the TV. He sips the beer again. And when I can, I say, ‘Maybe for you it is but for me, it isn’t. Bye, Dad.’

  SLEEPING WORLD ROLLING ON

  Liberty flattens me with the weight of her, like an iron across satin bed linen. I let her crush me. We know our strengths well here. The sun is here because Keppel can feel her daughter in my waters. Opal Zeal is making a TV appearance. She is going to talk about the weather change. Opal’s stylist has just presented her with a new sequinned brassiere, with shoulder pads. She loves it and it makes the presentation easier to act.

  Deep in my abdomen, under the Whirl, Queen Keppel is shooting clay crabs. She is drunk from the walrus milk. She is biting her lips. Her jewellery rattles every time she shoots an arrow. Bingo is waiting patiently. Zar is hunting whale. Lorali’s favourite meal. Keppel has told him she is to return home soon. Her daughter is on water. She can sense it. She is coming home. She could be right, but nobody, of course, can go up to search for Lorali themselves because of the fear of being caught by Walkers. Opal’s disappearance is raising further questions. They cannot relax. The council of the Whirl are not happy either. They do not feel safe. Keppel awaits trial. For betraying and not consulting the council before sending Opal up, she is facing being demoted as queen.

  Lorali clings to the mast of the Cetus. Charging across my salty bodies. She is not afraid. She is strong. She has love in her heart.

  The knell rings round her neck. They are coming.

  Liberty lets the moonlight guide her. She doesn’t have to look far, only follow the plume of black tar smoke that the Cetus leaves in its wake.

  Otto is combing his hair.

  Momo and Oska are smoking, manning the ship.

  Jasper is snoring. Face down in his chair. Drunk.

  And Egor is sewing. He only has the night to tailor a new suit. The rags the boy showed up in just will not do. Not any more.

  ON A DREAM

  The move to the motion of the ocean. The knell round my neck is on my side and keeping still. I close my eyes. I go down. Remember. My home. Marcia would recognise my ripples and already have the palace open for me. The seal pups would chase me past the gate and into the hall. We’d have been roaming in the petrified forest, playing games, watching the grumpy sad little seahorses bob by. Sometimes we would be on turtle backs, lolling about in the slithers of light, chewing on sea cucumbers or plankton. Marcia would never let me swim up the stairs; she always had to take me herself, letting me climb atop her head. I’d feed her shrimp to say thank you but I think she would have done it even if I hadn’t given her anything at all.

  Mother would be in her parlour painting old worn bits of metal found in the bottom of the Whirl, or just rocks and stones that she liked. Bingo would often be her subject, posing for her or fetching her refreshments. Zar would be hunting, or playing the bells with his band.

  Opal would make visits throughout the day and she would bring her whales. I felt sorry for them because we ate whale regularly but Opal’s pod were working whales, tra
ined to protect and communicate. I knew they were smart. I did worry that they might be upset by us. But they never showed it. Opal would have news for us, good and bad. She always looked so cool and she would bring me special gifts or tell me stuff that the Walkers were into. Some of it was hard to imagine – a cinema, an aeroplane, the Internet, which was difficult to understand. She would give me bits of Walker make-up but I never dared to use it. Mother wouldn’t like that. Opal was like a porthole, a chink in the rock, someone I could talk to.

  And my time with Carmine in the forest, reading the notes that Iris had scrawled, editing it accordingly, keeping her own messages, meant for her only. Private.

  Myrtle would often visit too, with fishcakes. She would tell me stories. Mostly about the sky. The planets. The stars. The giraffe and how its head is nearly as tall as the sky. After she left I would stand in the rectangular funnel of light that shone through the palace the whole way down. If you angled your head properly at the right time you could see the sun. Or at least its reflection. A teensy glow. Like a broken shell. They say Walkers know more about space than they do about the oceans. I feel like I don’t know anything at all.

  REFINEMENT

  ‘RORY! RORY! WAKE!’

  In the clean sheets I forget where I am. That sleep felt as though it clutched me close for days. My name. This ship. These sheets.

  ‘Get up, washed and dressed,’ Egor says. ‘We have a big day.’

  ‘Where are my clothes?’ I ask, rubbing my eyes. I feel like a blind mouse. In the new morning I feel stronger but more doubtful. This must be what death row is like. Inevitable. Just living it out. These pirates, not long ago, gave one of my best mates to a bunch of shrieking bird women. How do I even know I’m safe? Still, he is bigger than me. There are more of them than me. And we are at sea.

  ‘Wash first.’

  I clamber out of the bunk. The room still smells posh. Of polish. And shiny stuff. All the boys must be up already. I can’t hear anything or even feel the rockiness of the boat.