by D. N. Bryn
Dejean chuckles, shaking his head. “A few of those make a lot of sense.” A thoughtful smile lingers in his eyes. “Should I give you a new nickname then?”
“Only you can answer that.”
He takes a moment to reply, looking at me intently. “I will, but not yet. I want to know you better.” He adds a soft, “If you’re all right with that?”
I shrug, but I can’t stop my face from softening. “I think it’s a good decision.”
Bobbing his head, he looks as though he might rise, but then he pulls his hands through his cloud of coppery hair instead. “Perle? Are you…” His words trail into a small, awkward laugh. “Damn, I should have asked this ages ago, but, you don’t happen to be girl or a boy, do you? That sounds like the wrong way to say it,” he grumbles. “But man and woman is too human.”
“It is too human, idiot.” I snort, though I’m worried he might be going a bit insane. “I’m not a boy or a girl. I’m a siren.”
“I know, I know. But, which pronouns do you like?” He must see my confusion, because he adds, “He pronouns or she pronouns?”
“I don’t understand,” I sign. “What makes someone a he or a she?”
A bit of color rushes through his face, his dark cheeks tinting red. “Well, many women can become pregnant, but then many women can’t too, like Simone—she can’t carry her kids, but she’s still a woman… maybe I should just wait and have her explain instead.”
I stare at him, trying to make sense of what he just mumbled. If anything, I feel as though I know less now. “You humans have too many funny categories. I’m not pregnant right now. What else would you need to know?”
“I… well I suppose that’s one way to go about it.” He nods, looking just as perplexed as I feel.
From his crude explanation and what I learned in my time on Kian’s ship, I realize something odd. “Do humans not change?”
“Change?” He repeats my sign, his brow scrunching.
“Change.” I can feel my own forehead tighten as I search for a proper explanation. “Do you not switch your…” We have no sign for anything near that word. I motion to the region in question, his covered in his clothes and hair, and mine sealed away by a slit of neatly overlapping scales.
“Oh.” The redness in his cheeks spreads to his ears, but he manages to speak in an even tone. “No, not many of us, not naturally at least. There are a few rare incidents, but not as a whole species. We might switch pronouns, or alter our appearance, but most of us are stuck with what we have, at least until someone can develop better technology or medicine.” He puts his thumbs into the pockets of his pants and then takes them out again, shifting awkwardly. “Does that change happen often with sirens?”
I shrug. “Whenever it’s needed. I became an adult as I am now, with the organs to give birth, but I’ve changed many times, whenever my pod does not have enough of what I’m not,” I explain. “Sirens only care whether one of us is currently pregnant. Pregnant sirens need protection, food, tending. Sirens who aren’t pregnant don’t require those things. The change doesn’t make us feel any different about who we are, and other sirens don’t think differently of us, so what use would your he and she be?” I add the sign for understand at the end, my cheeks pinched in a question.
“Not… entirely. I think only certain humans can relate to that.” He gives me a smile. “But I can respect it, even if I don’t understand.”
“That’s all I want.” I grin at him in return. “I don’t understand your funny he and she either.”
“Then it’s good enough.” He hums. “Humans have a pronoun that’s not he or she, but implies neither. Humans who feel they’re neither man nor woman often go by it. Can I continue using that for you?”
At least this, I can understand. I sign a quick, “Yes.”
As I drop my hand, Murielle springs out of her seat. She flops on Dejean’s sponge, slapping down a sheet of paper covered in notes and sketches. Most are too chaotic for me to make much sense of, but they seem to be variations on mechanical siren tails.
“So I’m thinking, a light-weight exoskeleton, yeah? If I build the right mechanisms in, you can control it with your hands, pulleys and levers and shit,” she explains, tapping scribbles on the paper. “First though, I’m thinking we might need a brace of sorts, like a supported tube to help you move your whole tail with just your hips.” Pausing, she looks up at me. “Won’t be as good as what you’re used to—none of it will—but it’ll help. You’ll be able to swim in the ocean again.”
“Swim in the ocean.” I don’t know what to do but repeat the words.
“But it’s no good if we can’t get you into a nice big space to test it.”
“What about the cove?” Dejean asks. “I still have that elevator you built me.”
He must mean the machine with the neck he used to lower himself off the cliff.
Murielle nods, slow but enthusiastic. “We could work with that!” She shoots to her feet. “I know just the thing. You still have those parts lying in the back, from the thing-a-ma-joo?” She snatches up a stray pipe from under the table and waves it around. “Oh, this could work! This could work real well, mhmm.” She continues talking to herself, moving through the house until she’s a distant clatter.
Dejean stays by my side. “I know you feel differently about the ocean now.” His words are soft, and he lets go of the little rag he’s been holding to the claw marks I gave him: five red cuts. “If you aren’t ready to go back to it—”
“I’m sorry,” I cut him off, pointing to his hand.
The edges of his eyes lift in a weak smile. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through. If I was in your place, I might do the same, or much worse. Just don’t make a habit out of it, all right? I don’t want too many scars from you.” There’s a light tease to his voice, and it settles something inside me.
I gaze out the window, watching the sea gleam in the morning sun. “If I go back, it will be…” I trail off. We don’t have a sign for this.
“You’re nervous,” he guesses. He moves his hands in a new way, a jittery sort of motion, painting fear in the air.
I mimic it. “Nervous, yes. But I want to go. I want my home back.”
“I understand.” Rising, he glances toward the part of the house Murielle now echoes from. “You don’t have to move any faster than you wish. But I think it’s good, at least, to be moving in the first place.”
With a faint sound of agreement, I slip further into the water once more, laying on my sponge. “Go help Murielle.”
“You’re sure? I can stay.” He looks at me with such fierce dedication that a smile tugs at my lips.
“Go!” I shoo him off with a flick of water. “I need time to think.”
“Alright, alright.” He grins. “Call for me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
I mean that. However odd it is to trust this human, I can’t stop myself. I glance at the distant ocean horizon, imagining the currents washing over me, a human contraption keeping me steady where my tail no longer can. If only I could return to trusting the ocean the way I do Dejean.
[ 6 ]
THE CLAMSHELL
The world comes alive, and I hold to every heartbeat. I live.
I FOLD MY arms over the edge of the tub, resting my chin against my hands. The windows hang open, a salty breeze blowing in, warm from the midday sun. I exercise my hips, shifting them back and forth as I watch the waves glisten in the distance.
At the edge of the cliff, Dejean and Murielle clang away at the elevator. It has doubled in size since this morning, becoming a monster of metal, ropes, cogs, and stacks, its long neck a noticeable mar on the horizon. Murielle wears another, baggier one-piece over her usual outfit, tools peeking out of her plethora of pockets. She sits on the neck of the machine, her legs wrapped precariously around it, and fiddles with something at its end.
Dejean kneels at the open side of the contraption’s boxy area. He stares int
o it uncertainly, his tool raised but unmoving. His shirt is tied around his waist, and I can barely make out the bite I took from his shoulder, a scaly red-brown scab against his dark skin—a wound I won’t inflict again.
Murielle sits up, lifting one of her tools into the air. “Pull the lever down!”
He does so and the machine’s neck shudders. With a yelp, she topples off of it, catching herself by her ankles. She hangs from the metal with her bare feet crossed above her, swaying back and forth.
“Shit; other down direction!" She shouts, trying to hold her tools inside her pockets. One of them slips out, dropping through the air and vanishing behind the cliff ledge.
Shaking his head, Dejean fixes his error. “You mean the up direction?"
“If you wanna be all technical about it, yeah," Murielle grumbles. She pulls herself back on top of the neck, snapping her fingers in his direction. “The thing, Dejean. Hand me the thing.”
Dejean goes through three tools before offering her the one she wants. Sighing, I drum my nails against the tub. After an entire morning like this, I’m amazed they’ve gotten as far as they have.
The breeze picks up, pricking along my shoulders. In the distance a massive swell crashes against the rocks guarding the cove. My heart leaps and falls with it, a shiver running through me. I don’t want to be scared of the ocean. The water should be respected, for it’s always restless, ever uncontrollable, but terror is for humans and birds and weaker sea creatures. My gills work perfectly once more; I won’t drown. But the state of my tail frightens me. I barely make it across my tub without the handholds. How will I maneuver beneath the crashing waves, much less ride them?
I shiver again. I refuse to let my home dash me to pieces, but neither can I run from it. I have to trust that Dejean and Murielle know what they’re doing. They wouldn’t offer me a path to the ocean if they thought it would kill me.
Dejean waves to me as he passes my window, vanishing around the side of the house. He returns pushing a metal cage tied to a flat board with wheels. The whole thing is rounder and softer than most cages, a bit like a great clam, and large enough to comfortably hold my entire body. A huge claw with sturdy spools for the elevator’s ropes attaches to the top of it, near its door.
That’s what he plans to do. It pummels me like backwash. Dejean wants to lower me into the cove in a giant, clam-shaped cage. I groan, dropping my head into my hands. I don’t just have the sea to dread; now I have the sky to fear as well.
He walks to the house with a grin so wide that I want to bite him, but I only shoot a glare his way. As he comes through the back door, I jab my finger at the great clamshell structure.
“You expect me to ride in that?” I say, using the signs for, you understand I go downward, followed by a series of aggressive finger stabs toward the clamshell, which more or less mean that damned thing.
He wobbles between his feet, his hands making wordless babble in the direction of the ocean. “I… yes?” He doesn’t sound too sure of himself, and his fingers waver as he signs. “If you don’t want to do it, I understand. But the further we go from here, the more likely we’ll be seen. I thought this would be best. It’s a good cove, protected from the waves, out of view of any ships or fishing vessels. We’ve already tested the elevator with heavier objects. It’s not dangerous.”
Slumping my shoulders, I scowl at the clamshell cage. “Fine. I’ll do it,” I concede, my hands more certain than my heart is. “I don’t like it though.”
Dejean’s smile returns in full force. “Murielle is the best. You’ll be safe in the… thing.”
“Giant clamshell,” I correct him. “If I’m going to ride it, I get to name it.”
“Biting jaw? No. An animal? Shark? Some sort of dolphin?”
Rolling my eyes, I point to my own body, shining like a pearl in the morning light. I repeat the motion.
“Clam.”
Again, I correct him.
“Very big clam? Giant clam!” He laughs, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m putting a pearl into a giant clam.”
I stare at him, trying to prove my indifference, but I lose it after a moment, the corner of my lips twitching.
Dejean kneels down beside me. “So you’re coming? Murielle’s almost finished attaching everything. I’ll have to carry you there, but it shouldn’t be long before we can get you back into the water.”
“I’m coming.” Placing my palms on either side of the tub’s edge, I lift my upper body out of the water, settling onto the floor. My tail lays crooked, unresponsive, but I shift my gaze away from it, focusing on Dejean. “Carry me.”
He picks me up, one arm around my back and the other under my tail. With his chest bare, I can feel his skin, rougher than the scales that coat me, and far warmer. Pressing against him is like bathing in the sun, if the sun was coarse and a little sticky.
The clam hangs at the edge of the cliff, a series of ropes attaching it to the neck of the machine. Murielle opens the door on its top side and Dejean places me in. I recoil from the sea far below, my breath catching. The cove gleams with crystal waters and vibrant reefs, shielded from the brunt of the waves, just the sort of place a siren pod could take to. But from above, it spins dangerously. I feel far too small and too easily shattered. I seal my eyes closed.
“I’ll be with you the entire way. I’ve done this a million times, Perle.”
“This had better be worth it,” I grumble, not bothering to move my hands.
The clamshell thuds and clicks, Dejean locking it closed. “Perle, look at me.”
I peek at him with one eye.
Dejean points to a latch on the side of the clamshell. “This will open it. You can stay inside for as long as you’d like, but if you want to leave just pull it back toward you, all right?”
Nodding, I close my eyes again, gripping two of the clam’s crisscrossed bars. The hard casing creates a barrier, a layer of protection from the outside. I don’t want to leave it; not in the water, and especially not in the air.
“Murielle!” Dejean shouts. The clam rattles as he climbs on top of it, taking his place just above me.
The clamshell swings out from the cliff’s edge. It careens in the air and I shriek, tightening my hold. It’ll be over soon. One way or another…
“I’ll lower it down now, but I’ve gotta run if I’m making it to that appointment before Arami’s ship leaves!” Murielle shouts. “Levers on your end should work just fine to bring it back up.” As she finishes speaking, a clunk sounds above me.
The clamshell lowers, slow but steady. I force myself to breathe. Dejean does this all the time. Dejean trusts Murielle. I trust Dejean. I think I trust Dejean.
The scent of the ocean grows as the rattle of the machine fades above me. Seabirds call and the waves rage in the distance, combined with the softer sound of lapping water from below. The sun beats down, but the cool breeze offers a refreshing caress, bringing a delightful brine with it. Something creaks far above. Dejean curses, his shifting rocking the clam. It drops.
The pit of my stomach rises like a surge of tiny fish. We crash into water. It hits me full force, as jarring as if I had jumped from a human’s ship after an attack, but doing no real damage. The clamshell goes still, floating halfway beneath the surface.
The ocean surrounds me, turning my nerves alight. It’s not like the water Dejean brings for my tub, though he tries his hardest to mimic it. Alive and wondrous, it beckons, calling the name it reserves for me alone—a name Dejean will never understand, will never be able to utter. My eyes still shut, I draw in the water, pushing it through my gills.
It stimulates and intoxicates and relaxes all at once. The water brushes against the clamshell. The soft waves are echoed by the sounds of sea life moving and communicating, low rumbles and high squeaks.
Slowly, I open my eyes. Below the thin bars stretches golden sand. Vibrant reef surrounds it, growing on the rocky faces that spring up from the cove floor. Colorful fish dart between the corals, a lo
bster pulls into a cave, and a number of dark, spotted rays glide with slow but powerful fin strokes. Far along the reef, a small shark darts out of the sun, vanishing in the shadows of the cliffside.
Home. I relax against the bars and slip my hands through their gaps, feeling—just feeling—the motion of the water, the gentle rock back and forth. Dejean straddles the top of the shell, one leg on either side, his bare feet dipped in the ripples of the cove.
I am happy.
Opening my mouth wide, I form a hum deep in my throat. It grows into a proper song, great and vivid and beautiful, rolling out of me from a place I had feared I’d lost at the harbor. In some places it’s melancholic, blissful in others, a dreamy melody that curls and caresses all it touches. The fish rise out of the reef to listen, dancing listlessly.
Dejean sinks against the shell. He draws one of his hands through the water, soaking the sleeve of the shirt he must have donned on our way down. With the ocean in his reach, he slips into a dazed, peaceful state, his conscious thought and rational logic gone. There seems to be no pain in it, merely satisfaction, his mind utterly and completely immersed in the song of the sea.
I continue to sing, the sounds rising from deep within. Another voice echoes it, richer and fuller. Through the shadows of the reef, a murky blue siren approaches, their scales like the water during a storm. Their gills tremble as they add to my melody. A mess of scars cuts up one side of their chest, but their tail beats powerfully, fins spread wide and taut.
A storm: that’s what I think as I watch them. First from their color, but again from the way they move, unrelenting and chaotic, but worthy of awe. Storm.
