Our Bloody Pearl

by D. N. Bryn

  Smiling, I stretch my fingers as far as the gaps in the clamshell will allow. Storm gives me a quizzical look. Slowly, they return the motion, reaching out to me, their hand missing two fingers. Three tail lengths away, they pause. Their arm drops and their song wavers. Their eyes move to the top of my clam, hardening when they focus on Dejean.

  Dejean. My voice cuts out, and I twist around to look at him. Storm moves faster, snapping through the water and launching themselves at Dejean. I shriek as they drag him into the cove.

  His eyes barely open and his hands twitch with a pathetic sluggishness as he flounders. Storm drags him down, pinning him to the bottom of the sandy cove with ease. A cloud of bubbles bursts from Dejean’s mouth as Storm clamps down on his shoulder in a solid bite. The water around Storm’s mouth turns a sickening scarlet.

  What have I done? My hands shake, my whole body as detached as my paralyzed tail. I voiced my presence to every siren in the area, not thinking of what it might mean for Dejean. Sirens protect their territory from land dwellers. Sirens kill humans who overstep their bounds. Sirens eat what they kill. Those facts are a part of me, but trusting a human has diminished them somehow.

  Has led to this.

  I open my mouth, to scream or shout or cry, but the ocean floods my lungs, choking me. Bolting upright, I breach the surface and cough the water out. My fingers quaver as I throw open the door in the top of the clamshell. The ocean, clear and deep and reckless, stretches out before me.

  I stall. A million doubts spring forth at once, weighing me down, pinning me into the clam. I can’t save him. I can’t even swim. A stray wave, an odd current, and I’ll be crushed, torn away. There are no handholds here, no lip of the tub to cling to.

  Another cloud of blood rises around Storm’s head, and Dejean’s arms twitch, his face contorting in a way that tears my heart. I launch over the side of the clamshell and into the ocean.

  My torso sinks through the water, but my tail catches on the door’s latch. It sticks there, like a weight holding me back. Frantically, I shove myself forward, using the side of the clam to push off of. My tail slips, dragging along the lever. It frees suddenly and dumps me into the cove. I sink.

  Storm glances up, hissing the sound for mine. I know what they mean: my prey; back off.

  “Not yours,” I shriek, pumping my arms as I sink farther into the water. I propel myself toward the siren, one painfully slow stroke at a time.

  Dejean is mine. My friend. The other part of my tiny, peculiar pod.

  “This is our territory,” I hiss. Twisting my hips, I boost myself forward. I grab Storm by the neck, yanking them away from Dejean, and sink my teeth into the side of their head, grating against bone.

  Storm makes a sound that could pierce skulls, that could attract the rest of their pod from any nearby reef. When that pod comes, they’ll kick me out of their territory and finish off Dejean.

  I cling harder to Storm’s neck, cutting off the outlet for their gills. They kick their tail, thrashing and wheeling. My largest fin drags through the water, stirring up sand and knocking into rocks. Blood from three different sources fills my mouth. I glance at Dejean, making out his limp body, hovering just above the cove floor.

  I have to get back to him.

  Storm slams me into a ledge of the reef, and my back screams in pain. They grab at my hands, and I increase the pressure on their neck. My hold slips as their nails bite into my wrists.

  I dig my fingers into their gills. Another scream bursts from them. Letting go, I shove them away, using their body to propel myself toward Dejean. I don’t look back, but I can hear Storm swimming to the surface, probably supplementing their injured gills with air through their lungs.

  Shoving myself forward like a lobster across the sand, I tackle Dejean’s body. He floats, limp, his chest silent and his skin gray, his heartbeat a faint, tired echo. Fear pulses through me. Grabbing onto him, I burst toward the surface. The moment I shove off the cove floor, I immediately sink back down. I rock my hips, slamming my tail against the ground, and try again.

  Nothing.

  I choke on the ache in my chest, but I force the feeling out with a growl. I will not let this be the end. Dejean won’t die here.

  My tail does me no good, but if I can use my arms, maybe I can make it. I snatch the back of Dejean’s shirt between my teeth. Boosting off the sand again, I shoot toward the surface, pumping my arms. The fear from the harbor hits me, the weight of my tail combined with Dejean’s body dragging me down. But I’m stronger now, and sure of myself, sure of my goal. The ocean isn’t against me today. I am against the ocean.

  And I will win this battle.

  I move my arms faster, shoving the water away. Snagging the rolls in the tide, I use them to my advantage. The surface nears, the sun bright overhead. My mouth slips around the fabric of Dejean’s shirt. His body begins to drop.

  Tackling into him, I bite into the back of his shirt once more. Blood fills my mouth. I ignore it, pumping toward the sunlight. Pain screams through my muscles, but they don’t spasm. My fingers break the water first, an arm’s length from the clamshell. Spinning my hips wildly, I lunge toward it. So close. I’m so close.

  Catching the side, I pull myself nearer, wrapping my other arm around Dejean. I glance below me. Storm hides in the shadow of the reef, staring with wide eyes, the confused twist of their brows and the loose slump of their shoulder’s a clear display of surrender. For today, they’ve backed down, but it won’t matter if Dejean dies.

  With one arm hooked through the side of the clamshell, I shove him onto it. My muscles clench up, but I grit my teeth, heaving my shoulder into his stomach once, twice, a third time, slowly edging him farther onto the top shell. He flops against it.

  His body seizes. He coughs, water gushing out of his mouth, and his fingers clench. When he finishes hacking up the ocean from his chest, he breathes in great, hoarse gasps, trembling all over. At the center of his back a chunk of his shirt hangs loose where I grabbed it in my mouth, and the skin beneath it gleams red, oozing blood.

  The metal bites into my fingers as I climb onto the clamshell beside him. I grit my teeth to keep the pain in, but I flinch at the sight of his left shoulder.

  The chunk of flesh Storm took is three times as deep as the wound I made in his back. When he coughs once more, the pooled blood rushes down, revealing a glint of bone. He goes limp.

  “Dejean!” I scream at him.

  He doesn’t move.

  “No!” I hiss. “I won’t let you die on me.”

  I grab onto a little lever above my head, the one Murielle claimed would lift the clamshell. I yank at it. Nothing happens.

  Cursing, I grip it with both hands. My finger slides over a notch in the side and it flies toward me. The clamshell shoots upward. I shriek, shoving the lever back the other way. The clam drops down, hitting the water again with a splash. Dejean’s body jumps from the sudden descent, knocking against the metal. His eyes roll open for half a moment, but then they close just as quickly.

  I pull the lever again, slower this time. The clamshell responds in turn, moving upward at a slow but steady pace. My certainty wavers the higher we rise. Dejean remains in place, but my tail slips back toward the sea. I cling to the clamshell with every ounce of strength I have left as the reef grows farther and farther away, and the neck of the machine pulling us up, ever nearer.

  Dejean still breathes in ugly gasps, but his eyes flicker open, unfocused. He reaches a hand toward me and slips. I let go of the lever, locking it back into place just as the clamshell comes even with the edge of the cliff. Catching Dejean’s wrist, I hold him steady. My arms tremble.

  A gap stretches between the clamshell and the cliff’s edge. My chest catches, frustration coursing through me. I release it in a muted screech. I can do this. I have to do this.

  I don’t know at what point I decided I would risk everything for this stupid human with his dorky smile and his sparkling eyes. But I did. And I will.

/>   In slow, agonizing movements, I reposition myself on the edge of the clamshell and draw Dejean’s shoulders into my lap. His blood slips down my tail, dropping off the tip of my fin and vanishing into the cove below. My head spins.

  Leaning backward, then forwards, I rock the clamshell, building speed with every motion. Each swing brings us closer to the edge of the cliff, but it throws me off balance. I slip, clinging to Dejean.

  The upward stroke brings us back toward the land. Shoving off the clamshell, I fling us both toward the cliff. We hit the ground hard, barely clearing the edge. Dejean rolls. I slide backwards, my largest fin still hanging over the ledge, dragging me down. Dejean’s eyes focus, blearily. He grabs my hand. My wrist slips, but he tightens his hold, pulling me back up. Curling toward him, I clutch his forearms in return.

  My vision swims, but my fin lurches toward me. I tumble into Dejean. His eyes slip closed once more, a fresh spring of blood welling in the wound on his shoulder.

  In the shadow of the elevator’s machine hides the long wooden plank Dejean used to wheel out the clam. I pull it over and roll Dejean onto it, not bothering to be gentle. If he lives through this, I won’t let him complain about a few bruises. The world sways around me as I climb on top of him, but I ignore it, using my arms to pull us toward the house.

  My arms wobble, my muscles numb, and my tail might be dragging along the dirt for all I know. I refuse to think about that. I keep moving forward. The back door of Dejean’s house nears, but darkness clouds around it. I have to shake my head, drawing in burning mouthfuls of air to keep myself conscious.

  As I pull open the door and wheel us inside, I take one quick look behind us. A trail of blood marks our wake. Not Dejean’s blood, but mine, thick red liquid seeping out of a gash in the side of my tail. My head lightens in a haze of lethargic panic.

  “Perle.” Somehow, Dejean’s weak voice breaks through my wooziness. He points to a short piece of furniture beside the door, with six little handles in its side. “There’s a box… top drawer. Long tubes. Green.”

  He’s talking.

  I reach for the furniture, but the world turns dark. Tipping my head down, I force my hand into the nearest drawer even though the movement feels like a dream. My fingers brush a little box with no lid. I pull it out and hand it to Dejean.

  He doesn’t sit up, but he takes a little thing that looks like a funny pistol from it and loads in a green tube. He places it clumsily to his shoulder and squeezes. Green gel shoots out, filling up the gap Storm made in his muscles until it overflows, clinging to the surrounding area. It turns cloudy. A red tint pools beneath it and then the bleeding stops.

  Removing the used tube, Dejean fits in a new one and offers it to me. I take the thing, swallowing hard. Sticking it against the long, nasty looking gash in my tail, I pull the trigger. I can’t feel the gel anymore than I can the cut, but it fills the gash and spills out. I turn back to Dejean, but he lays limp once more, his breathing shallow. A brown tablet the size of my nail sits in his palm, his fingers curled around it. A second one sits in his open mouth, deteriorating on his tongue. I take a chance and steal the one from his hand, swallowing it. It tastes like metal and dirt and sea grass.

  My whole body protests as I force him off the wheeled plank to check his back. The stiff cut gleams with nasty brown clumps, but it no longer bleeds. With only one more tube of the strange green gel, I decide to leave the clotted wound alone.

  “Please be okay,” I whisper, quiet and mournful. With the last of my energy, I drag myself to my tub. I dump my torso in, drawing water through my mouth and against my gills.

  The world dims, and this time I don’t fight it.

  [ 7 ]

  TROUGH WATER

  What do I want more: safety or the sea? Or the ability to choose both at once?

  THE WORLD COMES back in pieces. Water caresses my head as the pumping machine hums. My muscles burn like they’ve been taken out and fried and then put back in place, charred and useless. My hip aches where the edge of the tub presses against it, my tail lying crooked off the side of my sponge.

  I force my eyes open, but the world takes a moment to appear. Starlight from a moonless sky filters through the windows. A light breeze rustles the fabric hanging over them. Stretching my arm out of the tub, I press my wet palm to Dejean’s chest. He doesn’t stir, but his skin is his usual temperature, warm as wet beach sand in the sun, and his torso rises and falls with a slight wheeze.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I sink my sore body onto my sponge. My eyes slip closed, and I open them again to proper sunlight. It coats the sills of the windows, the sun itself high overhead. My stiff muscles all but refuse to move, painful even at rest. The spinning of my head fades, darkness no longer threatening to consume my vision.

  Sitting fully upright in the tub, I lean toward Dejean. I can’t hear his breath any longer, but his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. An even, rosy gold brightens his face, his dark skin vibrant once more. The gel on his shoulder arcs down in the middle, but no blood coats it. I leave him to sleep.

  My stomach makes an unhappy noise and I steal the last fish from the small tank Dejean set up yesterday. It’s not the same surge of hunting and killing as cornering fish in the reef or whipping through schools in the clear ocean, but pinning its scaly body to the bottom of the tank is all I can manage, and it smells just as fresh as if I caught it straight from the sea. It wiggles when I bite down.

  As I eat, I watch the ocean. The cliff blocks all but the bleary edge of the reef and the line of rocks that protect its waters, giving way to deep murky blue as it stretches toward the horizon. Grumbling to myself, I toss the fish’s leftovers out the open back door. I meander along the tub using as little effort as possible. Pulling my torso out of the water, I snatch up one of Dejean’s funny spyglass tubes.

  I lift it to my eye, like the sailors do when looking for something far away. The scene inside blurs and spins awkwardly, colored like the back wall. I nearly drop the spyglass. Aiming it out the window, I try again. This time, I can make out the individual waves knocking against the rocks along the reef’s edge, and the outline of a turtle moving through them. Perfect.

  I search for the silhouettes of sirens. In the sea, just beyond the reef, a dolphin pod plays in the waves, lingering for a while before moving on. A large whale breaches in the distance, and a while later it releases a spout from its blow hole, farther to the north. Sharks pop in and out of the shadows of the rocks as they hunt, growing few and farther beneath as the sun rises into the sky. Not a single siren appears.

  Storm must not have a pod after all. Maybe they were wandering, looking for a new territory to join. If they were alone, they had likely been scared off, either by my attack or the oddity of the situation. No siren wants to be caught trespassing on a claimed territory without permission, especially not a loner.

  A groan startles me. I twist toward Dejean. His eyelashes flutter, his brow knitting together as he finally squints my way. He makes another low, pained noise.

  “You look like you were eaten and regurgitated.”

  He closes his eyes again, his expression pained. “I caught none of that,” he says, his voice strained and weak. “If it’s not important, give me a moment.”

  With a sigh, I set the spyglass off to the side and move closer to him, settling against the edge of the tub. I watch him breathe, his face shifting slowly, as though thoughts crash like turbulent waves in his head. His salty hair lies in a lopsided mess. Bored of his need to rest, I brush a couple of the curls away from his forehead.

  I refuse to worry. Annoyance, confusion, irritation: these things are all better than the sharp pains careening through my bones when I consider the pain he must be facing. The fourth time I rearrange his hair, he looks up at me, his eyes almost clear. The lines around them soften and the corners of his lips quirk.

  “You saved my life.”

  “I saved us both.” I adopt simple signs so he need not focus hard, I and th
en take followed by same, using the motion to imply the both of us. He must understand my implication, because he smiles wider.

  “You could have left me in the water, but you came in anyway,” he objects. Dipping his head, he adds a soft, “Thank you.”

  “You thought I’d let another siren eat my prey, in my territory?” I tease.

  He closes his eyes through the end of my sentence, but he finds my arm with the hand opposite his wounded shoulder and pats it gently. “It looked like you just belittled me for something.”

  “For almost dying on me!” My face surely reveals more than my voice, and I’m glad his eyes remain closed. I never imagined a human’s life would matter to me, but seeing him awake and happy makes my heart leap and my sore muscles loosen.

  The shadows shift as the sun slips farther in the sky. Finally, Dejean moans and sits up. He holds his head in his hands and I give his arm the same little pat he gave me. A gruff laugh leaves him.

  He wobbles as he stands, slumping back onto the floor. Instead of rising, he creeps across the ground, favoring the arm where Storm bit his shoulder. He gathers a box of supplies from the little drawers and a couple stacks of containers behind the table. Settling on his sponge, he pats the space next to him. “Can you make it here?”

  I answer by placing a bit of absorbent fabric there and settling down at his side. I point to the box. “What’s that?”

  “Dressing, for wounds. The gel isn’t a cure; it’ll go bad soon.” He cringes. “It’s also expensive. I’ve only got one left at this point.”

  In that case, I’m glad I didn’t put the last shot of gel on his back wound.

  He reaches for my tail, but I shake my head. Leaning behind him, I tug at his shirt. He relents and offers me a little knife before turning. I cut the fabric away, and he grimaces when the edges of it tug on his back wound. The rough, lumpy crust turns my stomach. I put that scab there. If I hadn’t grabbed him so harshly, hadn’t needed to rely on my arms to swim, hadn’t let my song rise with him near, then there would be no wound in the first place.