Our Bloody Pearl

by D. N. Bryn

  I clean and bandage it, following the motions I saw Kian do on occasion. I try not to think of her while I work; of what might happen to us if she catches Dejean weak and injured. Because of me.

  I secure a piece of fluffy sponge to his back by wrapping a long bandage around his torso. He must feel my hands shake because when I reach past him to put the leftover bandage back into the supply box, he catches my fingers.

  “This isn’t your fault you know. None of it is.” He gives my hand a squeeze.

  He’s wrong though. “My song…”

  “I love your song,” he says, shifting until he can look me in the eyes. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I want to lie on the water and listen to it a thousand times over,” he says, soft and genuine. He tries to hold both of my hands at once, but the motion pulls at the muscle Storm bit into. A flash of pain crosses his face, and he drops his arm. “But next time let’s check for other sirens first. I don’t have many shoulders to spare.”

  I try to laugh, but the tightness of his expression and the delicate way he hangs his arm rip into me as viciously as Storm’s teeth. I motion to the chunk taken out of him. It hollows out the muscle that connects his shoulder to his arm.

  He glances at it, swallowing hard. “We’ll deal with it after we look at your tail.”

  An objection rises in my throat, but then I remember the trail of blood that followed me to the house. Though I don’t feel any pain from my wound, I suppose it still needs to be cared for. As lifeless as my tail is right now, I don’t want to lose it entirely.

  The cut runs deep and jagged, from the base of my big fin toward my hip for the length of my forearm. The goop of green coating recedes along the corners, revealing swollen, angry flesh. Whatever pierced my tail caught the side of my fin as well, slashing through the spaces between the rays of bone. Strips of the once solid membrane lay awkwardly, curling at the edges.

  My head floats, and I turn away from the sight, focusing on Dejean’s hands. He works with only one, preparing the supplies with his injured arm hanging loose at his side. As he starts on my tail, I move my gaze to the sea.

  “Is there normally a pod in this area?” I ask as he begins to wrap the wound.

  “Hmm?” He glances up, and I repeat my signs. “Oh, once. I think it was a good number of years back, before I bought the house. A terrible hurricane brought part of the cliff down, wiping most of them out. There hasn’t been a single pod in the waters on this side of the island since, from here to the smaller isle just north.”

  It’s not strange for a territory to go unclaimed. With few of us spread over such a vast ocean, we keep away from human ports as much as we can. Our songs are powerful, but the humans are creative. They find ways to kill us without ever being present.

  “I saw no sirens in the cove while you slept.” I sign slowly, and he pauses to watch. “The one who bit you must have left.” If not, they should have been flaunting their presence, daring me to return for another fight.

  “That’s good.” He sounds monotone, but his face betrays his relief.

  I quirk my brow. “You’re scared of us.”

  “I’m scared of most things that can eat me.” He flashes me a grin, tying off the bandage. “But not you.”

  “I’m plenty fearsome,” I object with a hiss, baring my teeth to prove my point. “And I can still sing.”

  He laughs, his eyes sparkling. “You’re adorable.” He signs for the first time since waking, all his motions done with one hand. Pain mars his expression, and he gives it up for spoken words. “And plenty frightening to other people, I’m sure.”

  He checks over the shredded half of my fin as I grumble, crossing my arms and glaring at him.

  “What should I do with this?” He motions to my fin. “They’re clean cuts, miraculously.”

  My experience in this holds no value. When something similar happened to another of my kind, our pod rejected them without question. My chest warms. Dejean knows I can do little to benefit him, but he helps me anyway, asking nothing in return. He’s a strange pod-mate, but I’m grateful.

  “Leave it,” I tell him. “We should deal with your shoulder.”

  He groans.

  “I let you fix my tail.”

  “You couldn’t feel me fixing your tail.”

  “You’re a pirate, aren’t you? I see the other scars.”

  “They’re not like this one,” Dejean replies, weakly.

  That leaves a painful knot in my stomach. The handful of scars on his limbs and torso are all simple raised lines, pulling together two strips of flesh. This wound is like a hole in the side his body, a bone visible near one edge. It covers the area a little lower than where I bit him back at the harbor. Most of the half-healed imprint from my teeth is ripped clean out. That Dejean stays conscious despite it amazes me.

  My mind hops back to the moments before I first passed out. “What were those brown pills for?”

  “They help your blood regenerate,” he says. “They’re high grade, from a large island quite a bit to the south. When I was third mate, we took a merchant carrying them, and I filched as many as I could get away with. They’ve saved Simone’s life more than once.”

  “And now they’ve saved ours,” I mutter without signs. I might slip a couple into Murielle’s pocket, in case of a freak accident. With her tools all tucked into her hair, it seems likely.

  “Your shoulder,” I remind Dejean, pointing at it.

  He gives me a pathetic look, his lower lip jutted forward and his brow scrunched. A low, whimpering noise leaves him, but the approaching sound of blasting steam and crinkling metal cuts him off. We both go silent. Dejean grips the edges of the sponge and pulls his feet under him to stand. I grab onto his wrist, signing, “Don’t.”

  I want him here, where I can defend him if I must.

  Somewhere beyond the front door, the machine rumbles to a stop. A figure marches into view of the side windows, a dark cloak billowing dramatically around them. Very dramatically. Almost too dramatically.

  Dejean’s eyes go wide and then he laughs, a soft, contained noise, squeaking in his throat. Not until the intruder shoves through the door do I understand. A dark, fluffy mess of hair springs to life as Murielle throws back her dark hood, grinning.

  Dejean suppresses his laughter enough to say, “Isn’t that from one of the trunks in my attic?”

  “Maybe.” Murielle makes an overly suspicious face, her lips pursed downward as she avoids Dejean’s gaze.

  “The embroidery around the clasp is the same design.”

  “A common pattern seen in lots of cloaks found in suspicious old trunks next to piles of cogs. I mean, sure it was locked, but you shouldn’t keep the keys so close by.” Murielle swings her arms, setting a swell through the fabric. “And it’s for a good cause! If no one can see who I am, then they can’t ask me about any particular sirens hiding in any particular tubs, or the genius of those upgrades I made to the elevator, or why you…” She trails off, her eyes settling on Dejean’s shoulder. “Why do you have a huge hole in your shoulder?” Then, louder: “Why the hell do you have that big, huge hole in your shoulder? Damn, Dejean, you should be at the doc’s!”

  “Perle was just going to patch it—”

  “Oh no, no, no. You don’t get your siren to patch up messes like that—no offense Perle,” she pauses, glancing at me with a smile before her face contorts back into a frantic rage. “For this, you need a fellow who knows their shit!”

  “But…” Dejean looks faint.

  “She’s right,” I add. “I’m the worst person to look at it. Most sirens will leave you for dead over a wound like this.” Besides, I know nothing about humans except which of their organs tastes best. I want him to heal properly.

  Dejean drops his head into a hand, avoiding us both. Grabbing his wrist, Murielle yanks him up. He looks faint and sways, but she wraps an arm around his waist, letting him lean on her shoulder.

  “Come on, you idiot,” sh
e grumbles, walking him toward the door.

  When she glances back at me, I sign to her, though I know she can’t interpret it.

  “Take care of him.”

  She must understand my intention, because she smiles at me. “I’ll bring him back, good as new. Or… better than this. Best as any good doc can get him.”

  I shift myself into the tub. My body remains tense long after Murielle’s machine pulls away, and I barely relax into a fatigued, wavering sleep. The sun sets during one of my restless naps, leaving the house cloaked in darkness. No one comes up the drive, not to bang on the front door and not to bring Dejean back. Having him so far away feels painful, and I don’t know whether I miss him because he’s gone or because I’m simply worried.

  These humans seem more compassionate than sirens, but if the doctor thinks his shoulder isn’t worth saving, will they cast him out? They won’t. They can’t. Dejean doesn’t think any less of me for the state of my tail; the doctor can’t turn him away for having a chunk of muscle missing, right?

  I would’ve left him. The thought springs on me like the mouth of an angry eel from a dark, rocky pit. Before the loss of life in my tail, it would’ve seemed the natural course to take. Now, the idea makes me shudder. I can’t imagine letting Dejean go over something so trivial as an injury, no matter how terrible.

  When the machine finally rumbles back up to the front of the house, I go limp with relief. Murielle helps Dejean inside, rambling all the while. Layers of fabric cover his shoulder, the gap of the wound no longer visible. His dark face holds little color, but he smiles at me as he collapses onto his sponge.

  “I live,” he moans, covering his eyes with a hand.

  “That’s good. I like you alive,” I say, signing my words out of habit as he drifts quickly to sleep.

  Murielle spreads a thin blanket over him. “He’ll be alright.” She grins weakly, but sadness clouds her relief. “He might never be able to lift his upper arm in an outward sort of direction, which would be a bugger on him if he weren’t captain, but he’ll live.”

  Might never again. A rush of emotion clenches at my heart, like a subtle acceptance of my tail all over again, but this time it’s an ache instead of an oozing wound. Dejean won’t be the same.

  But the inability to do all that you once could isn’t the same as uselessness. It’s a change, a painful one, but still just a change. Nothing less, nothing more. Dejean won’t be fine, but he’s here. As long as he lives, I can accept him as he is.

  I give Murielle a smile. “Thank you.”

  “I… I dunno what that means.” She looks embarrassed, and shrugs her shoulders. She lays her great cloak on a chair, and the numerous buttons on her one-piece outfit rattle. “I’ve gotta get Dejean to teach me this weird hand language you’ve made. I like it. Pictures are always better than words, if you ask me.”

  I huff. “You think you can join our pod that easily, do you?”

  Murielle stares at me. “What’s that mean? Twirling? Lot’s of fish? A wash machine?”

  “You’re terrible at this,” I grumble. Fish, hungry, I motion, ignoring the signs Dejean and I have settled on, in favor of gestures I think she’ll understand.

  “You want food?”

  “Yes!” My stomach agrees with me in a series of gurgles.

  “I haven’t been fishing in years and years…” Murielle glances out the window. “It’s kinda dark now.”

  I point aggressively in the direction I assume the kitchen to be.

  Mumbling things under her breath, she follows my instruction. She returns with a bowl of seafood in one arm and a stack of giant, fluffy sponges Dejean once called pillows in the other. Dumping the pillow sponges on the ground beside the tub, she hands me the plate. I slurp down a few tiny squids that only smell partially foul and gnaw at the insides of a set of crab legs. Murielle settles on the pillows, stealing an unused blanket off Dejean’s sponge.

  “You’re staying?” I ask. When she gives me a quizzical look in return, I ignore her, slipping onto my sponge. I let my head float on the water as I stare at the ceiling. Shadows hide the uneven white paneling.

  “I was worried too.” Murielle speaks in a soft, delicate tone, nothing like the loud, brash, self-assured person I’ve seen so far. “He’s not really my brother, not in blood, but I love him like it, you know?”

  I lift my head out of the water, settling against the edge of the tub to watch her curl up in her heap of pillows.

  “His mom offered me a spot at their table, whenever I wanted it. It was nice to have a place to go where someone thought I was worth a shit.”

  “Pods are good,” I whisper, tucking my elbows under my head. Humans seem to put much faith in the pod they form with their parents. “Was his father there too?”

  Murielle could not possibly understand the question, but she nods to herself, as though swimming through a memory. “After my parents died, Dejean’s mom taught me to work the machines same as she did. Said she needed someone to pass the knowledge to, seeing how Dejean just wanted to fish and sail.” She snorts and tucks her pillow under her head, looking at Dejean’s sleeping form. “He’s only ever thought a thing was worth building if it’s got rigging and masts.”

  I try to imagine them as gangly, young humans, Dejean fishing off some city harbor and Murielle learning which of the odd tools she stuffed in her hair did what.

  “He left for the seas a bit after that,” she continues. “But he came back when his mom passed. Moved with me to this little isle, to get away from the old house and the crazy pace of the big island life.” A soft hum rumbled in her throat, a smile on her lips. “I met Simone after a merchant vessel dumped her here with half its crew. Dejean never faltered when I asked him to vouch for her to his captain.” She glances at me. “But he needs more than just me and Simone, so it’s a good thing you’re here now too.”

  “I can see that.” The words spill out easily with no one to understand them but myself. “I didn’t think I’d ever have someone I could trust the way I trust Dejean. Sirens aren’t the best at compassion. I survived because I was tough and could contribute to the pod, because I was always ready to let go of anyone who would slow me down…”

  A deep snore cuts me off, and I glance at Murielle to find her eyes closed and her mouth hanging open.

  “You’re a terrible listener,” I grumble, but I can’t keep the smirk off my face. It’s nice having a group to call my own. Even if it’s a group made up of humans.

  I drift to sleep to Murielle’s rhythmic snoring and the subtle churn of the water machine, relaxed and happy.

  The next seven nights are much the same; Dejean and I asleep on our sponges, and Murielle crashed on her ever-growing pile of pillows. Dejean offers her a proper sponge, but she refuses, just as she refuses to leave. She claims she prefers Dejean’s house to her own, because he keeps a higher number of junk piles. From what I know of them both, I figure Murielle’s home is made entirely from junk.

  Dejean rarely minds her presence. They quibble and fuss without any real irritation, in a way I assume is typical of human siblings. Would I have had such a relationship if sirens stayed with their birth parents as humans do?

  Dejean’s shoulder wound begins to mend, the healing quickened by whatever the doctor gives him on his daily visits. By the end of the week though, it’s clear he’ll have limited range in his arm for the rest of his life. The more he tells me not to worry over him, the more determined I grow to never let it happen again. The next time someone—siren or human—threatens Dejean, I’ll be ready to defend him.

  As this promise deepens, my agitation grows. Doom hangs over our peaceful healing process, with Kian out there somewhere, hunting me down. The longer Dejean and I linger here, the more likely she’ll find us. We need to flee. But running to sea with half-mended injuries carries a danger we would prefer not to face.

  As Dejean’s wounds knit, so do mine. The beginning of a mangled scar forms from the gash in my tail, but the strips
of my fin refuse to bind back together. They hang awkwardly, drifting through the water with haunting fluidity. But when Murielle asks if she can build me something to compensate for the aesthetic loss, I turn her down.

  I look at my tail differently now. Even if I couldn’t stop Storm from biting the chunk out of Dejean’s shoulder, I still pulled him to the clamshell and up into the house. I don’t desire a dead tail any more than a life of tubs and tank food, but this could still be a good life—once we’re free from Kian. I can still be happy. I can still protect my pod, so we can go on laughing and living. I have a good thing here, just as rich and wonderful as the life I had before, only a little different.

  Sometimes a little different isn’t bad.

  Sometimes a little different isn’t bad. I repeat those words to myself as Murielle crashes through a heaping mound of clutter Dejean just piled in the archway to the front room. Junk and collectibles clatter as they spill across the floor and I pin my palms to my ears.

  “Mur!” Dejean snaps, his head shooting up from where he sketches at the table. When he sees her, his face softens. She holds a giant tubular thing in her arms, composed of fabric and what must be a lightweight metal of some kind, forming a structure of plates and poles around the cloth.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Murielle sets the strange object in front of me. I lift myself out of the tub to sit on the edge, glancing it over. It’s about the width of my tail, and a bit longer.

  “This is it?” I keep to simple signs with her, choosing ones we went through during the recent evenings.

  “A brace!” Murielle beams. “It’s just the first part of the set I’m building, but I can’t get the rest done ‘til I know this one fits.”

  “Right.”

  The brace scares me just as much as it excites. Dejean must see the fear, because he hurries over to help me lift my tail out of the water, giving my shoulder an encouraging pat. Together, we fit the brace to my body.