by Grace Draven
Martis stared at the water. That was how his brother had died, pushed into the water by some thug, disappearing into the cold darkness only to be found several days later, bloated and bruised. He had hoped that revenge would bring some sense of peace but mostly he was numb, with a thirst for a brandy.
There was silence, and then faintly in the midst of the water, three bubbles rose to the surface and burst.
Dovestone did not come up again.
The poets waxed lyrical about the City, its glories, its scents and riches, but surprisingly most poetry failed to address the key quality of the place—there was a lot of water in the canals. Mermaid infested waters.
So, three days after what the City was pleased to call the Fall of Dovestone, Martis and Alair negotiated with Habilus for the use of his boat for a short trip into the lagoon.
“I’ve not got another cargo till next week,” Habilus said. “But I don’t see why you want to sail out into the lagoon with a cargo of pigeons and then turn round again. Still, it’s your money, and the money of madmen spends just as well as the money of the sane.”
“It’s to pay a debt,” Martis said, “and to make sure that we live to see the end of the month.”
“Have you crossed the Master or the Sleepers? For I’ll not have anything to do with that,” Habilus said flatly. “Not at any price.”
“We’re still above ground,” replied Alair, “which tells you that we’re on good terms with the Master, inasmuch as any of our kind can be—which is to be good little sheep and do as we are told.”
Habilus looked uneasy but allowed his conscience to be assuaged by adding another ten points to the price.
They boarded early in the morning, a crisp autumn day which set fair and bright. It was a mirror image to the day on which they had arrived in the City, when the world had seemed full of promise and uncertainty in equal measure. The casks of curried pigeon had been taken on the night before, but Martis had brought the flitches of bacon himself, unwilling to trust the precious cargo to the hold overnight.
He did not want to explain to the top-bitch that something had been at the bacon before her.
The ship’s sails were raised easily and were soon full-bellied, with the wind behind them easily moving them out into the lagoon.
“There’s some rocks, about halfway across,” Martis said. “We need to pull alongside them without scraping the bottom out of the ship.”
Habilus gave him a despairing look. “You don’t need to tell me not to wreck the thing.”
The journey took a scant half hour once they left the harbour. They drew close to the rocks, but not too close, and then Habilus ordered the sea anchor to be loosed. They rode the waves, not moving from the spot, but the swell was strong enough to make Martis turn green.
“What now?” Habilus said.
“We wait.” Alair leaned on the rail, peering down in the water. “We’ve some ladies to keep a promise to.”
“You’ve been dealing with mermaids?” Habilus shook his head, joining Alair at the rail. “That’s a chancy business.”
“They’re not the chanciest people we have had to deal with,” Martis replied.
“Aye, I heard.” Habilus looked troubled. “Did you…?”
He was interrupted by a call from the sailors at the prow. “They’re here, there’s hundreds of them.”
Alair leaned further over, and Martis grabbed at his waist to make sure he did not tip over the side. They were only there to feed pigeons to the mermaids, and not man, even if they had developed a taste for it.
Three of them came closer, heads moving up and down in the water. Do you have it? one signed.
Strong-assent-yes, Alair signed back. Throw overboard? In casks or out?
There was a hissing and wailing passing between the group, then Casks. Overboard.
“You heard the ladies,” Martis said. “They want the casks to be thrown overboard.”
The sailors looked to Habilus for reassurance that their passengers had not lost their minds, and on his short nod formed a chain to shift the casks out of the hold, along the deck, and then over the side by the prow and into the sea.
There were twenty casks in all, bobbing in the water.
“I don’t think there’s a pigeon left in the City,” Alair said. “It’ll be six months before we see their numbers recover.”
“Worth it,” Martis said, and added for the benefit of the watchers—Four bacon promised. Four bacon delivered.
He threw them high and long, and one by one the flitches hit the water, only to be dragged under the surface. He swallowed hard. That brought back memories…
Also, gift, Martis signed. Gift for top-bitch.
The mermaids milled round, hissing in conversation, before one peeled off towards the rocks, diving down with a flick of her tail. She returned after a short while with another mermaid, who looked plumper than the rest, and had seaweed woven into her hair to form a makeshift crown.
What gift?
A blade that will never rust. Martis unfastened the belt that was slung on his hips. The leather was oiled to keep out water, and there was a strap that held a very long knife in a holster. And something to carry it in.
He dropped it into the water, and the mermaid queen swiftly moved to claim it before any of her sisters could. She pulled the knife from its holster and held it up to the light and grinned in delight.
Good gift. Nice man.
“I think she likes it,” Alair said. “Are we sure that arming mermaids is the right thing to do?”
“I’m not sure they can be any more dangerous,” Martis replied. “Besides, once she has this fancy blade, the others will want their own, and I have several gross of simple knives looking for new owners.”
Alair snorted. “Come on, let’s go home.”
It was harder to turn the ship against the wind, and there was a great deal of shouting and swearing before the Mermaid’s Honour had turned against the wind, and headed back to the City.
“You called it home—does this mean you’re staying?” Martis asked.
“For a while, at least. I owe Aishen a sonnet to her eyes.”
“I still say it should be her nose.” Martis tapped his own nose as emphasis. “Poems to eyes are ten a penny.”
“Not the way I write them,” Alair replied with dignity.
“Habilus, what do you think—should he write a sonnet to his lady’s eyes or her nose?”
Habilus considered the point, then grinned, “What about her bubbies? As I recall you, the pair of you were rather keen on them when you arrived here.”
Alair and Martis shuddered.
“We’re a bit tired of bubbies,” Martis said. “You never think that’s something you’ll say—but there we are. We are tired of bubbies.”
“I didn’t enjoy being poisoned so much that I want to repeat the experience,” Alair added.
“Oh ho, it sounds like you have a tale to tell,” Habilus said. “I’ve some brandy down below that would make angels sing and demons weep, and I’m prepared to share it for a good tale.”
“We can promise that.” Alair nodded. “And some of it would even be true.”
Habilus laughed. “Come along then.”
Alair turned to follow them down below, and cast one last glance at the City.
It was still golden, a blur of amber-coloured stone across the horizon, that danced on the blue of the waves of the lagoon—warm and inviting and promising you the world.
And it would still eat you if it could.
About Antioch Grey
Antioch Grey is an English author and lawyer who lives in London with her collection of shoes. She has no cats because she doesn’t trust them not to be plotting against her and would rather keep a pet blond. In her spare time, she drafts elaborate plans for formal poison gardens. Other interests include chocolate and classical statuary, but not at the same time because there’s nothing worse than chocolate smears on statues.
Connect with Antioc
h Gray at her Facebook page.
Titles by Antioch Grey
Immanence (Story Spring Publishing, 2016)
Thoroughly Modern Monsters (Story Spring Publishing, 2013)
THE VAMPIRES OF MULBERRY STREET
by Aria M. Jones
Living the simple life in small town Indiana, Mrs. H has everything she could ever want: a cozy house, peace and quiet, and a garden that is the envy of Mulberry Street. But when sinister outsiders disrupt the tranquility of her neighborhood, it might be time for her to come out of retirement and take up tools more deadly than pruning shears and a trowel.
To Erik, who never doubted for a second, and to all my writing friends-- I couldn't do this without any of you!
THE VAMPIRES OF MULBERRY STREET
You can’t beat a good bread and butter pickle, that’s what I always say.
That spring, rain transformed the garden into a jungle of vines, and summer found me with cucumbers twining up the porch trellis and dangling from the laundry line like fat green caterpillars. My friend Mrs. Singh always pinched hers back, nipping off blossoms so the remaining ones grow even bigger. I let mine be. You don’t need big cucumbers for preserving, and that’s mainly how I fixed them. Pickled cucumbers are good for the health.
Mine is an old family recipe, a blue ribbon winner at the county fair. For the past thirty years, I’ve put up a jar for every family on the block–two to old Mr. Josephs on the corner, on account of them aiding his digestion. Mrs. Singh used to help me with the canning, both of us with our sleeves rolled up, reeking of dill and vinegar as steam poured out of the kitchen windows. She’s four years older than me but still spry, walking every day up the hill and back again. They pickle things in India, too, she told me. Foreign things, like mango and bitter melon. She brought me some once to try. They do liven up a fish supper like nobody’s business, but nothing’s quite like my bread and butter pickles, which are spicy, sweet, salty and sour, all at once. The secret’s all in the seasoning.
When she and her husband moved to California to be closer to their grandkids, I wrote down the recipe for her. My grandmother would spin in her grave, me giving it away like that, but Mrs. Singh was a good friend to me. When the canning was done, the two of us would sit on the porch with a pitcher of lemonade, letting the tart sweetness of it roll over our tongues. We didn’t talk much, come to think of it. Her English wasn’t so good and I couldn’t understand a word of Hindu. I miss her just the same. Don’t suppose there’s much chance I’ll see her again, in this world or the next.
My house is the last one on the end of the street, a squat bungalow built out of solid Indiana limestone, with a deep front porch to catch and hold the shade all summer long. Next door is an empty field, separated from my yard by a row of old pine trees. I like the peace and quiet. That’s why the Singhs were such good neighbors. Never a peep out of them except on Friday nights when they watched their movies, the ones with all the dancing and singing.
After they moved, I thought their house would stand empty for a while. There are a few families on Mulberry Street, up the hill where the houses are newer. Not many people want a gingerbread Victorian nowadays. It’s old-fashioned and doesn’t have central air. The basement leaks in spring and fall, and roses are high maintenance flowers. Didn’t I always see Mrs. Singh fussing over them from dawn till dusk, spraying and weeding?
One humid night in August, the vampires moved in.
It’d been a hot summer with not much rain. The grass was yellow as mustard and so dry that it crackled when you walked on it. My garden needed watering once a day, twice for the potted plants, or the dirt bakes so hard in the afternoon sun that it cracks like a china cup. When the nights got unbearably hot, I’d take pillows and my father’s old army blanket out to the porch, where the air felt a little cooler.
I dreamed a lot in those days, but none so vivid as the dream I had that night in August. Mulberry Street was overgrown with watermelon vines, the tendrils creeping sluggishly down the sidewalk and feeling their way along like great, blind worms. It was a relief to wake up in the shelter of the porch with rain pattering lightly on the roof. I reached for my slippers, thinking I might as well go inside and get myself a cold glass of milk and a molasses cookie or two, and that’s when I saw the moving truck parked in front of Mrs. Singh’s house.
My vision’s still good. Don’t need glasses except for reading, and then only if it’s small print like in the newspapers. I don’t mention it to be boastful, only to say that I saw what I saw and no mistake. Half a dozen men were unloading boxes and crates, stacking them at the top of the driveway and in the empty garage. Some of the boxes were long as a piano and almost as wide, but the men picked them up like they were light as anything.
It was a peculiar business, moving in after midnight with hardly any light to work by except a thin sliver of moon peeking through the clouds. Still, neighbors were neighbors, and I was thinking I should go in and fetch my good house dress and turn on the porch light. The lounge chair creaked as I stood, just loud enough to hush the chorus of crickets singing in my hydrangeas.
Across the street, faces tilted up to the night sky, scenting the air this way and that, like dogs. I had a queer feeling those men could smell me, the lemon rinse in my hair or the talcum powder I put on after my bath. It was impossible, but I still didn’t like it, not one bit. My feet felt rooted to the cool flagstones of the porch and I clutched that old blanket so hard my knuckles ached.
Willa, you’re dreaming with your eyes open.
That’s what my grandmother would’ve said, scolding me for wool-gathering instead of doing my chores. But this time, I didn’t think I was. I forced myself to open my fingers and let go of the blanket, breathing slow and regular like you ought to when you’re feeling faint. After a minute, the crickets started back up again and across the street the men continued unloading their boxes.
The truck must be nearly empty. All the sleep had left me, and not even the rain could lull it back. I’d wait till they were gone and go back inside, locking the door tight behind me. I could do that. I was good at waiting. Then I saw him: on the far end of Mrs. Singh’s porch where her prize day-lilies grew was the lone figure of a man, tall and gaunt as a scarecrow.
He didn’t move like the others. He carried no boxes, he didn’t cock his head to sniff the air every so often like his companions did. I stared so hard at him that I nearly forgot to breathe. A good imagination can be a weakness, and I’ve always indulged mine a little too much, maybe. For a moment I could let myself think it was just sleep and an old woman’s fancy conjuring up spooks on a stifling summer night. But no, there isn’t one thing wrong with my eyes, and among the shadows on Mrs. Singh’s porch was a patch of man-shaped shadow darker than all the rest. In it, a pair of eyes glowed like the end of a lit cigar, and they were fixed upon me.
Gooseflesh prickled up and down my arms, sticky in the heat. While I’d been watching the men, he’d been watching me, I was sure of it. There’s a warning you feel in your bones sometimes. Maybe on evenings when Mulberry Street’s a little too quiet or the wind whips the pine trees back and forth under a yellow sky, so you know a storm’s coming. Times like that, you want to go inside, close the door and shoot the deadbolt for good measure. I longed for the cool linoleum of my kitchen floor beneath my feet and feeling of four solid walls around me.
Across the street, those eyes like fiery pinholes blinked once, then twice. I reached behind and put one hand on the front door latch. The third time, the eyes went dark and didn’t appear again and all the crickets fell silent. I stumbled backwards into my house and let the door slam hard behind me, not caring who heard.
For twenty-five years, Letitia Knox was the mail carrier and neighborhood gossip, a woman so inclined to idle talk you’d think her tongue was hinged in the middle. Her motto was: If you can’t say anything nice, come sit by me. Last winter she retired and moved to Florida and a young man named Max Ferdline took over her route. Mr. Ferdline w
asn’t anywhere near as gossipy, nor as useful, and he smelled like a stationery shop, like paper and ink and something else not quite pleasant. His ears also stuck out like the handles of a jug, but he did have one good trait: an awed respect for his elders that made him twitchy as a greyhound.
But softly, softly, my grandfather would say. You catch more flies with honey. If my grandmother were close by, she’d cackle and add, Then they never see the rolled up newspaper coming.
When young Max climbed the porch steps with his canvas bag slung over one shoulder I was waiting for him, iced tea and a plate of cookies near to hand.
“Afternoon, Mrs. H. Hot out today.”
He handed over the Singhs’ mail, neatly rubber banded. He wasn’t supposed to, of course, but Mr. Ferdline and I had an understanding. I collected their mail, threw out all the junk and forwarded the rest to their new address in California. There wasn’t much to it, of course, circulars, a few stray bills and the odd letter from India written on fragile blue paper and covered in beautiful red and green stamps. You couldn’t always trust the post office to be careful, and Mrs. Singh wouldn’t want anyone handling her personal correspondence but me.
“The house across the street,” I said, nodding at it casual like. “You met the new neighbors yet?”
Max glanced over his shoulder as he gulped down my iced tea, sweet as sin with crushed mint and a generous squeeze of lemon for good measure. “I don’t believe I have, Mrs. H. Are they nice?”
“As nice as most folks are, I imagine.” And like most folks, not nearly as nice as they ought to be. I didn’t say that out loud, just watched as that young man bolted down my molasses cookies like a starved pup.
