Diary of a Radical Mermaid

by Deborah Smith

  Rhymer stirred. Something urgent in their voices opened his eyes. He propped himself on an elbow. I could feel him looking from them to me. “Problem, girls?”

  “No problem, Uncle Rhymer,” Stella said. “We just want Molly to see what we’ve done. We hope she likes it. If she doesn’t, well, we don’t know how to change her back to the way she was.”

  That popped my eyelids open. “Hmmm?” I rose to my elbows, squinting. The huge bed, draped in soft, luxurious white linens, was a cozy mess. The top sheet was wadded under mine and Rhymer’s arms. The girls, with Heathcliff beside them, sat cross-legged alongside us, looking at me somberly.

  Rhymer pointed a stern finger at his nieces. “What is it you’ve done to Moll?”

  Venus went wide-eyed and covered her mouth. Isis looked at the ceiling. But Stella met my eyes with a serene nod. “Look at your legs, Aunt Molly.”

  I shoved myself upright and pawed at the sheet. Rhymer helped me push it aside. The wide skirt of my sundress — a ruined, wrinkled accordion of saltwater-crusted linen — was twisted around me from thighs to ankles. My hands shook as I tugged the stiff material up to my knees.

  I gave a soft moan of delight and amazement.

  I had two perfect, unscarred legs.

  And feet with the most beautiful webbed toes.

  * * * *

  I was whole now. I walked beside Rhymer on the beaches of Sainte’s Point without my cane, without limping. I swam beside him in the Atlantic and in Bellemeade Bay the way a man and woman were meant to swim together — as a beautifully matched pair. We made love without any wounds between us. With such a foundation, I could handle any future.

  The water was an elixir on my skin. Sainte’s Point anchored us with dark, mysterious allure, but there was a wide world waiting beneath the seas. Sometimes, the girls walked with us. “I believe Melasine may have spoken to me in the marsh,” I told them.

  “Oh, yes, she’s nearby,” Stella said. “This is her favorite place in all the world. Most of her favorite children — the Bonavendiers — were born here. That’s why this is a safe place. She must have known our father wouldn’t hurt us. We can feel him near here, with her. Our father. He’s very old. Hundreds of years. Mother said he was born of Melasine and an Aztec Lander king.”

  “I expect you’ll get to see him again some day.”

  Stella just looked at me sweetly and shook her head. “Not for real. Only the picture he wants us to see. But that’s all right. Underneath, we’ll recognize him.”

  Rhymer and I were on the beach one day, quietly discussing our plans to set sail and where we would take the girls when a man spoke behind us. “There are other things I need to tell you.”

  We turned, startled. A tall, black-haired man stood there, barefoot, dressed in loose trousers and a white shirt open down his muscled chest. The tidal breezes barely seemed to touch him; the seagulls quit their petty squawking and landed on the sand around him like pet canaries. Out beyond the surf, more than two-dozen dolphins lifted their bottle-nosed faces from the water and chorused a sweet, whistling hello. The stranger’s effect was so potent that Rhymer began to push me behind him for protection. But then we recognized something familiar in the man’s dark, endless eyes.

  “Orion,” Rhymer said.

  He nodded. “I prefer my disguises. One of my endless mirages.”

  “Is this how my sister saw you?”

  “At first. I tried to hide behind this image for her sake. But she always saw through me. And loved me, regardless.”

  I stepped up beside Rhymer. “Your daughters love you, too. They talk about you all the time since that night at the marsh. They’ve insisted that you were still nearby.”

  “I’ll always be nearby. Just out of sight.”

  “What would it hurt for you to be a part of their lives? To show yourself to them? You know they aren’t afraid of who you really are. And other Mers would accept you, too.”

  Something hard shimmered in his expression. “No. Swimmers outlive all but their own caste. It’s not wise for one of us to love or be loved by other Mers, or Landers. We’ve learned through hard experience.”

  “How many other Swimmers do you know?”

  “Only two dozen or so exist. We are . . . aware of each other.”

  “And some of them have allied with this Swimmer, Leviathan, who owns UniWorld?”

  “Yes. So our own kind and Landers altered to serve Leviathan are already in Leviathan’s grasp.”

  After a chilling second, Rhymer asked quietly, “What do you mean, ‘Landers altered to serve Leviathan?’”

  “They swim as Mers do; they are controlled underwater, like leashed dogs; if Landers knew what was being done to enslave their own kind, there would be war on Mers beyond imagining. As powerful as our kind is, we could not survive the sheer numbers of a Lander war. Leviathan knows this. He intends to conquer the Lander world through stealth.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Stay free of him for now. Learn what you can. Pick your battles carefully. But above all, keep silent. The more we talk about Leviathan, the easier it is for him to find us. He senses it. Lilith Bonavendier understands his tactics. That’s why she is drawing Mers together in more subtle ways, never mentioning her true purpose. She doesn’t want Leviathan to suspect. It is a fight of silence and loneliness, of secrecy and unknown allies and enemies. Most Mers don’t know or don’t say, if they do know. But you can tell by their allegiances. Actions speak.”

  “What is this all really about?” I asked, stunned.

  “Power. Heritage. Vanity. A belief that we have forfeited the world to Landers against our will, and that we should rule that world openly.”

  “How?”

  “Within this century the world’s known sources of oil will be depleted. The world as Landers know it will change forever. If Leviathan is successful in controlling the last of the oil — the oil hidden under the deepest oceans — the world will either be our world again, or no one’s.

  “Tara was trying to protect me from capture. That UniWorld ship was there to find me. Even Mers can’t explore the depths as I can. I am valuable. We Swimmers, a small group. Valuable in the coming age. The age of war and water. Of water and oil. Of Mer and Lander. Because there are vast resources beneath the sea, but only Mers can access them. In the coming age, we can control the world as we did in ancient times. That’s how Leviathan and his cabal see it.”

  “Why did you take Tara’s body?”

  “Leviathan’s people intended to dissect it. They use Mer organs for research. They’re working on genetic programs to enhance our traits. Whether we want them enhanced or not.”

  Rhymer’s face tightened. “You did the right thing then. Where did you bury my sister?”

  “Loch Larken, near your ancestral home. There is a tomb there, in the deepest channel of that ancient lake. A tomb of Mer ancestors so ancient even Leviathan has no knowledge of it. I put her body there. Her tomb is guarded by . . . creatures. They exist, like me, in the darkness of illusion.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “You mean there really is an unknown species in the lochs of Scotland? There really are Loch Ness Monsters?”

  He smiled thinly. “They prefer to think of themselves as Scotsmen with gills.” He looked at Rhymer somberly. “Someday, I’ll show you and the girls how to find the tomb. You have my word.”

  “But for now Moll and I have no choice but to take the girls on the lam?”

  “Yes. They can hear the oil moving beneath the ocean floor. They hear the gurgle and hiss of gases, they sense the lava of hidden volcanoes and the flow of underground rivers. That’s why Leviathan wants them. They feel wounds in the earth just as they feel wounds in flesh.”

  “We’ll find sanctuaries.”

  “Go to the farthest islands, the deepest waters. Molly can tell you where it’s safe.”

  I blinked. “Me?”

  “Yes. You will know instinctively. You’re a Storyteller.”

&nbs
p; “Well, yes, I write books for children, but—”

  “No, you write books that tell of ancient Mer places. You come from a line that carries the ancient memories. You are an oracle, a source. Your imagination is a living map of cities long submerged, of glories and marvels long forgotten. Civilizations that existed long before any of record in the Lander world. The places you consider to be simply fanciful creations, Molly, are actually memories. You are meant to pass along their history.”

  “The Abyss of Forever? The deep sea Castle of the Mariner Seahorse? The Magical City under the Tides? You’re saying the images I have in my mind of those fabulous places are inherited memories?”

  “Yes. And if you seek their ruins, you will find them. Take my daughters where your Storyteller’s memory tells you they will be safe.”

  “The Magical City under the Tides.”

  “Yes.”

  Rhymer said quietly, “Then that’s where we’ll head. But what of you? Will we see you again?”

  “I’ll protect my daughters from beneath the water.” He looked at us respectfully. “And you two will protect them from above the shore.”

  He strode past us, toward the surf. I blinked, heard a splash, and he was gone. Vanished.

  I released a long, shaky breath. Beside me, Rhymer stood in subdued thought. “Moll, I don’t know what lies ahead, but if you come with me and the girls it’ll be the end of your life as you’ve known it.”

  “No,” I answered. “It will be the start of my life as I’ve dreamed it.”

  His eyes gleamed. He took my outstretched hand.

  * * * *

  We and the girls, along with Heathcliff, boarded a handsome sailboat provided by Jordan. After some thought we christened it Wanderer. Jordan, Tula, and the loathsome Juna Lee came to the dock at Sainte’s Point, to see us off. Tula smiled and cried as she hugged me. I looked positively alluring in a tossed-back white blouse over a black maillot and slim white shorts. I loved gazing at my pretty legs. So did Rhymer. Tula applauded my svelte new appearance. “You’re the most beautiful Mer babe in the world,” she said.

  “Thank you for your friendship.” I hugged her back, and whispered in her ear, “Go and find your forgotten man. Make him remember you.”

  She smiled sadly. “Maybe someday. Miracles are possible. You’ve proven that.”

  “Excuse me. Excuse me!” Juna Lee interrupted, exasperated. “I have something to say.”

  “Please, let me control my excitement,” I deadpanned.

  She planted herself on the dock with her hands on her hips, gorgeous and arrogant in gauzy gaucho pants and a fruit-colored blouse, which I suspected was some sort of sarcastic gift forced on her by Aphrodite Araiza, who had recently left for home with Charley in tow. Jordan watched Juna Lee affectionately but with an arched brow.

  “First of all, Molly,” Juna Lee said, “I applaud your transformation. Why, you’re practically non-boring.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Admit it. I did you a favor by kidnapping you.”

  “All right, you did. I’m grateful. Thank you.”

  Juna Lee puffed out her perky chest as she gave Tula and Jordan a queenly look. “See? There! I’m vindicated.”

  “I forgive you for everything,” I went on. “In fact, I’m sending you a goodbye gift. A little something from the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, to commemorate the day you and I met.”

  “Why, how sweet of you. Do tell. What is it?”

  “Oh, you’ll see.”

  Rhymer touched my arm gently. “Time to go, Moll.”

  I nodded. With the girls clustered around us and Heathcliff seated nobly on the bow like a small feline masthead, we sailed slowly from the cove at Sainte’s Point, headed southward. A phalanx of dolphins escorted us. The girls and I cried a little. We were leaving more than just the island behind. We were leaving our old lives. It was a bittersweet victory, but when I met Rhymer’s loving gray eyes I smiled. No regrets, my love.

  None, my love, he echoed quietly.

  * * * *

  Ducks. Real ones. Quacking, pooping, waddling ducks. Molly’s parting gift to me turned out to be a dozen damned mallard ducks, just like the quackers who live in the Peabody Hotel’s lobby fountain. Jordan and Tula nearly laughed themselves silly. I sputtered for awhile, then shrugged off the insult. After all, I could afford to be magnanimous. I had come out of the whole Orion drama smelling like a rose, in my opinion. Jordan told everyone who would listen about my self-sacrificing heroics. Now, he was my love slave. I could do no wrong in his eyes.

  A man in love is forced to admit that mermaids are women the way women are meant to be. Not nicey-nice, not prissy-prissy, not consumed with the fear that someone (particularly of the male variety) won’t like us, and someone (particularly of the female peer group variety) won’t approve of us. Mermaids understand the right of the Feminine to exist on its own terms, not bound up in girdles or squeezed into some grotesque imitation of The Way Men Do Things. And not apologetic in the least.

  The enforced niceness of women is all a great scheme to keep us girls clamped up like nervous oysters. All those hidden, dangerous pearls! Lander girls are brainwashed early on to think they have no real power beyond their boobs, butts, and sweetie-pie submissiveness.

  Landers, don’t even try to tell me you’re not submissive — yes, you work at an important job, and pay your own bills, and aren’t afraid to tweak a male buttock strolling past you at the local fern bar, but you know, deep in your dusty little Lander heart, that the show of independence can’t clobber generations of social conditioning.

  You want to be submissive and devalued. Admit it. It’s much more noble and safe that way. You can’t float easily because you weigh yourselves down with like-me-please-like-me worries. Oh, puh-leeze. Even if you’re the nicest little peach in the pie you’re eventually going to realize that the Grand Brainwash was primarily intended to control women so they don’t run amok doing all the things they naturally want to do. Since they’re not encouraged to do much besides be pleasant and attractive, they’re just waiting for some hairy masculine hand to clamp them into a marriage contract for baby-making.

  News flash: Being nice and sweet and pleasant and demure and polite and go-along-get-along cooperative is not going to stop the fact that you’ll eventually stop being that cute little kitten everyone wants to adopt. Whether you like it or not, you’ll turn into a grown cat, and then either you’ll the use claws Mother Nature gave you to make the world respect you or you’ll sit around in a furry little Lander-cat puddle of your own niceness, getting your tail stepped upon but only whispering meow, oh, meowowow, in response, because God forbid you offend anyone or demand to be noticed.

  You poor cat-fish.

  Thus, I am thrilled to be your role model for change. Please pay no attention to the following scene. It in no way compromises my lecture on not compromising your values in order to please men.

  Jordan and I lounged next to his pool at Hilton Head. The ducks quacked contentedly as they paddled around the pool’s faux-mountain setting. Maybe they thought they’d escaped to a summer resort in Aspen. I draped a lazy hand over Jordan’s naked body. “What’s all this nutty talk about UniWorld trying to become the evil empire? I own several million dollars’ worth of UniWorld stock. It’s solid. I’m not selling.”

  Jordan grunted. “Don’t worry about it. Just stick with me.”

  “How condescending. Don’t worry my pretty little head?”

  He trailed a hand down my bare stomach. “Or other parts.”

  I grumbled. “Don’t change the subject. Now, listen, be sensible — world crises, secret plots, hidden undersea oil reserves, conspiracies — you’ve spent far too much time reading conspiracy theories on the Internet. And watching Nostradamus specials on the Discovery Channel. I want you to stop filling your pretty little head with all those quirky ideas.”

  “My sweet, darling, annoying periwinkle.”

  “Periwinkle?”


  “Hiding in the sand.”

  “You seriously believe all that mumbo jumbo about UniWorld trying to enslave us all?”

  “Yes. And so does Lilith. Lilith knows it’s time to pull our kind together. That’s why she’s searching out the Floaters. Spreading the word. Why she didn’t object to your diary. She knows battles are coming. So does Riyad. He has connections in the oil world who tell him everything. There’s going to be trouble in the years to come, and Mers will be at the center of it.”

  “So what to do we do right now? Besides drink a stiff tonic and vodka and try not to panic?”

  “Well, first, we . . . merge our talents. We . . . merge our interests. We merge our strengths.”

  I leaned toward him, cleavage to the forefront, chin up, lips slightly parted. My heart fluttered like a hyperventilating romance heroine hoping for a ripped bodice. “Mergers are for CEOs. How boring.”

  “Agreed. Let’s put it in terms you can wrap your little finger around. We get married.”

  Rip. There went the first button on my inner bodice. I sat up on my lounge chair, fanning myself lightly, eyes narrowing to slits, voice dropping to a soulful drawl. “Why, that is the most preposterous idea I’ve ever heard. Presented with no more aplomb or charm than a request for sliced salmon at the deli. Certainly you’re just teasing little ol’ me, because a gentleman would never, nevah, pledge his troth in such a base manner.”

  Jordan got up lazily. He arched one brow. He placed one hand over his bare heart. Then he dropped to one knee and wrestled my fanning hand into his. “My darling Juna Lee,” he said in a sardonic, syrupy accent, “you have given my very life meaning beyond all hope of hopes, beyond all deserving. Please look down upon my crude, simple, but heartfelt plea for mercy. Please, please my darling, make me the happiest man in the world. Honor me, my darling. My darling Juna Lee, will you marry me?”

  “Now that’s a marriage proposal. I’ll think about it and get back to you—”

  He pulled me to my feet, then swooped me over one shoulder and slapped me on the bare ass. “I’ll take that as a Yes,” he growled.