One thing to hear of how your mother overdosed, dying before you knew her well enough to remember her; another to know her in her prime, to be in love with her loveliness and goodness and revere her like no other, to love her and need her and want always to be with her, and then witness her descent into disease, addiction, and the ugly, violent path of no return.
That’s what I felt like, watching what this extraordinary creature had charged me with seeing. Like I had watched my own mother’s tragic demise. But it was worse than even that, wasn’t it? Something even deeper tugged at my heartstrings, imploring me to dig further for a more profound understanding.
And then I realized–it was the opposite, wasn’t it? Like watching a child trip down that path. The apple of your eye, the most beautifully perfect thing your eyes and heart could ever behold, which you would do anything to love and protect–had been charged with loving and protecting, was your soul purpose to love and protect–poisoned, tortured, exploited, defiled…
A shuddering breath wracked my chest, in spite of my watery surroundings.
Old habits. Natural human reflexes of grief.
‘Amphitrite has died of a broken heart,’ Codexious had said.
‘How does the queen of the sea end up with her heart broken?’
Now I knew.
18
The ocean was dying.
I remembered Sandy taking me to one of those ocean conservation things once, where we spent half the day cleaning trash off the beach and the other half dissecting a dead seagull to see the array of garbage ingested in its gullet and viewing depressing power points about how oil spills affected aquatic life. I’d been sad then, too. Had even been moved to orchestrate some small-scale project aimed to inspire cleaning up the coasts of California.
But my passion for the cause had been short-lived, fading as many things do when you’re six and in kindergarten, and when said crises are not thrown urgently in your face every day. And of course all efforts ceased entirely when I developed my sudden aversion for that beloved, endangered sea of mine and fled inland, slamming the door in its face. It’s hard to keep caring about something when you want nothing more to do with it. Hard to remember you were ever trying to save it when you become convinced you must save yourself from it.
But my kindergarten self had the right idea.
The sacred oceanic creature before me loosened its vise-like tendrils from my skull, the visions fading. The jellyfish crystal ball went dark, not even the erstwhile constellation of inner essence remaining. I felt the serpentine feelers slide out of my brain, even though–at least to my knowledge–there had been no piercing of my skull. I recoiled from the sensation, expediting the separation. The jellyfish drew back and drifted further out over the pit, done with me.
Shaken, I turned back to Coda.
He was watching me intently, a wistful gravity haunting his eyes. For a moment neither of us said anything, just shared a heavy silence that acknowledged what there were no words for.
Could he see the tears on my face, in the water? I would think they would meld with the encompassing liquid, instantly diluted and spread thin into the surrounding territory, but I could still feel them on my face–streaks that were colder than the rest of the water, stinging my cheeks.
At last, Coda’s chest swelled with a breath–or something, since breathing wasn’t really a thing–and he broke from our trance of shared grief. “And now you know.”
I tried to nod, but wasn’t sure how much oomph trickled into the motion. The visions had just taken so much out of me; I felt exhausted, like I could lay down right there and stare unblinking up at the far-distant surface, unmoving for days, in order to recover. I’m sorry, I wanted to say, as if expressing my condolences to someone who’d lost a loved one. But it wouldn’t come out, and would have been grossly insufficient.
When I was able to call my voice back from its grieving hiatus, what came out was: “Above the Surface, they talk of the apocalypse. A future of polluted skies and wastelands. Death and decay. This bleak existence that’s coming for us.” I shook my head. “It’s already here.”
“It is.”
The underwater apocalypse. Already raging in the shadows, within the central layers of our planet. The rotten core of the apple.
Coda sighed, quietly. “Come. It is not for you to dwell on, not your burden to bear. I do not even know if I should have brought you here to see it, but alas. You can put the origin of the visions already in your head to rest.”
I didn’t know what else to say, and, sensing as much, Coda shifted with a sense of finality and gave his fin a flick to start back toward the city. Solemnly, I fell into place at his flank, not putting as much effort into keeping up this time. He was gracious enough to humor my pace again, and we swam in silence back to the throes of Atlantis.
“You need something to take your mind off this, I think,” Coda remarked once we were back. “I believe some primping and preening of your own might be in order.”
My brows pinched downward at the suggestion. I couldn’t be sure exactly what he had in mind, but any superficial pastime that fit the bill of ‘primping and preening’ was the last thing I felt like engaging in after my emotionally exhausting trip down ocean-devolution lane.
“Come. We’ll get you cleaned up. And then I will leave you in the very capable hands of one Abraxia Ludinvarr. Trust me, I have a feeling you’ll be interested to observe her line of work.”
Get me ‘cleaned up’? What did he mean by that? Was I some sort of visible mess?
A sudden wave of self-consciousness overcame me, uncertain what his remark referred to. I touched my face in curiosity, but Coda was already flowing toward the palace. I pushed off after him, and soon he had delivered me to a private little parlor in a quiet corner of the opulent fortress, and I finally had the chance to look in that mirror I’d craved.
As already surmised, the curly mane that was disorderly on land was utterly maniacal underwater. Like a model fully embracing the whole ‘natural hair’ campaign, ever caught in the wind of a dramatic photoshoot. It was wild.
I liked it.
But what really caught my eye were the silver streaks tracked down my face. My fingers rose to my cheeks, investigating the substance. Were those my tears? Rendered silver because of some reaction with the alien Atlantean waters, it seemed. Or some other magic I wasn’t aware of.
How strange.
Perhaps mermaid tears were silver, and that part of my heritage was awakening now that I was immersed in the culture. Who was to say?
I scrubbed at my cheeks, finding the residue harder to dispel than I would expect. The streaks smeared into metallic blush-like patches, like I was a robot underneath and my true colors were rubbing through. It was actually kind of pretty, but I didn’t exactly want to go around flaunting that I’d been crying like a baby as my choice fashion statement. I scrubbed some more, and when I was done my cheeks flamed red from the aggravation.
Oh well. Some natural blush in the proper shade.
I took one last look at myself before slipping back out of the parlor. Coda was waiting for me and smiled when I emerged.
“There. That’s better.”
I considered asking him about the silver color of my tears, but was suddenly embarrassed about being such a blubbering mess in his presence, and being oblivious to the evidence marking up my face. Was my nose running as well? Snot dripping from my sniveling nostrils? Keep it together, Sayler. I was so dignified, wasn’t I.
“Onward?” Coda asked, and I nodded for him to lead the way.
We cut through the palace halls and exited through a side archway, crossing the street to a peculiar facility across the way. It was a cluster of domes with an array of spouts rising from the bulbous apexes, like the fantasy version of a factory.
What was this?
Inside was a lobby guarded by a huge winged statue, and we ducked under an outstretched wing, through a portal of broken pillars bowing together, and into a ca
vernous warehouse-like space absolutely stacked with oysters and clams of all sizes. Small oysters, large oysters, clams the size of cars.
“Welcome to the Clam Shop,” Coda said, as I swiveled in a circle of awe.
The…?
Before I could ask, a ruby-finned mermaid with shimmers of violet scales wandered into view from one of the aisles. She wore a peculiar set of steampunk-esque goggles and was rapidly shifting some kind of silver Rubik’s Cube. The cube was connected to an oyster with a cord that, in all appearances, had the look of a jellyfish tentacle much like the ones that had fused to my skull all too recently.
“Brax!” Coda bellowed abruptly, startling me.
The mermaid glanced up, a smile splitting her face. Pushing her goggles up onto her forehead and pinning back her waves of lustrous dark brown hair in the process, she peered at us with a stunning set of violet eyes. “Well, if it isn’t the most eligible bachelor of Atlantis and the Splittailed wonder I’ve heard so much about.”
And, there it was again. There was probably no hope for it. I’d always be Sally Splittail.
Tucking the cube in the crook of her elbow, Abraxia skimmed over to us, the stringy jellyfish cord easily spanning the distance and left with slack to spare. “Abraxia Ludinvarr, at your service,” she greeted me, flourishing an illustrious bow. She had about the slyest eyes I’d ever seen, smoky-shadowed and exotically angled, and of course framed by fiery red webbing, but her personality was at once a bubbly fountain of cheer.
“Sayler will be attending the upcoming to-do at the palace, and is consequently in need of outfitting,” Codexious informed her.
“Ah, quite so. Well then–you’re in for a treat,” she directed at me.
“I’ll leave you to it,” the regent excused himself, and I offered a weak smile of farewell as he left me with this new figure.
“Don’t be shy, Splittail. You’re about to have the most fun you’ve experienced since setting foot in Atlantis. And when we’re done, you’re going to be inking gorgeous.”
And there that was again–‘inking’. Evidently the slang of the century down here.
“I have been dying of curiosity,” I admitted. “What exactly does one wear to an Atlantean ball?”
“Well, normally there’s a big fuss over accessorizing our fins into the most gaudy plumes we can imagine, but never fear–I can work with those legs. First, we need a color scheme. Oooh, wait, I’ve got it–why limit you to a matchy-matchy color palette when you aren’t naturally restricted to such options? For instance, I’m stuck with shades of red and purple or whatever might complement my natural color scheme, but you–you’re a blank canvas.” She cocked her head, looking at me like a delectable specimen. “With you, there are no rules. Yes, yes I like this…”
Feeling a little out of the loop, I offered an awkward, unassuming smile, humoring her with a shrug as if to say, Well, have at it!
Grinning mischievously, Abraxia retrieved her cube from the crook of her elbow and flitted back to the oyster currently connected to the token. She unplugged the tether and whisked it over to a different clam, inserting the end–which I couldn’t help thinking resembled a severed brain stem–into a slot at the back of the shell. Then she flurried across the warehouse and rummaged through some chests for various supplies, hauling an arm-full of pale fabric and shiny baubles back and stuffing them in the clam. Slamming the jaws of the shell shut, she went about twisting and turning her archaic Rubik’s Cube. Now that I’d gleaned a closer look, I could see that each little square sported a hieroglyphic rune, and as I watched her work I decided it was like an ancient form of typing. How fascinating.
“I’ve always wanted to do this theme, but no one has ever requested it,” Abraxia gushed. “Who wants the contrast of plain white when you’re trying to match the color of your fin? No one. But you’ll be an ivory goddess, and it will be a stunning contrast to your complexion.”
“Does no one have a white fin?” I asked, curious.
“Only in the case of albinos, very rare. You see it now and again, if you’re the kind to get around the ocean, but none have ever found their way into my shop.”
“What exactly…is it that you do here?”
“Most oysters make pearls–Atlantean oysters and clams make whatever we tell them to. Just insert the proper materials, program the request–and voila!”
If that wasn’t one of the most offbeat, fantastical things I’d ever heard… Atlantis really had devised some crazy archaic technology, hadn’t it? “Are you the sole proprietor?” I asked, glancing around for any other workers in the vast warehouse.
“Just the best in the clam-whispering business,” Abraxia replied. “And the only one that has any interest in spending my time slaving away in the warehouse steam making the things rather than flouncing around showing them off to royal bachelors.”
“Are you not one of the regent’s many suitors?”
Abraxia scoffed. “Me? Hardly. I have my own betrothed. My beloved Turoxo. Those jealous she-sharks can crawl over one another shredding their pretty fins all they want. No thanks.”
No wonder Codexious had greeted her in such a carefree manner. She was taken, one of a very few not vying for the royal prize.
“I still go to the balls, usually,” the ruby mermaid said. “But I spend so much time tinkering here in the factory, spitting out new designs whenever inspiration strikes, that I have a mountain of surplus. Usually I just pick something and go.”
I couldn’t deny it sounded like a fun profession. I would probably get carried away too, given what appeared to be an infinite supply of fabrics and bling and the magical technology to fashion whatever I wanted out of them.
Abraxia had stopped ‘typing’, and suddenly a pink steam-like substance was puffing out through the rippled seam of the clam. Pulling her goggles back down over her eyes, Abraxia turned her attention to the brewing creation. “Drift back a ways,” she advised. “The steam can be a little harsh on the eyes and scales – er, skin.”
I complied, nestling among the oysters at my flank.
The clam chugged and puffed a bit longer, and then the pink steam dissipated. Throwing open the lid, Abraxia pulled out the resulting perfectly-tailored costume from within. At least, from where I was standing–treading–it looked perfect, but given Abraxia’s furrowed brow and a few critical hems and haws, I gathered that it didn’t quite meet approval.
She thrust it at me. “Try this on. We’ll alter it to your size and tweak a few other details, and then we’ll see what you think! The mirrors are over there.” She pointed, and my gaze followed her indication to a back corner of the shop. I accepted the garment, an intricate article of fancy cut-out work, flowy tatters and sequined luster, which jingled in my grasp like a coined belly-dancer’s scarf. Whisking it off to the mirrors, I threw modesty to the wind and stripped down.
As I attempted the feat that was changing underwater, I was distinctly reminded of every time I’d tried to wrangle my swimming suit back on after getting out of the pool or the ocean to pee. It was a royal pain in the buttocks. Like trying to wriggle into clothing two-times too small. Except for the random moments that the garment caught a draft of water and billowed open and was suddenly loose and airy and two-times too big. By the time I was finished I wasn’t sure if the garment was strangling me or draping off my entire body leaving nothing to the imagination, and I could do naught but let out that infamous overbite huff of mine, propelling my oh-so-helpful locks out of my face, and appeal to Abraxia for her expertise.
I probably had the dratted thing on completely backwards.
Correction: I probably had the inking thing on completely backward.
At least I was getting a hang of the slang. And apparently poetry. But Abraxia’s face lit up when she saw me, so I must have done something right.
“Well, that’s not too shabby on you at all. Let me see.” She bustled around me, tugging and pinning and scrunching. I tried to look down at myself to see what she saw, bu
t every time I did she tilted my chin back up to get my head out of her way. Eventually I gave up and let her fuss and spruce, resolving to find another mirror when she was all finished.
But the big reveal wasn’t to be until later.
“All right, come back at the lavender aurora, and I’ll have all the bells and whistles finalized.”
And so I changed back out of it into my skimpy see-through undergarments, wondering why I didn’t just go naked, and went back to my turret to wait for the aurora to change. I snacked on pancake mushrooms in the interim, and when the light matched the pretty fungus I flitted my butt back to the Clam Shop to collect my gown.
Abraxia was already waiting in front of a mirror, a tall rectangular thing with an ornate, tarnished silver frame that pinnacled into a swirly point at the top. I didn’t object as she helped me quickly out of my garments, having little interest in wrestling the article on all by myself again. Abraxia’s deft fingers had the thing laced onto me in no time, and suddenly I was trying to figure out who I was looking at in the mirror. A stunning ivory-swathed creature stared back, somewhere between a Roman princess and Arabian gypsy bride. Almost all the fabric allotted to the garment was for flowy effect, tattered extensions billowing out around me. There was a loin piece that served as the main cover-up, and strategically webbed-together pearl sequins for the chest, but the rest was off-shoulder draping sleeves and skirt entrails and various gathers and trains, the longest of which stretched way, way out behind me like a river. Abraxia had decided to add gold here and there–a headdress that favored the framework of a Greek goddess helmet, winged horns that stuck up like fox ears, the frame stretching across my hairline, temples, and down in front of my ears–and other bangles and jangles including sandal-esque anklets and arm bands and delicate chains across my bare midriff.
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