by Liz Braswell
Of course merfolk had plays and costumes and costume balls, and dolls and temple figurines that boys and girls played with, making them “talk.” But nothing was as rehearsed and polished as what the human did. Why didn’t the mer have that art? Were the two peoples so different?
For there were obvious similarities between them that could not be denied. The tendency toward ridiculous monuments that commemorated unlikely events, for instance. The mer had a mural the size of a reef illustrating the division of the two worlds, embedded with gems and bright coral that hurt the eyes to look at. The Tirulians had an ugly fountain in the square where she and Eric had once danced. Neptune was carved into the face of the bowl, along with some utterly unrealistic dolphins. The Tirulians believed that the sea god had a fight with Minerva over who would be the patron god of Tirulia, and that he had won by creating this font of undrinkable salt water that was somehow channeled up from the sea.
(All wrong, as the mute Ariel couldn’t explain to Eric at the time. Neptune had lost the fight, because he’d made a useless salt spring while Minerva/Athena had made the olive tree. Oh, and it took place in Athens, because, well—Athena.)
Besides monumental art and kings and queens, humans were very recognizably similar to mer in their normal, everyday lives. The women over there, heads bent together, were obviously gossiping. The men over there, heads bent together, were obviously discussing something they thought was very important and that they had great influence over—but which, of course, was also just gossip. A mother breastfed her baby, a beautiful fat-faced thing with the cutest feet.
How many other races were there on Gaia, more similar than different? Who would get along if just introduced properly? All they needed was a voice: the right voice, an understanding voice, a voice of reason that spoke everyone’s language.
Ariel felt she had something there, the wisp of an idea, when something caught her eye and distracted her. Like a flash of sunlight that somehow manages to make its way, unobstructed and successful, to the seafloor and sparkles on a glistening white structure there.
Apples.
A tower of them. Bright red, red like blood, red like precious coral. Shining in the light. Some were half-green, which was both disappointing and yet more entrancing: did they taste different?
She would buy enough for all her sisters. Wouldn’t that be a treat! Several for herself now, and a sack to present upon her return.
Not even realizing she was salivating, Ariel approached. The vendor was old enough to be a great-granny, but large and strong-limbed, and her black eyes sparkled, full of intelligence and interest in the world around her.
“I would like those, please,” Ariel said, pointing to the apples.
“‘Those’? Which ones?”
“All of them, please.”
The woman laughed. “All of ’em? That’s a pretty penny, girl. I’m expecting that poncy little buyer from the castle over here in a moment—I’m going to haggle her up good. What could you offer me?”
Wordlessly Ariel pulled out her little satchel again and poured its contents into her hand. This time she let the pearls and gems spill out with the golden coins: surely treasure enough to buy all the fruit.
The old woman’s eyes widened.
“I’ll take this,” she said, choosing a gold coin, “and this,” she said, choosing a pearl. Then she took her large hand and closed up Ariel’s hand with the rest of the things. “And you just put that away. I’ll get you a sack.”
The woman rummaged around her stand and managed to fish out a dirty but sturdy burlap bag. With a sweep of her arm she guided the apples into the sack like a magician; not a single one spilled. She shook them down and then tied it with a piece of twine.
“Don’t know how useful it will be, underwater, but it should hold for a while,” the woman said.
“Thank you, I…what?”
“It’s a marvel….Your kind do like fruit of the land.”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion what you are talking about,” Ariel said with great dignity.
“Those coins haven’t been used in two hundred years,” the woman said, nodding her chin at Ariel’s satchel. “And those pearls and gems didn’t come from no stronghold, no stolen purse. By the smell of ’em, they came straight from Davy Jones’s locker.”
“I…found…a chest…when I was walking…on the beach…and…”
As queen and as girl, as someone who could sing like the gods and someone who had been mute as a stone, one thing about Ariel had never changed: she was a terrible liar. Most of the time it didn’t even occur to her to lie.
Which, now that she thought about it, would have made things a lot easier with her dad.
“Oh, a treasure chest found on a beach, like a pirate left it there,” the old woman said, nodding seriously. “To be sure.”
Ariel tried to think of something else.
The old woman leaned forward.
“Your secret’s safe with me, seachild. I would give you all my apples in return for a favor someday instead, if I didn’t need the money.”
“What would you ask for?” Ariel asked, too intrigued to bother pretending further.
“I’d ask…well, if no emergency popped up to use it on, like ‘I wish for someone to save my grandgirl from drowning’ or something, well…” The old woman looked faintly embarrassed. “I’d ask to see you, in your true form, swimmin’ out to sea. If I could see that, I’d know all the tales were true, all the good ones and bad ones. That there is more to the world than I see with my old brown eyes every day, and I’d die a happy woman, knowing there was magic.”
Ariel was silent, overcome by the woman’s words. The mermaid had probably been a little girl at the same time as this old woman. And the woman would die, happy or not, many hundreds of years before the Queen of the Sea had to begin contemplating her own mortality.
Ariel put her hands on the woman’s and squeezed them.
“There is magic,” she said softly. “There is always magic. Even if you can’t see it.”
The old woman looked at her for a long moment. Then she laughed. “Ah well, ye already paid, so no favor’s necessary. But it sure would be nice to see you anyway—I’ve never inked a mermaid from real life! And I do them all the time….Used to, leastways…”
“Inked?” Ariel asked curiously. “Are you an artist?”
“An artist of the skin. Argent the Inker, at your service!” She pushed up her sleeves and showed Ariel her arms. They were dark and freckled with even darker spots, scars, and other spots of varying shades without a name or purpose. But in the places where the skin hadn’t aged or stretched or sagged so much were some of the most incredible pictures Ariel had ever seen.
A ship with its sails billowed, a fat-cheeked cloud puffing wind to speed it along. A single wave, curled and cresting with foam flying off, so full of life and movement Ariel almost felt it on her cheeks. A fish caught midjump—honestly, in an unlikely contrapposto of tailfin and lips, but still—seemed to glitter in the light.
Everything was a single shade of dark blue; Ariel’s mind filled in the color without her even realizing it. The fineness of the lines was almost unimaginable from such a mortal creature; all the pictures were as detailed and delicate as scrimshaw.
On skin.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Ariel breathed. Of course sailors drowned, and sometimes their bloated bodies sank to the bottom of the sea before scavengers tore them up. Often they had tattoos: blurry, dark images of anchors and hearts and words like Mom. Nothing that bore any resemblance to what she saw now.
“I was quite famous, before my eyes started to go,” the woman said proudly. “Sailors—captains—people from all over the world would come to see me, them that could afford it. As far away as Kikunari! Oh, I did some amazing things…an entire circus for a girl in Lesser Gaulica…Ah, well. Now I’m selling apples to make ends meet. At least I have my little house and orchard by the sea. And my own teeth. There’s them a
s have far less.”
“What a fascinating story,” Ariel breathed. She could already hear the song in her head: something about an artist in a shack by the ocean, whose pictures came alive off her arms and kept her company…Porpoises that dove into the waves, gulls that flew off her skin and into the air and…
…and squawked?
Ariel jumped. A real gull had broken her reveries: it had landed on a roof nearby and was flapping its wings and making noises at her. Jona.
“I must go,” she said, throwing the sack of fruit over her shoulder as gracefully as she could. Things in this world were heavy. “But I will see you again.”
“I pray you do,” the woman said softly.
The mermaid smiled to herself as she walked away, wondering when the woman would find the satchel of gems and coins that she had left on the stand where the apples had been.
He gnawed on his quail leg contemplatively, thinking about the strange meeting with the metalworkers, and of misty fantasy mountains, and of how much simpler life would be if he were a sailor, or a metalworker, or a real prince who went out and found dragons.
Suddenly he leapt up and strode out of the room, feeling something akin to panic.
The halls were filled with strange people. He didn’t remember it being like this before…before he was married. Some looked at him—the prince—suspiciously. Men in dark breeches and boots barely gave him a passing glance and whispered behind gloved hands. Representatives from eastern districts walked with broad steps and wore more traditional garb, loose shirts and broad leather belts. These gave the prince a nod at least. Women with waists so tiny and tight it was hard to see how they could breathe minced along in skirts too wide to easily fit through doors.
“Who are all these people?” Eric asked, more confused than ever. “When did they all start showing up in my castle?”
But of course, it all started when everything that was bad had started…
“…the night of my wedding.” He paused, consciously directing his thoughts to that day. He replayed memories that were so dusty and unused they sprang up clear and glossy, unmarred by use or the merciful editing of time. Each moment played like…a play.
There really was a mermaid. And a mer—uh, man? La Sirenetta was all real?
A pair of soldiers walked by, and didn’t even bother to salute the prince.
Am I mad? Eric wondered, feeling like a ghost as real life played on around him.
“Excuse me, I need your signature here, Your Highness.” A stalk-thin man held out a small board with a paper neatly tacked to it, and a quill. He at least sees me, Eric thought dryly. “The dynamite from Druvest. I hate to bother you, but the vendor must get back on the next boat….”
“Dynamite? The…explode-y stuff?” Eric winced at how stupid he sounded. But he couldn’t think of any other way of asking.
“Yes, Your Highness. It’s part of the new munitions order. Much more exciting than the bill for oats from Bretland I signed in your name last week, if I may say so. All new technology! What a world we live in.”
“Yes, what a world,” Eric repeated darkly. “No, I will not sign this now. I need to review our accounts first. No more orders for anything military without my review.”
The man started to protest but saw the look in Eric’s eyes. He chose instead to bow and back away. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Eric sighed. He had read about dynamite, of course, and the idea was exciting—like firecrackers but bigger.
Much, much bigger.
And without the pretty colored sparkles.
When had Eric agreed to such an order?
Why did he know that those two who hurried by him now, the ones in red jackets from Eseron, were there to discuss a potential alliance, allowing Tirulia to trade up through the northwest in case their land grab directly north failed?
For how many years had he been under the spell? Five? Six?
Air. He needed air. Sweet sea air.
The prince stumbled through the halls, desperately trying to undo his buttons, trying not to knock into anyone. Everyone. He ripped off the jacket and threw himself onto the first balcony he could find.
The sunshine and brisk, stinging breeze from the ocean had an immediately salutary effect. He took big gulps, leaning against the railing. When he closed his eyes he could imagine he was on a ship, surrounded by the water and gulls and a sail snapping in the wind.
When he opened his eyes he could see the gulls and the sea…but all that snapped were the banners flying above his castle.
And these banners no longer sported the beautiful Tirulian sailing ship that Eric had loved since infancy; now they were imprinted with a terrible, grasping octopus thing.
While his wi—the princess had been ordering munitions and seizing land and preparing invasions and changing their flag and who knows what else, he had done…what? Nothing. He hadn’t put up a fight at all when Vanessa took over the day-to-day tasks of ruling. He had merely…grown bored, hanging around the castle with no responsibilities. And his ocean jaunts were strictly limited now; Vanessa didn’t like him risking his life at sea. Or, perhaps, venturing out of the radius of the spell or hypnosis or whatever it was.
So he had begun to try his hand at real composition. Little movements, tiny concertos, even a ballad here and there. And all of Tirulia loved it—all of Tirulia encouraged him, even Vanessa. And thus he found a role and a purpose again: the Mad Prince, glamoured and dreamy, who wrote music while his wife ruled.
He found himself looking at funny spots in the sea, brown and black just under the water. Seals? Or mermaids?
He thought about Ariel. Really thought about her, for the first time in years. With the added insight of clear memory: the old ocean god hurling lightning, Vanessa hurling insults and waving a contract. The polyp. The sad, voiceless mermaid swimming away.
If Eric had just listened to his heart and not someone else’s singing, none of this would have happened.
He had fallen in love with the voiceless red-haired girl. He was just too stupid and obstinate to recognize it. He loved everything about her. Her smile, the way she moved, the way she took delight in everything around her. She was impulsive, unmannered, willing to get dirty, a little strange, and extremely hands-on. And beautiful. So different from all the princesses and ladies his parents had introduced him to.
If he had just married her, he would be…married to that girl. Who was a mermaid.
He blinked at the thought. Imagine that! He, Eric, who always loved the sea, could have married a child of the sea.
Would she have stayed human? Would she have eventually returned to the water, leaving him heartbroken? That happened in a lot of fairy tales. Sometimes after having a child.
Would their children have tails?
And what about his father-in-law? Imagine having him in the family, a mighty king of the sea!
He could have had all the adventure a prince could ever want just by staying home….
His thoughts slowly turned course, souring a little.
But if Ariel was a mermaid, what was Vanessa? Pretty and ostensibly human…But then again, Ariel had looked just like a human, too.
Eric couldn’t remember Vanessa looking any different. His princess had just appeared, walking on the beach. And then she met Eric…and sang…and married him…and then…all was grey.
He was like a fairy tale creature come out of a long sleep to find everything changed, moved on without him—despite being awake the whole time.
The door to the balcony opened but Eric didn’t bother looking around: he knew from the way it was carefully, precisely manipulated that it was Grimsby.
“Master Eric, are you feeling all right?” he asked, his tone absolutely neutral.
“Grimsby, what is that ship they are building there?” Eric asked, pointing toward town. The dry docks, which he often liked to watch from his spyglass if he couldn’t get down there himself, were a strange mass of activity, like ants where you don’t expect th
em. It was the peak of summer fishing; all energies should have been bent on catching summer flounder. Only after they been dried and salted properly, only after the autumnal equinox and harvest festival, should the town go back to the business of repairing nets and building ships…before the winter flounder and cod fishing seasons began.
“That is the Octoria, the first of three warships commissioned for the glory of Tirulia.” Grimsby said it delicately, as if he had wished to clear his throat before answering but didn’t get the chance. He busied himself with pulling out his pipe and preparing the bowl, possibly to give his hands something to do.
“I approved this?”
“You signed the order, Prince Eric, but I believe it was Princess Vanessa and her advisers who originated the plan and wrote up the decree.” The butler frowned at his pipe, then went to tap it on the balcony and empty the old ash out into the water.
“Don’t,” Eric said distractedly, putting a hand out to stop him. “People live down there, you know.”
Grimsby’s eyes widened in concern, but he decanted the pipe onto the balcony floor instead, sweeping the ash into a corner with his foot.
“It’s for the invasion of the north?” Eric asked, nodding at the warship.
“An alliance with Ibria requires that Tirulia provide the sea power, Your Highness.”
Both men were silent for a moment. Eric stared out to sea; Grimsby looked at Eric, his pipe forgotten in his hand.
“She is going to bring us to war with the whole continent before this is over,” the prince swore.
“Oh, I hardly think so, sir,” the butler replied mildly. “Unless you conscript literally every citizen of Tirulia, you will be dealing with a civil uprising long before then. Sir.”
Eric blinked. Grimsby’s cold blue eyes and stalwart face gave no indication if he was being serious or flip. The man never offered his uninvited opinion on affairs of the kingdom, much less made jokes about it.
“I came out to say that I had lunch delivered to your study since you and the princess left before you had finished, Master Eric,” he added after a moment, finally putting the pipe away in his pocket. “So you may take it in private while you work on your music after your walk, as you are accustomed.”
