Of Poseidon

by Anna Banks

  He shrugs, trying not to enjoy her scent. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

  As the cuff squeezes, Galen feels an occasional thud in his leg. The cuff hisses its release and Dr. Milligan stands again. The look on his face is far from comforting.

  “What is it?” Galen says, ready to shake the doctor into a coma for not sharing. “Is something wrong?” At Emma’s sharp intake of breath, Galen grabs her hand, unable to stop himself.

  “Oh, no. I wouldn’t say something is wrong, necessarily. Emma’s heartbeat is definitely slower than any human’s. It’s just not as slow as yours.” Dr. Milligan stalks to a tall rectangular cabinet full of drawers. He pulls out a note pad and begins sifting through the pages. “Ah,” he says, more to himself than his guests. “It seems your heartbeat is faster since last time, my boy. That or I can’t read my own scribble.” He flips the page. “No, I’m sure that’s right. Your pulse was consistently lower for the last ten readings. Interesting.”

  “Which means?” Galen says through clenched teeth.

  “Well, traditionally, Galen, every heart has a finite number of beats until it will one day stop beating. Animals with slower heartbeats live longer. Say, sea turtles, for instance. While they have the same number of beats as any other heart, it takes them longer to reach that number. That’s why sea turtles can live to be well over a hundred years old. A human heart averages about two point five billion heartbeats. At seventy-two beats per minute, that puts the normal human lifespan at eighty years. From the tests I’ve run on you and Rayna, the average Syrena heart only beats nineteen times per minute. So theoretically, it will take you about three hundred years to reach two point five billion heartbeats. But according to this last reading, Galen, you’re at twenty-three beats per minute right now. Something has your heart rate up, my boy.”

  “Three hundred years is about right,” Galen says, ignoring Dr. Milligan’s meaningful glance at Emma. “In fact, some of the Archives are over three hundred and twenty years old.”

  “So, how many beats per minute do I clock?” Emma says.

  Then Galen understands. Emma’s heart beats faster than mine.… She’ll die before I do. Every muscle in his body seems to team up against him and spasm. He can’t stop it from coming. Lurching off the table, he barely makes it to the sink before the vomit explodes everywhere. The drain can’t handle the volume, even with the water running full blast. Of course, the unidentifiable chunks from lunch don’t help either.

  “Don’t worry about it, Galen,” Dr. Milligan whispers, handing him a paper towel. “I’ll take care of that later.”

  Galen nods and pools water from the faucet into his mouth to rinse out the leftovers. Drying his face and hands with the paper towel, he stalks back to the table, but leans against it instead of hoisting himself back up. Just in case he has to make a run for it again.

  “Still sick from the flight?” Emma whispers.

  He nods. “Dr. Milligan, you were saying?”

  The doctor sighs. “Thirty-two beats per minute.”

  “And in years?” Galen says, his stomach tightening again.

  “Roughly? Right around one hundred and seventy-five years, I think.”

  Galen pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why? Why does her heart beat faster than other Syrena?”

  “I wish I could tell you, Galen. But we both know Emma is different than you in other ways, too. Her hair and skin, for instance. Maybe these differences have something to do with her inability to change into Syrena form.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with her head injury?” Galen says.

  Emma shakes her head. “Can’t be.”

  “Why is that, Emma?” Dr. Milligan says, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “Galen said you hit it pretty hard. I’d say it’s at least reasonable to consider the possibility that you may have damaged something.”

  “You don’t understand, Dr. Milligan,” she says. “I didn’t have any Syrena abilities before I hit my head. Hitting my head is what changed everything. Besides, I’ve been white as the moon all my life. That’s got nothing to do with a concussion.”

  “That’s true,” Galen says. “But you could hold your breath for a long time before you hit your head. And you had the Gift before that, too. Maybe the abilities were always there, you just never knew to test them.” Stupid, stupid. The hurt on her face confirms his mistake.

  “You’re talking about the day Chloe died,” she says quietly.

  Slowly, he nods. No point in lying about it. Even if he wasn’t talking about Chloe, she’s already thinking about it, already traveling back in time to that day, torturing herself with if only. If only she had known about her Syrena blood, if only she had known about her Gift of Poseidon. Chloe would be alive. She doesn’t need to say it. It’s all over her face.

  “Everyone wrote it off as adrenaline,” she says. “I should have known better.”

  Dr. Milligan clears his throat. “Just to be thorough, let’s take some X-rays before you go tomorrow. Is that all right with you, Emma?”

  She nods, but Galen can tell it’s just a reflex.

  Galen calls for a cab to drive them back to the hotel; he can’t subject Emma to another walk on the beach where her best friend died. Especially since he’s not sure how long he can stay in the same room with her without using his arms—or his lips—to comfort her.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  19

  DR. MILLIGAN taps the X-ray lit up on the screen. “See here, Galen, this is where your bones thicken to protect your organs. Where people have ribs, you have an enclosure of bone plating, like a shell, really. And this is Emma’s X-ray,” he says, flipping on the light behind the other image on the white box. “See how hers looks like ribs at first? It barely shows up, but if you look closer, you can see that thin layer of bone plating connecting the ribs. Not quite as thick as yours, though. In fact, none of her bones hold the same density.”

  “But what does that mean?” Galen says, frowning. I’m glad Galen’s not the only one having a difficult time following Dr. Milligan. My thoughts keep vacillating between the draft that feels more like a gust in this sizes-too-big hospital gown, and Dr. Milligan’s proposal that I’ll live to be 175 years old. This is getting a little weird, even under the circumstances. I’m hundreds of miles from home, half naked in a room with two guys I barely know. Taken out of context, I’d have to question my common sense. Heck, even in context.

  Dr. Milligan shrugs. “I’m not sure. Could be a few different things, I guess. There’s still so much about your kind I don’t know, Galen. Growth patterns, for instance. Maybe since Emma spent her life on land, her bones didn’t develop fully. Like her coloring. Maybe the Syrena body reacts to something in the water that triggers pigmentation development. That’s just a guess though. Really, I have no idea.”

  Galen looks at me, concern lurking in every crevice of his expression. I know it bothers him when I’m quiet. He’d probably be surprised to find that I’m usually quiet, just not around him. “Emma, do you have any questions for Dr. Milligan?”

  I bite my lip and pull the hospital gown tighter around myself. “How can I talk to fish? Why do they all understand English? And don’t say it’s magic.” It’s not the question I want to ask, but it’s a good one nonetheless, and the answer will give me more time to sponge up the confidence I’ve been hemorrhaging since changing into this gown.

  Dr. Milligan smiles and takes off his glasses. Wiping them with his lab coat, he says, “Well, my dear, Galen is convinced that’s genetic as well. If it is genetic, I hardly think it could be magic. And I’m not convinced they could understand a language as complex as English. If they did, there’d be no point in baiting a hook ever again, right? A fisherman would simply drop a bucket in the water and tell his catch of the day to swim into it.” He chuckles. “If I had to guess, I’d say it has to do with the sound of your voice. We already know that many species of marine life communicate between each other with sound. Whales and d
olphins, for example. It’s possible your voice has a one-size-fits-all frequency, or some special inflection that they understand. It’s possible that what you want them to do translates not in what you say but in how you say it. Unfortunately, I don’t have the equipment to test that theory, or even the ability to get my hands on it right now.”

  I nod, unsure how I’m supposed to react to that. To any of this.

  “Is there anything else bothering you, Emma?” Galen says, surprising me. I wonder why we bothered with the X-rays at all, when Galen can apparently see straight through me, into my deepest parts. Like last night, in the hotel room. When I got dressed after my forty-five-minute cry-a-thon in the shower, I found a box of chocolate-covered strawberries on my pillow and Galen folded up on the ugly love seat, sound asleep.

  I clear my throat. “Dr. Milligan, I’m not sure if Galen told you or not, but my father was an MD. He took care of my runny noses, my scrapes, my immunizations. When he died, his friend Dr. Morton took over. How could they miss my bone structure, my slow pulse? You’d think they’d notice my heart is on the opposite side of my chest. I mean, are you sure you’re reading this right? You’re not a human doctor, you’re basically a veterinarian, right? You could be wrong.”

  Galen seems antsy, shifting in his chair. While metal and polyester aren’t exactly the ingredients for coziness, I get the feeling it’s my question unsettling him instead of any physical discomfort.

  Dr. Milligan pulls the rolling stool up to where I sit on the exam table. Reflexively, I lean toward him, crinkling the thin strip of paper separating me from the vinyl. He reaches out to pat my hand. “Emma, my dear, it’s natural to feel that way. And you’re right, I’m definitely not a human doctor, like your dad was. But it doesn’t take a human doctor to see the differences between my X-ray, Galen’s X-ray, and yours.” For emphasis, he inclines his head toward the wall where our bones are illuminated on the screen. Then he double-takes. “Good grief.” Jumping to his feet, he sends the metal stool toppling behind him.

  Galen and I watch as Dr. Milligan rearranges the images in a whirlwind of warbling plastic: Dr. Milligan’s X-rays of himself, mine, then Galen’s. “Is this really possible?” he says, peering over the rim of his glasses at us, concentration knitting his brows together like kissing caterpillars.

  Galen stands and crosses his arms, cocking his head at the lighted screen. Finally, he says, “I guess I’m not following, Dr. Milligan. What do you see?”

  Dr. Milligan looks at me, his excitement making him appear years younger. I shake my head, unable to offer an intelligent guess. Dr. Milligan doesn’t miss a beat. “The first one, mine, is human. The last one, Galen’s, is Syrena. This is Emma’s, here in the middle. It’s obvious. So obvious, I’m ashamed. She’s definitely not human. But she isn’t Syrena either.”

  I’m not liking the sound of this. I can tell Dr. Milligan thinks he’s already explained himself clearly; he’s looking at both of us like we’re opening a gift he gave us, and he can’t wait to see our reactions.

  Galen saves us. “Dr. Milligan, you know as far as these things go, I’m pretty ignorant. For my sake, could you just give us the idiot version?”

  I don’t like being impressed with Galen. Just when I had him sculpted as a snobby Royal in my head, he turns all humble on me, smashing the image.

  Dr. Milligan chuckles. “Of course, my boy. Emma is neither human nor Syrena. She appears to be both. Though I’m not sure if that’s even possible. Syrena DNA is very different from human DNA.”

  Galen steps back and takes his seat again. I’d do the same, if I weren’t already sitting. We both scowl at the lighted screen. As I stare at it, playing musical X-rays with my eyes, I see it. The three sharp images become a single blurry one. Human and Syrena bones melt together until there’s only one image on the entire screen: mine. A combination of the two.

  “It’s possible,” Galen says quietly.

  Dr. Milligan leans against the wall, curiosity lighting up his face. “It’s happened before,” he says, lacing his fingers together, probably to keep from fidgeting. “You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

  Galen nods. He turns to me. “It’s the main reason for the Great War. The reason we have two territories,” he tells me. “Thousands of years ago, Poseidon decided to live on land with the humans. Interaction wasn’t outlawed then, just sort of frowned upon. The humans revered him as one of their gods, sacrificing animals to him, making ridiculous flattering statues of him. They even built a city for him, and the Syrena who joined him on land. Tartessos, they called it.”

  “Atlantis?” Dr. Milligan breathes, a hand over his chest.

  Galen nods. “Some humans called it that at first.” He turns back to me. “Poseidon enjoyed living with the humans. He permitted his followers to mate with them. Even Poseidon chose a human mate, against his brother Triton’s wishes. Triton believed the humans were poisonous and destructive, and that mating with them was unnatural. As a show of his disapproval, he divided the territories; the Triton territory became home for those who didn’t approve of humans, the Poseidon territory for those of the opposite opinion. Poseidon ignored his brother and continued as he saw fit, using his gift to feed the growing population of Tartessos. Unfortunately, the human mate he chose belonged to someone else, a human king.”

  “What human king?” Dr. Milligan asks, picking up his discarded metal stool and brushing it off as if it accumulated dust balls since his last sitting.

  Galen shrugs. “I don’t know.” He turns to me again, a wry smile on his face. “Don’t care either. We Tritons tend to dislike humans.”

  “Not a very good attitude for an ambassador,” I tell him. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell Dr. Milligan. Or Rachel.”

  Galen grins. “Anyway, the human king sent something like half his army to collect his ‘belongings.’ He gained support from other human kingdoms by telling stories of enslavement and unnatural breeding of humans. When the armies arrived, they killed everyone in sight, even some of Poseidon’s own half-human children. To stop the carnage, Poseidon appealed to Triton for help against the humans. Triton agreed to help, with one stipulation: Poseidon had to abandon his city and promise to live as Syrena from then on. He agreed. Triton used his gift to create great waves that destroyed the city, the half-breeds, and the human armies. There were no survivors. After that, the generals agreed to help each other against the humans. Breeding with them became outlawed, the offspring of such a union viewed as an abomination.” Galen hesitates on the last word, probably because he knows it’s a direct insult to me, assuming I’m really a Half-Breed. Somehow, though, I’m not insulted. The way he told the story was more a formal recital than telling it in his own words. It makes me think he doesn’t believe it or, at least, doesn’t believe parts of it. Also, the way he’s looking at me right now hardly makes me feel like an “abomination.”

  “I thought the war was between the kingdoms,” I tell him. “Not against the humans.”

  Galen shakes his head. “We’ve never warred against each other. Not physically anyway.” An unfamiliar emotion flickers across his face, then disappears like the flash of a camera.

  “So, that’s Triton’s Gift? To control the sea?” I ask.

  “No,” Galen says, scratching his neck. “At least, not exactly. We don’t know how he did it. Some say strength, that he cracked the earth and that caused the waves. Some say he did it with speed. We don’t know. It’s been a long time since a Royal inherited the Gift of Triton. So long that the Archives disagree on what that Gift is.”

  For a few moments we sit in silence, engrossed in the ghost of Galen’s story, of everything said and of things unsaid. And the more I think about it, the angrier I get. “So, I don’t belong anywhere?” I say, jolting them from wakeful slumber.

  “What’s that?” Dr. Milligan says, his eyes still glazed with the past.

  “Basically, we’re all in agreement that I’m a freak. Is that right?”

  “You’r
e not a freak,” Galen says.

  “I’m not Syrena and I’m not human. The Syrena think I’m an abomination. Humans will treat me like a science experiment if they find out. Which still leaves that big question wide open, Dr. Milligan. How has no one found out?”

  Dr. Milligan sighs. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and cleans imaginary fog from his glasses’ lens. His movements are so deliberate, so meticulous, that even I recognize he’s trying to calm me. “Emma, my dear, you haven’t known me for a long time, as Galen has. Yet I consider you my friend and hope you consider me yours. So if we’re friends, then I can be honest with you, right?”

  I nod, chewing my lip as if it’s filled with cheesecake.

  Dr. Milligan smiles in a generic, obligatory way. “Good. Now then, I believe that your father knew of your condition all along.”

  The tears well up instantly, and I don’t know why. Galen looks away.

  “That’s not possible,” I whisper. “It’s just not. My mom could tell if he was hiding something. She’s the bloodhound of lies.”

  “I’m sure she knew about it, too,” Dr. Milligan sighs. “Like you said, you’re a medical anomaly,” he says, even as I mouth the word “freak” at him. “I don’t have any children myself, but if I did, I wouldn’t want to publicize it either. Scientists from all over the world would be stalking your family, begging for the chance to run a few tests. Your life would be chaos. Your father knew that.”

  I take a deep breath. “I guess that could be true. But the thing is, if they’re not my parents, then where did I come from?”

  “Could you ask your mother directly?” Dr. Milligan says.

  “She’d commit me to a nuthouse. No, wait. She’d laugh in my face, then commit me to a nuthouse.” Memories of the day I almost drowned make the words taste rancid in my mouth. The way I crawled into her lap, so trusting and confident, to tell her about the catfish. The way she laughed so hard she could hardly catch her breath. It was the first time I realized I couldn’t trust my mother with myself. Not my whole self, anyway.