With a nod in acknowledgement, Bailey spins round and darts away from me without another word. I watch him until I can see him no more and then crumple to the sea floor. I’ve lost the will to hold myself up. My furlough is over and the exile truly begins.
CHAPTER FIVE
A month later…
THE FIRST VISTAGES OF sunrise light the sky in the east. I blink and yawn. That is a surprising feeling, and something I’ve only ever done in the air. Strange. The oxygen rich saltwater never makes me do that. I’ve completely lost track of time. I blink again at the television over Betty’s couch. She fell asleep hours ago, but I kept watching.
A motor sounds behind me, and it jerks me to full wakefulness. How have I become so lost in watching TV that I allowed myself to be caught when fishermen and crabbers are most active? Scolding myself for my stupidity, I dive under the waves and stick close to the floor of the shallow channel. I avoid the crab pots and their tangle of ropes and dart quickly past the barrier island to the open sea. Immediately, I turn and swim north to the area by the lighthouse on the island. Boats tend to frequent that area least often and the shallow waters keep my kind away.
My kind. I haven’t seen fin nor tail of another Mer since Bailey left me alone. In that month, I’ve learned to take care of myself and to occupy my time by studying the habits of the horses on the shore of the island. They’ve started to get used to me and even approach me on the rocky shores near the lighthouse in the early morning hours. I dry bits of seaweed on the rocks and they come and snag my salty treats with flapping lips.
Interesting creatures, these spotted horses. They remind me of dolphins and seals. After setting out my usual offering of seaweed, I settle into the shelter I found between the rocks, deep enough below the surface for low tide, and fall fast asleep.
Afternoon sun spills into the cracks between the rocks, and pierces my eyes. Hunger gnaws my insides. I slept longer than I meant to. I launch myself to the surface, hoping to find my offering gone and the possibility of a friendly nose to nuzzle my hand in thanks. But when I reach the surface of the water, the dried seaweed upon the rocks remains untouched and the usual herd of horses that frequent the beach is absent.
In the distance, yells, hoots, and whistles sound. Humans. What are they doing on this portion of the island? Farther east there are roads and campsites for the people who come to the island, but I avoid those sites, and the people are usually quiet. Why have they come this far to the west of the island, and what did they do with my herd?
I squeeze between the rocks and swim along the shoreline searching for my furry friends. Anxiety creeps up and blocks my throat. Where are they? What is going on? My heart races with worry. It isn’t until I reach the southern tip and start into the channel that I pull myself together. What am I doing? It is the middle of the day and there are people and boats about. I need to be more careful. Diving down to the floor of the channel, I swim along, weaving through crab pots, and listen for anything out of the ordinary.
That’s when I see them. More than just my herd, but several herds of horses including the younger colts, flail through the water, swimming from the barrier island to the one inhabited by humankind. Slowly I sink back and sit upon the sandy surface of the channel floor and watch the legs of the horses as they swim across. I don’t dare peek above the surface, as I hear the crowds of people murmuring on the shoreline and boats surrounding the horses.
I keep my distance from the commotion and bide my time. What am I waiting for exactly? I’m not sure. Maybe nightfall. Maybe for the horses to swim back?
To comfort myself as I wait, I snatch up an overflowing crab pot and take a morsel or two for my brunch. Several hours later, when I exhaust both my patience and my appetite, the last rays of sunlight stretch orange fingers across the waves. Except for the commotion with the horses, hardly any other craft has come skimming through the waters in the channel. The eerie quiet makes me nervous, but I wait until it’s full dark before I break the surface and look out toward the land.
Clouds cover the face of the half moon, keeping most of its light captive and making it darker than usual. I have to make do with my night vision. The island of Chincoteague is almost as bright as day with several spotlights shining on a make-shift corral in the town square, just past the beach. People mill about, laughing and talking to one another, pointing into the fenced-in area. Spotted horses beyond counting weave in and out of the light and shadow. Even from this distance, I can feel the horses’ confusion and despair. The sudden urgency draws me closer to the shore, displacing my natural distaste for getting close to the humans. Several feet from the shore, a piece of paper floats in front of me.
I stop, lift up the colorful pamphlet, and read it. The words roll off my tongue in awe. “Annual Pony Penning Round-Up and Auction?”
The pamphlet tells of a yearly event where the people of Chincoteague force the ponies from their wild habitat in order to sell some at an auction event and return the remainder to the barrier island. Interesting but appalling. I sigh. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to make friends with the ponies on the shore. Tomorrow some of my friends might get sold and find new homes out in the world—living their own sort of exile. How will the ponies adapt to their new lives? Perhaps they’ll find new herds to bond with. A sudden longing for a new clan grips my heart, but the thorns of reality choke me harder. No one would ever accept me. I have the symbol of my Reckoning on my back and lack the symbol of a Land Walker on my face and arms. The signs of my exile are written in my skin and cannot be removed.
The ponies are animals, and the humans have a right to do with them as they please. I don’t like the thought, but apex predators always do what they like with their prey. Eat them. Toy with them. Force them into exile. Have I become the prey of Mer-kind? Bailey had hinted as much. But the harsh reality is that I have always been their prey, haven’t I? Haven’t they toyed with me for my entire life? At least Mer-kind do not resort to cannibalism.
I grip the pamphlet and find myself swimming on reflex toward Betty’s home. I am late for the first time in getting to the woman’s pier and catching a glimpse of our usual TV shows. Honestly, I can use the distraction. Watching the TV and the shows portrayed there soothes my loneliness. The salve of peering into the lives of the humans keeps me from feeling quite so alone. What would it be like if I ever decided to brave walking on the shore with them? How would they respond to me? What would I do? How would I survive?
Humans have a sense of hospitality. Perhaps someone would take me in? I shake my head. I can’t do that. To prey upon someone else’s kindness sickens me. Even a bottom feeder has pride.
Under the pier, I find that one of the beams has fallen slightly, creating a small shelf for me to set treasures upon. I place the pamphlet onto my newfound shelf for safe keeping. It is the first bit of reading material I’ve found in the water. Perhaps if I find more of these, I can find a way to barter my way into a working relationship of some kind with extra knowledge. Information is the best tool for trade among my kind.
Betty has company. For the first time, I’m watching actual people in her home, rather than Betty talking on the phone. A tall man, a woman and a young child sit on her couch with her. The television is still on, but instead of the soap opera channel, it’s national news coverage.
With a smile I watch them interact with each other, and what’s on television. The state of the world according to the news mortifies me. Wars, fire, murder. The human world is full of violence I’ve never imagined. It reminds me once more why my father warned me against heading ashore. I swallow, but my eyes are fixed on the scene inside the home—news, people and all. After a while, the television is clicked off early, and Betty’s family moves to their separate rooms. For once, I’m not unhappy with that outcome. The news program presented the opposite view of humankind as the soap operas. My stomach churns. As I swim back out to sea, determination builds within me. There is no way I’ll risk going ashore. The humans are no mo
re benevolent than my own kind. And if my own kind would send me into exile, what would the humans do to me?
CHAPTER SIX
I SHADE MY EYES from the bright sunlight and breathe in the musky scent of the horses. They finally returned after two days of being gone. A brown and white mare races along the shore line calling to her foal but hears only the half-hearted cries of other mares in the herd in response. More than half of the foals have been taken away from the herd and will never return. Only the youngest of the foals, born early summer, remain beside their mothers. Although in their natural environment, the foals would have been weaned by their herd, it’s hard on the mares to take them away all at once. Will the mares think their foals died?
I sigh and watch the swishing tails of the horses that remain huddled together in a group. Except for the one mare determined to be frantic, the rest of the herd sticks together, feeling the safety in their numbers. Even though offspring were taken from their lives, they still lean on each other and rely on one another. That is the benefit of family and clan, a feeling that I only ever had with my father. Once he was taken away, all safety and support was ripped from my life. The brown and white spotted mare stops running and stands with her tail in the wind and her head high, looking over the waters. She calls once more, her voice dying in dejection before she wanders slowly away back toward the herd. Still, the mare keeps her distance from the huddled mass.
The sorrow and dejection the mare expresses is something I have no trouble relating to. On the rocks in front of me, I pile seaweed to be dried out for a horse curious enough to take a nibble. With the summer grasses growing in lush patches on the other side of the beach, it had only been the colts who braved coming toward the rocks out of curiosity when their mothers would bathe themselves in the ocean to escape the swarming flies. But today none enter the water.
Although the flies and the biting bugs surround the herd with a constant, annoying buzz, they have no interest in me. Just as sharks rarely prefer the taste of human, the flying parasites have little taste for Mer blood.
With a shrug, I slip beneath the surface of the waves and let the seawater caress my lungs. I will continue to leave the seaweed for the herd. Perhaps after a few days one of the younger colts will grow brave and approach my offering. Dislodging my spear from between the rocks, I set out for the deep and leave the shallows.
Although my night vision is keen, I find fish more readily when they bathe themselves in the warmth of the refracted sunlight. I keep an eye on my prey, but also scan the water as far as I can see. I have yet to return as far east as Bailey’s reef. The fear that I’d be caught again by the younglings, or worse an elder, keeps me away. And then there’s that feeling. Every day while I hunt, my skin will prickle. I feel there is someone nearby, someone watching me.
Today I feel their eyes on my skin, and my arm hairs stand on end. The distraction costs me an easy catch as a trout swims past my fin. In frustration, I thrust the spear in its general direction, knowing full well that the chance of catching it will be slim. The trout slips past with only the slightest change in course, and my spear continues its way toward the ocean floor. With a sigh, I retrieve it quickly and determine that I need to forget the eerie feeling. Not once have I spied Mer or human. Whatever caused my hairs to stand on edge must be my imagination.
But still my eyes scan the distance constantly, waiting for something to show itself. Another reason I like hunting in the sunlight—I can see much farther and my range of vision is keener. After a few more attempts with my spear, I finally catch a meal.
***
Once the horses return to the barrier island, Betty’s company leaves her as well. Her home is once more a refuge in the storm of my exile, rather than a reminder of the harsh side of human life as a Land Walker. It takes us both a little while to catch up on our stories, but after one or two episodes, even Betty stops shouting at the television, “How did that happen,” or “What’s going on?”
Instead, we both settle into the routine of our escapist fantasy, where all problems are solved after a little bit of trouble. Love resumes. And then new trouble arrives, sometimes so far-fetched, that even a mermaid would have trouble believing the humans to be so foolish.
Sometimes Betty will shut off the TV and head to bed, and other times she falls asleep sitting in her chair. It is those times that I often stay well past the witching hour and then snag a crab pot snack on my way to my rocky hovel.
Days blend together as I work on surviving. I am growing more isolated from my clan in both distance and in education. The other young female Mer my age are learning politics and homemaking, laws and legends, stories and science. The Mer culture relies heavily on what it learns from both the Land Walkers and the sea dwellers. The magic that runs through our culture is based on science and nature, not superstition. Instead of immersing myself in becoming a productive female in my clan, I spend all my time studying what youngling males would consider play—hunting and gathering like a simpleton. If it wasn’t for my escape into the world of television with Betty, I would have no outlet for my mind at all.
To battle the boredom, I explore the other piers and shorelines along the barrier islands at night. The lighthouse on Assateague lights the shoreline with light as bright as the sun, even in the middle of the night. The horses tend to frequent the remote parts of the island, as well as the roadways, looking for a hand-out from the humans that come to visit. Occasionally, I find tents and trucks camped out on the beach at night, but the insects, which don’t bother me, chase the human threat into their tents every evening. Summer storms are often a problem when I’m in the shallows, but under the waves of the deep, they hardly take a toll.
On these excursions near the shore, I am amazed at all the humans leave behind. Tools, clothing, utensils of all kinds dot the waterline near the shores. I collect them and return them to my rocky grotto so that I can guess as to their uses. Usually it doesn’t take much guessing. Items I’d never noticed before on my TV shows suddenly show up once I find them. That has always been part of my problem in the clan—I tend to be too single minded, too focused on the people in the story to notice the utensils and items they are using. Unobservant. It was just one of the things my teachers would criticize me for and one of the reasons I was considered a bottom feeder.
But it is fun guessing what each item is for before I find out, and I enjoy trying on the clothing. My favorite item is an acrylic sweater. The long dress-like knit sweater is golden yellow and covers my torso and half-way down my fin. It doesn’t get waterlogged like the cotton and wool pieces I find, so it doesn’t weigh me down when I need to dive down. I treasure it and find it a good hiding spot under Betty’s pier. It helps me stay warm as the evenings turn cooler.
When I stay up late to watch TV, I miss my favorite time with my horses. Early in the mornings when the sun barely kisses the horizon and stretches light across the midnight blue sky, the horses spend time at or in the water. Swarms of insects attack the horses and attempt to attach themselves to their furry bodies. The ponies shake their heads and trot toward the water, immersing themselves in the waves. Only their heads stay above the surface. Occasionally a wave rides over them, but the horses just close their eyes and nostrils and allow the water to flow over their faces.
Approaching them at this time is easy. At first, the feel of my hand against their skin sends them rushing back toward the beach in a panic. I spook them. But as I approach them each morning and the flies overwhelm their senses, they soon become accustomed to my presence. My hands flow through their long, coarse manes, so unlike the hair of a Mer. Their skin sometimes twitches at the presence of my touch, but I learn that they enjoy being scratched. The young ones especially like when I use my claws to gently scratch their rough skin. In return, they often attempt to scratch my back with their muzzles and teeth, but once they become a wee bit aggressive, I retreat to the deeper waters, and the ponies never follow.
This morning I bring them an armload o
f seaweed to dry upon the rocks at low tide. I nibble on a few pieces myself and watch the horses approach. A sorrel and white mare leads the way with a plain black colt at her side, one that had been too young for the auction. The mare’s stomach swings from side to side, already showing distention from the new colt she carries within. Once they reach the waves, mare and colt wade knee deep in the frothy blue-green waves and wait for the remainder of the herd. Every few seconds, the mare shakes her head and the swarm of black flies retreats for a split second before returning to her face.
Once most of the horses arrive, the herd enters the waters as a single unit, chest deep or better in the waves. I approach, humming a song from Mer kind to let the horses know that I am near. They appreciate the mild warning of my presence. The sorrel and white mare that has led the herd to their respite is my first target. I gently scratch along the mare’s withers and top line. The mare’s neck stretches and her nose wiggles in response—a sign that I’m scratching just the right spot. The black colt soon nudges me and pushes its hindquarters toward me.
“Wait your turn,” I playfully scold him with a grin.
Soon my herd favorites have all been thoroughly scratched under the water and the sun has reached high enough into the sky to signal mid-morning. With their pesky parasites dissuaded, the herd moves back to the shore and shakes, flinging foam and water droplets in all directions. With the sorrel and white mare taking the lead, the herd moves toward the inner island.
I was so distracted by my herd of furry friends, I don’t notice the rumbling hum of a motor boat until it is near. My eyes meet those of the man only a hundred yards away at most. His blue eyes widen and his mouth becomes an “O.” My chest tightens and my heart races. In my panic, I hold my breath and duck beneath the waves.
Bubbles release from my lips as I race under the motor boat and skim through the water toward the deep. My first lungful of water burns and my chest aches even more. My vision narrows for a moment. I feel I might pass out from the overexertion. I swim hard to the east, without thought, fear nipping my tailfin. The man has seen me. What should I do?
Falling in Deep Collection Box Set Page 4
