by Susan Adrian
Clover props herself up on her elbows, blinking at him. The pixies buzz down close to her again, flying back and forth low over her.
“And it’s dragon season,” George adds with a glance at Peter. “We don’t ride the stream in dragon season.”
“Unless we want a Real Adventure,” Jumper says, bouncing on her heels.
Clover frowns, and I recognize her danger face. I stand up.
“You think I did this on purpose?” she says, her voice hard.
“Now is not the time for riding,” Peter says. “The mermaids—”
Clover sits up, nearly hitting one of the pixies. “I fell! I didn’t jump in the icy creek to ride down to a lagoon where there’s a dragon! Why would I do that?”
“Dragon,” I whisper. “Dragon Lagon.” I don’t like the tension here, the anger I can feel. I take a step back, tapping my fingers.
Now Peter frowns. “You fell? Crossing the log bridge? No one has ever fallen off the log bridge.”
The pixies move up the back of Clover’s head, then down over her soggy backpack, and I suddenly see what they’re doing. They’re drying her. I don’t think she knows it, though.
“Yes, I fell!” she says, loud. When she uses that voice, I go in the other room if I can. “I slipped! It was an accident!”
The Lost Boys murmur to each other, little puffs of conversation. Peter frowns at Clover, and Clover frowns at Peter. Her hair is almost dry now, and the pixies go to work on her clothes.
“It’s all right,” Shoe says, stepping between them. “Everything is all right now.”
“Very well,” Peter says at last. He sighs. “Let’s keep going. Serena’s message was urgent.” Shoe puts out a hand and helps pull Clover up. Peter marches back up the hill, and the others fall into line behind him, including Shoe. Clover touches her clothes—almost dry—and then her hair. She looks wonderingly at the pixies as they fly back to Peter.
“They dried you,” I say in a whisper. “Magic.”
She nods and gets in line behind the smallest Lost Boy. I follow her this time, to make sure she’s safe.
“Magic,” I say again. “Real magic, like a story. We’re in a story.”
She looks back at me. “Magic, and pixies, and dragons.” She shakes her head. “I still have a hard time believing any of it is real.” She shrugs. “Is it real?”
“Real magic.” I look around at the too-bright colors, the mountain poking up into the blue sky, the line of kids following Peter—who I still think might be Pan. “Do you think there will be stories about us someday? Like the stories of Wendy and John and Michael?”
Clover shrugs. “Maybe. Not good stories about me, though. I can’t do anything right here.”
We hurry to catch up with the others.
* * *
—
After a long time of walking, mostly on a dirt path through trees and big plants, we start down a hill to the other lagoon. Mermaid Lagoon. It really is just as blue as it looked from the air, a shimmering turquoise blue I don’t have words for, shaped in almost a perfect circle with palm trees all around it. It smells interesting, too, like seaweed and fish and salt—like the beach at home, but stronger, richer. It’s a pleasant smell. The sun sparkling on the water is bright, though. I shade my eyes to look out.
I don’t see any mermaids yet, just the waves, and a big, flat rock a ways out in the middle of the lagoon. I love looking at the ocean. At home sometimes we take the bus to La Jolla and I sit on the grass on the cliffs, watching the waves roll in and out. It’s the same rhythm, over and over. It’s like the ocean is always rocking, soothing itself. Soothing me.
The rhythm here is the same as at home. I relax, watching it, and sway a little.
Then everyone marches down to the sand and gathers behind Peter, so I follow. The pixies stay back, up by the trees.
“Where are the mermaids?” I ask.
One of the girls—Rella—shushes me. “Peter has to call them. They’re hiding until they know it’s him.”
Peter steps forward, his bare toes in the water, and whistles, a strange, high sound that makes me cover my ears. It doesn’t last long, though.
Nothing happens for a few minutes, and I want to do something, move or ask another question, but I make myself wait. Finally a head comes out of the water, then another, and another, and I gasp.
There are eleven mermaids in the water, staring at us like we’re the strange ones. And they are beautiful.
I don’t normally pay much attention to girls, except Clover. They’re awkward and they laugh more than boys do, which makes me uncomfortable. I always suspect they’re laughing at me. But there’s something about the mermaids I can’t stop looking at.
“Wait till you hear them sing,” Friendly says, next to me. “There’s a reason mermaids can lure sailors.”
I look hard at the sand, at the ripple marks the waves leave. I don’t want to be lured.
“Peter,” one of them says. “We live in hopes that you can help us.”
“That’s Serena,” Friendly says. “She’s the leader.”
Her voice is beautiful too, the ringing of a bell. So beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“Mermaids are nymphs of the sea,” I say to myself, very soft. “Called Nereids from their father Nereus. Thetis was a Nereid. Though in Clash of the Titans she’s not a mermaid at all.”
“Nymphs of the sea?” Friendly repeats. “I didn’t know that.”
“My sister Allora has been taken,” the mermaid says. “Last night she was singing on the rock, after the rest of us had gone to the depths. Suddenly she stopped, mid-word—Allora would never do that—and when she did not begin again, I swam up to see why she had stopped. She was gone.” Her voice changes, buckles, and I look at her. Tears are streaming down her face, dripping into the waves. Some of the other mermaids start crying too, with quiet gasps.
It makes me hurt inside. I wish I could comfort them, but I wouldn’t begin to know how. I kick my feet in the sand. George takes a step forward. Then another. Rella does too.
Peter paces back and forth along the water. “Were there any clues? Any other sounds or traces?”
“I thought I heard barking, and growling,” one of the other mermaids says, so low I have to strain to hear her. I take a step closer, the waves almost touching my shoes. George and Rella are in the water now, up to their ankles. “I do not know this sound for certain. Dogs, perhaps? Or wolves?”
All the mermaids murmur that yes, they heard barking too. One of them looks directly at me, her eyes a dark, dark brown, almost black. I breathe through my nose. I can’t look away, can’t look at the sand. I want to dive right in, to follow her. I take another step. The water sloshes in my shoes, but I don’t even care.
“Very well,” Peter says. “This is our adventure. We will find and rescue Allora.” He looks at the Lost Boys—George and Rella up to their knees, me and Swim with our feet wet—then back to the mermaids. “Enough temptation. We’ll be dragging them out of the water soon. You should go.”
The first mermaid nods, and they all, as one, disappear beneath the waves.
I desperately wish I could jump in after them.
The Lost Boys all stand staring at the water, half of them standing in it. Except for Shoe and Peter, they all seem a bit fuzzy and confused. Even Fergus. “What was that?” I ask.
Peter shoves a hand through his hair. “That is why I’m usually the only one who talks to the mermaids. They’re irresistible to some.” He shrugs at me and Shoe. “To most. And they weren’t even trying to do it. When they sing…” He shrugs again. “Even I want to go sometimes.”
“Mermaids are Nereids,” Fergus says in a flat voice. He’s staring at the sand. “Or Oceanids, or nymphs. Depending on the source. Thetis was a Nereid. Thetis was a Nereid.”
“Y
ou’re okay now,” I say. “They’re gone.”
He rubs his mouth hard, and when he glances up at me his eyes clear, and he seems normal. All of them seem to come out of it, talking again, though no one mentions what happened. How they all were staring at the ocean, fascinated, like they wanted to jump in and drown.
“Peter has strict rules about not coming here alone,” Shoe says to me in a whisper. Her skin almost glows in the sun, a warm, orangish bronze. She’s tall, several inches taller than me. She tugs on her long black hair, which is tied roughly into a knot but spraying out in wild strands all around her face.
I think suddenly that her hair should be braided, so it’d stay out of her way—like Mom taught me to do.
My stomach hurts and I press it, hard. I miss Mom so much I want to curl up and cry. I want to be home, with her. I’m not sure how we ended up here.
“Everyone to me!” Peter calls. “We need a plan of attack.”
We sit in a circle on the beach, with Peter standing in the middle. I sit between Fergus and Shoe. Fergus scoops up a handful of sand and lets it trickle through his fingers, the light sparkling in it. He holds it up high, and it rains in front of his face. Some of the Lost Boys start punching each other and laughing, but Peter shushes them. The pixies come closer again, circling around Peter.
“We must cogitate,” he says. He looks at each of us, his face serious. “This is not as straightforward as many of our adventures. First we must find what happened to Allora before we can defeat our foe.”
“If there is a foe,” I say.
Peter turns a glare on me, and I shrink back. In the book he’s unpredictable, kind of a tyrant. But then he laughs.
“If? There is always a foe. That is why it is an adventure.” He stomps one foot on the ground. “But why would a foe steal a mermaid? This has not happened before…except when the pirates were here. They tried. But they never got far. The mermaids have always been too powerful for any human.”
“Maybe it’s not a human,” Rella says. “What barks? Dogs, and wolves. But do those live in the water? Are there sea dogs?”
“Sea lions,” I say. “In San Diego there are sea lions, and they sound like they’re barking. I’ve heard of them attacking people who threaten them, but mostly they’re peaceful.”
Peter tilts his head. “Sea lions,” he says, like he’s feeling the words. “We will consider those as a possibility. What else? Fergus?”
Fergus folds his hands together and brings them close to his face. “There is Cerberus,” he answers. “That is the three-headed, serpent-tailed dog that guards the underworld. And Fenris, the wolf who will kill Odin at Ragnarok.” He frowns. “Those wouldn’t be near the ocean. Sometimes the Vikings were called sea wolves, but that was only a name.” He taps his fingers on his cheeks. “I think there was a sea dog in Irish mythology….” He stills, and frowns again. “Yes. The Dobhar-chú. Sea hound. But that has only ever been seen in Ireland.”
When he stops, there’s silence. I’m afraid they’re going to say something mean, make fun of him like the kids at home do, for knowing so much. It’s just because he reads so much, because he’s interested.
“Wow,” Friendly says. “You know so many stories. Will you tell us stories tonight?”
The rest of them shout agreement, asking for stories.
Fergus smiles, but doesn’t answer.
“Are there any other beasts from your home that could steal a mermaid?” Peter asks. “Or are there other stories you know from your land?”
It’s like being in school. I desperately want to be the one with the answer. “Werewolves?” I say. “They’re not from our land, but they’re humans who become wolves on the full moon?”
“Do they swim in the ocean?” Peter asks.
I shake my head. I guess that wasn’t the best idea. I dig my hands in the sand, like Fergus. It’s dry, and falls right through my fingers. One of the pixies zips by in front of me, pauses for a second, and then moves on.
“Perhaps we need to find Allora first,” Peter says. “Then we can face the foe. He will probably reveal himself when we locate her.” He drops to the sand suddenly, sitting cross-legged. His back is to me.
It doesn’t mean anything, I think. His back has to be to someone—it’s a circle. It probably doesn’t mean anything.
“We should climb the mountain!” Jumper says. “We can see if we can spot the mermaid or any dog creatures from there. Sea lions or”—she waves at Fergus—“what he said. Or any other clues.”
“Or we could stay here and watch,” Swim adds, a hopeful look on his face. “In case the mermaids are still in danger and it tries again.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds. Then Peter jumps to his feet, dives outside the circle, and runs around it, full speed. All the Lost Boys hold up their arms, and he slaps their hands as he goes by, like a strange game of Duck, Duck, Goose. After he goes around once, he jumps into the middle again and collapses, lying on his back in the sand.
Why did he do that?
Fergus laughs, and so does everyone else. I don’t understand. I grab another handful of sand, watch the tiny grains flow through my hands. The ocean beats against the shore a few steps away, the sun high overhead. One of the mermaids pokes her head above the water, looks at us, then goes below again. I think I’m the only one who saw her.
“Clover and Shoe,” Peter says, startling me. It is like class, and I was just called on. “You two stay here and watch the beach. You seem to be immune to the call of the mermaids. The rest of us…” He waves his arms for them to get up, and everyone, including Fergus, pops to their feet. “Let’s go climb the mountain!”
Panic floods me. “I should go with Fergus.”
Peter frowns. “Why?”
Fergus looks at me. All of them do, all those eyes. I don’t know how to explain. Because he’s autistic, I want to say. Because he doesn’t like to go on new adventures by himself. Because he might get upset, or lose his speech for a while, or have a meltdown. Because he might need me to help him. Because it’s my job to help him. I promised Mom.
“You stay. I want to go,” Fergus says. He stares at his feet, his hands curled in fists. I can see he wants this. Back home, he never really would’ve wanted to go.
Back home, he wouldn’t have been asked.
I get it, suddenly. Here they don’t see him that way. They don’t know anything about autism, or what’s “normal” and what isn’t. Here he’s just Fergus to them, like he is for me.
I nod, and they all cheer—Friendly and Jumper and George and Rella and Swim—and take off running toward the mountain. I watch them go, skipping and laughing. I don’t like it. I don’t like letting him out of my sight, especially in a place with random lions and dangerous streams and pirate ghosts and who knows what else. But I guess I have to.
One of the mermaids comes up out of the water again, then another, and another. Two of them climb onto the rock and lie there in the sun, basking like they’re on beach chairs. Like sea lions. The others whisper to each other. I can tell they’re still upset by their friend’s disappearance. And scared, probably.
They look different from the mermaids in Disney movies. They’re not all wearing shiny cloth bikini tops, for one thing. They have different style tops, most made out of seaweed. A few of the styles are from different plants. A couple of the mermaids don’t have tops at all. The mermaids are all strangely beautiful—but they’re not all the same, like models or dolls. They’re all different body sizes and shapes, with different faces and different skin colors, just like people back home. One of the mermaids on the rock has pale pink skin, and one has dark skin, her hair spiraling down her back in neat twists. I sit and watch them talking together, the sun shining on the waves. I don’t want to follow them into the water—but it does look nice.
Shoe smiles at me, her arms circled around he
r legs, and I smile back. I can still hear the rest of the Lost Boys going up the path, their laughter echoing back to us. I wish I were going too. At the same time, it’s nice to have a moment of quiet, just us and the mermaids. I look again at the one with the twists.
“Shoe,” I say, “want me to braid your hair?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know what that means. But yes!”
They wanted me to come.
I hug the thought to myself as I run up the path, solidly in the middle of the group. I wasn’t picked last, like in gym. They didn’t groan when they “had to” take me. They cheered. And I’m not even last in line. I’m not a fast runner—I trip sometimes when everything feels uneven—but I’m keeping up. Clover, who’s always solid and in charge and first, was the one who fell into the creek. She’s the one who was left behind.
My hands fly up as I run. I feel the air under and around my palms, smell the sea, and laugh.
I like this place.
Rella, behind me, laughs too and waves her hands like mine. Friendly, just ahead, reaches down into the creek and flicks water at us, with a whoop, and then I do it back, the water cold on my hands. It feels good and I stop, dipping both hands in the water. I swirl them back and forth, watching the water ripple, following my movement. Swim dips his hands in too, beside me. One of the pixies skims along the surface of the water, a beautiful glowing ball.
“Lost Boys!” Peter calls sternly from the front. “Move on!”
I frown. Before we came here, I didn’t picture Peter being strict or telling us what to do. But I guess he is the leader. We keep jogging forward.
It gets steeper, more mountain than hill now. It also gets louder. The waterfall is not far above us, the water pounding on the rock, foaming and churning at the bottom in a small pool. Every step we take, it gets louder, more insistent. The path winds right by it, the spray soaking the dirt, and then curves by, on up the mountain.
