He pulls a chair in close to the tub and does as the mermaid demands.
Discomfited by the intimacy between them, I collect teacups and saucers and take them to the basin of sudsy water Auntie left heating on the side of the stove. Even with my back to them, I feel like an intruder.
O’Neill sings softly:
On the wings of the wind, o’er the dark rolling deep,
Angels are coming to watch o’er thy sleep.
Angels are coming to watch over thee
So list to the wind coming over the sea.
Hear the wind blow love, hear the wind blow.
Lean your head over and hear the wind blow.
Oh, winds of the night, may your fury be crossed;
May no one who’s dear to our island be lost.
Blow the winds gently, calm be the foam,
Shine the light brightly and guide them back home
Hear the wind blow love, hear the wind blow.
Lean your head over and hear the wind blow.
My hands forget their task. Never has his voice sounded so beautiful. Every note carries unconstrained love up from the depths of his soul.
Something catches my eye and I turn. There, at the window, is the unmistakable face of Simon Shumsky. He stares at Maren and O’Neill, not noticing me at all. He sees what I now see: the clasped hands of lovers, O’Neill’s blond head resting against the top of Maren’s coppery hair. And the swishing of Maren’s mermaid tail above the water’s surface.
“O’Neill,” I cry, knowing it is too late.
A second later, Simon is gone.
If wishing could get me anything, I would wish that I had remembered to close the curtains after I’d hung them, freshly laundered, that morning. I would wish that Osbert—lying by the cellar door, dead to the world due to the strong medicine Auntie has prescribed for his spring cold—had alerted us to the unwelcome guest.
And as much as I like Simon Shumsky, I would wish him to the moon.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sun is rising, an orange ball of flame peeking over the next mountain. We have not slept a wink, O’Neill and I. Instead, we spent the night frantically packing and arranging, gathering maps and clothes and food. For we must leave the mountain immediately, before Simon has a chance to spread the news of Maren’s change.
Once we are gone from the mountain, Scarff will make it known in the village that O’Neill, Maren, and I have gone to visit far-off relations. Scarff is able to speak falsely for our protection even if Auntie cannot.
And Simon will likely be labeled “touched in the head” if he goes about telling tales of seeing a mermaid in Verity Amsell’s kitchen.
Auntie weeps into her handkerchief as Scarff lifts Maren from the bath and lowers her into the washtub. Osbert moans and smacks his tail against the floor like a toddler throwing a fit. Pilsner watches from the mantel, the only calm soul among us.
Scarff and O’Neill pick up the washtub by its handles and carry it to the caravan, sloshing a good third of the water out as they go. Maren grips the sides of the tub to steady herself. She looks like a picture from one of our childhood books, one captioned “An Indian princess travels to her wedding by howdah atop an elephant.” Indeed, her face is as bright with bliss as any bride’s. She is glad to be going home.
“Promise you’ll come back,” Auntie says as she embraces me beside the wagon.
“Of course,” I say. I swallow hard, willing myself not to cry. I will keep my sadness to myself and not add to the weight of Auntie’s sorrow. “Take care of Scarff.”
And before our lazy rooster crows, O’Neill is shaking the reins and steering Job and January away from the only home my sister and I have ever known.
I sit inside the caravan beside Maren. Only her head extends above the oilcloth covering the washtub. Scarff tied the cloth down tight before we left—to keep the water and the mermaid from sloshing out. I worry that the rough roads will batter and bruise her. Perhaps we should have brought the bathtub; it would have given her more of a watery cushion. It is too late now.
The little window is open so that O’Neill may speak to us from the driver’s seat. The clopping of the horses’ hooves is barely audible above the sound of the pots, pans, and chimes. I wonder if O’Neill ever tires of those sounds. To me, they have always signaled the approach of joy itself, heralding the arrival of loved ones. What might they mean to me when this journey is finished and I have given Maren over to the tides?
She sleeps, my mermaid sister. Sleeps with a smile on her coral-pink lips, swaying with the motion of the wagon, as if she has not a care in the world. Not one regret, not a single sorrow, not an ounce of pain.
A snort comes from beneath a mound of blankets in the corner. A very familiar snort.
“Osbert!” I scold him as I whisk away his coverings. “You naughty wyvern! You should not have come along!”
Puppylike, he widens his eyes, flattens his ears, and whimpers.
“What is going on back there?” calls O’Neill from the driver’s seat. “Is something wrong?”
“That depends on how you feel about stowaway wyverns,” I say. And then I notice another creature lurking in another corner. “And stowaway ravens, as well.”
“Kraa,” Pilsner declares, ruffling his feathers haughtily.
“If you find a small black horse back there, do let me know,” O’Neill says, his voice light with laughter.
“As far as I can tell, Zedekiah had the good sense to remain at home.” I pat Osbert’s scaly head. “What am I to do with you? You must behave yourself, Osbert, and stay hidden. Imagine the trouble you could cause us! All we need is for someone to see you and get a notion to find out what else might be hiding in the caravan!”
Osbert promises to behave with a submissive bow of the head. And then he skulks to Maren’s washtub and curls his body about its base. Like the fearsome dragons of old, he is protecting his greatest treasure. I have no doubt that he would give his very life for her. Perhaps it is wise to have him with us.
I sit down again, resting my back against the sumptuous quilts overflowing from the built-in bed. I do not mean to fall asleep, but the rocking of the wagon lulls me into unconsciousness before I have a chance to consider fighting it.
The caravan is still. Mottled sunlight plays upon my closed eyelids. I listen to the soothing sounds of tinkling glass-and-metal wind chimes, and O’Neill’s deep-sleep breathing. For a moment, I am content. All is well here with us: happy mermaid, wyvern sheepdog, sleeping almost-brother, indomitable raven, and girl-brought-by-a-stork.
The prickly surface of Osbert’s tongue intrudes upon my peaceful moment, dampening my cheek with slobber. I simultaneously open my eyes and shove him aside. “Get off, you beast,” I whisper, trying not to disturb O’Neill and Maren. “You need to go out, do you?”