A bare-chested merman, his bronze hair adorned with a wreath of sea stars, lifts a conch shell to his lips and blows. The singing ceases, the waves calm, and a towering, majestic figure moves through the crowd of merfolk. They bow as they make way for their king.
He grips a golden trident in his right hand. His hair and beard are rolling waves of silver, and his crown is a monument of gold and pearls, coral and sparkling sea glass. “Come into the water,” he commands in a voice like the roaring tides. “Bring my daughter to me, for I have waited long to welcome her home.”
O’Neill unties the rope and drops it onto the beach. He holds the jar to his side with one arm and offers me his other hand. Together, we wade through the fizzling foam and into the cool water. When the water sloshes at my waist, we stop.
“She is here, your majesty,” O’Neill says as he raises the jar.
The mermaids gasp and cry when they see her, so small and listless in her jar. It may be too late.
“Silence!” the Sea King commands. The ocean stands still. “Bring me the jar, Varun,” he says to the muscular, golden-haired prince beside him. The prince glides through the water with grace and speed and reaches out pearlescent hands to receive the precious jar.
“Wait!” O’Neill shouts. “Must you take her, your majesty? She has a family who love her, and a good life on land. Please do not take her from us.”
“The jar,” Varun says. “Give it to me.”
“She is my daughter,” the king says. His voice is a tidal wave consuming a rocky island. “She is a princess of the merfolk. She has never belonged to the human world. Her time there is done.”
Varun pulls the jar from O’Neill’s grasp and swims swiftly to the king.
O’Neill’s hand trembles in mine. From fear or anger, I am not sure. I cannot bear to look at his face now.
The king opens the jar and pours its contents—including Maren—into his mighty palm. Then he lowers Maren into the ocean.
She disappears beneath the surface. I hold my breath, imagining her bobbing up like a dead fish. I grip O’Neill’s hand desperately.
Slowly, a head of bright copper hair emerges, followed by Maren’s twinkling face and alabaster shoulders. She is full-sized again, and she is perfect. Her hair cascades over her round breasts and floats about her delicate waist like metallic seaweed. She laughs with the sound of waves caressing a sandy shoreline, and the merfolk rejoice.
“Daughter,” the Sea King says, his august voice heavy with emotion. She embraces him without hesitation. “How we have longed for your return!”
A dozen mermaids rush to surround her, crowning her with coral, slipping necklaces of shells about her neck, adorning her fingers with rings, brushing her hair with jeweled combs.
“Wait!” O’Neill shouts above the joyful din. “Take me instead!”
“No, O’Neill.” Maren turns to address us, and the crowd becomes silent. “You must go home and live your life. This is my true home. It always has been.”
“Your friends may visit our kingdom once a year, in your month of June, during our Festival of the Great Whales,” the king says to Maren. He gazes upon her with fatherly love.
“She is my sister, and he is my brother,” Maren says. “They have risked their lives to bring me home to you.”
“They shall be rewarded,” the king says. He waves his trident and a pair of sea turtles swim to us bearing a chest so large it covers both their shelled backs. “When you visit our palace, you shall receive even greater gifts for all you have done for my daughter.”
“May I say good-bye to them, Father? Alone?” Maren asks.
He nods, then raises his trident again. The merfolk move toward the horizon, diving and surfacing with glad shouts and merriment. The ocean resumes its ebbing and flowing.
When she comes to embrace me, her skin is warm and emanates the fragrance of sea grasses and strange flowers, salt and seashells. There is weight to her, and strength. She is whole again—healthy and happy.
“I will miss you,” I say into her ear. “Every day, I will miss you.”
“And I will miss you. Never was there a better sister, or a braver one.”
She releases me and takes O’Neill into her arms. “If only you had been born in a seashell,” she says, “we could have made a home together beneath the waves.”
O’Neill shakes his head. “You will find a merman to marry. You will be happy. I know it,” he says with great effort. He does not wipe away the tears flowing from his eyes. They fall into the ocean to join the saltwater of the ages.
She kisses his cheek, and then mine.
And then she dives into the swelling waves and swims away.
We watch her go. We do not move until the rising tide forces us back to the shore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
O’Neill and I spread our blankets on the sand, on opposite sides of the driftwood campfire. Neither of us has spoken since Maren swam away. I lie awake and watch the stars turn above me. The ocean rolls and roars, splashes and murmurs. I cannot hear the voices of the merfolk anymore. I almost wonder if I imagined them. But if they were not real, then what has become of my sister?
Inside my heart an ocean of tears swells and crashes, yet I do not cry. I feel as if part of me is now made of sorrow, some new and tender organ that will pain me until the day I die. I know Maren is safe and well, and made beautiful in all ways. My grief is not for her but for myself—because I miss her . . . because she is missing from me.
No matter how many times I remind myself that I will see her again, the pain remains.
In the morning, I walk along the shore and dig up clams with a stick. I carry them in my skirt, forgoing my manners and exposing my knees to the gulls. They skitter after me, hoping I will share my breakfast with them.
I drop the clams into the pail of water I left to heat in the coals and O’Neill sits up and rubs his eyes.
Still, we do not speak.
Not as we eat, nor as we fold the turtles’ treasures into the blankets, nor as we mount the horses, nor when we stop at midday to rest on a riverbank.
Unable to bear my filthy state any longer, I leave O’Neill while he is napping. I walk until I find a bend in the river where I can remove my dress in privacy. I scrub it against a smooth rock and then lay it on the beach to dry. In my chemise, I wade into the water until it reaches my neck. I wash my hair and body with my hands, and finally, I weep.
An hour later, I return to the place where I left O’Neill to find him pacing and running his hands through his dirty hair. “You would feel better after a bath,” I say. “I found a good place just over there.”
“Clara!” he shouts. “You frightened me. I thought you’d left.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But why would I leave you?”