Bewitching (28 page)

My lover is resting on the ocean floor
.

Soon, he’ll turn to seafoam, and I’ll see him no more
.

Eyes were so lovely; Now, they’re fast asleep
,

Underneath the ocean, dark and deep
.

My lover is resting on the ocean floor
.

Soon, he’ll turn to seafoam, and I’ll see him no more
.

The merfolk surround him, sing a lullaby
.

Hush, my dearest darling, don’t ye cry
.

My lover is resting on the ocean floor
.

Soon, he’ll turn to seafoam, and I’ll see him no more
.

As I sang the refrain for the third time, Bessie joined in, then the boy, then the others. They joined in too. When I looked around, I saw their eyes were shining, and they wiped away tears born more of weariness from what they had faced than from my song. Soon, only the blond girl in the back remained asleep. I wondered if she was all right.

“That was beautiful,” the boy said when I had finished. He reached for my hand and—Poseidon help me—I let him take it, though my mind screamed that it was wrong and wronger.

“Yes, beautiful,” Bessie said. “A song like that … it is unforgettable.”

Something about the way she said “unforgettable” made me glance at her. She smiled.

Slowly, shivering, we all dozed off, first the boy, his hand held in mine, then the other passengers, then Bessie. I knew I should jump overboard then. No one would notice. I extricated my hand from the boy’s icy grip. He moaned in protest. I waited, breath held, but he stirred no further. I braced my hands on the edge of the boat. For an instant, I thought I saw Bessie’s eye twitch. No. My imagination. With a final glance at the boy’s beautiful face, I made to dive.

Just then, a horn blared.

I jumped. We all jumped. It was a ship, large and black, barely visible against the night sky. We were saved! They were saved. I was doomed.

I could dawdle no longer. I plunged into the dark, suddenly cold water. It grabbed me as my mother used to when I swam too close to the surface and pulled me deeper, deeper into its arms, past the doomed ship, her contents now strewn across the ocean floor, past the bodies, half sunk, floating like waving angels. I tried not to look at them, but their dead eyes stared at me.

When I had swum a suitable distance, I reemerged from the water. Now, the air was colder than I remembered. It was still dark, but I could hear sounds, the yells of the rescuers, the shrieks of the rescued. It was too dark to see. Still, I searched for the white shape of the boy’s lifeboat, his lifeboat, for one last look. The black ocean tried again to pull me away.

Hours later, when the sun rose, the boy was gone. Still, I watched longer, until the rescue ship was out of sight.

Only after it left did I once again plunge into the inviting water, no longer black but dappled blue by the morning sun. Down, down I plunged, down many fathoms, past the angels until the water was, once again, dark and cold, cold and murky, deeper than I had ever been or wanted to be. But now, I did want to. I wanted to see it once more, his ship. Finally, I found the hull. It was broken in two. I entered the larger part, careful to disturb nothing and to avoid the staring eyes. I knew their souls were in heaven now. Yet, I was still sad.

Down the hallway and grand staircase I flew. My hands found a metal piece covered with the pattern of earth flowers. My tail kicked up sand and other small objects. Around me, sea creatures feasted on bits of what must have been food. Was this where they had dined? I knew that the sharks would come later. Finally, the waves brought me what I sought, something white and small and billowy with a picture of the great ship as it must have looked. I took it, heedless of my father’s warnings to take nothing. After all, I had given something. I had saved a boy’s life.

Hand on my prize, I swam for home.

I did not tell anyone what I had seen and done and risked. I knew they would be furious. Yet, in the next days, the great ship’s sinking was the talk of the merworld. Many went to visit its carcass, which they said was more beautiful than our most glorious castle. I learned that the dead ship’s name had been
Titanic
, and that it was thought unsinkable.

“’Tis tempting fate to say a ship is unsinkable,” my father said. “And fate did not like it.”

The dead, too, filled our conversation, so many dead. I listened to each discussion, rapt with attention, yet pretending to know less than I did. Still, I could think of nothing else. I brought up the subject every day, every hour, asking about the jewels and hangings my sisters had seen, the rumors they had heard. Always, always, I thought of the boy, wondering what had become of him after I had left. Finally, one day, as my sister Marina described the efforts to recover the dead, I asked, “What of the survivors? Were there many?”

“Fewer survived than died,” she said. “The humans did not take care.”

“Yes, yes,” I agreed, remembering the waterlogged, white, waving bodies at the ocean’s floor. “But did any survive? Where were they taken?”

Marina said she did not know but could find out. I asked her, you see, because I knew she would.

Still, it could not be quick enough for me. I had to find the boy, had to know he lived still, even though I could not be with him. I had to know he walked the earth yet.

The card I had taken with the picture of the ship and the writing I could not read I placed in a sack that had been Mother’s. It was made of the body of a dead octopus. It was there I kept all my treasures. It protected them. But this card I took out so many times it wavered and faded, as I knew his memory of me would fade to nothing also.

The next day, Marina swam to me, tail fairly shaking with excitement. She had information.

“It is the talk of the human world, so I eavesdropped on some who came to salvage. They said the survivors were rescued by a ship called
Carpathia
. They were bound for New York.”

New York, I had heard of. Though it was a bit of a journey, I was a strong swimmer. I would visit New York and look for the place where the great ships went. I would wait on the beach there, and surely he would happen by sooner or later. If I could see him safe and sound, I told myself, I would be satisfied.

The next day, while my father and sisters and grandmother still slumbered, I left our castle, taking only the octopus bag and the picture of the
Titanic
. I started in the direction in which I had seen the great ship leave. It was a long journey, and I knew my family would be furious. Yet what harm was there in it? I did not intend to reveal myself, merely to look. Besides, I had been gone so long by that point that I was already in grave trouble. I might as well move forward, for there was no turning back. I rested one night and the next morning swam farther.

Finally, I reached it. I need not have worried about anyone noticing me. The place where the ships went was home not to one or two but to thousands of boats. Each had hundreds of people, embarking or debarking, carrying suitcases or packages.

To one side of the seaport was a statue of a woman. At least, I thought it was a woman, though she was monstrous large and green. To the other side, on the shore, were the castles, taller than any I had seen before, some reaching into the clouds. Could all those castles be full of humans? If so, I would never find the boy. Never.

I sat on a rock that was square, like no real rock I had seen before. I began to cry. My arms and tail and entire body ached. I had swum two days to no avail, and now, I would have to swim two days back and face my father and sisters. A ship’s horn blared, mocking me. I slid from the rock, which scraped my body. I hung in the water, weeping. I had no place to go.

The sky darkened, and the air grew cold. Still, I hung near the shore, the dock a barrier I could not breach. Yet I wanted to stay there. I wanted to be near him.

A voice interrupted my churning thoughts.

“Hey, I know you.”

My head jerked upward. Of course, the human—a woman—was not speaking to me.

Yet the voice continued. “Yes, you, Mermaid. I remember you. You thought I didn’t notice you left the boat last week.”

I found my voice. “Boat?”

“Lifeboat fourteen? The
Titanic
? You can’t have forgotten. No one could forget that night, even if they’d lived three hundred years. You were the one who brought that boy up out of the water.”

I stared at her. It was Bessie, the girl from the lifeboat. She might know where he was!

“You saw the boy? You went to shore with
Carpathia
?”

“And you didn’t. Now I know why … though I suspected then. I saw your tail in the boat, and I heard your song. It was a mermaid’s song.”

“You won’t … tell anyone?”

“Who would believe me?”

I remembered that once my grandmother had said that humans believed themselves to be the only thinking creatures upon the earth.

“The boy lived?” I asked.

“Yes, he was one of the lucky seven hundred and six who lived.”

“Seven hundred and six.” I remembered her saying the number in the boat. How had she known it, even then? But perhaps she had been making it up, was making it up even now.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Rather impertinent question.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’ll tell you. I am here because I knew you would be back. I saw it by the look in your eyes. You were in love.”

In love
. I had not used the words until now. But as soon as Bessie said them, I knew it was true. Why else but love would I have journeyed so far, defied my father and grandmother, risked detection? Love! It was the most beautiful word in the world, and the most terrifying. I pressed my tail against the hard, prickly barnacles that coated the rock. I bore down harder, so hard that my tail hurt and there were tears in my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Bessie said.

“I can never see him again.”

“Why can’t you? You’re here.”

“Of course. I shall just walk upon my hands until I find him.”

“Ah, but I know where he is.”

I laughed.

“’Tis true. After all, I knew where you were… Doria.”

I started when she said my name. I hadn’t told it.

“Did you think it mere coincidence, me being here exactly when you were?”

“What else could it be?”

“This world has few coincidences. Usually, what one thinks is coincidence is really magic.”

Magic. Many believed that merfolk had magic powers, that magic was why our voices lured sailors to their deaths. But that was not magic, merely bad luck and good singing. Still, there were mermaids who had magical powers. I had been instructed to stay away from them.

This must have shown on my face, for Bessie said, “Are you afraid of me now? Not all witches are wicked, you know.”

“Of course not.” But I could not keep the quaver from my voice. Still, I said, “How do you know where he is?”

“Ah, would you like to see him?”

With that, I almost lost my grip on the artificial rock. Would I like to see him? I had thought his face was burned upon my memory, and yet, in only one week, it had grown less sharp, like someone seen through murky, churned-up waters.

Bessie did not wait for me to answer but, instead, reached inside the satchel she carried and drew from it a silver object, round with a long handle. I recognized it from the stories of humans my grandmother had told me. A mirror. Humans used it to see themselves, since they could not always look into the water as merfolk did. Bessie held it out to me. “The boy’s name is Brewster Davis. Wish aloud to see him, and you shall.”

“Wish?” I took the mirror from her. The handle was hard and smooth, warm from Bessie’s hand. I saw myself reflected in it. The image was much clearer than in the water, and I saw that I was beautiful, more beautiful than my sisters, so beautiful, indeed, that I almost gasped. Behind me, gray clouds gathered in the once-blue sky.

“Just say, ‘I wish to see Brewster Davis,’ and you shall.”

Brewster Davis. Even his name held beauty and promise. What could be the harm? I took a deep breath of salt air mixed with ships’ smoke, then wished.

“I wish I could see Brewster Davis.”

Immediately, my own face vanished from the glass, replaced with a picture I didn’t recognize. Then I realized it was a house, one of those too-many castles on New York’s shores. I saw the front of it, then went through the window, my first glimpse of a human room.

Two people sat in it. One was a young man with hair the color of sand. His was not the face I sought. He was older than Brewster Davis, my Brewster Davis. But, just as I was about to turn away in protest, I noticed the second. It was him! Though I thought I had forgotten his face, I knew it on sight, the brown hair, curling slightly around his ears, his face open and trustworthy. I leaned closer until I could see his face as close as I had seen my own. I gazed into his eyes and knew they were kind.

Then, he spoke.

“The novels of Charles Dickens are boring, Robert.”

“It is because you do not concentrate,” said the other man, and the picture widened so I could see him.

“How can I concentrate when you give me such tedious reading material?” He pointed to the object in his lap. “Mr. Dickens was paid by the word. That is why he wrote of such unimportant matters.”

“Unimportant?” Robert gestured toward the object. “Dickens wrote of the noblest subjects.
A Tale of Two Cities
is the story of war and love and death.”

“Ah, but that is the worst of it. Mr. Dickens may have written of death, but had he seen it firsthand? So much death, Robert, the deaths of a yellow fever epidemic in a single night. And love! I have known that too, though I shall never see her face again.”

He sighed and placed the object back in his lap. “Oh, I am sorry, Robert. I am certain it is a wonderful book. It is just too soon. The night I had, I will never forget. The sights I have seen weigh heavy on my mind. I don’t expect you to understand. It is one thing to read in a newspaper of fifteen hundred killed. Fifteen hundred is merely a number. But to be there, seeing them choose between those who lived and died, to know that those not chosen were one’s dinner companions the night before, and to thrash in frozen water, watching as, one by one, each soul succumbed, and knowing you would be next. That is entirely different. Something like that changes one forever.”