Diary of a Radical Mermaid (11 page)

Tula waved both arms. The silk sleeves of her antique kimono fluttered. She looked like a big butterfly with red hair. “Juna Lee, haven’t you done enough damage? Leave Molly alone. She’s in my guest suite upstairs. Happily stoned on vodka tonics. I went up to offer her a midnight snack and she was out on the balcony, crying and looking toward Sainte’s Point. When I asked her what was wrong — besides the obvious, you know, like being kidnapped, transported across state lines, and held prisoner at Randolph Cottage — she hiccupped and smiled and said, ‘Who am I? Where am I? What am I? I’ve never found the real world particularly romantic before. But this world is a very romantic place.’”

“So? She’s babbling. She’s one lipstick shy of a makeup kit. I’m telling you. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with Anna Nicole Smith.”

“Juna Lee! Don’t you get it? Despite everything you did to her, she’s happy to be here. Rhymer rescued her and carried her all the way to the inn. Something happened between them. Something sentimental. Something good.”

I gaped at my cousin. Finally, I smiled. “Ah hah! My matchmaking plan is already working!”

“You call this a plan?”

“Whatever. It’s working.”

“Hello, Juna Lee, you bee-atch,” Molly said, drunk but dignified, above us. We turned and looked up. She wobbled then leaned rakishly on the white rail of the upstairs landing, which overlooked Tula’s luxurious, sea-colored wicker den. Her fine, short brown hair fluffed around her face, electrified by some alchemy of salt air and Rhymer lust and cola-induced inebriation. One of Tula’s slinky silk robes draped her like a Greek toga. She glared down at me. She looked like an enraged Tweetie Bird.

I batted my eyelashes. “So you and Rhymer hit it off?”

“He’s a gentleman. I appreciate a gentleman. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Too bad. So nothing fun happened?”

“I want to know more about him. Tell me. Does he live near here? Is he some kind of law enforcement officer in the States? FBI? CIA? Navy Seal?”

I snorted. “Maybe a selkie. Not a seal.”

“Tell me more.”

“So Molly The Magnificent admits she needs my help, hmmm?”

“It’s research on mermen. For a future book.”

“Oh, sure, you drunken little geek. Research. All right, I’ll tell you all about Rhymer. But only if you do something for me in return.” I smiled up at her. “You have to spend the summer at Randolph Cottage. And you have to promise to keep quiet about our little road trip from Memphis. Don’t use the k-word, again. Kidnapping. You won’t file charges. Capice?”

She stared down at me, her fine-boned face working up a delicate pucker of disgust. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she hawked a loogy at me. I subtly moved out of range. Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry. I never spit in public.”

Damn. She was hearing my thoughts. Her Mer talents were developing quickly. I put a hand on one hip. “Don’t get uppity, you stubby-toed Floater.”

“Juna Lee,” Tula scolded. “How tacky. Picking on a fellow Mer’s toe status.”

But my former captive wasn’t chastened. The smug little shark smiled, showing pearly teeth. “You need me. I need you. Fine. Tomorrow, I’ll move into Randolph Cottage. And I’ll pretend to forget that you k-worded me.” She turned away, then hesitated and looked back. “I want my bus here by eight a.m. With your lipstick stains washed off the glassware and your crayon marks scrubbed off the dining table. Good night.”

She limped back to the guest suite while I went ah-ah-ah with my speechless mouth, then noticed that Tula was biting her fist to keep from laughing at me.

* * * *

Hello, hello? Calling Rhymer McEvers. It’s Molly Revere. The psychic pen pal you rescued earlier tonight. Testing. One. Two. Three. Testing. Oh, this is ridiculous. I can’t believe I believe this is possible. It’s not. I’m hallucinating. Suffering from PJSS. Post Juna Lee Stress Syndrome. Rhymer McEvers is out on the ocean somewhere, and I’m here at Tula Bonavendier’s home, and if I want to talk to him in the middle of the night I’d better pick up my cell phone — which would be way too bold for a Boston librarian turned world-famous author to do. I’m going to sleep, now. Sleep. Sleep. Concentrate on sleeping. I’m drunk on cola with a chaser of rum and I’m growing sleepy—

‘Tis no hallucination, Moll. You sing out, I hear you. But any woman who calls out to me at this time of night had better be naked.

One if by land. Two if by sea.

Is that a yes as to nakedness?

One if by — sorry, it’s a slight obsessive compulsive twitch of mine. When I’m upset, I think of the famous Longfellow poem. Like a chant. It blocks out anxiety. Hello!

A famous poem?

I forget. You’re Scottish. The poem’s about a hero of the American Revolution. Paul Revere. Juna Lee says I’m actually related to him; I thought the surname was just something my father’s notoriously flamboyant grandmother adopted as a stage name, but apparently I was wrong. The poem is The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. The most famous line is ‘One if by land, two if by sea.’ It refers to a lantern signal warning the American colonists that the British troops are coming. Did I wake you up?

No. I don’t sleep much. I’m sitting on the bow of my boat, watching the ocean. My nieces are in the cabin. Jordan Brighton is bunked on the stern. Tomorrow we’ll move to Sainte’s Point. But tonight we’re on the boat, hidden in a cove. So, this poem about your famous ancestor helps you avoid thinking naughty thoughts?

Naughty? Am I that Victorian?

I ask if you sleep without clothes, and you start reciting poetry.

Okay, I’m a little unhinged by recent events.

Aye, that’s understandable. I have nothing against unhinged women. Be that as it may — I take it you want to talk to me?

I . . . yes. Yes. All right. Yes, I want to talk. I was just . . . testing the system. The Mer psychic call-in line. I’m sorry. I disturbed you. I didn’t really think this would work.

Where you’re concerned, I’m awake and at attention. And only disturbed by your effect on me.

One if by land, two if —

Easy, Moll. I apologize. Bit of a lout, that’s me. Sorry.

You’re not a lout. A man who rescues me and carries me — plus my cat — all the way to Bellemeade is no lout.

You throw me off guard with such flattery. I’m fair to middling blunt with people. Not good at the niceties. I can’t recite poetry to you in return, Moll. But I don’t mean to embarrass you.

Embarrass? No. Startle. Yes. Naked in bed. Me? Hah. I’m not a naked kind of woman.

It was a serious question, Moll.

One if by land — naked. Naked. I sleep naked. All right? Yes. I admit it.

I hear you breathing too hard. Relax. This conversation is just inside our heads. Remember that. Phone sex without the phone.

I’m psychically hyperventilating. And you?

I take it you’re in no trouble, not asking for assistance.

No, no. No trouble. Phone sex without the phone?

Tula Bonavendier is a fine hostess, and you like her?

Yes. She’s very pleasant and rational. Not like Juna Lee.

Juna Lee has a bit of a bad rep. Do no’ take her to heart. At least she got you here. You’re safe and sound, none the worse for wear. And you’re learning who you are. That’s good. The unhappiest Mers are the ones who don’t know what to believe of themselves.

Do you? You know what to believe of yourself?

A glorified guard dog, that’s what I am. I don’t mind. Suits my temperament. My ancestors died at Culloden. Always fighting for the losing side, we McEvers.

No. Not a guard dog. A . . . lion. A noble lion.

A sea lion, maybe.

But what does it feel like to be a Mer? To be a member of a . . . a sub-species of humankind that couldn’t possibly be real?

Not real? We are real, Moll. You and I and the others. Very real. And we’re not a sub-anything. We’re the dominant species. Homo Swimmians, if you like puns. Small in numbers but vast in influence.

You do realize that the existence of mer-people defies every known law of genetics and evolution? Not to mention the entire canon of human history?

Lander history, Moll. Not human history. You and me — we’re just as human as any Lander. Only different.

How can an entire minority society of, well, unusual human beings, exist for thousands of years without the majority discovering them?

Landers see what they’ve been taught to see. We just help the situation along with a few illusions. The poem you quoted ——one if by land or two if by sea? Landers look for the light on land, Moll. They never think to look for the light by sea.

You’re a philosopher. A poet in your own way.

I’ve never rhymed two words in my life. Despite my name.

But you love books. You love to read. I can . . . feel it. What a strange thing. There’s this wonderful hum inside me, and it’s you, and I know things about you because of it. Am I prying?

No more than I’m prying into your mind. I feel you inside me, too. Like a flow of electricity.

This is how the ‘singing’ ability works? This tingle?

Aye.

There’s no medical or physiological explanation for this ability. None.

Do no’ be telling the great sea mammals that. They’ll laugh at you. When a dolphin laughs, it feels like bubbles in your brain. It tickles.

Well, of course, whales and dolphins and other marine animals have sonic abilities; to find fish, to use as a compass when they migrate, to communicate. That’s proven.

See? They communicate. Just like us. So hard to believe?

Then why can’t ordinary people communicate this way?

Because they’re ordinary.

Ah hah. Well, there’s the scientific explanation I was hoping for. Do you let just anyone blow bubbles inside you?

No.

I’m honored.

Now that you’ve got your foot inside my door, you’re welcome to a tour.

Bubbles. I feel bubbles. You’re teasing me.

I’m no’ teasing you, Moll. I’m sitting here in the dark on the boat. It’s so quiet all I can hear is the surf and the wind. There’s a million stars above me and a whole world of water before me. From here to forever. Hills and valleys and canyons deeper than the Grand Canyon and plateaus broader than the prairies. All under the oceans. Most of the world. Hidden from Landers.

It’s the edge of forever. Oh, I’m sorry. That sounds like an old soap opera. ‘Tune in tomorrow, as we continue The Edge of Forever.’”

Do no’ be sorry. I like how you see things. How you see me. Kindly.

I see the truth.

Kindly.

I’m not kind. I’m vain and selfish and greedy. I love being a rich author. I love having people treat me like a celebrity. I had sterling silver faucets installed in my RV. But then I felt such shame I donated a huge amount to charity.

You give money to charity all the time. You’re generous beyond all expectations. I feel it.

But I give lots more money when I install silver faucets. Oh! Bubbles!

It’s been a long time since I smiled. Thank you.

About that tour. May I visit any part of you I wish to imagine?

Do no’ go playin’ with fire . . . ah.

You feel me thinking about you? Thinking about—

That’s the part, you bet.

I’m thinking about your chest. How strong it felt against my side when you carried me.

Close enough.

Now I’m thinking about, yes, all right, oh, my—

Me too.

What are you —

Just thinking about you and your parts, Moll.

Oh. Oh! Oh!

Jordan Takes Charge
Chapter
11

The round-the-world-in-eighty-days cruise, celebrating Ali and Griffin’s royal Mer wedding, sailed the next day. Dozens of elegant yachts, large and small, made a raucous flotilla off the Atlantic beaches of Sainte’s Point. Leading the way was their flagship, The Lady Lilith, Riyad’s floating villa, staffed by a crew of handsome Saudi Mers whose allegiance was not first to Allah or country, but to their own Water People. No religion or race or national alliance turned a Mer away from his or her truest obligations; our kind maneuvered beneath the Lander world like a slow, deep current of primordial lava, slowly carving new waterways into the face of the planet.

“. . .  carving new waterways into the face of the planet,” I finished typing into my laptop. I hit Send. A wireless widget flashed my new post to my on-line diary. I smiled fiendishly. “Done. Another fabulous entry.”

“Juna Lee, I hate it when you’re premenstrual and philosophical,” Tula sighed. We lounged on blankets, naked except for thongs, on an isolated beach at the island. We were backed by huge sand dunes, the dark oak forest, and the prying eyes of wild ponies who lived like fat little hobbits under Lilith’s care. I watched the wedding armada leisurely sail for the deep, summertime waters off the continental shelf.

“There they go. Leaving me to supervise the island and help Jordan fend off a murderous, mythological Mer. While at the same time trying to matchmake between the Clint Eastwood of Scotland and an obnoxious, wimpy writer who hangs around my neck like an albatross. I swear, I don’t know how I multi-task so brilliantly.”

Tula rolled her eyes. “Has Jordan actually asked for your help? Hasn’t he emphatically ordered you to stay away from this island after today?”

I looked at her over my retro Ray Bans. “Do I look like I take orders from men?”

“Juna Lee, this is one time you shouldn’t be capri-cious—”

“Eeeeee.” Which is approximately the sound I made, accompanied by various obscenities, as a nylon lasso snared my bare left foot.

Jordan rose from the surf. He wore baggy silk swim trunks but might as well have been naked, considering how the silk was plastered to his erection. But even aroused, he looked serious. “Here, Juna, Juna,” he called dryly, as if I were a cat. Then he dragged me into the water.

I barely finished squealing, kicking, and yelling, before the tide rushed over my head. I continued my protest in sonic trills that sent all the neighboring dolphins skimming away with their flippers covering their ears. I swallowed a gallon of saltwater, regurgitated it with a fierce spit (it’s nearly impossible to drown a Mer) then finally managed to grab the tow line. I was in twenty feet of water by then, with jellyfish and crabs slithering by, giggling at me, and Jordan was towing me at a speed just short of a warp-speed skier.