Enraged, the Prince flung himself to his bed to retrieve the dagger from within the sheets. “You bastard!” he screamed, “Who invited you here? Who sent for you?” In a wild temper, the Prince flung the dagger at his Uncle, but his Uncle was gone. Instead, the dagger shivered, embedded in the closed door. The candle had gone out.
“A woman,” he said to the darkness. “I am no woman.”
Five
Amidst the Parallels
The whole world was swimming. The little mermaid was experiencing a sort of vertigo, where nothing that was still stayed that way, and the things that ought to move froze stiff. Her entire life felt topsy-turvy, and though she had but a small taste of the land above the surface, now she craved more. When she had returned to the palace, where her sisters and nanny awaited her dutifully, it was more of a struggle than ever to keep her face straight and her voice from wavering frequency to frequency. She reported all she had seen, and could not stop her eyes lighting up when she described the remarkable palace on the shore.
“The human palace?” asked the eldest. “But it is ordinary. It is nothing like our home.”
“Why do you praise it so? It is so ugly, like it was built by blind men,” remarked the second eldest.
The youngest princess was astonished by her sisters’ response and more than a little disheartened, for she was sure that they would be in agreement – wouldn’t anyone who had seen it concur it was miraculous? So she turned her attention to something she was sure would be a success.
“What about the Prince who lives there? Surely he is beautiful.”
“If he were one of us, perhaps.”
“It’s a shame about those human legs. Unpleasant, graceless things.”
“He is only beautiful when he sleeps.”
“But his skin is so dark, like the colour of dirt.”
“And his eyes so plain.”
“And he makes the most horrendous noises.”
“Dreadful hollering and wailing all night long.”
“It hurts our ears to hear it.”
“It is the most inhumane noise.” The little mermaid knew they were referring to the music, and how often it omitted from the Prince. The thought filled her with thick pleasure for the music too, just like everything about him, was more attractive than seemed possible.
“Is something the matter, sister?” asked the sixth princess, the closest to her in age and therefore the dearest. For the little mermaid was wearing a vacant expression and in her mind’s eye was a small collection of images she had carefully memorised about him. There was almost as much pleasure in imagining the unknown: the Prince eating, for instance, or the sound of his voice, or what he looked like under his clothes. The nanny eyed her cautiously, for she had seen that expression before, although she did not remember where.
She could not sleep that night, instead she relived every detail of her visit, the smells and the sounds she heard. The sensation of the waves as they curled around her body. The taste of sea foam – the ashes of her kin. She formed a secret plan to visit again the next night, for as the only princess to exhibit the quality of curiosity, she had searched every nook and cranny of her palace, and knew where everything was stored. Like the pieces of shattered looking-glass, so old and forgotten barnacles had settled upon them. And remnants of hair, long black strands littered with sea-lice, accompanied by a whole fingernail, all prudently wrapped in sea-weed and stored in an empty crevice. She knew precisely where the potion was stored, and though it was easy to simply ask her father for protection to surface, she did not want to answer questions.
Indeed, this was strange, because all of her life the little mermaid had longed for questions. She simply did not understand why she was not often asked where she was going or who with. Often she went to dangerous places and saw dangerous things, and if anyone could prevent her, it should be a parent. And nobody ever asked her how she felt inside, especially at that moment when she was about to explode with something and desperately wanted to be asked about it, in order to diffuse her emotion or to delay it. But it never came. The little mermaid concluded it had a lot to do with her sisters, who never went anywhere except the well-lit courtyards of the palace and its domain, and never saw anyone more than their own reflections. She used to prattle in her younger years, unable to hold in the rush of thoughts, but it pained the nanny, or anyone else who heard her. So she kept most things to herself, picturing her insides like a treasure trove, and would turn over these thoughts softly in her hands, like well-loved toys. But this time it was different. She was aware that to answer questions about her immediate surfacing could be fatal, and she was resolved to one more secret.
The next night, anticipation flooded her as she ventured toward the palace, which beckoned to her seductively and winked with its warm, flickering candlelight. Exotic spices were in the air and the little mermaid rubbed her gooseflesh impatiently. She did not bother to examine the other chambers, swimming directly to the Prince’s, only to find he was not inside. Filled with hope, she settled herself comfortably, folding and tucking her fins behind her, and waited. But he did not come. When the potion began to wear away, the mermaid sighed deeply and her heart sank into her stomach.
She returned the next night, praying to see the little red wind dancing in his window, but the chamber was buried in darkness. Had she imagined him? Did he now sleep in the upper levels? Perhaps he had spotted her and was frightened, requesting to be as far away from her as possible. Perhaps, and the mermaid shuddered at the thought, he had died, and his dear Immortal Soul had gone to God. In which case, the mermaid was glad for him, but hopelessly miserable for herself. Suddenly, the music started. Far above her it lilted, deep and wounded and dripping all over her like syrup. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of him, high in the terraces or even the mountaintop, but she saw nothing. But she was consoled, for she felt his presence, and understood the music was for her.
On the third night, the little mermaid was preparing to leave when her nanny approached her.
“Are you going up to the human palace again?” she asked.
“Yes,” the little mermaid replied.
“Are you going to see the Prince?”
“I am,” she said, for she could not tell a lie.
“Then see him, observe him, but hide yourself well. For he will sooner slit your throat and devour you than speak to you.”
“I don’t think that he would –“
“This is not the way to gain an Immortal Soul, my dear,” said the nanny gently.
The little mermaid halted. “I know, nanny, of course it isn’t.”
“For a human man has to hold you in higher regard than even his own father,” she continued, “and commit to you in the ceremony of marriage. Then a piece of his soul will enter your body, and one day you too will be with God.”
The little mermaid shivered, for it was the happiest news she’d ever heard. “Truly?” she asked.
“Of course,” replied the nanny.
It wasn’t. Many years ago, some merfolk had started the rumour partly due to boredom, for there was not a vast amount of things to do in the underwater world, apart from gander at pretty things, and lose a pretty thing to gain another pretty thing. But the nanny did not know this and neither did our impressionable heroine. And she believed it with her whole heart.