But the little mermaid knew she was lying, for she had seen the God herself, and felt it warm her face. “I don’t want your Immortal Soul,” said the little mermaid defiantly, “for the Prince will give me half of his own in the ceremony of marriage.”
The sea-witch smirked and shrugged. “You take a great deal of notice of what that old hag tells you. Don’t be so eager to believe old wives’ tales.” And she uncorked the little bottle and out flew the golden drop, and the witch guided it into her mouth and swallowed it. The mermaid watched in horror as the witch began to gag, as if strangled, her face turning a shade of blue, grasping her throat with her claw. She coughed and wheezed, and out of her mouth flew a great many items: rotted flesh, old letters, a pair of feathered wings, crusty volumes of books, skulls of small animals, pieces of hair, a black onyx necklace and finally, the little golden soul. The witch pounced upon it and thrust it back in its prison, corking it with determination. “You see? It no longer wants to live in me.” And she shrugged and threw the bottle into the water, where it disappeared with a flash. “I’ve been trying to get rid of it for years, but it follows me everywhere.”
“Who are you?” asked the little mermaid, for she was sure the witch was not her kind, but could not possibly be human either.
“I am the face you will see on the day of your death,” she replied customarily.
“Many other’s deaths maybe,” said the little mermaid, “but never mine.”
She felt a surge of hatred for this woman. She hated her words and the complexity she intentionally added to an already complex situation. She did not like these new emotions, or the thudding creature inside of her, and all she wanted was to get over and done with the thing she wanted most of all.
The sea-witch, on the other hand, was astonished by the mermaid, for she had forgotten what love looked like, and she had been so anticipating smelling the stench of fear, after all these years without a single visitor. The light in the mermaid’s eye scared her, for it was reminiscent of her own reflection many generations ago. But it was all a means to an end. When she laid her secret plans all those years ago, she had no guarantee of success, but her inner voice whispered assurances and it had been right: all things were coming to fruition. She had known the girl was the lock and here she was in her cavern, handing her the key. Her dark gaze flickered over the girl. She was obstinate to be sure, and wilful too. How dare she stare with such rebellion, such malevolence! What a self-righteous thing love was. It made everyone believe they were fearless. That they would live forever.
Suddenly, the witch wanted the mermaid as far from her as possible, and did not care about her outcome. It had already begun, and the mermaid’s own personal quest was none of her concern. So she clapped her hands together twice. The essence of day and the powder of night, a litre of blood, two hamstrings and five toes cut from a Siren, and black ooze squeezed from the witch’s breast all bubbled in a cauldron that materialised on the cavern’s floor. Finally, the sea-witch descended on the little mermaid and with a sharp silver knife, pried open her jaw and sliced off her tongue in one clean sweep.
“Payment,” commented the sea-witch and swallowed it whole. “I told you it would be high.” And she began to laugh at her joke, and the Sirens laughed with her, for they knew no better. The mermaid’s mouth filled with a raw stickiness and she tried to speak, but no noise omitted from her mouth apart from the bubbling of blood.
Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
“If you take this tonic,” said the sea-witch, holding a bottle of a sickly grey substance, still frothing and hot to the touch, “you will never return to this world again. You will remain in human form until the Prince falls in love with you, upon which a part of his Immortal Soul will flow into your body, and you will be thoroughly human.” At this, the witch suppressed another laugh. “But if the Prince does not fall in love with you, your heart will break. The moment your heart breaks, then you, like all of your beloved humans, will die. Your body will become the foam on the waves. And this is not part of the spell,” she added, “it’s a part of the human condition. Ironic, no?”
And the little mermaid snatched the tonic and drank it down in several, burning gulps. Her body began to heave and contort, and she could barely make out the witch’s voice say, “Every step you take on land will be like daggers slicing through your feet. You will end your days standing in pools of blood.” The Sirens too were chanting something, something ominous and terrible, and finally, there was no more noise, just a deep and empty silence.
When the little mermaid awoke, she opened her eyes and saw God.
Eight
Oranges
It took two months to return the Prince back to the kingdom.
On that very first day of his rescue from drowning, lying on a straw-lined cot in a simple monastic cell, the Prince decided to employ a sort of amnesia, and refused to answer questions about his identity. In fact, he rather enjoyed himself, because for the first time in his life no one looked at him unfavourably when he declined opportunities of conversation. Instead the nuns, a rather stiff group of women, tittered amongst themselves and nodded their heads gravely. They would leave a bowl of gruel and a glass of water by his bed and glide out of the room, legless.
It took a great deal of time for the Prince to adjust to the meals, for it was gruel three times a day, no exceptions. However, the young novice who was on kitchen duty took pity on the boy, and would smuggle in a bit of bread, or slices of peeled orange concealed in a napkin.
The nuns had a practice of sluicing their invalids with a potent tonic consisting of menthol and vinegar that twice a day the Prince was forced to endure. He initially had panicked wildly, as the most senior group of nuns entered his chamber in a sombre fashion and rolling up the sleeves of their habits, nodded to each other and abruptly began to strip him naked. He closed his eyes in humiliation as their hands and sponges scrubbed at every inch of his body with vigour, and did not hover over or contemplate his severe latticing of scars. It was like they did not exist. It was like they were perfectly natural.
After that day, the Prince lost his fear of nakedness - no small feat, for the Prince had been bathing himself out of shame since he was fifteen. It occurred to him that a nun was an upstanding and admirable kind of woman, and he especially liked their faces beneath their wimples. He thought them all perfectly charming, even the elderly nuns that tottered in the orange grove all day long, lacking strength for their vocation. It dawned on him that in all his days at court, he had never seen so much as a wrinkle on a woman’s face, or a lip that was not scarlet, or an eye not veiled with some false diffidence. The nun’s faces were like canvasses to read, intricate and noble, and every crease told a tale. He enjoyed searching the younger nuns’ faces and trying to guess where the lines would form.
As he lay on his straw bed, his nostrils filled with menthol and vinegar, he would listen to their voices raised in hymn, or the bells of the church steeple. At night, he would count the stars and some days it was enough to feel the sun on his body. He had hoped that perhaps some students, particularly the neat and tidy girl who had watched his resuscitation, would be sent to fetch his empty bowl. Unfortunately for the Prince, that was not the practice of this convent, where young men and young ladies should be completely segregated at all times. He could hear them sometimes, laughing in the grove, and he was sure he had never heard anything simpler in his life. Suddenly, women weren’t so horrible after all.