The sisters had been forbidden to venture near the red caves, although curiosity to do so, they did not possess. It was rumoured that once in a while, a human body was sucked into the abyss.
Many years ago, the eldest had witnessed a human body drown. She said it had been a wondrous thing when the human had finally died, for its body then simply wafted with the tide, like a feather drifting down to earth. All the sisters had then murmured in response all sorts of dreary opinions, especially the common belief that humans only became beautiful once they had died. But the creature that lived secretly in little mermaid’s deepest cavity, within her chest, began to drum furiously. She succumbed to the twisting pain in her gut and lunged at her oldest sister, teeth and fists and fingernails flaying.
Later that day, the little mermaid lay on the cold floor of her chamber, powerless over her body that was heaving and choking her. Her face was screwed up in pain and her eyes burned. She didn’t know why, but she felt such a tightness inside of her, a tightness that wanted to explode into a red rage. There was heaviness too, something that wanted to embed her into the floor and never let her rise again. But the strangest thing of all was a feeling called remorse, as she remembered the alarmed look in her sister’s eyes, and her flesh under her nails.
She suddenly became aware of a shadow that lingered in the doorway. It was the eldest princess. The little mermaid turned her face to her and wailed, “Why didn’t you save him?”
The eldest princess was silent for a long time, because it took her a long time to find the answer. “It never once occurred to me.”
Then, little mermaid, filled with pity, reached out her arms in embrace, but her sister became afraid and fled.
The occasion was not mentioned again, and the eldest princess had resumed her relationship with the youngest as if nothing had happened, partly because mermaid’s memories are short, and partly because the princess did not know how to change.
And now, many years later, the little mermaid watched as the third-eldest princess was attended to by the servants, ornaments of rich oyster and pearl attached to her body, in preparation for the surfacing ahead. The other mermaids watched solemnly as the debutante’s appearance began to change under the power of the spell. Her fiery scales began to bleach out, her skin lost its radiance, and her hair discharged its lustre and became like the sea-weed that grew unfettered along the wastelands. It seemed to all present that a smell manifested from the princess, an aroma impressing upon them images of rotting carcasses and old blood. In fact, she became a sight so foreign and spectral, that commoners were repelled by her. But to the little mermaid, she had never looked so well, and smelled of what she imagined land-corals to be like.
The little mermaid spent the rest of the day restless and anxious, as was normal whenever a sister surfaced. She replayed in her mind all of the sights her sisters had relayed over the years, and used her limited imagination to conjure pictures of them. She imagined icebergs monstrous and deadly, and snow, and what it would feel like to shiver. She imagined mountains and hills, and that furry green substance that grew all over the land. She imagined little children, all rolling about in the waves with their twisted faces. She imagined the little brown animals that often accompanied them, wagging their back appendages and omitting short, gruff noises. And she imagined the land-fish, fish with fins so large and powerful it carried them into the air.
Hours later, when the spell had worn off, the third sister returned to the palace. The princesses gathered around her as her scales regained their glorious splendour, and her skin glowed white and luminescent once more. They nodded their heads gravely at her news, like wise old souls who had seen everything.
“The ocean was angry,” said the third-eldest, “and the waves were trying to eat each other. They tossed the ships about like they were weightless. The human beings ran and made loud sounds. But the sky opened up and sent flashes of light, and then water fell from it.”
“Did you see the humans? What did they look like?” asked the little mermaid.
“They all look the same, two arms, two legs.”
“But what about their faces? What about their eyes?”
“We all have a face,” said the third-eldest. “We all have eyes. Even the fishes and the octopi have eyes.”
“But they are different!” exclaimed the little mermaid. “Surely they must be different!”
“We are all the same,” said the eldest daughter, who had seen the most of the world.
“If we are all the same, then why can’t we die of heartbreak?”
The sisters looked at each other in confusion. “Heart-break?” they repeated to each other, and shrugged. “Human weakness,” they concluded. “They are not as strong as we.”
“What happens to the humans when they die?” asked the little mermaid.
“They go into the ground, as we go into the sea,” replied the sister who had seen a funeral procession.
But this was not the answer the youngest was prepared for. “Not their bodies,” she clarified, “the other thing.”
There was a silence, and the sisters seemed reluctant to respond. Finally, “What other thing?” one asked.
“The thing that lives inside them.”
The sisters began to talk amongst themselves, suggesting solutions like parasites and leeches. After much discussion, they turned to the youngest and said, “It dies with them, of course.”
But the little mermaid was shaking her head. “It doesn’t. I know it doesn’t.”
That night, when the little mermaid sank into sleep, she dreamed that there was someone outside, watching her from the window. All around the person’s sunken face swirled transparent hair, like thin rice noodles. And its eyes were opaque and milky, with no pupil.
Two
Of the Sea Witch
Now the old Sea King was a venerable creature, feared for his power and influence, and respected by all his subjects. They paid homage to him and spoke truthfully of his honour, beauty and might. His authority had never been challenged, for no one in the kingdom possessed an ounce of his strength. In fact, mutiny and envy did not exist in the watery world, and through their rapid evolution, the merfolk were left with animal instincts and sentiments such as territorialism, anger and a vague sense of curiosity. All other humane characteristics had been bred out of the species, and citizens simply fulfilled their roles as their fathers had, as did their fathers before them.
The Sea King had inherited the throne later in life, and only then did he take a wife. After some long years, she fell pregnant and three months later she retired to the birthing chamber and laid a single egg. The Sea King was curious about the egg, as he had yet to behold the miracle of birth, and took to visiting the birthing chamber every so often to watch the egg, and the life inside it evolve. Fingers of wonder and magic would touch his consciousness, and he would reach out his hand and caress the membranous shell containing his child.
It gave him an odd sensation as the jelly-like ovum wobbled beneath his touch. He meticulously examined the way tiny blue veins skirted the outer circuits of the egg, all journeying to the icy grey foetus, pumping nourishment into the child. He could barely make out the shadow of the living thing, but he would imagine it, rotating in the waters of its sanctuary, white skin stretching over its small bones, each and every sparkling scale forming on the frail fins. If the Sea King knew this word, he would have described the experience as ‘holy’, as over the nine months of incubation, he guarded and monitored the genesis of his first child.