Once upon a time, there was a kingdom deep beneath the sea, formed from shells and coral and ancient magic that wrapped itself around the sunken stones. It was called, the Mer. This kingdom was set so far from the surface world, that not even a glint of light could slip through. It was a place that the sun has never reached, where the waters had never warmed, and the humans had never found.
Today, of all days, was a special one to the Kingdom of Mer, for a new princess had just been gifted to them. All who lived within the Kingdom of Mer had been invited to a great celebration, welcoming the new fry into the world. Her parents, the majestic King Brittlestar and his beautiful wife, Queen Conch, had given her the name Turbinella after the sacred chank.
Turbinella rested in a cot carved from a shell of the palest blue, swaddled in blankets and pillows, in sea-cloth and stolen netting. Her mother, Queen Conch, sat on a chaise lounge beside her, pearlescent tail flicking off the edge of the furniture and gracing the tide with an equally soft sway.
She watched with pale eyes as the mer of her kingdom came into the palace entry, swam up the sunken stairs, and gave their greetings to the new princess. Each mer, young and old, left a gift; humble pictures, carved toys, glints of jewelry, and even songs created in Turbinella’s honor!
Among the visiting mer was one known as Abalone Moray. His olive-gray form cut through the crowd, longer than any other with a tail befitting his name. Long, white hair trailed from a receding hairline and down his back as he slid through the waters of the castle entrance like a sea-snake crawling out from the cracks. A cut marred his chest in a stripe as thick as a cuttlefish carcass dried in the sun.
King Brittlestar greeted him, just as he had greeted all the rest. “Abalone Moray. Thank you for attending this celebration.”
“Thank you for allowing me,” said Abalone, as was custom. He bowed first to the king, second to the queen, and third to the new born fry. “I have come with a gift, to wish her wealth, health, and good tidings forever more.”
From his pouch, Abalone pulled a necklace of pearls. They were the same color as Turbinella’s fin. “I cannot offer her much, for I have very little. But this belonged to my mother, and to her mother, and to your daughter, now, for there are no other mer in the Moray line save me, and I have no use for my mother’s-mother’s pearls.”
And it was unlikely that their ever would be, for Moray was greatly feared for his slithering look and vengeful thoughts.
Gently, the Queen took the offered gift. “When Turbinella is older, she will wear them with pride, knowing that each pearl contains the strength and legacy of her people. Perhaps she, too, will shine like a pearl. We thank you, Moray.”
He nodded, “Pearls are created under great pressure, I hope to the Gods of the Deep that she never has reason to become one.”
And then he bowed again, this time first to the princess, second to the queen, and third to the king. Afterwards, Abalone rejoined the school of mer down below, yet they kept a wide berth of him. Many found Abalone to be a distasteful sort. In his youth, he had been attacked by the brittle fins that walked the surface lands, and it had left him soured, bittered, and angry.
The Kingdom of Mer had no room for anger, or so they believed.
They had no room for the wounded Abalone Moray, save for the Royal family.
On and on, the proceedings went.
First, each mer from the kingdom met the fry. Then, the visiting dignitaries from far-away lands.
The Duke of Dogfish brought the gift of a pet seahorse.
The Crown of the Caribbean brought a basket of coconuts.
Lord and Lady Lagoona came with crystals formed in the caverns near their home which would fill each and every day.
Many of these gifts were brought from the surface, taken in exchange for a fleeting glance at the beauties of the sea.
One by one, the dignitaries bowed to the king, to the queen, and to the princess. They offered their gifts, and their love, and then they bowed again, this time in reverse. And when the next dignitary swam through the crowd, a great gasp rang out!
It was the Wisemer!
She had come all the way from the Blue Holes of the Bahamas!
Draped in silks of deep purple and rich red, the Wisemer looked to be a mystic thing. She swam up to the king, and the queen, and the princess, and bowed to none of them, and none of them bowed to her.
“Great Wisemer,” said the King. “You have come to us, on the day of my fry’s birth. What gift do you bring?”
Wisemer held out her hands, revealing that she had nothing in them. Then she shook out her drapery, revealing no gift hidden in the folds of the fabric. She told them, “I have come with one gift and one gift alone, King Brittlestar.” She smiled with a glitter in her eyes that was moonlight scraped from the ripples of the surface.
Queen Conch asked, “and what is that, Wisemer? What blessings have you brought for my daughter?”
The queen couldn’t help but reach out, curling one dark hand into the folds of fabric that Turbinella had been wrapped in. She did not fear the Wisemer, but she was leery of the strange mer.
It was said that thd Wisemer could commune with turtles. Stranger yet, it was said that she spoke to the bones of whales, and could understand the songs of lost ships.
Very strange things, indeed!
Wisemer said, “I have brought the gift of a message.”
The crowd grew silence, drenched in awe that cloaked them as much as the waves.
King Brittlestar asked, “and what message is that?”
“I have spoken to the deeps, to the foam, and to the waves. I have listened to the sand as it is swept up in ocean water, and heard the cries of the gulls,” said Wisemer, opening her hands with a trail of bubbles. “And they have told me of unity, and they have told me of your daughter, and they have told me of a bridge forming, between our kind, and the surface dwellers.”
A great muttering broke out through the gathered school of mer. They whispered to each other, talking in hushed tones.
King Brittlestar asked, “and what of this bridge? What of this unity? What will my daughter be burdened to do?”
“It is not a burden,” said Wisemer, with a laugh like crackling plastic. “It is an honor! To think, she has been chosen by the ocean Itself! That she will be the unicorn of our kind; the fabled white whale, the lost link, the connecting point between—“
“No,” shouted Abalone, from far down in the crowd. His tail lashed and snapped, like a whip. The other mer quickly cleared a space around him. “No! We cannot do that! The brittle fin’s are cursed! They are poison, spilling into our home! There is no chance for peace with them!” His words were filled with screeches, so loud that the dolphins outside fled.
Yet, where others shrivelled back, the Wisemer gave a wry smile.
“Because Turbinella had not yet been born,” her tone was as if she was talking to a young child. “But now that she is here, we will finally have peace!”
“You don’t understand,” snarled Abalone. His mouth was full of sharpened teeth. He threw out one arm, as if he could gesture to all of the surface world. “We cannot unite with them! They will slay us! They will kill us!” He pressed a hand to the scar on his own chest, where the harpoon had struck him years ago. “They will take everything we have ever called ours – including your precious, little Turbinella!”
The Wisemer tried to reason with him, that things would change in the coming days. The ocean was never wrong, after all. But it just sent Abalone deeper into fury. There was to be no reasoning with him in his frenzied state.
And frenzied he was, gills opening at an erratic speed and tail flicks causing a sway to the room where the tide otherwise sat still.
King Brittlestar, in the end, had no choice but to have the guards escort him out. “Rest, my dear Abalone. Your tribulations have served to give you a strange mind. They have taught you wrongful lessons.”
The Wisemer nodded. “All lessons have their merit, but your life cannot be led from within an oyster.”
“My Lord!”
“Enough, guards take him – yet be gentle. He is not a bad man, only one that does not know how to love his fellow mer and men correctly.”
When the doors slammed shut behind Abalone, the Queen reached out, pressing the tips of her fingers to her husband’s arm-fin. “He cannot help it, my love. When you are hurt that badly, it can be hard to heal – even when the wounds of the flesh no longer ache.”
The king gave a weary sigh, returning to his seat. “Aye, my love. I understand. He will be cared for, have no fear.”
And the Queen, who knew that her husband was a kind man, did not.
