Heart of the Storm

        I have a fish’s tail and my mouth is full of knives, so I have no right to love you.

        Not that you would ever realize this. You don’t know I have been following your ship for weeks. I can smell how overcrowded the vessel is, packed tight with skin against skin and voice against voice. You leave a trail of bodies behind you, so you haven’t been difficult to track.

        There are tales that say that eating the flesh of a mermaid will make you live forever. I say eating the flesh of a human will keep you fed for a few days. Nothing personal, really, just like you hold nothing personal against the livestock you slaughter or the crops you harvest. Every corpse that is tossed overboard is sustenance for us, and that is why we have been following you.

        I don’t understand why suddenly your people are being shipped by the millions across our ocean. I don’t understand why suddenly these pale men think they own the world. None of us really know or care. The way you humans treat each other doesn’t affect us beyond the anguished wailing that skitters through the waves and grates in our ears. Your harsh voices are a nuisance, but your flesh is delicious, so we choose to trail after your ships and devour your dead.

        You, however, intrigue me. While your friends are weeping and your drivers are barking and your ill are retching, you remain silent. You were lucky enough to secure a spot above deck, so I have seen you many times, staring out at the blue expanse behind the ship. Salt hasn’t leaked from your eyes since you’ve disembarked, but I can tell you are far from happy. When you are not being fed or whipped or growled at, you come to your perch to stare and think. Your brown fingers clutch the railing; your eyes are huge and vast.

        You look positively delicious.

        I don’t have an exact reason why I decided to speak to you. Perhaps it was because my sisters have also taken notice of you and were talking of luring you into the water. As easy as that would have been, I am still curious about your silent face and your bottomless eyes, and would much rather learn more about you before making you a meal.

        When the eyes of your fellows and oppressors are turned elsewhere, my powerful muscles propel me out of the sea and I cling to the hull of the vessel, claws digging into the salty wood as I balance and regard you. When you take notice of me, your startled feet take a step back, but you say not a word. Your eyes are dark, darker than any mermaid’s, and they hold the night sky inside them. I see fright and awe and curiosity in your face. You have probably never seen a mermaid before. Not from such a short distance, at least.

        I greet you in your tongue and you cautiously return the sentiment in your dry human voice, glancing behind you at the pale men driving the ship. You seem more afraid of them than you are of me, even though I have needle teeth and searchlight eyes and all they have are fleshy hands and loud words. Inquiries surface in my mind at this thought. However, your voice beats mine to a question; or, rather, a statement.

        “You have a fish tail,” you say, wonder in your black eyes.

        “You have legs,” I reply neutrally. My eyes take in your features. You’re built like a bird, all slender fingers and bony elbows and hollow framing. You stand on the ends of your feet, balancing precariously, as if you could take flight at the slightest danger. Your night eyes are wide and infinite and miss nothing.

        “Are you a mermaid?” you ask me softly.

        I grin and show you my stiletto teeth. “Yes,” I say, “and you are a human. You are far from land. So many of you are far from land these days.”