A Mermaid's Cry

Chapter 6-Unwanted Arrival

Setting down my reed pen, I glance out of Isolde's window and watch the village come alive. Mothers scold their young broods, as they fetch water and wood for their homes. The older children gather their siblings, and lead them towards the lagoon to give their elders a reprieve from shrieks and pulling hair.

Females my age, set to feeding the animals and tending their family gardens. However, they are carful to not dirty their pretty dresses, and see mud puddles as venomous pools. Resting my chin in my palm, I chuckle as a trio of the silly guppies shriek when a pack of children run by. Oh a travesty for the one who would get a fleck of muck on their garments.

"What a waste," I murmur, as I spy the copious amount of shells and seed pearls in the females' hair.

"What is dear?" Isolde cuts in, pushing away my bark tablet and replacing it with steaming kelp and fish stew.

"Nothing Madame," I reply, picking up the bowl and slurping the salty contents. "Just thinking is all."

Her keen brown eyes track my gaze, a knowing look passes her face at the shell laden girls. "Thinking is good dear," she drawls, sipping her tea of sage and palm weed. "It humbles you, makes you make wiser decisions than your, counterparts."

Her words make me smile as we dig into our breakfast. As the kelp and fish find their way into my stomach, Isolde quizzes me on what she views as most important.  The names of plants that cure, and ones that harm. Their size, color, texture, and most importantly their scent.

Plants are soon followed by trees, then animals, fish, predators, and prey. All the knowledge that a village healer must possess. Even something as little as what stone is best to start a fire with. Knowledge that I crave to have more of, but grandmother has other plans.

After Isolde and me finish, she sets to her work and I to mine. With her arthritis paining her more each day, I take on more tasks so that she may tend to her potions and medicines. I wash and hang her laundry, wash dishes, water her prized irises, and beat dust from the many rugs that lie on the hut's driftwood plank floor.

Sweat beads on my brow as I do the tasks. Invasive grass cut away from the garden, windows washed, and holes in the roof filled with thatch. Along with more wood for me to chop, the sound of the axe slicing through the logs is like a melody to my ears.

When I'm done, dirt covers the hem of my dress, and sweat coats my arms, throat, and forehead. Wiping away the salty drops, I glance up at the sunny blue sky. Small fluffy clouds float overhead, the vaporous collections of drops flying through the air. Birdsong fills the canopy, beetles scurry up the large trees nearby, and a snake slithers between my toes and into the small rock pond nearby.

Peace at last, the ache in my joints no longer burning. My hands covered with calluses and nails riddled with dirt. The signs of my labor, a badge that other young females would stick their noses up at. As I admire my dirty palms, I hear the sound of beating drums break the waking island jungle. Victorious shouts follow suite, clapping and cheering accompanying them. The way thunder follows the lightning during a ferocious storm.

My slim fingers wrap around my necklace, smoky amber beads on a cord of thin sailing rope. Another gift from a father that I long to have back. My scars twinge with phantom pain as the shouts and drums grow louder. Hurriedly, I glance towards Isolde on her porch. The statue like woman seated upon her stool of polished palm wood. Seeing my grim expression, she flicks her hand back as if swatting away a blood sucking mosquito. I take that as my cue, swiftly jumping over the garden fence and into the jungle scrub beyond.