A Mermaid's Cry

Chapter 7-Preening Girls and Strutting Peacocks

My footsteps are light on the ground, as I weave through the trees and vines towards Elder Morvan's tool hut. I watch the village Mer as I go, rolling my eyes as they rush in excitement. What is exciting about a bunch of males strutting about?

The mothers call after their wayward children, while their older daughters fix their hair and dresses as they walk. I pass them all, silent and sure footed as a panther. When I reach the village, I cautiously make my way out of my leafy haven. Brushing off my dress, I scurry behind the weaver and baking huts. Praying that no one will see me, and draw attention to the skinny waif that I am.

Sticking to the shadows, I see other Mer carry baskets of food and shells to trade. Wooden poles lay across some of their shoulders, each end holding a full bucket of water. These Mer however, hurry to the side as onlookers gather for the approaching crowd. I don't look, I keep my eyes out for threats as I hurry under the overhang of Morzan's hut.

I can't help but chuckle when I see the old male. Large as a burly boar, leaning on his twiggy cane while he sleeps in his rickety old chair. A bit of drool trails down from his mouth and onto the stones below. Shaking my head, I place a dry shawl on his shoulders.

"Isolde will be very unhappy when she finds that you slept here all night," I teasingly scold him, as I sit and begin mending the many fishnets piled to my left.

Deftly, I weave away the holes in the nets. While trying to block out the horrendous shrieks of children, as the young males finally enter the village square. I glare as they come, swaggering young men with spears in hand, muscles bulging as they walk. I snort at the females who flutter their eyes, and pretend to faint as the males pass them by.

I can't blame them, well not too much that is. It is true the males look jaw dropping gorgeous, with leather vests covering their sun darkened chests. Legs strong and lean beneath their cotton shorts and pants. Fine jaws and cheeks, framing their eyes the colors of emerald, onyx, macaw blue, and cocoa brown.

Indeed they are handsome specimens, but it is their natures that I detest. Lustful, crude, and woefully insufferable. All too soon I finish the last basket, but my hands continue to move, and begin sharpening the hunting spears next to the finished nets.

Again and again, I sharpen the spears till they are so perfect, that just putting a finger to them leaves me with shallow cuts. So enthralled in my work, I don't sense the male until it's too late. He smells wrong, not sharp salt like Ares, but bloody like dead slippery eel.

Clenching my fist around the sharpening tool, I glare up at the intruder with unbridled annoyance. The blond male smiles down at me with a sharp toothy grin. Tattoos of sharks and manta rays winding up his right arm, while a band of cowrie shells rings the other.

"Hello there," he says with a chuckle, stepping closer till he is nearly a foot away. "What's a pretty thing like you doing harsh work like that?"

"Working," I murmur, grabbing another spear and setting back to my task.

Another male's rumble of laughter follows. Though loud, it sends a shiver of recognition down my spine. "It seems you have lost your edge Marcus," Ares says, stopping by the blond's side and sending the scent of jungle grass my way.
"How about you try that little blond back there."

Ares jerks his head toward a group of females. Especially, the one with blond hair and wrapped in a dress of sea silk red. His friend backs away and takes off, leaving me with my supposed rescuer from the night before.

"Why are you doing that?" Ares asks, kneeling down on one knee barely a foot from my legs.

"What else is there to do?" I reply, scraping the stone edge to a sharp point. "It's the only thing that makes the day go faster."

Standing up, spear in hand, I head over to the hut wall and lean it on the wood. Turning around, I find Ares close to me, too close. Now our chests are inches apart, and his fingers find a path to trace on my left hand. I jolt back and into the hut wall, my dress sticking to my skin as I wish I could melt into the wet bark.

"There are other things to do," Ares whispers, placing a hand on the wall near my head.

"Like what?" I ask, my fingers craving to grab the freshly sharpened spear and push it into his stomach.

"You could swim, run, sing," Ares drawls, bringing his lips close to my ear. "Dream."

My irritation melts into sorrow. Dream, I always dream. Ever since father died, I have had endless dreams. Horrible dreams, eels chewing my flesh, a male forcing himself on me, the pain of my grandmother's hands on my skin. Tears burn my eyes as I wrap my hands around myself. Furiously shaking my head back and forth.

"Dream, dream you say," I hiss, digging my quickly sharpening nails into my arms. "How can I dream when all I see are nightmares?"

His curious face darkens with confusion. It makes me angry, more than angry, furious and cruel. So cruel that I shove him with all my strength, making him fall to the ground. I don't dare stay, fear wrapping its greasy cold hands round my chest as I run away into the jungle.

The dark wet jungle, my haven, my secret that lies buried here. My knowledge of each turn and curve in the overgrown footpaths of flower and vine. I cry as I run, surely someone saw and will gladly tell grandmother. Her punishment will be brutal, and I fear it will hurt worse than her blows. I continue to run, my feet turning bloody from sticks and stones.

I run, heaving damp clouds of air into my straining lungs. I keep going, harshly removing my apron and throwing it on a clutch of fruit bushes. Only then do I run faster and faster, heedless of the cliff that grows closer with each hurried step. I don't stop, not even when I hear Ares's familiar voice shouting for me to do so. A second later, I push of the grassy cliff, straightening my body into a perfect diving form. My heart thumping hard in my chest, as I plunge into the sea below.