Of the Sea (Travels Of Kerriya)

in which we meet the merfolk

In water, both magic and disease spread fast and far. Mae learned this when she was ten, right at the brink of turning eleven.

Her tribe had just encountered another group of merfolk. The other tribe, who summered a little further north than Mae's, had already begun their autumn journey to the warm waters of the south. Both tribes were delighted to see the other—Mae became quick friends with a boy who was near her age, and together they hunted for urchins to crack open and eat in secret before dinnertime. Mae's father, who had grown up in the other tribe, introduced Mae's mother to all of his childhood friends, who promptly shared enough embarrassing stories about his childhood that he thoroughly regretted the introduction. Older merfolk rested their bones at the edges of the excitement, murmuring about things long gone and almost forgotten—hunts that had been blessed by the Goddess of the Vivid Sea, before she had fallen into ever-longer slumber; men they had loved and outlived; the depths of the sea they could no longer visit in their older bodies. Younger folk helped tie the new tribe's boffish next to their own animals, sharing awkward glances and accidental touches.

When night fell, they called in high tones for tiny glowfish that flitted through their hair and brushed against their fingertips, looking, as always, for food. Lit by their flickering lights in the dark of the sea, the merfolk shared food and sang traveling songs. Other merfolk joined in the song from far across the expanse of inky blue, their low melodies carried across the ocean by the magic of the water. Mae, who had only just started to sing in harmonies, cautiously joined the adults in their song, and delighted in the strange way her voice melted into the voices of others. Her father smiled proud through his singing, and held her small hand tight.

Early the next morning, Mae's tribe readied themselves for their autumn journey. They had already completed most of the preparations—their woven seaweed homes were untangled and left to grow free, while the glowfish were coaxed into large glass jars bought from human traders to bring them on the journey. The boffish had their travelling harnesses fitted and secured, after which they were tied together in a long line to prevent them from wandering off as they travelled.

Mae was excited. She remembered the journey from the previous year—she was looking forward to seeing the selkies, who lived a little ways south on their path to their winter territory, and seeing the girl with short hair and pretty spots on her skin that she had played with before. And beyond that were the Winter Cities, where merfolk lived year-round, trading with humans, harpies, and the rare, strange-looking iterin folk from the mana-rich Pathways. There would be delicious treats and wonderful trinkets galore—if only her parents would let her trade for some this year. Determined, she set off to tell them that she had saved up her old scales and loose hairs, and it was perfectly fine to trade them with humans, it wasn't actually all that strange when you thought about it—when she saw her parents.

Her mother was holding onto her father, his arms hanging limp around her neck. His skin, which was usually a rich, seashell brown, was nearly grey, and mottled with pale specks. Each breath he took was shaky and laboured.

The busy preparations around them had shuddered to a stop, and alarmed whispers made waves through all those watching. Mae watched one back away, then swim off in a hurry. Something was clearly wrong.

She pushed through the crowd.

"Mom?" She tried to get closer. "What's wrong?"

"No!" Mae's mother put her hand out, as if Mae were dangerous. As if she were dangerous. "Stay away!"

Then she realised she was yelling at Mae, little Mae, whose eyes had widened in fear. She took a slow, shaky breath. "Your daddy—he's not... he isn't feeling good, and we don't want you to get sick." Her voice shook and wavered. "It's just like—it's like when we got that flu last year, remember?"

Mae nodded. She couldn't stop watching her father's breathing. She felt almost as though if she looked away he wouldn't take another breath.

"I know you want to help, but you'll get sick, and you know we don't want you sick, right?"

Mae nodded reluctantly.

Her mother smiled, though her brows remained creased. "I want you to stay with Uncle Edie, ok? He'll make sure you're ok, and we'll come back when we're all better, all right?"

Mae didn't believe her.

"Ok," she whispered.

"Mae," murmured a soft voice. The young man she had pushed out of the way to see her parents, Edran, reached down to her. She kept her eyes on her mother and father.

"Let's get you home, ok?" He took her small, shaking hand in his own large, shaking hand. "Seri's gone for the healer, a-and she'll make sure"—His voice cracked—"she'll do her best to bring Iza and Redrik home safe."

She didn't move, didn't look away. Edran waited a moment, hesitating at the thought of leaving his terrified sister behind with her sick husband, then gently pulled Mae away.

Mae couldn't sleep that night. The journey had been postponed due to the others that had found themselves with pale white specks on their skin. She searched her own skin, darker than her father's but paler than her mother's. Every time she thought she might have found a spot on her skin, she felt hot shivers shoot up her neck and into her jaw, and every time she found her skin unblemished. Her heart continued to pump erratically. One part of her almost wished that she were sick, and then she could be scared alongside her parents instead of alone. The other part of her was terrified that she could be sick, and that she and her parents and everyone else that was sick would die.

Edran, who had been helping the healer identify the sick and set up quarantine, had come to tell her that her parents were sent to isolation with the others that were sick. He told her that her mother was sick, too. Her parents both had something called whiterot—a rare disease of magic from the Pathways. The whiterot plant was a rare plant that sometimes grew there, feeding harmlessly off of little spirits, whose mana was far more concentrated than other creatures. If someone got too close to one and breathed in its seeds, it would feed voraciously off of their mana, and spread its seeds through their breath. Mae knew that mana was essential to life—without it her parents would eventually die.

When she asked if it could be cured, he looked away and told her he wasn't sure. Mae was young, but still she knew that he was lying. And if he was lying, she knew he was lying to be kind—and if he was lying to be kind, that meant that the truth was much, much worse.

In the dark hours before dawn Mae felt herself drift in and out of consciousness. Her skin felt hot and prickly, though she was sure that she didn't have a fever. Edran was gone, likely helping the healer again. She could feel the empty spot that he had left behind her like a shadow on her back. She felt lightheaded.

Mom and Dad are gone. Uncle Edran is gone. I don't want to be alone. I can't do anything to help anyone. I can only lie here alone and useless and worrying and horrible and—

Over and over the thoughts repeated in her mind, making ghastly appearances in her wavering nightmares, until she woke for real. And by then, even if it was while she was dreaming, she had decided. She would go to her parents and be with them, no matter if she could get sick or not. Maybe she was already sick. She had slept next to her parents the night before, after all. Carefully, quietly, she put herself together. She clasped on her favourite necklace, the one her mother had helped make, and her bracelets, and finlets. She braided her hair in the low, easy way that her father had taught her, with a tiny string of seed pearls woven into it. She wrapped herself in the overlarge seaweed and byssus cloth that she had bought when her parents taught her how to barter for the first time. Like armour, she wrapped all the memories of her parents around her, and left her uncle's empty space behind.