Môrt was what was known in the kingdom of Atlantis as a flat.
It wasn't his physique that earned him the demeaning title. Granted, his chest was scrawny; Môrt couldn't keep any extra weight on him, while his own father was gifted with a portly belly and fleshy breasts. All throughout his 210 moons, he'd remained small and pathetically underweight.
Nor was it his colorless coda, which was utterly forgettable. One's coda was supposed to be a natural reflection of one's inner beauty, a permanently affixed banner that merfolk trailed behind themselves with pride. Yet while his fellow Atlantians boasted codas of emerald green or iridescent purple, Môrt's was the color of ash—dull and gray.
No, Môrt's defect as a flat ran deeper than that. Because even if one could overlook his bony frame and lackluster tail, it was impossible to ignore the fact that Môrt could not sing.
Given a verse, he could repeat it back perfectly, only—well, flat. Môrt couldn't carry a tune for the life of him but, rather, seemed destined to bury it. His singing had all the grace of a choking flounder, and any attempt to string two notes together was promptly squashed by everyone around him.
Stunted syrinx, the cadre of professionals had explained to his fretful mother. His chances of outgrowing it: slim. No amount of voice therapy or well-meaning discipline could make a difference, and gradually his mother's impassioned concern hardened into bitter resignation.
As if birthing a prince weren't bad enough, to have a flat prince was a downright disgrace to the royal name. Without song, Môrt was unable to participate in the harvest moon ceremony or recount the history of their ancestors. If not for the family crest he wore as a pendant around his neck, it would have been easy to doubt he was even of nobility.
At the moment, however, nobility was the furthest thing from Môrt's mind. Especially with four razor-sharp talons around his neck.
He wheezed as they clamped tighter another degree. Pinned to a cave floor like a fish at some gruesome market, the craggy volcanic rock bit into the soft flesh of his back and scales of his coda. His broad fin, ringed by a strand of decorative pearls, slapped feebly in the shallows of the small beach. When his scales dragged against the coarse sand, nothing like the soft silt gardens of the palace, his head reeled with exquisite pain.
Against every instinct, he willed himself to be still even as his heart jumped wildly beneath his ribs. Seawater had his long hair clinging stubbornly to his face, curtaining the world in strips of light and dark, and through the damp locks, he stared up at his assailant.
A man's face, wise in its age, stared impassively back at him. The broad, bulbous nose and full lips were avuncular in their plumpness. But this was no man who reached up his other foot to scratch at something behind his ear, talons glistening like ink. This was no man who regarded Môrt through the cold eyes of a predator.
White-flecked taupe feathers sprouted from around the faux-human face, lightening to a sandy tan down his neck and coating every inch of the beast's form—all curved back and muscular legs that stood on scaled toes. With his wings tucked to his sides, the harpy towered over Môrt like a gravestone, blocking out the daylight that glowed beyond the small cave's entrance.
For all that Môrt was afraid of the hulking man-hawk, an undercurrent of fascination kept his eyes roaming with wonder over the strange creature. He had listened to songs about harpies in the choral archives, the most riveting passages recited by his dear sister, Summyr, whose interest in all matters of the Dry was surpassed only by his own.
The Dry. A horrible yet mystifying world above the surface, where water meant death and air meant life. Everything about it had sounded unreal, the stuff of fantasies. It was the complete otherness of it that had captured Môrt's imagination since he was a guppy, and he spent more time than was considered healthy imagining what possibilities existed beyond his watery home.
But he now realized that the encyclopedic ballads were severely lacking.
Academia had the unfortunate side effect of stripping creatures of the Dry of their realness. Harpies included. Whittled down to quaint verses and crudely rendered zoological illustrations, nothing could capture the very real pinprick of talons against his jugular and the stench of decay that puffed from the harpy's flared nostrils as he swung his head side to side like a sea serpent ready to strike.
Swiftly, Môrt's fascination for the Dry shriveled to fear.
Môrt flinched back, holding in the precious gillful of water in his chest. At the sudden movement, the harpy cocked his head, blinked his large, dark eyes, and gave a guttural hiss. Between his parted lips, Môrt could see rows of ivory fangs as the beast leaned in for a closer look.
"I could have you now, little water-dweller."
The tone was a slow, rumbling bourdon coming unexpectedly from the hawklike body.
Môrt blinked in surprise. The words, while threatening in their own right, also had the uncanny ability to make the creature appear more than just a simple beast. Looking past his own terrified reflection in the black pits of the harpy's eyes, Môrt recognized a higher intelligence there he'd missed before.
"I could have you...right now," the harpy repeated. He lifted his taloned foot and trailed his claws down Môrt's throat to his belly—not enough to draw blood, but the message was clear all the same. The curled end of a talon plucked lazily at the young scales growing just below Môrt's hips. Then the harpy took a long and meaningful inhale along the length of him.
Môrt turned his face away and gurgled a whimper. He locked his arms across his chest as though that could possibly be enough to keep the harpy from tearing through his ribs and devouring his heart.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! What was I thinking, coming up to the surface!?
The surface. He might as well have swum right up to death's shore! He was a fool for thinking that anything good could come from venturing out on his own. And now he'd end up as a harpy's meal without having done a thing to help Summyr—
The harpy's rough tongue dragged across Môrt's face, cutting his internal tirade short. He was tasting him. Môrt clenched his eyes shut tight in anticipation of the impending bite that would put an end to his quest before it had even begun.
But the bite never came. A suffocating silence held for a handful of seconds, backdropped only by the sibilant crash of waves outside.
Môrt dared to crack open one eye. The harpy was no longer staring at him with hunger but had shifted his attention to something lower.
His eyes were fixed on the necklace resting on Môrt's breastbone. Sunlight from the sea gleamed on the small disk of polished shell, casting shards of white across the harpy's face. For a moment, he was mesmerized by the twinkling pendant. He then looked away, seemed to consider something, and slid his eyes shut in surrender.
"But you are meant for another." The harpy sighed and gave a sharp shake of his head, the stiff tuft of feathers on his crest rustling noisily. "He has been waiting a long time for you. He will be...pleased." He lifted his foot from Môrt and turned away, apparently losing interest in this particular catch.
Môrt had barely registered anything the creature was saying, too caught up in the sudden offer of freedom. With those awful talons gone, a glimmer of hope flashed in his chest. He's letting me go, he told himself, willfully naive. He's letting me go!
His eyes immediately flicked to the side where the great, open, beautiful sea was waiting for him just outside the cave. If he got out there now, he could be safe! On land, he was a prisoner in his body, heavy and awkward. The chill of air against his naked skin was unsettling enough, but there was also an unknown pressure he'd never had to contend with before. It seemed to come from inside him, dragging on his chest, his arms, his cheeks. The damning weight of his own bones.
But in the water, he could move fast. Much faster than a harpy. He'd swim and swim, never looking back, until he was home and safe within the palace's coral walls. He'd banish all lofty ideas of swimming off and getting caught up in a wild goosefish-chase ever again.
With the harpy busying himself with something out of sight, Môrt swallowed down the last of his fears and steeled himself for the escape. Now was his chance.
He flattened his hands against the rocky floor, lifted one shoulder. Besides, who was I kidding?
Everyone already knew he was a lost cause. For as long as Môrt could remember, he'd been invisible in the kingdom. How could Summyr have ever thought there was more to him than met the ear?
The blue waves beckoned him with a frothy to-and-fro. I'd never even been outside the palace grounds!
The palace had been dull, but at least it'd been safe. There, he had remained tucked away where he didn't have to serve as an embarrassment to anyone, like his father had done and his father's father and his father before that.
He rolled silently onto his side, wincing through the sharp stabs of pain as he dragged himself toward the water. What did I possibly hope to accomplish?
Hours of reciting his lessons with Summyr hadn't changed a thing. Members of the royal court still gave him trite words of kindness behind their pitying smiles. D'wong, the Grand Tutoress, wrote him off as inept. Everyone did, except for...
Summyr—graceful, intelligent, esteemed heiress to the throne, and their mother's "greatest treasure"—always listened to him no matter how out of tune he was. Infinitely patient and encouraging, she was the one beacon in Môrt's otherwise dreary life. And now she was gone.
The water was just within reach. One more agonizing inch, then another. How did I ever think I could help Summyr…
A flash of pink, familiar in its brilliance, winked at him from the beach's waters. It was a shell, perfectly formed and sitting just beneath the surface, almost as if it were waiting for him. He stretched his hand out toward it.
...when I'm just a flat?
Just then, a heavy bundle of ropes fell over him, flattening him to the ground. The harpy was back on him, tackling him and pulling him away from the water's edge with silent efficiency.
No! Môrt refused to go down without a fight, his own hands curved into claws and a bubbling snarl in his throat. He was quick, but the harpy was quicker. With a few deft tugs on the netting, the beast had wrapped it around and around Môrt until he was hopelessly tangled.
No! No!
Môrt squirmed and thrashed his coda frantically, the hemp ropes chafing along his pelvic fins. He knew enough about nets to know what was in store for him. Next came the hooks and spears and—Neptune save him!
Despite Môrt's best efforts, however, the harpy was unrelenting. Before long, he had rendered Môrt immobile, swaddled as tight as a merling in a kelp bed. He hissed again when Môrt gave a final, poorly aimed fin-slap at his flank but was otherwise unfazed.
"If you know what is good for you, you will not struggle while in his keep." It was delivered like a reading of last rites. "He is not as patient as I am." The harpy hooked his sharp talons through the netting, mindful not to nick his new cargo, and faced the open sea. He spread his wings high and wide, the impressive wingspan extending almost the full width of the cave. His feathers glowed in the sun's rays, and sand kicked up around them as he began to beat his wings up and down.
Môrt's stomach flipped at the nauseating feeling of being hefted into the air once more. He was first dragged unceremoniously across the small beach and into the seaweed-choked shallows for a blessed moment before being lifted clear of the water. Sunlight engulfed them once they burst free of the cave, blinding and brilliant. Another few beats of the harpy's wings, and they were soaring high.
The stifling cave fell away, and nothing but dreaded emptiness yawned menacingly between them and the sea. Môrt clutched at the netting and looked out at the cave as it became a tiny pebble in a great span of blue.
Then the blue gave way to a hazy film, then puffs of whiteness, then white.
Then Môrt was gone.
...
"FRIENDLY COMING IN FROM THE WEEEEST!"
Jarred rudely awake from his sleep, Rick yelped and tumbled out of his hammock to land in a heap on the deck. His half-empty bottle of rum fell out along with him, rolling across the wooden planks in a wobbly arc.
Grumbling to himself about good-for-nothing deckhands and lousy blue devils, Rick sat up and automatically felt for the book that had slipped off his face. Its comforting leather cover was warm and limber beneath his fingers when he finally found it. With an arm hooked over the hammock, he hoisted himself to his feet, swaying back and forth out of synch with the gently rocking ship.
Swallowing a wet belch, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm and looked about himself with a disgruntled scowl. What had woken him? He was considering dropping into the hammock again to revisit the dream of home he'd been enjoying, when the rum bottle rolled back to knock against his boot.
"Thanks for the triURP down memory lane," he muttered to the bottle.
Groggily, he stooped down to reach for it. Too much, too soon; too little, too late. Equilibrium hadn't caught up with him yet, and he nearly toppled over on the spot. Half-draped across the swinging hammock, he made a swipe for the bottle, missing it by a long shot. The next attempt was better, and at last he caught it around the neck.
Gotcha.
It was from his best batch of black rum. Picked up in Tortuga, the stuff would have him knocked out again faster than you could say liver damage. All the better. Not like he had anywhere to be today anyway. Judging by the westward wind on his cheek, he might just hoist the mizzen and let the sea carry him in circles for all he cared. Full sail to Nowheresville; population, one washed-up captain.
His sigh snuffed out his dry sense of humor and made the bones within his skin sag.
Rick had grown tired of the Caribbean. It was as simple as that. The sunny beaches and abundant Spanish stockpiles had lost their appeal. And the gold? All the gold in the world couldn't get him what he really wanted. After what he'd once had, the stuff was as good as pyrite. Not to mention those ruddy G.F. privateers always pressing down from the north. The Federación was relentless in its pursuit, though he didn't understand why they still bothered to hunt him. He was about ready to give up on his search anyway, with or without their assistance.
The rum sloshed in the bottle when he lifted it to his lips and burned deliciously while he gazed lazily up the bottle's punt through half-lidded eyes. A blue figure atop the crow's nest swam into view.
Aw, fuck it. A break from his dead-end search was just what he needed. Maybe he'd wander over to the Lessers and, eventually, the Leeward Islands. At least the pussy was good on Castries. Yeah. He could shack up there for a few days before—
"FRIENDLY COMING IN FROM THE WEEEST!" the lookout squawked again.
Rick choked on the mouthful of rum, sending it spraying in a spume of alcohol and spit. Some of it went up his nose, and he wretched with a generous dose of profanity as the liquid dribbled down the scruff on his chin to stain his tunic.
The announcement had struck him like an untethered boom to the back of the head. Rum dripped from the bottle with the steady tic-tic precision of a pocket watch as he stood in place, turning the information over in his mind. A westward wind. Westward wind.Only one friendly he knew of could sail against that.
Or, rather, fly.
Scooping up his tricorn hat from off the hammock, he marched astern, not bothering to glance up at the crow's nest again. It would already be empty anyway; the lookout had fulfilled its job of heralding the arrival of a visitor. And not just any visitor. This was a visitor Rick had been waiting weeks for.
"He's done it," he murmured to himself, a sharp focus supplanting his earlier fugue. His long legs carried him swiftly across the main deck, past the foremast and grated hatch at its center. "He's fucking done it!" Past the main mast and starboard row of guns. A cluster of deckhands, busy mending rope, kept their bald, blue heads down as Rick sped by.
Finally. Progress! He paused to ball his hands into fists with a maniacal cackle, only then noticing that the bottle was still clutched in his grasp. In his other hand was the book. By this point, the bottle was empty, and without a second thought, he tossed it overboard. He then plucked at the front of his tunic and sniffed.
Rum and a hint of bile—he'd evidently drooled during his mid-morning nap—made him wrinkle his nose. There was no way he was going to meet his new guest smelling so rank.
At the door to his captain's cabin, he dumped his soiled tunic on the threshold for some passing deckhand to collect. It was cool inside his personal quarters and, with the door shut, free of the inane twitterings of his crew. With excessive care, he first placed the book back on the shelf above his bed. Its worn, red cover was curled over like a palm tree that had weathered too many storms. His fingers lingered over it for a fraction of a second before he whipped around and tossed his hat onto the chair by his mahogany desk. Its expansive surface was topped high with dirty dishes and covered with grease-stained maps, untouched for close to four months now.
From the overcrowded armoire, he plucked a relatively clean tunic, an azure-blue waistcoat, and his sturdy, white captain's coat. The thick leather would be suffocating in this heat, but it was worth it. After all, he had anticipated this meeting for a long time, and he would wear his very best for the occasion.
He almost considered topping it off with his six-pistoled baldric but thought better of it. There'd be no need for violence in what was sure to be an amicable encounter.
Slipping one arm into the tunic's sleeve, he stood before the ship's sole mirror. The grid of small squares, rusted at their welded seams, was pockmarked and cracked, but Rick still took a moment to examine himself in its warped surface.
Life at sea had hardened his torso and arms into hewn muscle, leathered by the sun and dusted with graying hairs. That same sea and sun had wizened his face beyond its years, and although framed by infinite wrinkles, his eyes still held that unmistakable sparkle of cunning that could woo the testiest of trollops. His hair had been blustered into an unruly mop by the harsh, salty breeze, and he raked his fingers half-heartedly through it to make it behave. With a grunt, he stooped to fit all of his lanky height into the mirror's reflection.
As he shrugged on the waistcoat, choosing to ignore the missing button near the top, he wondered what she would be like. Gorgeous, no doubt. All the legends said as much. Would she shy away from him? Keep him at bay? A sly grin curved his lips, and he rubbed his hand over his unshaven chin. Or would she be so taken by his rugged good looks that she'd fall straight into his arms?
Another crack suddenly streaked across the mirror, and Rick scowled at the split reflection. He rolled his eyes at his own wasteful daydreams and set about putting on his coat. Its pristine white had been brushed clean from the last wearing, and it was by far the most luxurious piece of clothing Rick owned. Although "owned" was a loose term. He had pilfered it, same as everything else in his chambers, at one point or another during his travels on the high seas. It'd since grown to be a staple in his wardrobe, the bleached-bone white never failing to make an impression on every sorry sap that crossed his path.
He curled a finger over his chin. "Still missing something."
From a ram's skull on his nightstand, he slipped off a coiffed periwig. The rich, auburn curls tumbled down his shoulders and had surely cost its original English owner at least 25 shillings. He was bound to impress her now.
Donning his tricorn once more and standing in full regalia, Captain Rick Sanchez cocked his hat with a wink to the mirror before striding out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him. The force of it shook the room, making the hundreds of twinkling compasses sway where they hung from the ceiling.
Outside, the auburn wig burned ruby red in the sun's rays as Rick marched with purpose towards midship.
"Swab the main deck! I want those barrels of mead down in the bilge! Guns anchored!"
The orders were carried out as quickly as they were delivered, a flurry of movement on the usually quiet ship.
"OOH WEE, SWABBING THE MAIN DECK!"
Working in twos, the gangly deckhands rolled barrels onto a net hung within the open cargo hatch. "STOWING THE BARRELS! CAAAAN DO, CAP'N!"
Inordinately boisterous, the deckhands were still capable and precise with their work. There wasn't an ounce of wasted effort between them, save for their overzealous reports.
"GUNS ANCHOOORED!"
From an inside pocket of his coat, Rick produced a small turquoise box with geometric patterns across its surface. He punched the button on its top with every order, prepared to restock his crew the moment they had "dismissed" themselves.
"And where is Shnookums?" he barked. Almost at once, a deckhand held out a blue ball of fur the size of a kiwi fruit and placed it in the captain's open hand. "Very good, Mr. Meeseeks."
The deckhand saluted smartly and gave an ear-piercing "I'M MR. MEESEEKS, LOOK AT MEEE!" before disappearing in a puff of vapor.
Waving the cloud away with his free hand, Rick transferred Shnookums to his shoulder, where the small furball perched itself with little, gripping claws. It closed its six magenta eyes and purred contentedly as Rick rubbed its head with the pad of his forefinger.
There'd be no need for violence this day, but it never hurt to speak softly and carry a Shnookums.
"INCOMIIING!" Another Meeseeks belted out, pointing at something in the sky. Rick whirled around to see the harpy circling overhead in a slow, downward spiral. In the final moments before his guest's arrival, Rick took the opportunity to lick two fingers and primp his overgrown brow.
At last, the harpy landed in the center of the main deck, his cargo in tow. High-pitched cries of surprise rose up from the surrounding Meeseeks who fell back at the gusts of the great, beating wings.
Placing the netted bundle on the deck, the harpy arched his back and hissed menacingly at the curious spectators. He paced around his spoils, hackles raised, and made mock charges at any Meeseeks who ventured too close.
"Whoa, there. Come on, let's all just calm down." Rick approached, hands spread wide in supplication. "Birdperson, it's okay."
"I am no bird!" came the half-squawked reply.
Rick winced, continuing forward slowly. He'd almost forgotten how sensitive harpies could be. "Right, right. Harpyperson. My bad."
The correction satisfied Harpyperson's ego, and he ceased his pacing to stand between Rick and whatever—or, more accurately, whoever—was waiting for him in the net.
"That, uh, for me?" Hands still raised, he pointed a finger at the bundle, making out a sliver of pale skin and long, trailing hair from between the ropes. So close! I almost have her!
When Rick had come within a few feet, Harpyperson widened his stance and spread his wings, effectively shielding his prize from view.
"Don't forget our deal, Harpyperson. You brought her here for me." Rick strained to keep the annoyance out of his voice. After all, you don't piss off a towering, half-feral hawk man unless you've got a death wish.
"First, my payment."
Harpies were also incredibly shrewd business partners. Nothing ever came for free, and nothing happened unless on their terms.
Rick sighed and then plastered on a good-natured smile. "Not so fast, HP. First I need to make sure you brought what I asked for."
"You would doubt my eyes?" Harpyperson blinked long and slow as if to say, These eyes?
"I get it. My, what big eyes you have and all that. But listen, it's called 'quality control.'" From between Harpyperson's spread feathers, Rick spied a limp hand resting on the deck. It was intact but lifeless. "Checking for damaged goods. I know how you can get a little excited when you're on the hunt," he added, allowing a hint of warning to color his tone.
Harpyperson puffed up his feathers, making his neck and chest appear twice as large. He's actually proud of that, Rick remarked silently and hid a roll of his eyes by sliding his gaze down to the net. Without another word, the harpy stepped aside, letting Rick approach.
After he was certain that he wasn't about to get a talon to the neck, Rick cautiously lowered himself to one knee in front of the lump of netting. It was thick with the smell of sun-parched seaweed. Through the lattice of hemp, Rick could see a young face dozing peacefully in her nest. His heart seized as he looked at the long lashes fanned out over shimmering cheeks, and the plump, inviting lips. He reached inside to let his fingertips graze her skin. Cool to the touch and softer than silk, he had to swallow against a moan in his throat.
The rest of the creature was hidden beneath sheets of sea-green hair, and the ropes were wrapped too thickly to make out anything below her waist.
"Get her out of the ropes," he said softly, entranced by this glimpse of unearthly beauty.
For once, Harpyperson was cooperative, and his talons made quick work of the net. Immediately, its contents rolled free and into full view.
Rick gasped.
The sweet, cherubic girl he'd been admiring a moment ago was no more. A boy now lay in her place; the "hair" that had so coyly hidden its wearer, nothing more than stalks of kelp. Mystified, Rick reached out to touch them, and the twisted, green tresses slid off the boy's head to reveal shoulder-length locks of dull brown that clung to his cheeks.
His skin was the color of frothy surf, highlighted only by the pink that blushed his lips and chest—and genitals. The boy was naked as a babe, aside from a small charm around his neck, and Rick swallowed awkwardly on his behalf as he skirted his eyes away. Lower still, a pair of legs, long and hairless—
And he'd seen enough!
"Is this some kind of joke!?" Rick turned on Harpyperson, no longer afraid of his temper or claws as he upbraided him. "I asked you to bring me a mermaid! A mer-maid! This—th-this is—" He jabbed a thumb back at the supine boy. "Well, how in the hell do you explain this?"
Harpyperson snaked his head around Rick to have a look for himself. His black eyes went wide, then squinted. "It is a mermaid," he rumbled.
"Does this look like a mermaid to you?" In his exasperation, Rick grabbed the boy's right foot, with its anklet of pearls, and yanked it up. The soft, pink foot jiggled in front of the harpy's eyes.
"It was a mermaid when I first found it."
Rick dropped the foot and began to pace. In a huff, he tore off his tricorn hat with the wig still inside and threw it down onto the deck. The thinning patch on the back of his head was now exposed, but he couldn't care less. After all the anticipation of finally getting his mermaid, he felt like a fool for having gotten dolled up for nothing.
"Where, huh? Where'd you find him? The freakin' community swimming pool!?"
"No." Harpyperson was incapable of instilling emotion in anything he said, but Rick could still pick up on the impatience simmering beneath the surface. "I was 50 leagues south of Kingston, as the harpy flies."
To this, Rick scoffed. "You're gonna tell me you found him out in—what would a kid possibly be doing in the goddamn middle of nowhere?"
Harpyperson seemed to consider this. After a moment, he answered, "Because it is a mermaid."
Rick threw up his hands. "Of all the birdbrained..." he muttered, too low for Harpyperson to catch. He turned away and exhaled a long stream of breath, a literal vent to cool his temper. Smoothing a hand over his mussed-up hair, he continued. "Even if he were a mermaid, what good would it do, bringing me a deadmermaid?"
It was true, the boy hadn't moved over the course of their argument, never stirring even when he was yanked about. Gradually, the allure of his porcelain-white skin soured into the mask of death.
"Dead?" A sharp bark of a laugh from Harpyperson pulled Rick's attention back to him. The giant man-hawk rounded the boy's silent form, fisted one clawed foot, and thumped it down onto the inert chest.
Immediately, the boy's eyes flew open, and seawater gushed from his mouth. Curling onto his side, he hacked with deep, bone-jarring coughs. As he struggled to catch his breath, somehow appearing greener with each shaky inhalation, he looked about, confusion knitting his delicate brows.
"Water-dwellers play tricks."
When it seemed the boy had regained his breath, his eyes settled on Rick, and for a moment, Rick forgot himself. Those eyes were the color of the sea, of the deepest trenches and the clearest waters. The color of algae and tropical shores and the moon-dappled fin of a great white shark. Rick saw all these things within the boy's eyes, and it was only when Harpyperson spoke again that he snapped out of his trance, his breath coming fast.
"What would it matter if the mermaid were dead, when all you need is its tail?"
At the remark, the boy, who had been staring blankly at Rick, winced and bowed his head in defeat. Curious, Rick crouched by his side again.
"Not that kind of tail," he muttered.
He brushed a lock of hair away from the boy's face, wanting a better look at him—or perhaps wanting another look at those mesmerizing eyes. How they reminded him of something from the past, something beautiful and horrible he'd locked away.
Stiff with seawater, the boy's hair was still clean and free of lice or nits. His skin was smooth and evenly pale, as if it hadn't been touched by the sun in all his life. That was surprising, considering he had to be past apprenticeship age, judging by his height...and, ahem, length. Still, it was strange that he was hairless everywhere that would give any indication of his age.
Rick's eyes fell once more on the boy's pendant around his neck. Cupping it in his palm, he tilted it to and fro so that the light caught on its glistening surface. It was beautifully engraved, an ornate crest of sorts carved into the radiant mother of pearl. Then he curled his fingers around it and tore the pendant free from its silver chain.
The boy made as if to protest, but only a keening whine escaped him. Turning away, Rick got to his feet and held out the pendant to Harpyperson.
"Clearly, your attempt to capture a mermaid resulted in your inadvertently rescuing a shipwrecked lad. What you brought me is a simple cabin boy, lost at sea." He shook the pendant and sniffed. "You didn't fulfill your end of the bargain, but I'm not a petty man. Here. This should be payment enough for your troubles."
The pendant did its job of dazzling the harpy, who had a weakness for shiny things, but then Harpyperson shook his head and glowered. "You promised me 20 pieces. This measly trinket is not enough."
Rick cocked his head demurely. "Come now, HP. You know better than that. To demand payment for a botched job would be considered a dick move in your culture. No mermaid, no moola. But this ought to fetch you at least 12 at the market. Or perhaps it'll make a suitable courting gift for a little turtledove back home."
Harpyperson snarled at the low jab. "No thanks to you, it has been a challenging mating season for Harpyperson." With a single flap of his wings, he leaped into the air and landed on the boy's back, pressing him flat against the deck with a huff. He wrapped one large, clawed foot around the crown of the boy's head and wrenched it back cruelly, making him cry out. Slinking his feathered head next to his victim, he hissed, "If you will not take the boy, then I shall take his liver."
"No! I'll take him—" Rick reached out as a talon inched closer to one of those spellbinding, seafoam eyes. His reaction had been immediate, surprising himself, Harpyperson, and even the boy. But he was wise enough not to let the harpy know what he was really after. "—off your hands." He swept his arms to his sides in a careless shrug. "After all, the lad's skin and bones. And his liver's probably no bigger than a plum."
Harpyperson reared his head away, clearly disgusted by the thought of such a paltry meal.
"But with this—" Rick unwound the pendant from his fingers and let it dangle like a hypnotist's pocket watch. "—you could buy yourself a—an entire flock of lambs! Plump and tender lambs. And they've got the richest livers around."
It was working. Harpyperson stepped off the boy and stalked steadily towards Rick, eyes glued to the shiny, nacre medallion. He flicked his eyes once to Rick, back to the pendant, then snatched it from Rick's fingers with his mouth. Shuffling hurriedly away to a safe distance, Harpyperson maneuvered the pendant to one foot. He smiled at his new shiny trophy before turning back to Rick with a frown. "This may have paid for the boy's life, but it does not make whole your debt. From this day forward, you have no partner in Harpyperson."
It was an ominous farewell to mark his departure. With a running start, Harpyperson launched himself from the railing and took wing. After a few ungainly flaps, he caught a thermal, quickly climbing high into the sky, and in the next minute, he had soared into the distance and out of sight.
Rick watched him leave from the portside railing, flanked by the more curious Meeseeks who milled about without instruction. The sun had just passed its zenith in the sky, and the wind abruptly changed direction, flapping his hair into his face.
What a day it'd turned out to be. The first sign of progress in months, and now he had nothing to show for it. He'd spent years working to gain Harpyperson's trust. Losing one harpy as an ally meant losing them all. They were fiercely loyal creatures who would fight or defend based on where their kin's alignments fell. It was a significant setback to his operation.
But at least he hadn't been left completely empty-handed.
He turned to the young boy still lying prone on the deck.
"You better have been worth it."
...
Fire burned.
The sun burned.
And now, evidently, Môrt burned too.
No other word could describe the feeling of wretched air skittering down the inside of his throat and chest on the prickly legs of a sea centipede. It was too raw, too unfiltered. His lungs, accustomed to being blanketed in soothing water, were nearly seared by the cool, crisp air.
Everything burned and, simultaneously, everything was cold. Even with the sun baking him atop the wooden deck, Môrt shivered where he lay. The delicate skin of his elbows and belly depleted the heat from the cooked planks almost as quickly as it was absorbed. His coda was numbed with cold.
Smells, both very foreign and very familiar, wavered up from the soiled surface—the stench of carrion and animal oils, the fragrance of wood, and of course the ubiquitous aroma of his home. Its scent came like a balm to his lungs, and gradually the burning sensation diffused to an airy lightness. Manageable, but it still had Môrt's head spinning.
He groaned, afraid he was going to be sick.
"A groan. That's a start." A gruff voice came from above him, and Môrt willed himself to face the human that loomed overhead. His long form eclipsed the sun, and his features were cast in shadow as he held out his hand. "Let's see if we can't get you to talk."
Every cell in Môrt screamed at him to get away. He may have been spared from the harpy's claws, but that didn't mean he wouldn't end up on this brute's dinner plate instead.
He knew what the flesh-eating human would do to him. The harpy had said as much. He was after his coda! In a cruel twist of fate, humans valued merfolks' codas nearly as much as they themselves did, just all for the wrong reasons. Magical cure-alls, talismans, or simply for sport—there was no end to the excuses humans had to hunt down his kind.
On instinct, he flapped his coda to put some distance between himself and the coda-hunter. But he wouldn't budge. Or he did budge, but it was just a pathetic shuffle. Why wasn't he moving? He tried again, and something behind him banged itself hard on the deck. Môrt winced as the new and unfamiliar something—or somethings?—hurt.
"Didn't you hear me, boy?"
The coda-hunter was still speaking to him. If there was one thing that he'd learned about humans through his lessons, however, it was that they couldn't be trusted. They may have looked or behaved similarly to merfolk, but they were his natural enemy—and to be avoided at all costs.
Pushing the discomfort aside, Môrt looked around quickly in search of the nearest escape to water. They had to be near the ocean; he could feel her gentle rocking beneath him. Her age-old rhythm heaved somewhere beyond his sight, but as far as Môrt was concerned, she was worlds away. The wooden deck he lay on stretched out in all directions, and he felt impossibly small on what he now recognized was a ship. It was the means by which humans moved about on the water to do their hunting—a backward and primitive method compared to swimming, but as long as Môrt remained aboard, it was a prison.
Before Môrt could decide what to do next, however, the human decided for him. Grabbed about the upper arm, Môrt was pulled easily to his feet—feet?—the strength suddenly going out of his legs—legs!?—and he tumbled forward into two strong arms. He pushed himself away on automatic, locking his arms out stiffly in front of him, and looked down in shock.
Where he usually expected to see a sheet of gray scales, two spindly legs stretched out beneath him. The flesh tone of his belly, which now had a hole in it, continued down over a collection of strange, dangly bits that flopped uselessly with every move. Past the narrow thighs and knobby knees was a pair of feet with five toes that wiggled in greeting. He almost wouldn't have believed they were attached to him if not for the ring of his mother's pearls around one ankle.
What was going on? Nothing was making sense. First he'd been beached by that loathsome harpy, then dropped onto a coda-hunter's ship of all places, and now... Now he was—he was a—
A deep hum rumbled from the chest beneath his hands, vibrating up his arms. Swallowing, he forced himself to look up. His eyes grazed past a whiskered chin and thin, wind-cracked lips, eventually settling on two pools of dark brown. The eyes were hooded by heavy, tanned skin and topped with an arched brow of graying hair that was twisted in bemused interest.
The swarthy face was like nothing Môrt had seen before. As far as mermen went, their faces were permanently baby-smooth and hairless. Anything that even hinted at overt masculinity was just unbecoming. But looking at this man now—with his piercing eyes narrowed in the sea breeze, strong jaw bristled with hair, and pronounced Adam's apple between the lean muscles of his neck—Môrt found himself unable to tear his eyes away. His heart gave an involuntary thump.
What had gotten into him? He couldn't let this coda-hunter sweep him off his...feet?
By Neptune, what am I thinking?
Suddenly, those brown eyes widened, and the human grimaced. "Well, that's one way to say hello," he said with a grunt, glancing down meaningfully. Môrt followed his gaze, not understanding, until his eyes rested on the new additions to himself.
His right leg had shot up without his wanting it to, and now his knee was nestled in the center of the human's chest, beneath the keystone of his ribs. The left leg, meanwhile, was making a complete fool of itself by standing on tiptoe. It quivered with the effort and then dropped its heel to the floor, bounced once, and then stilled.
Appalled by the impromptu dance, Môrt whipped his head up again to see the human staring back at him with his eyebrow raised. Then the man peeled back his lips and roared with laughter.
Blood rushed inexplicably to Môrt's cheeks, and he blurted out, "Doʊnt læf!" At once, he regretted it and clamped both hands over his mouth—only to topple straight back into the man's waiting arms. His cheek connected with the firm plane of his chest where a heady cocktail of smells ravaged him: alcohol, clove, and acidic perspiration. Far stronger than any scents Môrt had known at home, they were a deluge on his senses, confusing and intoxicating.
Suddenly, he was aware that he and the coda-hunter were not alone. Dozens of workers busied themselves around the deck. They were human-sized and roughly human-shaped, but the blue creatures were anything but human. Môrt had seen them keeping their distance when the harpy had been there. Now they were going about their business, seemingly without interest for their newest visitor.
As if one coda-hunter weren't bad enough, now Môrt could see that he had a full crew to deal with. Outnumbered and clearly outmatched, he floundered like a veritable fish out of water. In a valiant effort to break free, Môrt squirmed on uncoordinated legs, only to find himself further entrenched in the coda-hunter's arms.
"Easy there, lad. Easy." The man chuckled, holding him up by the shoulders to steady him. "I see you haven't grown your sea legs yet." Turning his head, he gave a sharp whistle, hailing one of the strange, blue creatures to him. "Mr. Meeseeks," he clipped, "fetch this young man something to wear. Something simple from the hold ought to do just fine. But you'll have to bring it in a little."
"OOH WEE! CAAAAN DO, CAP'N!" the deckhand shrieked before jogging away.
Môrt recoiled at the abrasive sound, unwittingly tucking himself deeper into the coda-hunter's embrace. He blinked, wide-eyed.
Captain?
The captain laughed again. "Don't worry. You get used to it."
Once Môrt had at last found his footing, the captain eased him off himself to stand on his own. The cold, which had taken a backseat to the plethora of other overwhelming developments, blustered down the length of him with renewed ferocity, and he hunched his naked shoulders, shivering violently. A feeling like jellyfish tentacles kissing his skin had him clutching his arms.
Without warning, a heavy blanket settled over his shoulders. Wait, not a blanket. A coat. It was the captain's own white coat that now dwarfed his small stature, dragging on the floor.
The urge to shirk it off was strong—to rid himself of such intimate contact with something belonging to a coda-hunter—but the desire to stay warm was stronger. Môrt clutched the lapels close and tucked his cheek against the inner lining, relishing the body heat that radiated from it like a sun-soaked beach. There, he found a moment's respite from the squall of oddities that had his nerves wrung raw.
Daring a look up through his lashes, he saw the captain eyeing him closely, his penetrating scrutiny chasing a tremor down Môrt's nape. In the next instant, however, it had passed. The eyes crinkled into cheerful crescent moons, and a chummy smile broke over his face like a sheet of cracked ice before he stepped away.
"So what language was that?" the captain asked, gently handing off a small ball of fur Môrt hadn't noticed before to one of Mr. Meeseeks' twins. He then unbuttoned his waistcoat and dropped it atop a nearby barrel.
Free of his stuffy coat, the captain now appeared smaller, made modest by the simple fabric of his tunic and a delicate sash about his narrow waist. Modest but still unequivocally intimidating. His sleeves, rolled up to the elbow, revealed tanned forearms banded with muscle. He looped those same muscled arms through a trellis of ropes that was stretched between the railing's chainplates and the highest mast.
Chainplates. Mast. The glossary of Dry terms taught to him by Summyr flooded Môrt's mind as he took in the ship around him. They'd covered medleys of them whenever she stole him away to indulge in their shared hobby of studying the forbidden Dry, and now he unconsciously cataloged the many strange objects he'd only heard of in song. Although a thin layer of trepidation coated his every thought, outright wonder kept his panic at bay. He'd often imagined coming up to the Dry, but none of the scenarios had ever gone quite like this.
"¿Hablas castellano? Finnish? Old Druid? Tell me you at least speak the King's English."
Môrt hesitated before answering. He'd already made the mistake of letting slip his mother tongue once. The human might not have recognized it as Algaelic, but he couldn't risk revealing anything that would let on that he was, in fact, merfolk. Looking away, he drew upon his knowledge of human speech like his life depended on it—which, in a way, it very much did.
"Yes..." So far, so good. "I-I-I-I s-s-speak." Aaaaall right. Not quite what I was expecting.
Môrt could practically feel the captain narrowing his eyes with suspicion. He pressed his lips together before trying again. "I-I-I'm j-just c-cold."
No matter how hard he willed his vocal cords to work properly, the stutter was resilient, every broken consonant making Môrt blush harder. In the hopes of taking the attention off of his strange speech impediment, he switched tactics and laid on the gratitude.
"I mean, I-I'm very g-grateful, my lord. Th-thank you f-for rescuing me."
"Is that what it looked like to you?" The captain gave a last ambiguous look at Môrt before slipping his arms out of the ropes. He then turned on his heel and began walking briskly away without waiting for Môrt to answer. "All right, then. Follow me."
Môrt stood, stunned by the captain's audacity. It was almost like he was confident that Môrt would tag along willingly.
And he was right.
True to form, Môrt felt the instinct to follow overriding his every hesitation. He'd always relied on the direction of a tutor or caretaker or guard within the palace, and the habit had left him with barely any experience taking agency for himself. Now, sorely out of his element, he found he was drawn to the first available authority figure.
Despite all his prejudices, the coda-hunter was quickly posing as the best candidate. After all, so far he'd extended every courtesy to Môrt. He'd negotiated his freedom from the harpy, helped him off the floor—as embarrassing as that'd turned out to be—and even offered him his own coat.
And for all intents and purposes, Môrt was now a human, wasn't he? As long as the captain didn't think he had a coda to give, he would treat him like his fellow man. For the first time since he'd arrived on the ship, Môrt felt the vise of fear loosen its grip on him.
He gave a quick but longing glance at the railing and the waves that dipped and swelled beyond it. The wind whipped his hair into his eyes, and when he reached up to grab it out of the way, he balked. Where he would usually find fistfuls of long hair, the strands were unnaturally short, going no farther than a palm's length past his ears. First his coda gone, now his hair?
He sighed, facing the reality that the return home, not to mention his search for Summyr, wouldn't be so simple now. Stuck in this bungling human body, he couldn't just dive head-first into the water. How would he survive the journey?
In the meantime, at least his life wasn't in any immediate danger here on the ship. Watching the captain stride away, his innate leadership like a lifeline in this strange, new world, Môrt clutched the coat more tightly around himself and took his first step forward.
Choosing to follow and actually doing so in a coherent manner, however, were two different things. Walking was nothing at all like swimming, and again his new legs refused to cooperate. At first, his feet were anchored to the floor by the heels, forcing Môrt to take tiny, mincing steps. But when he tried to compensate, his steps ended up too large, butting him right up against the captain's back in two bumbling strides.
The captain just looked down at him with mild amusement. "You're a funny one, aren't you."
"S-sorry." Môrt knew it was a silly thing to apologize for. Like he'd asked to lose his precious coda in exchange for these abominations. Behave! he yelled to himself, hoping his legs would listen. Eventually, he managed to eke out a shaky but determined gait.
Unlike walking, etiquette came much more easily. Fin'ishing school was the one area of his learning that Grand Tutoress D'wong hadn't skimped on, and as they said, Manners maketh mer. Besides, until he understood how he'd gotten into this mess and, more importantly, how to get out of it, it'd be wise to stay in his savior's good graces.
"I-I really do a-appreciate it. But w-why did you save me? From that S-Sir Harpy Person, I mean."
"That sir harpy person," the captain echoed to himself.
"A-and if I may ask, w-where are you taking m-me now, my lord?" Môrt ducked to avoid two Meeseeks carrying a beam between them.
To this, the captain didn't miss a beat. "Your quarters, of course. Can't have you sleeping out here on the deck." He turned abruptly to bellow instructions at a passing group of deckhands. "Batten down the hatches, Mr. Meeseeks! Make ready the ionic defibulizer! And swing the fors'le to port!"
A pack of the blue creatures sped past Môrt on their mission to carry out the captain's enigmatic commands, and he was spun around a full circle.
My quarters?
Was the captain actually implying that he stay aboard? Not that he had much say in the matter. But the promise of comfortable accommodations was yet another show of the captain's gentility. Not to mention it would afford him the time needed to think on his dilemma. Something had transformed him into this—this thing. But there had to be a way to change him back. He was a smart guppy; he would use his wits and his newfound façade to figure it out.
Just then, the ship juddered violently, nearly bowling Môrt over before it settled again. By the time he righted himself, his guide had disappeared from view. A timely ahem pulled his eyes skyward.
The captain was standing atop a large crate at the base of one of the ship's masts, where he was scooping up a coil of rope, completely unconcerned. "Our feathered friend said he found you half a day's sail from Kingston. Is that where your ship berthed?"
Then, with an ease that comes with experience, he swung the rope to a pair of deckhands seated on the long beam high overhead. The wind buffeted open his loose tunic, and from his vantage point, Môrt could catch glimpses of silver hair quivering over the muscles of his broad chest as he moved, the very definition of physical prowess.
"Man the ropes, ya bloomin' gudeons!" The captain was still dishing out orders, his voice booming over the bustle of activity. "If ya don't trim that sail before I'm back, it'll be a woodlin' for ya!"
Môrt swallowed. It was nothing like the soft, mild-mannered demeanor of proper mermen. To act so domineering was just—well, it was indecent!
Just as indecent as it was for Môrt to keep gawking.
He shook his head back to the pending question. "K-King's Tongue?" Oh, Kingston! The name was familiar, but of course Môrt had no personal association with it. It was simply the name of some Dry-forsaken human settlement. But to have swum so close to it, he must have traveled farther from home than he thought.
When Môrt had first trekked out just the night prior, he hadn't had a specific course in mind. In fact, his mind hadn't played much of a role so much as his heart. His heart had told him to take action, so that the moment he'd seen that golden line of light in the water—well, he had to follow it. As ridiculous as it now seemed.
What he'd done was reckless, risking it all on nothing more than a fin and a prayer. He'd allowed himself to be guided out here. It was now up to him to guide himself back. And Kingston was as good a marker as any to start from.
"Y-yes!" he said a little too loudly when the captain had dropped down onto the deck in front of him again. Then a little too stiffly: "I-I am from K-Kingston."
Lying was not something that came naturally to Môrt. The impulse to retract the lie and come clean was fierce, but he reassured himself that the act was necessary if it meant keeping his head above water.
"Ah. Then you must—"
"The parish of K-Kingston. P-population: 6,350. Primary exports: sugar and the s-s-slave trade." He rattled off the statistics, finding safety in the listing of memorized facts he'd gleaned while combing through the catalog of local human establishments. He beamed, anticipating the same approving smile Summyr would typically reward him with.
The captain stopped in his tracks and just blinked at him instead. "You know your stuff, I'll give you that," he finally said. "He must be grooming you good."
He? He who?
Drumming his fingers against his chin, the captain continued. "So what's dear old Daddy in the business of, pray tell?"
Just then, another of the Meeseeks appeared in front of Môrt and dumped a tunic into his arms. The fabric was stiff as a slab of rock, starched a hundred times over with sea salt. He fumbled with the mass, too distracted by the captain's question to give a proper thank-you to the help.
Why would he want to know about my father? Môrt wondered. "Um, s-sugar?"
"Excellent. Never liked bothering with the other stuff. Too 17th century." He flicked a hand, banishing the very notion. "But sugar... Lotta money in sugar." Clasping his arms behind his back, the captain strode on. "Now your father's name. To whom shall I be returning you?"
A hopeful smile bloomed on Môrt's face. He couldn't believe his luck! And here he'd feared he would be stuck on this ship for Neptune knew how long! Evidently, the captain was just as eager as he was to send him on his way.
Giddiness buoyed his reply. "Jeroboam, uh...S-S-S-Smith!" Humans attached second names to their first, he'd learned, and the sunken H.M.S. Smith he used to explore as a merling provided just the alias he needed.
Môrt conveniently left out the title of "king," of course. No reason to confuse matters. The simpler he kept the story, the simpler the story would be to keep. Besides, "king" was more of an honorary label anyway. A mere formality. Everyone was well aware that the real power was held by his mother, Queen Bethel, just as the tradition would have been carried on by Summyr.
"I'M MR. MEESEEKS!"
Môrt stopped short as a pair of trousers joined the tunic. This time, he wouldn't miss the opportunity to extend his courtesies to the captain's crew as well, seeing as they would be his shipmates for the time being. Although he did find it strange that they all shared the same name. "Y-yes, Mr. Meeseeks. Pleased to make your acquain—" By the time he turned around to address the deckhand, however, the Meeseeks had disappeared.
Odd.
Overhead, the sails snapped into a flock of elegant arches as the wind filled them. Something fluttered in the bowl of his belly, peculiar but a touch exhilarating.
The captain had paused in his walk to scratch at the back of his neck. "Jerry Smith, Jerry Smith… Can't say I've heard the name. Then again, merchant lords are always coming and going from port these days."
"LOOK AT MEEEEE!" Another Meeseeks sped by, and a pair of soft leather shoes topped the pile which was now growing unwieldy in Môrt's arms.
Forcing a smile—all this turning around was getting dizzying—Môrt replied graciously, "Y-yes, I see you, Mr. Meeseeks, i-if you would just kindly s-stay sti—" Again, he was gone.
"By the way, lad."
Môrt's annoyance was short-lived as the captain spun on his heel to face him. He was awfully close now. That gentle smile was looking more and more welcoming, and Môrt nearly dropped his load of clothing as he found himself leaning forward—or was that simply the sway of the ship?
"You got a name to go with that stutter? Can't expect me to keep calling you 'lad,' can you?" The captain reached out and smoothed a hand over Môrt's wrist. The gesture was intensely intimate, but rather than jerk away, Môrt allowed the captain to lift his hand, compelled to see what he would do next.
With all the care of a pearl purveyor, the captain turned his wrist over and felt along his palm—oh, that tickled!—before slowly curling each finger in some sort of inspection. But as for what he was inspecting, Môrt hadn't the slightest. All he knew was that he enjoyed the sensation. Abruptly, the captain let go of his hand, and Môrt nearly dropped his bundle in surprise.
"Your name?"
"Um, it's M-M-Môrt."
"Well, Young Master Muh-Muh-Môrt." The honorific title had Môrt's royal heart fluttering. "We're here."
They'd reached the ship's bow where twin flights of curved stairs led from the main deck to a higher platform. But that wasn't where the captain was now gesturing with an open palm. Set squarely between the staircases was a sturdy, wooden door inlaid with a quartered window. A deckhand was holding open the door, but it was too dark for Môrt to make out anything within.
"A-and you, my lord?" Môrt chirped, ignoring the way his voice broke. With a timid smile, he stepped forward for a better look at his new lodgings. "W-what should I call you?"
"Me? Why, you can call me your cap—"
Môrt flashed a grin over his shoulder. "Captain?"
Hardly any light reached the interior of the room, and when Môrt stepped in fully, the air was cool and stale. A thin layer of dust lifted from the floor where he stepped, and the threadbare rug underfoot was pale and washed out. Môrt didn't know much about human habitations, but even he knew that the smell of rotten wood was an unpleasant one. This couldn't be right.
"More like captor."
A shadow fell over Môrt from behind, blocking the daylight and darkening the room to tenebrous hues. With the sun blotted out, the temperature dipped, and a fresh wave of goosebumps swept down Môrt's neck. Doubting his ears and feeling his grin begin to falter, he whipped around to face his savior-now-turned...
"C-captor?" he croaked.
One arm propped gaily on the doorjamb, the captain was looking at Môrt with an eel's grin. He arched a brow. "My word. You really don't get what's happening, do you?"
Môrt was convinced that he'd simply misheard. Perhaps the captain was playing some kind of silly human joke. He did seem to get a thrill out of making Môrt's heart pound. Yes, this was all just a ruse for the captain's own amusement.
Determined not to show his trepidation, Môrt attempted to pass him on his way out the door, but the captain planted a hand on his chest and shoved him back. With the bundle of clothes still clutched tightly to his bare sternum, he struggled to maintain his balance.
"Just where do you think you're going? I can't have you wandering around on your own and damaging the goods. It'll deduct from your ransom."
"R-ransom?"
"Don't play dumb." The quick smile he flashed Môrt never reached his eyes. He stalked closer, crossing the short distance until he was practically on top of him. When he shot out his hand, Môrt flinched, expecting a strike, but he only took Môrt's cheeks between his fingers and turned his face this way and that. "Clean hair? Not a tan line or callous in sight? To say nothing of your flashy, little trinkets. You're an aristobrat, the spoiled offspring of some hopper-arsed, money-grubbing merchant, I'll wager." He released his pincer grip and pushed Môrt's face away with a scoff. "Emphasis on the 'money,' mind you."
Môrt felt as if the sea floor had crumbled out from beneath him. The once cordial captain had suddenly been replaced by this two-faced shark. It was impossible to imagine that he was the same man he'd almost trusted.
The captain's eyes roved up and down his length in a way that made Môrt's blood run cold. "And judging by your exquisite pedigree, what with all the 'sir' and 'my lord' bullshit, I'm sure your father will pay handsomely for your return." He tilted his head, eyes mere slits. All joviality had fled, and his next words dripped like acid. "Now, be a good little hostage and sit your scrawny ass down."
The verbal assault might as well have been physical, because Môrt's knees gave out from under him at that very moment. He collapsed, tunic and trousers scattering all over the grimy floor. The captain's white coat slipped off one of his shoulders, letting the chill snake around his bare flesh. Terror had him rooted to the spot, phantom voices from his past howling in the same voice to sit still, be small—
"And be quiet."
There it was again—the one instruction he'd been given again and again since the day he was born. He ducked his head on automatic, a clot of bitter familiarity crowding his throat. Yet again, the mere command had the power to silence him.
"We'll be in Kingston in a few days, and I don't want to hear a peep out of you before then." The captain's silhouette filled the doorframe, his hair spiked into devil's horns as he sneered. "You've already cost me my best lead in ages, so the least you can do is make it up to me. You might not be the mermaid I was hoping for, but your ransom ought to tide over my coffers for the next—"
Môrt wasn't listening, his mind hooked on the barb of the captain's command.
Be quiet.
He'd heard it delivered with disappointment by his parents and with disapproval by his tutors. It seemed his fortune had followed him beyond the kingdom, determined to remind him precisely of his place.
Be quiet?
That burning sensation from before now flamed his cheeks, only this time it had nothing to do with the bite of the air. Instead it rose from deep inside his very core, a crackling fire born of righteous indignation.
All he'd ever been was quiet! His entire life, Môrt had been told to hush up, don't be a bother, and don'tbother singing. Sure, he had been born a flat, but to the entire kingdom, he might as well have been mute. Passivity had been the guideline for his every action, to the point where he practically felt like a spectator in his own life.
And where had that gotten him?
Too fearful to fend off the harpy, he'd let himself be carried out of that cave and straight into a coda-hunter's clutches. Then he'd been too timid to leap from the railing the first chance he got. His own inaction now found him a prisoner in a half-rotted storage room.
At this rate, he'd never get home, never get back to his warm bed again, never get to—
Never get to find Summyr.
Rescuing her had been the very reason he'd left home in the first place, but Môrt realized with an ugly wash of guilt that he had almost been ready to give up on her, thinking only of saving his own scales first.
After everything Summyr had done for him, he couldn't just abandon her. Summyr had believed in Môrt when no one else did, even himself. On the days he felt at his lowest, she would always tell him: Everyone has a song inside them, Môrt. You just have to find yours.
A small keen sounded in his throat, his syrinx desperate to find the song he hoped was there. He opened his mouth and...
With a war cry he didn't know himself capable of, he darted to his feet and threw himself forward. For once, his small size was a saving grace, and he slipped beneath the captain's arm before he even knew what was happening, barreling towards the exit.
A tidal wave of stinging curses slammed into his back, but he was already out the door and onto the sunlit deck again, racing up the stairs to higher ground. Through Neptune's blessing, his newborn legs managed to land every other tread, until the cursed long coat caught beneath his heel on the last step. He sprawled headlong onto the upper deck.
Just ahead came the sound of sea vents burping out air—one, two, three times—and from the bottom of the stairs, he heard the captain shouting.
"Get a hold of him, boys! I don't want him ruining my coat!"
Môrt snapped his head up to find three Meeseeks suddenly standing before him. He scrambled back and up onto his feet as they reached out for him. Finding the coat tangled stubbornly around his legs, he wrenched the revolting thing off of him and threw it at the nearest Meeseeks who caught it easily. Immediately, the blue creature erupted into a cloud of white.
As the vapor dissipated harmlessly into the cool air, Môrt's jaw fell open around a half-formed cry of dismay.
The Meeseeks had just—he'd—he'd exploded!
Before he could give it any more thought, however, the other two Meeseeks closed in on him with their mittened hands. He ducked beneath one pair of outstretched arms and bolted for the railing by the bowsprit.
Water had always meant safety, and right now, it was the only option for escape he could think of. Human or not, he'd rather risk drowning than spend another second here, trapped as a prisoner on this ship with that dreaded captain!
His fingers curled over the polished wood. Môrt now stood on the precipice of freedom, and he was torn between the terror that lay behind him and that which lay ahead, knowing he was about to dive into the unknown—literally. Just as he leaned over far enough to see down the side of the hull, he was suddenly paralyzed by a massive eye, almost as big as his head, staring straight at him.
Beside him and below, rising up like a divine apparition, a giant merman was lunging from the front of the ship. So startled by the sight, Môrt nearly stumbled back, thinking himself in the presence of a god.
Larger than life, the merman's arms were raised overhead, his hands fisted around a beam that had been fashioned into a deadly harpoon. Wind and water had eaten away the wood's once lavish paint job, but the flecks of missing color did little to detract from the majesty of the figure. Muscles bulged along his arms and back, and a long, pale beard trailed out from his square chin.
The figurehead was as stunning as it was blasphemous. No merman had ever been memorialized in such a grandiose form, especially never one as provocative as this one. It was just another instance of the Dry's lack of propriety, twisting the sacred image of the Goddess Neptune into this manly, erotic interpretation.
When Môrt finally tore his eyes from the effigy, he turned to look down at a great expanse—of open air.
Where the blue-green sea was supposed to greet him, only a carpet of clouds filled his vision. From between idly passing white puffs, the ocean twinkled in and out of sight at an immeasurable distance. It was with a sickening heave of his stomach that he realized the ever-present cry of seagulls was not coming from above them, but below.
But how are we—it can't be—what kind of sorcery is this?
Two sets of arms suddenly hooked him around the shoulders and dragged him back from the railing. He went without resistance, too stunned to fight back. The moment the Meeseeks deposited him far away enough from the edge, they too poofed out of existence.
Môrt stood there, bowed over and queasy. This was the second time today he'd been brought to such a dizzying height, and he commanded all his willpower just to keep from fainting on the spot.
"Like I said, you're not going anywhere." The captain announced his presence behind him with his usual debonair tone.
Nausea curdled in the pit of Môrt's belly as he looked up at the masts where the deckhands whooped and hollered. They were draped off the spars, a writhing tarp of blue that blended in with the sky, gathered together to enjoy the spectacle of Môrt's misery.
"I'M MR. MEESEEKS! I'M MR. MEESEEKS!"
It was on par with a squabble of gulls, and the shrill ruckus set his teeth on edge.
He felt a hand fall on his shoulder, heavy as a guillotine. Beside him, the captain stood with a fist on his hip, his coat tossed nonchalantly over one shoulder as though he were perfectly at home in this madhouse.
Môrt's voice scraped out of his throat, weak as a death rattle. "Who—who are you?"
"The name's Sanchez. Captain Sanchez. Pirate Captain Sanchez." With one arm spread out over his domain of bansheeing Meeseeks, he then declared with no small amount of pride, "And welcome to the Shrieking Siren."