Some of you may have heard of NaNoWriMo, and some of you may have been wondering why it was taking me so long to update this blog. For those who don’t know, it’s shorthand for National Novel Writing Month, and it’s the handle coined by the non-profit organization that brings writers together every November to write a novel – 50k words – in 30 days. The site (run by donations) offers community and support to those writers throughout the process, as well as during the rest of the year. They help people host local writing events, provide forums and support, and schedule a wide assortment of published authors to give feedback and encouragement to aspiring writers. It’s a fun, mad dash for a finish line that can provide much-needed motivation and inspiration.
For the first time ever, although I’ve often used November’s NaNoWriMo association as an excuse to work more on a given project, I’m having a serious go at it. This year, I’ve sacrified my excuses as an offering to my muse, and I’m writing a book. It’s an adaptation of the Little Mermaid, but while afficionados may recognize many elements, it’s not the story as you know it. This, of course, has taken a huge amount of my time recently, in addition to a recent new job, so I apologize for the scarcity of new posts.
In the meantime, please accept this excerpt from my project as a celebration of passing 20k words! I’m excited about how it’s going so far, although it’s still in the rough draft stage, of course. As always, I’d love to hear any feedback you have for me. ^.^ Hope you’re staying warm – it’s certainly chilly here in the north woods.
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Chapter 2: The Storm
When she was here, it almost felt like time had stood still the way she wished for it to. Her father’s coat was worn and still too big for her; it hung loosely across her shoulders and down toward her fingertips, but his hat was snug against the rolled tangle of her hair where it was tucked as securely out of the wind as she could get it, and her feet – with a nice thick pair of woolen socks, or perhaps two – weren’t out of place in his old beat-up workboots. They’d gotten more beaten up over the years since he’d gone away, worn from the weight of memories she carried with them, but when she was here, with the water lapping the toes of those worn-out boots, and the breeze in her face teasing stray tendrils free despite her best efforts, here with the sound of the waves and her strings, she could almost convince herself that there was still a hint of his cologne on the collar. With thick soles keeping her feet dry, she could let the water swirl around her steps, giving and taking the sand beneath her with each wave so that if she closed her eyes she could almost believe she was on deck again, and then she’d put her fiddle to her shoulder and play a tune for those merry sailors of her childhood, here for her now only if she didn’t look at them directly or let herself be pulled back to the grief-logged present.
What a birthday, Caryad thought. It had been a disaster from the start, and the last thing she felt like celebrating was the further distancing of happier times. There had been dozens of people in and around her house all night, and knowing them all didn’t make the invasion any more welcome, it only meant an endless stream of time spent in forced polite conversation, usually with an uncomfortable focus on her own personal affairs – it was a celebration in her honour, after all, a young woman in her own right, now. To Caryad, though, all it meant was another semester looming ahead, far from home and family, and even less time to spend on the things she actually cared about, like her music and the fleet. To distract herself from the thought of it, she played, setting her bow to the strings and letting the notes dance out across the waves, high and low, fast, then slow, until the music wrapped around her like her battered coat, familiar and safe. She was sick of everything familiar, though, and the last thing she felt was safe, anymore; when her enthusiasm for jigs and reels ran dry, the music shifted, almost as if her hands had a will of their own, and she found herself playing those other songs, eerie and mournful, that she had heard sometimes drifting across the water late at night, songs at once familiar and strange that had haunted her dreams for years.
For a celebration, the day’s events had been rather lackluster. Ura was weary, but wide awake; she was ready to get away from the throng and think her own thoughts. Her sisters had all come, with their mothers, their beaus, their children if they had them, and her father had been there, magnificent and regal, moving amongst them all with stately grace. He had looked calm and composed; his grief had not shown in his bearing, but Ura had seen more of her father than she was accustomed to of late, staying in his home, and she was beginning to know a different side of him. Though everyone tried to speak of other things, the loss of Lleucu and Irael lay heavy over the gathering, and Ura’s birthday celebration had taken on the distinct tone of a wake. It wasn’t that she minded, exactly; what else were they to think of, just now? But she was glad when it was over, and they all trickled away back to their own homes, the cavern around her slowly growing empty and echoing as the guests reclaimed their lanterns and departed, bobbing bioluminescent spheres retreating into the gloom. In the gathering hall, Irttoor lingered, collecting the lamps that swayed from the ceiling in the gentle current. He moved with purpose, gliding in a slow arc along the strand that held them, plucking each one loose and adding it to the net at his hip. He had even managed to bring three lanterns glowing softly purple for her, an impressive feat. They clinked softly as they shifted against one another, and Irttoor was humming quietly to himself as he worked, dark bronze tail and smooth head gleaming in the many-coloured light.
Mared had disappeared early in the evening; no one saw much of her these days, and Ura hardly recognised the pale, somber stranger who had taken her sister’s place. It was as though half of Mared had died with Irael, leaving only enough to go through the mechanical motions of a daily routine. She and Ura hadn’t spoken much since it had happened; Ura felt like a chasm had opened between them overnight, and she didn’t know how to cross it. Mared didn’t even seem to care; she just kept to herself. Now, with the guests all departed, the only other occupant of the room was her father. Ura felt the weight of his presence as he approached, and turned to face him, drawing her kelpen shawl closer around her shoulders. Naima was, as ever, the image of authority: strong shoulders, proud bearing, gravely dignified gaze; his was the colouring of Kevalek, black eyes, bronze fins, a rippling green shawl clasped at his left shoulder with a bone brooch fashioned from the sleek skull of a serpentfish. Their eyes met, and she saw his concern for her, but she turned away again, strangling her sudden surge of emotion. She would only make him worry all the more if he saw her distress. He meant well, she knew, but he had his own grief, and there was nothing he could do to take hers away. Still, when he placed his hand on her shoulder, she leaned her head against his arm, putting her hands over his and clinging, just a little bit. There was a hole in her world that could never be filled or forgotten. They stayed for a long moment that way, each absorbed in their own thoughts; eventually, Ura lifted her head, and Naima dropped his hand away, retreating back to his own side of the mutually-defined boundary between them. “Goodnight, little one.” The divide gaped; Ura didn’t know how to cross this one anymore than the distance that separated her from Mared now. She felt numb, and slow. By the time she thought of anything else to say to him, he was already gone, heading for his own chamber.
She turned from her father’s departing figure to see Irttoor, a bare armslength away, all his lanterns safely stowed in a carry-basket with the net lashed on top, regarding her with his cool grey gaze. “Feel older yet?” he asked, breaking into a sudden grin.
“Definitely,” she answered, with a half-hearted laugh. “By the minute.”
He shook his head at her, and she let him enfold her with strong arms. She couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t been friends, but his hugs had only gotten better over the years as he grew into himself. At least with Irttoor, she didn’t have to pretend that she was handling any of this well; he never judged, and he never asked too many questions. It was nice, but after a few moments, she pulled away, her stomach knotted in an icy ball. Comfort felt hollow to her; nothing would change the loss. “I should rest,” she said, making a vague gesture of farewell and avoiding his eyes, which always saw too much, even if he kept his own counsel. “It’s been a long day. I… thanks. For everything. The lamps were beautiful, Irttoor.” She mustered a smile, genuine if fleeting. “Goodnight.”
He rubbed his thumb against her smooth temple in fond farewell, cupping the side of her face in his big palm. “Take it easy, Ura. Get some sleep. There’s always tomorrow.” He gave her another quick, one-armed hug, snagged the handles of his basket, and was off with a flick of his fine tail.
Just the the thought of tomorrow made Ura’s weariness crash down on her like a sudden weight. She knotted her shawl over one shoulder and under the other arm to leave her hands free, the thigh-length woven brown tunic she wore beneath it tailored to her form, but loose enough to let her move easily. Let her sisters have glamour, and her father the trappings of power; Ura was a practical soul, though she liked pretty things well enough. She glanced once more around the darkened hall, now merely an impression of planes and arches, and then she, too, left.
She had meant to go to her old sleeping-cavern, to spend the night in the shadow of her mother’s memory and be somehow closer to her, but that wasn’t where Ura found herself headed. Instead, each purposeful stroke of her tail drove her further out into open water as the last grey twilight died around her, and the watery world below became inky and opaque. A few lamps gleamed still in the bowels of Kevalek, but they soon vanished from view, and she was left suspended in a surreal pocket of emptiness, unable to mark any distance crossed but for the passage of moments and the movement of the water across her skin.
When she surfaced at last, the air was frigid against her face, and the stars sharp and clear above. She gasped, taking a moment to adjust to the way of breathing when out of the water, blinking clinging droplets from her eyelashes until the heavens came into focus. She drifted, moving her arms in lazy circles, leaning back as the waves cradled her shoulders. Two moons showed in the sky, one a vivid red sliver, the other pale, bright, and fat, casting their luminescent reflections on the face of the deep. She had never been to the Surface alone, before; the silence hung heavy around her, unbroken by her mother’s bright voice. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Ura began to sing, her voice thin and wavering, but growing stronger with each familiar note that wrapped around her like a phantom embrace.
She sang one song after another, closing her eyes to hear her mother’s remembered voice more clearly, starting with the ones she knew best and then working her way through whatever she could recall of the rest, suddenly terrified to forget, to lose pieces of the gift she had been given. Her voice, as it warmed up, was beautiful, rich and smooth, and still possessed of the pure tones of youth; high or low, she was magnificent, as the breeze bore her memorial tribute across the rolling waves of the bay, away toward the lights of distant Tangwenfel.
The motion of the water rocked the boat gently side-to-side as Caryad set the oars aside and let it drift in the current, being slowly drawn out toward the wide mouth of Tramawr Bay. She knew she shouldn’t have come out alone – it was dangerous – but in the moment, craving space so desperately, missing her da’s easy company and hearty laugh, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from dragging the boat down to the waterline and pushing off, finding a measure of freedom amidst the rolling waves. She lay back in the boat, picking out old stellar friends with her eyes: the Hounds, the Hare, the Young Widow at her Wheel, spinning her endless bright galactic skeins. Sudden tears blurred her vision; she let them fall as they would, not moving to wipe them away as they trickled down her temples and into her dark wiry curls. “Why did you leave me?” she asked the empty night, knowing it would have no answers for her. “Wasn’t what you had here worth staying for?” But she knew the answer to that, already; she was living the proof of it, and her da wasn’t coming back, no matter how she wished it. She sniffed, rubbing the heels of her hands across her cheeks, and sat up, leaning against the side of the boat and gazing down into the water mournfully. “I miss you,” she whispered to the broken reflection there, “all the time.”
There was no use wallowing in self-pity, however. She gathered the shreds of her dignity, although no one was watching but the distant stars, and tugged her da’s hat down farther on her brow, his coat heavy and warm around her; then she lifted her fiddle, and played the songs of the sea, the way she had learned to as a child making a place for herself in a crew of grown sailors. She had felt at home, then, in her world and in her own skin; she wondered, now, lanky and awkward and nearly-adult herself, if she would ever know that feeling again. The cosmos wheeled above, and the waters swirled below, and suspended between them she gave her heart to the music.
Her fingers grew cold after a time, and clumsy on the strings; she set her instrument back into its padded case and tucked her chilled hands inside her sleeves, chafing them for circulation. The hour was late; she had probably been missed, by now. She sighed, a welcome hollowness left where her earlier turmoil had churned in her gut, the edge of her restlessness worn away enough that she thought she could probably face the notion of sleeping through the night, now. The air against her cheeks was frosty; the silence around her held a crystalline quality, a purity only discoverable while most of the world slept. She laid her hands on the oars, preparing to turn for home, but paused, frozen, as a faint thread of sound made its way to her ears in the stillness: someone was singing, and though she knew the unmistakably haunting sound of a mermaid’s voice, she also knew the song, and the lure of curiosity was more than she could resist.
Oblivious to the cold, cradled by the ocean, Ura had saved her favourite song for last. It was the Ballad of the Seven Impossible Tasks, the story of how Angharad had won Gallchobar back again when his uncle had taken him captive in order to dissolve their union and destroy the peace of Tangwenfel. The prince’s uncle, who had been a man of great magical skill, had set his nephew at the heart of a spell with seven keys, each of which required Angharad to undertake a new quest before she could obtain her goal. They were separated for many years, but she persevered with great cunning and endured many hardships to unlock his prison, and in the end even the sorcery of Gallchobar’s uncle could not keep them apart. Ura had wondered, from the first time she heard the story, what it would be like to be in love like that with someone. Her own parents were hardly an example to go by; they had cared for one another deeply, but Lleucu had been more than content keeping her own ways and raising her daughters, with or without whatever company came her way from time to time, and Naima was hardly a man of singular attentions. What kind of force of emotion would it take to make someone pay that kind of price for love? What would she do, if it came to it, for the right someone? Was there a right someone? Her sister Yunedd, eldest of them all, had paired off with her beau years ago, and had eyes for no one else; was that the kind of love the stories talked about, or did it take more than that?
She sang the verses for each of Angharad’s trials, telling of each challenge and how she overcame it, but she trailed off at the end, before the lines that spoke of her reunion with Gallchobar at last, sudden sorrow stealing her breath. Reunion with loved ones seemed a cruel jest at the moment. A silent pause ensued, followed by her stifled sob; then, as if in a dream, a sound emerged from the fog that was beginning to spin silver strands across the moonlit night, high and bright. Frozen in place by sudden alarm intercepted by desperate curiosity, Ura listened as the unseen strings played the verses she had missed, bringing the song to its proper conclusion with a rippling flourish, her tail undulating slowly to keep her in place, yet prepared to dive below the surface at any moment, poised to flee. Humans were dangerous.
“Hello?” came the voice from the mist. “Is anyone there? I’m sorry if I startled you. I don’t mean any harm.” Ura didn’t answer, cloaked in the safety of the darkness, listening to the sound of human speech from a human tongue for the first time. She couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female, but it was lovely all the same, low and full. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint slap of the waves against the hull; then, once more, the melody rose from the invisible instrument. Ura’s breath caught, her heart feeling suddenly too full for her chest; the sound of it was inside her, moving through her, holding her spellbound. She had never heard anything like it, never felt anything like these pure notes that vibrated in her marrow and sang in her blood. The fog was rising; its tendrils wreathed around her head and throat, skimmed over the surface of the water and licked up the dark sides of the boat, now just barely visible as a shadowed silhouette, still many yards distant. She could just perceive the outline of a single form within it, limned by moonlight, bulky with the layers of clothing her grandmother had told her humans required to stay warm.
She couldn’t say what made her do it – the force of that music ringing through the bright stillness, or momentary madness brought on by grief, or perhaps just the sudden desperation for any way to go but back. She opened her mouth, and before she could let herself think about it any more, she picked up the thread of the song with the first verse as the melody circled round again, her voice high and pure in the starlight as ragged clouds crept across the moon. She sang of Angharad, and the impossible things she had done, while the sound of the strings soared and dipped around her. She was transfixed with wonder; here she was, making this thing of beauty, this moment of transcendence, with a human.
When the song came to its end, an uncertain silence fell once more between them, strangers still, each at odds with the tenets of their respective upbringings, yet unwilling to turn back. At length, a new note from the fiddle, a fresh verse; Ura listened twice before she realised she knew this one as well, or very nearly the same, and then they were off once more, their melodies gradually aligning as they compromised a note here or there, one variation to another unto consensus. They drifted gradually closer to each other as Ura began to relax her guard; the clouds had not relinquished the bold moon, and the fog was streaming away in ragged ribbons as the breeze picked up, brisk and biting. She didn’t know the third song the human played, nor the fourth, but the fifth was another old friend, all the more beloved for this sudden rediscovery in such unexpected circumstances. Minutes stretched to an hour, and more; the two strangers, caught in a spell of their own making, counted it not; neither did they take note of the choppiness of the waves nor the shroud that had drawn its grey veil across the sky. Dark clouds roiled above them, preparing to unleash the tempest.
A single flash of light, bright as day, split the night apart, followed shortly by the dreadful crack of thunder. Half-mad with sudden terror, Ura forgot her companion and their strange duet, diving down into the safety of the depths, her ears and eyes still dazzled and near-useless. She knew that storms on the Surface could be fearsome, of course, for she had seen how they stirred and lashed the water, but most of them passed with little or no impact on the world below. She had never imagined such light, such a sound, reverberating around her as though the entire world had shattered. Her skull was ringing with it yet.
Caryad gripped the oars with hands gone clumsy with the cold, cursing herself six ways of next week for stupidity. She had known better than to go out alone in the first place, but to pay so little attention to everything around her as to let such a storm as this creep up on her without even noticing until it was upon her was sheer, naïve idiocy. The wind pushed the high collar of her coat up against her cheek, making her eyes water with its bitter lashing; lightning prowled restlessly from cloud to cloud overhead, growling ominously the while. She pulled against the dragging mass of the water, pushing for speed, strong shoulders working to carry her back in range of the shore before it was too late.
It wasn’t enough. The waves grew rougher, swelling to valleys and crests that tossed her boat like a bit of bark from one to the next, spinning her this way and that until she couldn’t even tell which way was home. Darkness lay all around, sky and water indistinguishable except in the brief flashes that glistened off the inky face of the abyss. She fumbled for a rope and managed to lash it to the bench where she sat; she was halfway through looping it around herself in turn when the lightning flashed again. A black chasm gaped before her, streaked with seafoam; blindness returned, and the thunder crashed across the bay as Caryad’s boat tumbled, end over end, down the vertical slope to be swallowed by the deep in a single vast gulp. If she screamed, no one heard it in the rushing roar.
Cold wrapped around her like an iron glove, driving the air from her lungs in a great whoosh, squeezing her into a knot of arms and legs that wouldn’t work, heavy boots dragging her down like anchors clinging to her ankles. She kicked one free; the other stuck, too tightly laced, and she panicked, fighting against the pull of gravity, hoping desperately it would lead her to the surface, and air. The sea was not ready to relinquish its prize; she struggled in vain, her lungs on fire, her sinuses raw, as the blackness closed in. The rope was gone, and with it the boat, and any chance she’d had of making it back to shore alive.
As the ringing in her ears subsided, Ura lingered below, watching the distant flashes of light from the storm, remembering the all-encompassing voice of the thunder as it rolled over them. She shivered, recalling the way it had shaken her to the core, and hoped the stranger had returned home swiftly; the weather as it was now was nothing to be out wandering in. She, too, should turn for home; this outing had already been forbidden, and it was growing more dangerous. The water was restless, swelling and rolling, forcing her to retreat deeper to hold her position, the flickering lightning distant and surreal far, far above, a world away.
She felt the boat more than she saw it, coasting past her on a downward arc toward the floor of the bay. One splintered edge caught her shoulder in a rush of pain, the weight of it snagging her and carrying her along some way before she was peeled off by the rushing water. Disoriented, she clutched her bleeding arm, a new thought slowly worming its alarming way into her awareness past the pain: her human stranger was about to drown. Humans were not made to dwell in the depths; without the boat, her stranger was doomed. Heedless of danger and pain alike, she darted through the turbulent, rolling currents, hands outstretched in the murky darkness, groping blindly until her fingers found the curve of a worn collar, and curled into a fist, bunching the fabric and drawing the weight it held up, up, up to the churning, roiling surface of the sea where the stinging sleet sliced across her head and face. The stranger was unconscious, lolling limply against Ura’s frantic grip, but breathing shallowly. Ura wrapped her arms around the human (man or woman, she’d yet to determine) from behind and then turned on her back and began the journey toward land, one strong stroke of her tail at a time, as the chaotic night raged all around, stark and wild.
onegoldenapple 