Alice At Heart (15 page)

She sat down next to me as sweetly as any sixty-two-year-old child, if I believed the claims she and her sisters made about themselves, which I didn’t.

“In short, this is an incredibly complex habitat,” I explained with great patience.

“Habitat?” she chirped as dolphins rose just beyond the surf to watch us. Pearl fluffed a silk sarong she wore over a flowing white shift. Her flame-red hair tumbled down her back and onto the sand. Her bare, webbed feet twinkled with jewelry. Her breasts, unfettered by any underwear, bounced in perky unison as she laughed.

I stared at them and frowned over the thought of my own breasts bound under my denim jacket.

“Habitat?” she called to the dolphins, and they whistle and clicked as if laughing, too. “Why, this is your
home
, Alice. Not a habitat. We’re not a science experiment. And neither are you.” I smiled again but accepted nothing. “So,” Pearl said with a saucy smile. “Tell me what your books say about mermaids. I
know
you’ve been studying the fairy tales. You’re very interested in proving one thing or another.”

“I’ve researched a good deal of the mythological and sociological lore. The idea of a union between humans and the sea dates back to the dawn of human history. The Babylonians, the Assyrians, the Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans, not to mention all the ancient Asian dictates, and those of the Hindus, the Polynesians, the Africans, the American Indians, et cetera—all the ancient cultures focused on the worship of the water as a womb, the female river deities, the oceanic goddesses, fish goddesses, the fertile sea kings, et cetera. For example, many of the Greek and Roman deities were water-based. Aphrodite, Neptune, Poseidon, et cetera.”

“Et cetera,” Pearl said solemnly.

“Since most of the world’s great early civilizations developed in coastal areas, it was natural for people to personalize the vast, mysterious oceans. The idea of half-human, half-fish creatures seemed quite plausible and helped explain both the danger and the allure of water. The notion of mermaids—and to a lesser extent, mermen—came to embody a certain sinister charm—no doubt largely a fear of the ocean and a fear of women’s sexuality, at least in terms of European patriarchal attitudes, as the centuries progressed.”

“Et cetera,” Pearl intoned.

“By medieval times, the pagan gods and goddesses were declared demonic and reduced to caricatures of sexual provocation and evil. Yet the image of mermaids and mermen has been resilient enough to survive as rather charming, though seductive beings who inhabit all forms of water. Hans Christian Anderson’s
The Little Mermaid
gave birth to the modern notion of lovesick mermaids transforming into two-legged human beings at will. Well into the nineteenth century, the belief in real, flesh-and-blood mer-people was taken quite seriously, with numerous reports of sightings and captures. Britain even had a law on the books claiming sovereign rights to any mermaid or merman found in British waters.”

Pearl yipped. “They should have looked right in their own royal house. Just why do you think you never saw Henry VIII without shoes? Hmmm?”

I ducked my head and studied her carefully. “All right, tell me the truth about Water People, as I’ve heard you-all call them. Are there many around?”

She gazed at the ocean in deep thought. “Well, let’s see. I personally know at least a thousand. We Bonavendiers have a great many relatives and friends among the other Water People of the world.”

“All . . . web-footed and imbued with certain remarkable abilities?”

“For the most part. But of course there are, hmmm,
degrees
of our kind, just as in any kind of . . . kind.” She glanced at me with a wistful smile. “Those of us with the glorious feet are regarded as the most blessed.”

“Does that opinion extend even to someone such as myself, who has webbed feet but comes from . . . mixed parentage?”

“Why, yes. The traits of our kind are strong in you. No one will ever call you a false-footed
poseur
.”

“But you’re saying there are others who are
not
endowed with webbed feet but are considered merfolk?”

“Oh, yes. You can hear them humming a little. They listen to us calling, and understand what it means, perhaps on a subconscious level. They have certain abilities. Just lesser.”

“Then they don’t
know
that they’re merfolk?”

“Some do. Most don’t. They only know they’re drawn to water, and to the singing.” She rattles off a long list of admirals, explorers, and celebrities, including some of the world’s finest singers and most charismatic actors. “All of them are our kind,” she announced blithely. “The beautiful people. Especially the divas.”

I sat for a while, not daring to say a word, pondering her claim. When I finally got myself under control, I said solemnly, “I’ve always suspected Diana Ross, I admit.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Are there any mermaids or mermen who fit the classical description?”

She looked at me askance. “You mean preening before seashell-encrusted mirrors and flapping about in gilded cities beneath the waves? How Hollywood! Certainly not!”

I blushed. “I’m sorry. Forgive me for asking.”

“But . . . I thought you knew. Don’t you understand?” She bent toward me, peering at me as if I must be playing. “About Melasine? The one from whom all Bonavendiers are descended for the past two centuries?”

I bent toward
her
. “Lilith promised to tell me more, but hasn’t . . . yet.”

She frowned and bit her lower lip, squinting, clearly debating what to say. “I suppose I might as well be the one to spring the truth on you, then.”

Prickles ran down my spine. “What truth, Pearl?”

Pearl looked at me with somber, guileless import. “She had the loveliest tail.”

I went very, very still. “Pearl, please don’t—”

“But it’s true. We call her kind The Old Ones. We believe there are only a few of the Old Ones left in the whole world—and they are not given to socializing. In fact, it’s believed they’re loners to the extreme, living in the greatest depths, in the most isolated realms of the vast waters.” She nodded sagely. “This probably explains why merfolk haven’t taken over the whole planet. We’re not mixers.”

“You’re saying that our . . . great-great-great grandmother was a true, fin-bearing, half-human, half-fish mermaid.”

“Well, now, if you’re going to get technical”—she flashed an exasperated look at me—”I don’t know if ‘half-fish’ is biologically correct. Perhaps ‘half-aquatic mammalian’ is more accurate. At any rate, she is a good deal more exotic-looking than the standard portrayals show a mermaid being.”

My ears rang. “And she sprouted legs and walked on land when she pleased?”

“Now,
listen
. I’m telling you, forget what you
think
you know about the Old Ones. Melasine lives entirely in the water. None of this melodramatic transforming—that would be physically impossible, not to mention quite preposterous, you know!”

“True.” I continued to work on my breathing. I wondered why we were talking about Melasine in the present tense.

“Simon was no doubt devoted to her, body and soul. They wed in the sea after settling here, and she
remained
in the sea while he built the Bonavendier estate. But he also built a beautiful stone chalet right on the cove’s edge, with sections submerged in the water, and certain submerged doors open to let the water flow inside. Simon shared that chalet with her—half on land, half in the water. She bore their children in the watery chambers of that lovely place. She and Simon were quite happy together for many decades. It was a remarkable bonding, considering that the Old Ones rarely stay in one place or love an ordinary person for long. Simon was no doubt a quite alluring man.” Pearl sighed. “But, of course, he eventually grew old and died, and Melasine was left bereft and alone. She was so distraught she ordered the chalet torn down.”

I’d perused the ornate Bonavendier cemetery, an ethereal place of fine marble crypts and monuments in a shady grove overlooking the bay. I’d visited my father’s grave more than once, and spoken to his spirit, in that place. And while there I’d studied Simon Sainte Bonavendier’s elaborate monument, with his name and dates melting into the marble. There was
no
monument for a wife at all, and certainly none marked with the name Melasine. “I suppose Melasine’s body was committed to the water when she died?”

“Oh! I should have explained.
She’s not dead
.”

I got up from the sand very slowly. “So you’re claiming Melasine is still alive, somewhere?”

“Absolutely. Why do you think we call her kind the Old Ones?”

“Ah! Because they live to be very old.”

“Oh, thousands of years.”

“Thousands of years.”

“Of course, as her two-legged descendents, we tend toward more ordinary lifespans. Perhaps a century, occasionally more.” She grinned. “So at thirty-four, you’re just a teenager.”

I nodded toward the Atlantic. “I assume she didn’t linger around here?”

“Who knows? Despite her love for Landers, she is a lone creature at heart.”

“Landers?”

“Land people.”

“I see.”

“Once Simon died she disappeared.”

“And has never been seen again, then?”

“Well, no, there’s no proof of her.”

I breathed easier, realizing Pearl had told me the perfect fairy tale, a sweet homage to every mythological being who conveniently never reappear. That was all. “What a lovely story,” I said.

“A story?” Pearl sighed, got up, and came to me patiently, prying my arms loose from the hug I was giving myself, taking my hands. “Dear Alice, there are many kinds of transformations. Believe what you can, but always leave your heart open to Melasine.” She laughed. “No need to look so solemn about her. When I was a child, I called her ‘The Great And Powerful Flipper.’ “

I didn’t even know what to say to that, and she didn’t seem to expect an answer. She tweaked my nose affectionately. “A mermaid’s mind is best suited for cultivating beauties and nurturing interesting philosophies—you know, tidying the great depths of the heart. One has to be careful not to burden us with too much sorrow. We have to remain buoyant or we’ll sink.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. Not yet. But keep looking for ‘Et cetera,’ and you will.” She laughed, threw off her clothes, and dived, naked, into the surf.

And I stood there on the beach, bound in denim and logic.

I had to find Lilith.

Lilith loved the mansion’s
plant-filled sunroom. I could see that, see the contentment in her face anytime I met her there. Her cockatiel, Anatole, shrieked with interest when I walked in. Lilith looked up from the fabulous glass table at the room’s center. She was writing in one of her journals, which she closed when she saw the look on my face. Without a word, she gestured to someone behind me, and I realized one of the sweet Tanglewoods had appeared magically in my wake. He closed the room’s glass doors, giving us privacy.

“Ask me,” Lilith said quietly.

“Do you believe in Pearl’s version of Melasine?”

She sighed and stood in a sleek rustle of raw peach silk. She walked to a lovely marble wall across from us. It was one of the few areas of the sunroom not crowded with exotic trees or potted plants. On it hung a set of white velvet drapes, always closed. Lilith stood to one side, pulled a delicately tasseled drawstring, and the drapes parted. They revealed a rectangular portrait hanging longways, filling most of the wall, dwarfing both her and me.

I put a hand to my mouth. The colors were rich and old, the style was classic eighteenth century portraiture—dramatic, romantic, vibrantly realistic, yet very soft. The setting was a chamber of stone and rich fabrics, fringed pillows, gilded vases—what any fine lady of the time would want in the ambiance of her portrait. Through an open window, the ocean crashed on a sandy shore. The lady clearly wanted water behind her.

Because the lady, lounging decorously on an ornate chaise, was a mermaid.

“Melasine,” Lilith said.

Her skin was ivory, her lips deep red. Her eyes, large and ocean-green, were tilted on the ends, with no lashes or brows, giving her face an ageless patina, a face like an oval moon, like a fine porcelain doll’s. Yards of dark gold hair streamed over her bare breasts and jeweled arms, draping in luxurious waves across her pale stomach.

Her hands were larger than normal and webbed in opalescent skin. Her smooth, bone-white torso was perfectly human and perfectly beautiful, tapering at the waist, rising at white hips, merging below a perfectly ordinary navel, adorned with a gold waist chain and an emerald pendant. But at the vee of her thighs the milky skin merged, and there
were
no thighs.

There was a very different kind of being.

She glistened with pale blues and pinks, just a shimmer to her skin, a different texture, not scales, but a body meant to glide through water, like the lower half of some iridescent white dolphin. Sleek and smooth, that part of her bore ornamentation, too. A swath of gold cloth wound around her where the thighs might have been on one of us. It was tied in a large, ornate rosette over the middle of her, and I wondered, dazed, if it discreetly hid some sort of genital opening.

I couldn’t begin to form that question into words.

Her body tapered with aquiline power to a long, slender tail. Its twin white flukes streamed over the chaise’s upholstered end with gossamer beauty, like the divided train of a wedding dress. As I pulled my gaze back along the length of her, she looked at me with her surreal face, the magic of the portrait placing her gaze directly on mine, and I was caught up in her gray-green eyes.

“See the resemblance to us?” Lilith said quietly.

I did. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move.

“I’ve never seen her myself,” Lilith went on, “but I can tell you I’ve felt her presence at times, out in the water—and in that way I do believe she exists. In some form, Alice, either like this physically or not, her spirit is this grand. And when you need her, you’ll know she’s there.”