Serendipity Market (3 page)

“Life may be in the wishing, but try as I may, I have not been able to wish myself back to my lizard shape. I search for that godmother every day, whenever I am not being called upon to do some chore. She seems to have disappeared.

“And then, there she is, that fairy godmother, walking through the garden with another lady, collecting
herbs in a little grass basket. I drop the bucket I am supposed to be filling and hear it crack as it hits the cobbles. Water leaks through the broken staves. I do not stop to try to fix my mistake, even though I can hear the cook screaming at me from inside the kitchen.

“‘You!' I cry, running at her, fast as I would have run away from the cat in my lizard shape. ‘You! Make me whole again.'

“That godmother turns at the sound of my voice, turns to see who calls out to her. She recognizes me, I can tell, because her face, pink from the sun that brightens this day, pink from the stooping to gather lavender and sage and parsley, turns the color of new milk. I am close enough to her to hear her friend, the other lady, say, ‘Who is that?'

“That godmother tosses her head and answers, ‘I have no idea.' But I know that she is lying.

“Even with only two legs, I cover the ground quickly, because these legs are long. I grab that godmother by
the arm, making her, by accident, drop her little gathering basket. ‘Please,' I beg. ‘I do not want to stay in this shape. Let me go back to what I was. Let me forget about these man feelings.'

“Her friend is holding her other arm, as if she is afraid I will take that godmother away. But I only want to return to my lizard self. ‘Please,' I repeat.

“That godmother shakes her head at me. ‘Go away, young man. I can do nothing for you.'

“‘You have not even tried,' I say, but she shakes my fingers from her arm, grabs her basket, and quickly walks away. Her friend looks back at me over her shoulder. She looks at me like I am a bad person. Just before they turn the corner near the cistern, that godmother meets my eyes. She shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. Then she and her friend disappear.

“‘Leave! Go away!' The cook has come into the garden and is screaming. ‘All you ever do is make messes. Leave here at once.' And her finger is pointing at me.

“That godmother cannot help me. Or will not. Either way, I am stuck in this shape. What will I do? I think hard, trying not to listen to the cook. I turn toward the palace, but I feel a tug on my pant leg that makes me look down. The black mouse is watching me, and her head shakes no. I keep my eyes on her as I turn a slow circle in the yard. Only when my back is to the palace does she nod, seeming satisfied.

“So I decide to do as the mouse says. I will go, as Malvolio did, but I will go in a different way. I turn my back on that screaming cook, on my garden, on the cistern and the downspout, and I walk away from the direction that Cindergirl and her prince went those many days ago. The little black mouse watches me leave.

“I will find something to do in some other place. There must be one thing I can be good at. And soon, soon, I will forget Cindergirl. When that happens, fairy godmother or not, I will return to myself. Then, lizard or man, I will be at peace.”

 

People clap, and the Lizard Man, straight and proud, walks away from the teller's cushion. Watching him, Mama Inez is well pleased. She remembers how long she stayed with him in her mouse form, how long she watched him, how she tried to help him see what he could do with his new, human life. Seeing him, hearing his confidence grow as he told his story, she feels assured that he's picked a good path for himself.

Now she looks for her next teller. Renata still clutches her basket of shells. She's given the pink one, the one that most reminds her of Clarisse, to Mama Inez. Still, having the rest makes Clarisse feel closer, makes Renata feel that she has a second voice to help her tell this story. She's more nervous than she's ever been, but she remembers the man with the cloth, the one who was so excited about making that shirt. He said he felt he could learn
from her. And if that was the case, maybe someone else could learn something, too. As she watched the Lizard Man, she listened carefully and tried to learn from the things he did.

Now she looks at the moon and sees its reflection in the mirrors on Mama Inez's scarf. She thinks of her own moon and of waves lapping on the sands. She walks through the tent flap, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back.

Mama Inez stands to one side as Renata goes to the teller's cushion. She, too, looks at the moon, feels its strength, and remembers her own moon bond on those two nights not all that long ago.

Renata sits on the golden cushion. Her basket of shells is next to her right foot. One hand rests on the large brown-and-white shell that's shifted to take the place of her pink talisman shell. She draws a long breath that pulls her into her story.

“S
OME OF YOU MAY
remember the tales of the Merfolk, but in case you don't, let me tell you. They're water people, but they have the ability to stay on land if one of two things happens: they fall in love with a human and want to stay, or they're captured by a human and forced to stay. Either way, fins turn into legs.” She pauses, then adds, “From what I've heard, it can be quite painful.”

The audience mutters.

“True. Even when one is in love, pain, actual physical pain, may make things so difficult that one needs to return to the sea, no matter how much it costs. For those forced to stay, life can be unbearable.”

More mutterings, some angry.

“Sometimes the legend works in reverse. And it comes without the pain, or so I hope.”

 

“I still remember the smell of the sea, the grit of the sand, the color of Vachel's blood. Especially the color of that blood.

“My first reaction was to turn away from the shadowy shape on the beach.

“‘We can't just leave him there,' Clarisse told me. She grabbed my shoulders and twisted me around. ‘He's dying. Look at him, Renata. Really look!'

“I really looked, and damn it, she was right. Later I wished I hadn't looked. Then everything would have been different. I bit my lip, trying not to breathe too deeply, and approached the Mer. Clarisse was tight against me. ‘Do you think he'll understand us?' I asked softly.

“‘I don't know. Do you know his language? Because I don't.'

“I could write the word ‘door' in hieroglyphics. I'd taken some Welsh in school and knew the words for ‘father' and ‘mother.' I could also say ‘banana' and ‘gorilla' in the tongue of my forefathers. Right now none of this seemed at all useful. ‘No,' I sighed. ‘Of course not.'

“‘Then we'll try normal, everyday speech,' Clarisse said.

“Now that I was helping, she was ready to take charge, so I shoved her in front of me. She stopped just short of touching distance and said, in a clear, slow voice, ‘Are you hurt?'

“‘Stupid question. You just said he was dying,' I hissed.

“The Mer didn't answer, but his eyes flicked toward us. They were the blue of the sea that rippled behind him. It was just far enough away that it couldn't take him back to his world and had left him in our place instead: a place where you need legs, not fins.

“‘We want to help.' Clarisse moved fractionally closer and reached down to touch his shoulder.

“He yanked his body out of her reach, moving frantically. ‘No!' The one syllable seemed torn from him. It was accented with an inflection I'd never heard before. But right then, that didn't seem important. When he'd shifted, I'd seen the long blue gash on his chest. The edges were flayed and wet, and the wound looked deep.

“‘Do Mer have blood?' I asked.

“Clarisse looked up at me. ‘How should I know?' she almost yelled. ‘I'm sure there's something inside to make them work.'

“‘Well, if they've got blood, that might be what's leaking from that cut on his chest.'

“‘Ah. I get it,' she said, and she didn't even come close to yelling this time. In fact, she now seemed interested, in a strange, tender kind of way. She tried to touch him again and he tried to pull away, but it
was obvious that he'd used up most of his strength with his last move.

“I inched over to his other side. ‘Let's both try to turn him over. He seems to be able to understand some of what we say. He answered us, after all. He ought to be able to tell that we aren't going to hurt him.'

“‘The word ‘no' hardly qualifies as answering. And would you trust us if you were him?'

“I thought about the ones who caught them. They'd bodysurf on the Mers' backs, foot to fin, chest to back, fingers digging hard into the muscled shoulders, faces brushing the braided hair. Something I thought of as a nasty master-slave relationship, but that Mer riders described as ‘incredible fun.' They'd use them after they cut them from the nets, wear them out, then abandon them. If they went back to the sea, fine. They could always catch more. If they didn't, fine, too. It hardly seemed to matter. Sometimes I'd find the dead bodies on the shore, empty shells, the iridescent gleam
long gone from their bronze-colored skins.

“But finding dead bodies was better than finding live ones, like this. Bodysurfing was one thing. Actually talking to a Mer, that was something else. Mers were untouchables unless they were being used. There were laws about dealing with untouchables.

“I didn't go to the beach much.

“I shook my head in answer to Clarisse's question. Of course I wouldn't trust us. ‘But I still think we need to see that wound on his chest,' I said.

“We approached from opposite directions, moving carefully even though he seemed way too exhausted to fight.

“Clarisse's voice sounded like warm honey. ‘We only want to help. We can get you back to the water if you're okay.'

“I stopped halfway down to his shoulder. ‘How?' I asked her, shocked. He was big, both long and strongly developed. I doubted that both of us could drag him the
two feet it would take to make it to the shallows, and even if we could, that still wouldn't be deep enough.

“She glared at me, so I stopped talking and leaned closer to his right side. That was when I realized that I'd been breathing normally for some time now. I stopped moving again. ‘He doesn't smell. Smell bad, I mean.' I sounded surprised, even to myself.

“Clarisse shook her head. ‘Just like the sea. I've always wondered if they knew what they were talking about.'

“‘Fear,' he said.

“We both jumped back.

“‘We smell of fear. When they catch us.' His speech was careful, the accent making him hard to understand. ‘When they—ride us.' This last sentence was spoken so softly, I almost missed it. He sounded ashamed.

“‘Of course,' Clarisse said. She sounded practical and calm. ‘I would, too.'

“He turned his head and looked up at her, straining
his neck. From where I stood, I could see the tendons stretch. She crouched near his shoulder.

“‘Can we turn you? To look at your wound?'

“His nod was slow in coming, but at least he seemed willing to let us touch him now. We rolled him between us, slowly, carefully. The cut looked like something intentional, something made with a fishing knife. Under the bronze skin, the layers of flesh were blue tinged, the gore around the wound almost the same color as his eyes. Clarisse winced visibly, face paling, then raised her eyes to mine over his body.

“‘You've got to know more than I do about this kind of stuff.'

“‘Why?'

“‘Because I don't know anything. Should it be stitched, or can we just bandage it?'

“I shook my head. Then I put very gentle pressure on the skin on either side of the cut. He didn't
say anything, didn't even moan, but his eyes snapped shut and sweat broke out on his upper lip. I yanked my hands back nervously and said, ‘If we want him to be able to get home, I think it'll need stitches. The pull of the water alone would just wreck any kind of bandage that I can think of.'

“‘And if he decides to stay here?'

“Her question was casual enough, but she wouldn't look at me fully. I sat in the sand with my mouth open for a bit too long. I finally said, ‘Clarisse, how could he stay here? Why would he stay here?'

“‘I do not think that would be possible,' he said over my questions. ‘We die if we stay here. We need the sea.' His eyes were looking directly at Clarisse. He wasn't even making an attempt to make it look like I was included. I could hardly believe what was happening right there in front of me. Clarisse, the one who hadn't even looked at the opposite sex since a nasty breakup over two years ago, was now sitting right
here, on the beach, locking eyes with an alien species.

“‘Hey.' I tried to break the invisible string that was holding their eyes together. It didn't really work. I sighed. ‘It still needs stitches. This is deep and it's still…bleeding.' I watched the blue liquid seeping down his chest, wondering if I'd used the right word.

“‘Yes,' he whispered, as if I'd asked him directly.

“I nodded. ‘Stitches,' I repeated firmly.

“The string finally broke. Clarisse looked at me and said, ‘Where? There's not a hospital anywhere that'd take him. You know that. Not any doctor I can think of, either, who'd be willing to take that kind of a risk.'

“‘No Mer pay-as-you-go plans?' I said, trying to lighten things up. Clarisse looked like she wanted to smack me.

“‘Look,' I said hurriedly. ‘We might be able to fix it ourselves. Your place is closer. If we could get him there…'

“She was already on her feet. ‘I'll get the Beast. You wait.'

“She'd turned away, running, before I could answer her. After the sound of her feet slapping the sand had died away, I tried not to think about what would happen if I were found alone at dusk with a Mer anywhere close to life. The words ‘criminal offense' kept running through my mind. We looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. His skin was drying, turning dull. His eyes seemed less blue than they had before, but that may only have been because it was getting darker. Finally, to hear the sound of something other than the incessant pull of the sea, I said, ‘What's your name?'

“My speech seemed to give him more trouble than Clarisse's. I could almost see him puzzling out the words. Finally he said, ‘Vachel. I am called Vachel. And you?'

“‘Renata.' He was very polite to even pretend
to care. ‘She's Clarisse,' I added, pointing to where Clarisse had disappeared.

“He nodded, then asked quietly, ‘I will make trouble for you?'

“Watching him steadily, I said, ‘Only if we get caught. And only if you're still alive when we do.'

“He nodded again, as though I'd confirmed everything he'd ever heard about us, and I realized at that moment that his sources were more accurate than mine. I'd never really believed that the Mer had only the basest intelligence, that they didn't object to the ‘fun' of being ridden, that they tangled themselves in the nets on purpose to meet their ‘gods.' I'd never really believed it, but when you've heard the tales since you were a kid, sometimes it's hard not to believe.

“‘Vachel,' I said loudly, using his name to make him hear, to make sure he was still awake and aware. Dusk was giving way to true night, but even taking the darkness into account, his eyes looked too cloudy, and his
breathing was off-kilter in a way that scared me. Where the hell was Clarisse? I had to keep him alert, conscious. ‘How do you know our language? Is that your…people's language, too?' Was ‘people' right?

“He flicked his eyelids as if trying to clear his vision. His voice was soft, and I had to lean closer to hear. ‘Many years ago, one of your kind fell in love with a Mer. He was willing to give up his life on land to be with her. There is a way this can be done, though it can never be undone. He lived with her under the sea. The language he brought with him was handed down through generations. It mingled with our own, which is more sounds than words, and became a kind of second language for us.'

“‘That sounds like a fairy tale.'

“He shifted restlessly on the sand. ‘A what?'

“I would have tried to explain, but the lights of Clarisse's vintage SUV flashed across the sand. The thing weighed a ton, had a perpetual air of neglect,
smelled of something too long near the water that never quite dried out. It always seemed on the verge of stalling, and she had to pop the clutch every time she downshifted to keep it running. I was overjoyed to see it.

“Getting Vachel into the Beast was very nasty and extremely difficult. He helped as much as he could, but even with those shoulder muscles pushing him up, there was a large amount of dragging and yanking and pulling. I know we hurt him. By the time we were done, Clarisse and I were sweating in the cool night air, and covered with sand and salt. But Vachel lay curled in the back of the Beast. His fins were covered with an old blanket splattered with mildew stains and coated with bits of shell and seaweed, and he was panting, clearly exhausted. Clarisse, breath back under control, looked at him, scrambled into the front, said, ‘Renata! Get in!' and headed back across the beach like the hounds of hell were behind her. The Beast lurched and
rolled, but it kept moving, and right then, that was all I could ask.

“During the short trip to Clarisse's building, I told her what Vachel had said while she'd been gone. The expression in her eyes when she looked at me was unfocused and distant. She didn't say anything, just stopped with a sharp jerk in an illegal space near the door closest to the entrance.

“Now all we had to do was get him through the door, across the hall, up in the hand-operated elevator, and across another hall to her rooms. We looked at each other hopelessly. Vachel's breath sounded harsh in the seat behind us.

“Then Clarisse sat up straight. I could see her clearly in the iridescent moonlight. Through some trick of the atmosphere, the source of that light looked like it held the face of a woman with long, thick hair. Clarisse's eyes were bright, as if she were going to cry. ‘I'm asking Michael. He could carry him.'

“I snatched at her wrist, horrified at the suggestion. ‘You can't! I know he's always seemed like a decent guy, but you can't tell how he feels about them.'

“She started to speak, and I cut across her words. ‘No one ever talks about that. Don't even try to tell me you did, because I won't believe you.'

“‘Fine,' she said, her voice quavering. ‘We never talked about Mer. But we have talked about other things. And I think he'll be okay.' The tears were running freely down her cheeks now. ‘If I don't, he'll die. Renata…'