Chapter 5 Lili
Five
Lili
The morning fog still clings to the edges of the island, blurring the world as Goldie and I pedal down Madaket Road toward
the Walter S. Barrett Public Pier on Saturday. The air is thick with salt and sweetly damp from last night’s rain, and yet,
even with the fresh sea breeze in my face, my stomach turns at what I’m about to do.
I am voluntarily getting on a boat. Again.
I’d gone back and forth about this at least a dozen times since my somewhat disappointing visit to McCleave’s a few days ago.
But somewhere between prying off old baseboards and measuring for the new ones, I made the mistake of leaving the flyer for
the mermaid-sighting tour in view of Goldie.
That was the end of the debate.
“Do you think she’ll look really real?” Goldie asks, pedaling faster as we pass the Stop and Shop and fire station, her oversized
Nerissa T-shirt flapping against her arms like a sail, “or like somebody’s sad Halloween costume?”
“The skeleton looked pretty real.” Unsettlingly so. Sadly, not much else in the place did.
But I keep coming back to what I read in the gift shop—how McCleave’s was once a historical museum before they went all-in on the fantasy. Since it’s still run by the family, there’s a chance they still have some of those original pieces in their collection.
It’s a long shot, I know. But the guy dressed as Poseidon did specifically say they’d be talking about more than just mermaids
on this tour. I’ll just keep my eyes on the horizon and my ears trained for anything about smugglers. And if the guide doesn’t
know anything that can help me? At least Goldie will get to see more of the island she barely remembers.
“There it is!” Goldie practically skids to a stop, pointing ahead.
The Siren’s Call bobs at the dock, its navy hull trimmed in white, the name painted in gold across the stern. A sign on the dock announces:
McCleave’s Famous Mermaid-Sighting Tour.
I grip my handlebars tighter as we coast down toward the bike rack, passing a bright white-and-turquoise ice cream truck parked
nearby, its side labeled Hang Loose Helado. The striped awning shades a growing crowd of customers, the sweet scents of vanilla
and melted waffle cones clashing pleasantly with the sharp bite of salty air.
I fully expect Goldie to beg to grab something, but she just looks.
“You don’t want any?”
She side-eyes me. “I don’t want you eating ice cream before I have to sit next to you on a boat for an hour.”
I elbow her. “Wow. The concern.”
She grins and runs ahead, flashing our ticket confirmation before boarding.
I hesitate, watching the boat rock gently in the harbor.
Even with zero dairy in my system, I already feel my stomach preparing to stage a rebellion.
I stare across the deck, and for a second, ice cream or not, I don’t know if I can actually do this.
But then I think of Mr. Fanning and his pinched, patronizing face.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and step on board.
Goldie beelines for the front, weaving through the narrow rows of benches until she claims a spot right next to the guide.
Wren.
I follow, forcing myself to sit down calmly beside his wheelchair, determined to make a better impression this time. And who
knows—maybe I imagined his irritation the other day. I know I was occasionally short with customers for no reason back when I worked retail. I flash a warm smile. “Hey. Remember me?”
His expression says he does, and not fondly.
I push forward anyway. “I didn’t get to introduce myself the other day. I’m Lili, and that’s my sister, Goldie.” I nod toward
her, though she’s too busy kneeling on the bench, practically vibrating with excitement as she stares at the water.
“Um, listen,” I continue, shifting slightly. “I wanted to apologize for any misunderstanding in the gift shop. I have a—”
A crackle of static cuts through the air as Wren’s headset comes to life.
“Eryn’s in place. Just saw we had two last-minute cancellations, so we’re setting out with eighteen.”
“All accounted for,” Wren responds, pressing a button on his mic.
A Black guy in a captain’s hat hops on board, squeezing down the narrow aisle until reaching the front. “Well, all right then.”
He straightens his hat, then steps forward, addressing the passengers with a broad, practiced grin.
“Good morning, lads and ladies! Mermaid lovers from near and far! My name is Captain Tatum Raleigh, Tate to my friends, and I have the great honor of being your captain for today’s adventure! And yes,” he adds, winking at an older woman seated near the front, “I am a real captain.”
She giggles.
I’m pretty sure Wren rolls his eyes.
Captain Tate launches into a very well-rehearsed introduction, pacing the deck with a theatrical flourish. “I will keep you
safe, secure, and smiling as we travel all around this faraway island of ours. So! Get your cameras out, your eyes trained
on the water, and let me hear how many of you are ready to see a real mermaid!”
The chorus of excited cheers is loud—louder than I expected. Goldie practically screams in my ear.
“Oh, so it sounds like some of you don’t really care about mermaids,” Tate continues, letting his shoulders sag dramatically.
The passengers play along, responding with an exaggerated Boo!
“I mean, we could cancel the tour,” he says, turning as if to head back to the wheel. “Maybe try and find some other folks
who would appreciate seeing the family of our fair Nerissa swimming in these very waters . . .”
“No! No!”
A few of the younger kids look genuinely panicked at the thought.
Tate sighs, shaking his head. “Maybe I should ask one more time, just in case anyone wants to change their mind.” He sucks
in an exaggerated breath, then booms—“How many of you are READY to see a MERMAID?”
The deafening roar that follows physically startles me.
Tate beams. “That’s more like it!” He claps his hands. “Then let me introduce you to the man who’s going to guide you back
in time through treacherous tales of pirates, smugglers, shipwrecks, and, yes, mermaids. Not only does he know more about
this island’s tumultuous history than just about anyone, but he is, in fact, the many-times-great-grandson of Captain Lawrence
McCleave—the very man who discovered the world-famous Nerissa skeleton nearly one hundred and fifty years ago!” He points
two fingers in Wren’s direction. “Wren, take it away.”
Eighteen eager faces swing toward the guy sitting beside me, primed and pumped for the show.
Wren clicks on his mic, leans forward slightly, and—in the flattest, most uninterested voice I’ve ever heard—says, “Yeah,
thanks. This is your reminder to remain seated when the boat is moving and not to crowd your fellow passengers when our mermaid
appears at the end of the tour.”
I blink. Even airline pilots giving tired safety speeches have more enthusiasm. The contrast between him and Tate is so jarring,
I almost laugh. But then the boat starts moving and my stomach lurches with it.
“Nantucket, which means ‘faraway land’ in Algonquin, the language of the native Wampanoag people, wasn’t inhabited by Europeans
until the middle of the seventeenth century. At that time, it’s estimated that there were around three thousand Wampanoags
on the island. Due to European disease, and specifically an epidemic known as the “Indian Sickness” in 1763, they were all
gone in less than a century. Abram Quary, the last Wampanoag in Nantucket, whose portrait you can find in the Atheneum, died
in 1854.”
Momentarily distracted from cold sweat starting to prick along my neck, I quietly tell my sister, “That’s wrong. Dorcas Honorable outlived him by six weeks.”
Goldie slow blinks at me. “What?”
“Just tell him.” I nudge her arm.
With a sigh, she raises her hand. Wren stops mid-sentence, frowning.
“Um, what about that dork lady?”
“She meant Dorcus Honorable,” I say, somehow not throwing up on the spot.
Wren pulls his brows together. “She’s not officially listed in any of the census data.”
I know I’m right, but I don’t push it. Maybe I’ll bring it up after everyone disembarks. That thought helps keep my nausea
at bay—until he does it again.
“Among the more than seven hundred shipwrecks surrounding our island, the sinking of the Titanic-like Andrea Doria in 1956 is perhaps the most well-known, as it was the first televised tragedy of its kind. Due to intense fog and a radar
misinterpretation, the Doria collided with the MS Stockholm and sank along with fifty of its passengers.”
This time, I don’t prompt Goldie. “Actually, their lack of communication is often cited as the primary reason for the collision,
not the fog.”
He sweeps an irritated glance in my direction. “Thanks for sharing.”
“I’m just saying, they would’ve avoided each other if they’d just used their radios.”
There’s a flicker of something on his face—irritation or amusement, I can’t quite tell—but he turns back to the group and keeps talking.
I don’t notice until a full minute later that I’ve kept my eyes open the entire time. My stomach is far from happy, but arguing
with Wren is proving to be an incredibly effective distraction. I scoot to the edge of my seat, eagerly waiting for another
questionable fact.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t give me much to argue with. Tate wasn’t lying in his introduction—Wren knows a lot, and not just
regurgitated facts either. Within the first twenty minutes of the tour I’m 95 percent sure that he’s the “friend” Mrs. Mayhew
mentioned, and I decide to press just a little more to be sure when he brings up Captain William Kidd’s rumored buried treasure.
“Some people say that he was a privateer rather than a pirate, arguing that Captain Kidd was commissioned by the Earl of Bellomont
to hunt down pirates.”
Wren looks at me, and this time I swear he almost smiles. “He sailed under French colors in order to flat out steal the Quedagh Merchant, and it was Bellomont himself who had him hung for piracy.”