Chapter Fifteen
Rosewarne Cove, for all its faults, was a beautiful place in
winter. A sheltering arm of the cliffs created a row of little
beaches, each one shielded from the others, and from the village
above, by outcropping rocks. On a sunny day like this you could
imagine yourself a thousand miles away. Priddy had spent a lot of
his childhood doing just that, dreaming the Atlantic into the
Caribbean, the beach into a desert island.
It was
easier now that he didn’t feel the cold. He stretched, yawned,
looked down in wonder at his two naked legs. He must have fallen
asleep again. Merou had told him there would be many such
awakenings, many necessary trips to shore, while his body adjusted
to the changes happening within it. And although the first time
he’d panicked and clung to Merou like a barnacle while the cleaving
sensation worked its way up from his fluke to his groin, his
lover’s reassurance had been true: in water, the transformations
were no worse than being unzipped, and zipped back up again when
the time came to return.
The zip, invented by George Zipowski in the 1860s.
Priddy gave a snorting chuckle. How could he have
known the love of his life would be a mythical creature of the deep
with a dumb sense of humour? At this rate his semi-immortality was
going to fly by. Beauty and mystery, passion, tenderness beyond
compare, and a supply of stupid jokes that would drive away all
Priddy’s shadows in time... Merou had filled up his world from his
sky to the depths of his ocean.
That
world would be utterly empty without him. Priddy sat up. He hadn’t
meant to close his eyes, although Merou had told him to let the
bouts of sleep wash over him when they needed to, that they were
all part of the process. He would never be far away. If Priddy was
worried, all he had to do was sing.
That was ridiculous, of course. What was he meant to sing? He
glanced down into the tidal pool glimmering in the sunlight beneath
his rock. Sea anemones were plying their brainless trade in the
bright water, tentacles hungrily drifting. Leaning so that he could
see his reflection, Priddy checked his gills. They looked fine,
invisible behind the muscle flaps which he could hold closed almost
as well as Merou could now. His hair was a mess, though. Running
his fingers through it, he tried a few bars of Hal-an-Tow, then the Padstow May
song. His voice rang out of him in a startling baritone. It bounced
off the cliffs, and the ravens on their promontory lookout posts
flapped skywards, cawing and prooking back at him. He sounded good
by anybody’s standards—the opera-singer seemed to have taken up
permanent residence—but still his eyes filled with tears. Kit had
loved his Flora Day and his Padstow ’Obby ’Oss, seeing it as his
God-given duty as a Cornishman to get roaringly drunk at both, and
dance and sing until he passed out. Merou had told Priddy that he
was healing from a baffling, bruising lifetime of being human, but
it had only been three days. Priddy was afraid that he was going to
be human for a long while yet.
“You do make a perfect merman, though.”
He
jolted upright. Merou was stepping carefully down from the rocks at
the base of the cliff. He was balancing two large cardboard cups,
and he was unexpectedly dressed in Priddy’s clothes. The jeans
could have belonged to anyone, but the Weeverfish T-shirt was
unique. Priddy jumped down from his perch, ran up the beach to meet
him. Merou broke into laughter, rocking under his assault. “Hey!
Don’t spill the coffee.”
“Why was I perfect? I’ve only got my forky little human legs
today.”
“All the better to wrap round my neck, mountain king... You
were looking in your mirror, and singing and combing your
hair.”
“I suppose I was.” Priddy rested his brow on Merou’s shoulder,
swallowing in relief when the strong arms closed round him. “How
come you’re wearing my clothes?”
“Seemed the simplest solution, if you’re still set on doing
this. I needed some gear for my shopping run, and... well, I know
where your ma hangs out her washing. Got another set for you over
my arm here.”
“Somebody must’ve brought them back from the lighthouse for
her.” Priddy backed up, distractedly admiring the breadth of his
lover’s chest in the borrowed shirt. “Was she washing them? Did you
see her? Was she... was she upset?”
“Come and sit down, sweetheart. I’ve got sandwiches in the
jacket pockets, and I know you’re getting to like the raw fish, but
you still need some nice landling bread and cheese for
now.”
By the
time Merou had led him back to the comfortable crescent of sand
where he’d been sleeping, Priddy had worked out the answer to his
question for himself. He helped extract the sandwiches, settled
down gratefully in the circle of Merou’s arm. “You don’t have to
change the subject or lie to me. She had everything packed up,
didn’t she? Ready for the Oxfam run.”
“I don’t know about that. Everything was packed up, yeah. Jeez,
Priddy—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wouldn’t even have been her idea, because she
never had one. She’d just have been doing what Vigo told her to
do.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Kit’s mum is sitting on the
harbour wall crying her heart out for both of you.”
“In that case I definitely have to go back there. As a human,
even if only a temporary one. I’ve got to talk to her, tell her
what happened.”
“Have your sandwiches and coffee first.”
“What, no pommes de mer?” Priddy settled back against him.
“Where did you get those things from, anyway? How did you magic up
that picnic?”
“It’s hard to explain, but you’ll get it soon enough. There are
currents as well as directions in time. If you’re in a place where
you lack a thing, you can sometimes grab a current—like surfing a
wave—to take you to a place and time where that thing is. Like
Lyonesse in August, when the sea-orchards bear their fruit. Or
Sainsbury’s next July, when I’ve learned all the things you like to
eat, and for some reason I’m in there with some money.”
“That sounds almost insane enough to be true. Is that how you
got these sandwiches?”
“Oh, no. The Portuguese chef who lives in your bedroom now has
set up a snack bar on the harbour, that’s all. And you left a
tenner in these jeans. Listen, my Priddy—I don’t know how you could
get this across to Kit’s ma, but those currents in time sometimes
show us futures that never happened. I saw one where all the seas
were silent. No-one left to sit on the rocks and sing and comb
their hair. That was the future Geoff Blades would’ve made, and Kit
did his best to make sure it never came about.”
“He was a good lad. Especially because he didn’t even know if
he was doing the right thing. Would
they ever have been able to cure all those
diseases he was talking about?”
“Maybe one of them, one day. But human genetic research is in
its infancy. By the time enough scientists realise they’ll need a
couple more centuries even to begin to break down our membranes and
regenerative tissues, the seas will have been fished dry. So guys
like Blades will keep netting and abducting us one by one in the
hope of a quick fix, like he did with...”
“With Francis. Say his name to me, Merou. I always want you to
be able to do that.”
“All right. Francis, then. And I want you to be able to talk to
me about your lost friend, too, about...” He fell silent, raising a
hand to shield his eyes from the light bouncing and blazing off the
sea. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Priddy
sat up. He followed the direction of Merou’s gaze. All he could see
were shapes against the sunlight, four kids in their late teens
making their way along the beach towards them. “Shit. I’d better
get dressed.”
“I don’t think so.”
No,
maybe not. Three of the group were as naked as he was. Two of
them—the boys, Priddy could see now—were dashing in circles round
the others, leaping up and down the rocks, as if nothing had ever
been so weird or so much fun as running about on two legs. The
third was a girl. If this had been summer, she’d have dropped every
straight male jaw on the beach—possibly a few of Priddy’s team,
too—and Goddess help the lesbians. She was walking proudly, naked
as day, her long hair swinging down her back.
The
fourth, waterlogged and stumbling, clinging to her arm, was Kit.
Priddy jumped to his feet—promptly tripped over them, newly awkward
as he was without his fluke—found his balance and ran. Kit spotted
him from ten yards out, let go his queenly escort and tried to run
too. He and Priddy met with a bone-bruising thump. “You’re alive!”
Priddy said, dropping with him to his knees on the sand. “Oh, mate.
Your ma’s gonna kill you.”
***
“He bought me a gym membership, and lots of new clothes a size
too small so I’d have an incentive.” Kit wiped his eyes. “It was
very thoughtful of him, I suppose. The fucker.”
Priddy
looked at Merou over Kit’s head. They each had an arm around him,
warming the space between them where he sat. “D’you think he’s all
right?” Priddy asked. “He’s not making a lot of sense.”
“He’s disoriented. Happens sometimes, when a hatchling’s made a
rescue. It’ll pass.”
The girl
was crouched behind them on the sand. She hadn’t said a word, but
whenever Kit made a sound of distress, she reached to stroke his
hair. The boys were sitting at a respectful distance on the rocks,
looking like freshly-delivered young gods. “A hatchling?” Priddy
echoed doubtfully. “These are all... Mer people, then?”
“Oh, yes. Every one.”
“But they’re adults.”
“In some ways. In some they’ve got an awful lot to
learn.”
Merou’s
expression was curious. Priddy had seen it before somewhere, but
couldn’t quite pin it down. “Why do you still call them
hatchlings?”
“Oh, sentiment, I suppose. Force of habit. After all, it’s only
been three days.” He turned to the girl. “You didn’t do badly at
all, Hatchling Four. I suppose we should name you now. What would
you like to be called?”