Distracted by the horrific ceremony on the pier, I do not notice him crawling away. There he squats, rocking back and forth with his head in his hands. Less than a yard from the water’s edge. Vulnerable.

The sea erupts in a volcano of spray and saltwater. The mermaid bursts forth like the deity of some time before man ever was. Webbed fingers snatch Pip by the hair and pull him under the waves before he can even cry out. One of his tattered shoes clatters on the stone. The rest of my brother is gone.

I bury my face in my hands, telling myself that this is all a nightmare, a dream that I will soon wake from. The cry of the gulls fills the silence, along with the gentle wash of the surf on the beach. And beneath that everyday, mundane sound, I swear to God I hear a voice singing in a strange tongue. It is the most sublime thing I have ever heard.

19

19

MOTHER WAS A gifted storyteller. Every night, she would gather us close in the tallow light and tell us a story before bed. There were stories about knights finding enchanted swords or princesses escaping a witch’s dungeon. Some were romances where the lovers were kept apart by wars or petty gods, but always united at the end and happily wed. Sometimes even death could not keep the lovers apart.

Mother had a knack for weaving her stories to a fevered pitch that left us breathless in fright and cowering under her skirts. And yet, no matter how dire the turns of the story, mother always thrilled us with twists and surprises, always, always stitching her stories closed with a happy knot. The downtrodden were lifted to glory, the underling stableboy made a knight by his king. The monster was defeated, the hero rewarded for her bravery with some fabled treasure.

Pip, being the youngest, would nestle in mother’s lap like a bird and listen in holy rapture as she spun her tales.

When mother disappeared, it was the stories that we missed most, I think. Pip had the hardest time accepting that, not only was mother gone, but so too were her fairy tales. At bedtime, he would light the candle and wait for mother to come, refusing to bed down until he had a story. Bryndis tried to pacify him, but her stories came out confusing and contradictory. I tried my hand at spinning yarns, but I would get lost in the plot and could never thread my way to the happy ending.