The Little Runaway

 

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The Sea Nymph, by Bassam Allam

 

 

When the Sea Witch heard that the “little silent trollop” ended up as sea foam, she laughed for days. Not constantly- she’s surprisingly sane—but whenever there was a silent moment, it would burble out of her like smoke from her cauldron, light bursts of swirling mirth followed by heavy, spilling plumes of malicious glee. She now had a mermaid voice shining from its golden, stoppered bottle and a chest spilling over with the shorn, shining hair of her idiot sisters. They were vain, silly girls who suddenly grew a single heart between them and sacrificed their precious locks for a deadly knife, a dagger that would restore their wayward sister to them. The Sea Witch has gained everything, and it cost her so little.

I was the only person in the world who knew how pathetically little it cost her.

I was an “acquisition” from some previous bargain that I don’t even know anything about. I don’t care what my parents wanted. Apparently, it wasn’t me. Whatever. All I know is that maybe once I wasn’t completely human (it’s rare that humans make it here, but it’s not unheard of) but I certainly am now, and I have been raised in this cavern beneath the sea since infancy. My first memories are human. A little girl who had only heard of sunlight when another supplicant came begging for a chance to have legs and lungs. I’ve been the Sea Witch’s servant and student my whole life, keeping this dark cave clean and gleaming in its fire light, the flames of the sconces shining over the dark surfaces of the water that meets our floor and keeps me trapped.

Really, everything I really knew about the World Out There was because of a gift from that “little silent trollop.” I actually really liked her. I thought she was kind. I cried myself to sleep after she sang her final song and I had to watch as that sweet, haunting voice drifted away from her into the Sea Witch’s greedy possession. She had found a human book of stories, miraculously preserved by some transparent bag that had kept the ocean from destroying the delicate pages. The cover is leather. Soft. The book is illustrated, and the stories filled with magic and heroes and wonder. I don’t know if the stories are true. I do know magic is real.

When the girl sang, the Sea Witch thought it would be amusing to make me watch. “Humans can’t resist the song of a mermaid voice,” she taunted me. “Not even little magical humans like you.” She’d bound me to a chair, so securely I could barely twitch, and yet with the strange consideration she sometimes paid me—I could breathe easily and I was comfortable. I’m going to tell you something strange but true: sometimes I could almost love her. When I didn’t hate her.

The mermaid’s voice was the most beautiful and horrible sound I have ever experienced. She watched me as she sang, a hint of sadness in her beautiful eyes as she regarded me, the way I strained uselessly to go to her, and when the song was over, she winked as though I would understand something wonderful. She was so happy. She was in love and her dreams were coming true and at this moment, this sacrifice of hers meant absolutely nothing to her. She had no idea at the time the ultimate sacrifice would be her life. To this day,  I desperately hope she had been happy, at least for a little while.

The night after her bargain, I lay in my bed and I listened to her song in my heart. The more it replayed, the more I started to understand that wink.

I’m going to be free, her song told me. Someday, sweet girl, you’ll find your way to the sky.

From then, I paid close attention to my lessons. I watched the Sea Witch carefully, and she taught me some of her magic. Her true trick—transporting her new little human-fae into the World Out There—she wouldn’t teach me. She was no fool. But neither am I.

It turns out, there’s a hidden door. Of course there is. She would slip me a potion that would knock me out for days and she would perform a ritual and the door opens and she’d accompany her newest Best Friend through the dark and winding tunnels that opened, finally, into the sun. I know this, because I made myself an antidote to her potion. The potion she had no idea I was aware of. I fell asleep like always, but I woke up a few hours later. The door to the tunnels was still open. I had been so close to freedom so many times before, dreaming instead.

I gathered up a few things extremely quickly—I couldn’t have risked packing ahead of time. I gave myself bread and water and cheese and the least worn of my clothing. I grabbed supplies and herbs that I thought might be useful Out There. I unearthed my precious book, and right before I left, I snatched the stoppered bottle with Her voice, and I cautiously fled.

I don’t know if the Sea Witch is looking for me. Maybe. Probably. After all, she really doesn’t like to lose.

But she hasn’t found me yet.

 

 

Copyright © Heather Senz. All rights reserved.

 

An excerpt from The Last Eden (unedited)

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“Lilith” by Marina Ćorić

A Dream of Lilith

At first, all I can see is her. She appears so much larger than any woman I’ve seen before, and if I were corporeal beside her, she’d dwarf me, or maybe I’m wrong because she is so beautiful and the world seems so new and she is very, very alone. She’s naked, her breasts heavy and full and her stomach rounded and maybe she’s pregnant, but if so, it’s early. Her eyes are dark and wild and her hair the same, black and red, hanging in snarls and curls down her back. There is a large wolf by her side, protective, and an owl flitting ahead, like a lookout, pausing in branches until she draws near and then bursting into flight again. She seems sad, determined, lost. Her body is strong, she can walk for miles, maybe days. She is not hungry, not tired. She is humming, a light tune, I catch it like a whisper of a lullaby and I realize it is to comfort herself, perhaps her baby, perhaps her babies.

I begin to decipher thoughts, a language I don’t know but the ideas that I understand, a voice that sounds like the silent voice in my own mind but it’s not mine. She has left something behind, maybe someone, maybe everything, but she sees clearly and her connection to the Source is far more powerful than mine will ever be. She is following her purpose, its path invisible to me but not to her, it seems as she knows exactly where to go. With a sense of great loss, she knows she must leave the safety of everything she has known. She is of the First, but not the only, none of them are, most still having no idea that the rest of the world stretched before them in its beauty and terror, and she must leave him behind, she must go forth and find others, she must protect the life- lives?- growing inside her, and she is instinctively protective, a she-wolf, a tigress. There is no going back, the loss is grief, it is pain, it is consuming, and she puts one foot in front of the other. She will be walking a long time. There is nothing but time.  

She wonders if he will miss her. The taste of fruit is still on her lips, she ate her fill, she may never be hungry again, she certainly has had no need for sustenance since she walked away. She is full. The air around her feels like a thunderstorm, and she knows somehow she passed a test, she was bold, she was willing, and she didn’t even tell him about it. It was not for him. She remembers how she felt, as though her face was caressed, as if she could hear “my daughter” and the voice was fond, but the cost was everything she knew, in return for knowing so much more.

Her lupine companion peered into the shadows of the trees and she realized she has been followed, that he is still coming after her, perhaps still entranced by the enchantment that seems to follow her, a song of energy, a promise of potential. But he was not right for her, she felt it in her core, she was second to none and equal to all and nothing else would please her. Anything else would be a prison and so she walked, hurried away, with a pet on her wolf’s head. With his eyes full of understanding, her beast would not kill him, but keep him at bay and she hoped this was not goodbye, not to her wolf, anyway. She was done with any other goodbyes. She had already heard, carried on an errant breeze, the laughter of another woman, its sound beauty in itself and delight, and it reinforced her knowing– this is not my home. This is not where I belong. I must wander. I must keep wandering. I may never stop.

I feel connected to her, I can taste the sweetness on her tongue, it is tart, her chin had been covered in juices and she had felt wild, like lifeblood itself had dripped from her mouth. She smiles like she knows I am here, she feels at peace, she feels, suddenly, less alone. She meets my gaze squarely and as she smiles, my breath is taken away, and then I feel, physically, a snapping and I am alone again, the world a haze of color and time, and then I am awake, in my room, in the dark, but the not so dark, as there is still light from my clock and the hallway light outside my door, still on,  so it is gray and tinged blue and thousands of years have passed in an instant.

My heart is confused, it is sobbing; it feels like my mother has left me again. My heart is racing as if I had a nightmare, as if I were in danger, but I’m not, not now, not here in my bed with the blankets heavy across my body and my front door locked to the night. For a moment, I catch a sense of the Other, its frustration, its need to recapture something it believes it has lost. It has a different sense of balance. I think its balance is skewed. Perception. I will fight. I will win. I have a warrior spirit in my blood, and I know this in my core, but the dream is fading until all I remember are flashes- her eyes, her wolf, her determination, her sacrifice.

In the morning, I try to tell Granna of my dream, but my memory is hazy and my description lacking even to my own ears. It doesn’t matter. Granna nods, gratified, as if she has been waiting, as if this was something she had anticipated for some time.

“So you have seen her, too,” Granna says.

“Who is she?” I ask the question but I think I am anticipating the answer myself. This conversation is fated. I already know.

“Lillith,” she says. “As far as I can guess, you have seen Lilith. We all see her eventually.”

 

Copyright © Heather Senz. All rights reserved. This excerpt has been taken from my novel in progress, The Last Eden.