SIREN STITCH

I felt Carle's weight as he, soaking wet, climbed onto the boat. He was beaming, like the flashing his whole teeth kind of beaming. He picked a towel cleaned his face and nudged with his head to the direction of the sea. "You can get in. You'll like it."

He slumped back on one of the finely padded chairs, clearly exhausted. "Yara. You'll regret not doing this when you lose the ability to."

I shook my head, dismissed my doubts and sat on the edge of the speedboat. "You'll come for me in case..."

"In case what?" He blurted.

"In case anything happens."

He hesitated then murmured, "I will."

I brushed my foot against the water's surface and slowly lowered my whole body. I still had one hand on the boat; with the other hand I streamed the water. In a wave of anxious excitement, I took one deep breath and went under.

It was effortless. How I always imagined it was to fly. My feet knew how to paddle themselves, my arms knew the right strokes and I inhaled the water like a leisurely winter breeze. It got darker the deeper I dived but that almost no problem. My vision was overcome by a reddish glow; everything felt right. Then, it took me like a storm—that nauseous feeling, that pit in stomach, that blow to heart.

"You can come up, Yara." I heard Carle's voice, wobbly in the pool of ocean water. I realized then that I wasn't meant to go too deep. The curse was still in place.

In my struggle to make the turn upwards, a black mass drifted past. It carried a wave and moaned dreadfully.

"Don't be afraid. It's the whale. Lead it." I heard Carle again.

I pushed against the wave and spun on my mark. I blasted upwards with a grace I have never been able to put in words, broke the surface and waved my hands madly.

"Whoo!" Carle screamed at the top of his voice.

I manoeuvred around in the air and finally had my two hands extended, ready to be submerged once more. Let me say that I am forever glad if only for that moment.

Carle and I were wrapped in towels, lying down on our backs and staring at the skies. We observed one good hour in silence till the joy of what had been was taken in whole.

"You could have just told me," I said.

"Told you what?"

"Not to go too deep."

"If I did tell you, you may have changed your mind on swimming."

"You are probably right." I curled up in my towel. "That was amazing."

"We could always do this again."

I still had feelings to process, realities to accept.

"How do you do with summers and fires?" I asked him. "You get summer sicknesses right? You turn blue and become weak?"

"It's my seventh year on land so I am getting used to it."

He had said getting used to it but I judged he meant becoming more like them.

He faced me and added, "Just clothe heavily or lie in a freezer. You'll be fine."

"We should get back. It's getting dark."

"Just one more minute," Carle said, shutting his eyes.

"Okay."

The journey back felt longer. In fact, it was longer. Carle cruised the boat slowly in an attempt to bask in the eventfulness of the day. I alighted by the beachside and watched him speed off into the night, perhaps going out for another swim. I did not bother to change from the wetsuit and ambled home that way. I was still taken aback by everything, the hand thing especially. I could grow my hand like Carle's into a devious, beastly form; I could compel people with a whisper, could swim powerfully enough to cause a minor disaster. Presently, I was torn between the happiness of remembering what I once was and the harm I could effect if the situation arose. I had instinctually known those boys at the beach were no threat but I may have turned violent if hit.

Earlier I had been worried that I was losing myself to this new world but now I was scared I would harm it. I couldn't imagine Mr Silvan or Dylan seeing those hands. The horror that I'd become. I spent most of that night in front of the mirror, feeling my hair and staring at my reflection. Was this skin even mine? What did a true siren look like?

Mr Silvan's warm hands woke me up the next morning. He was dressed as if ready for an outing—leather belt and boots and a steamed plaid shirt on top of jeans.

"Mr Silvan?"

"Get up, Yara. We are going to that museum today."

"Where?" I was lazy, turning in my sheets.

"The one at Fottiva's Road. You don't want to go again?"

I managed to seat up. "I want to. I'll get ready," I yawned.

"Come on. Come eat."

I ate breakfast in haste, washed my face in my sink and put on a nice shirt and a sweater. A cab was waiting not too far away from our house. I had never heard of Fottiva's Road but Mr Silvan had confirmed that it was not too far from town. I hardly left town anyway so it was an opportunity at an new scenery.

The cab man halted the vehicle before an old-fashioned kind of building. I had imagined the local museum to be bigger; it's stones were chipped with age, no washed glass windows and lacquered doors like the houses around it. There were a few cars parked at the venue. A family of three was welcomed at the entrance by a lady who gave them paper brooches to pin to their lapels.

As we approached her she grinned, greeting, "Welcome to Sandshore's Museum. I am Delia MacZane." She handed us our brooches. "Please we are urged to turn down the volumes of any noisy devices for our collective experience."

The inside of the museum was nothing like the outside. It was well kempt and modernist. First, there was a column lined with display cases of different ship models. There was a gallery wall of old black and white photos of sailors and the light bulbs were fish-shaped. At the end of the room, there were wall shelves of old dusty books and beside them a bust of a man smoking a pipe. Our museum guide gave us a little history of the fellow, Sir Adolphus Fillard, whom much of the fishing culture in Ver Mon Lagho was attributed to. After three hundred years his progeny had vacated the region but "his legacy stays forever with us," the guide remarked.

A relief map of the area was sculpted out of the table and Mr Silvan even showed me where our house would be if it had existed then. Another portion of the wall had strapped to it fishing rods, hooks, sinkers and some rusty containers. One fishing rod looked particularly well crafted and had an emblem stamped at the base. The museum guide took us up some spiral steps into another room. Balloons of historical people floated at the sides. Also, there was a soiled white and blue sailor suit hanging by the wall but what caught my attention most was the opened book at the center of the room. These words were carved out on the lectern:

DIARY OF ELEANOR WINSELL

"These are the handwritten records of Madam Elly Winsell. She lived to 105 years and poured out into these pages most of her life's work," the guide taught. "She was a sailor and an adventuress, mistress of sea and ink." The guide drew closer to us and said almost in a whisper, "Madam Elly claims to have seen mermaids."

My eyes darted curiously to him. "Mermaids?"

"Shh! I am not meant to tell you that," he grinned continuing his tour.

Once, while still fresh in this new world and upon learning of photographs, I had asked Dylan to show me images of sirens. Dylan had laughed saying, "Sirens are myths." And the following month had shown me paintings of mermaids—human top half and fish bottom half. It was what I thought I looked like until Carle gave me a glimpse of our true nature. This Eleanor Winsell may have seen one of us herself only to be discredited but we were real. And we were strange, even for a siren such as myself.

We shared the recess room with a few others, waiting for keepsakes and feasting on saltwater taffy.

"I'll be back, Mr Silvan. I want to use the toilet."

"Do you know where to find it?"

"I'll ask around." I was going to find that tour guide to ask him questions about the mermaids that Madam Eleanor claimed to have seen.

The museum staff all had a lemon t-shirt on with tags that had their names. A lady was still briefing them when I turned the corner and so I waited for her to finish before finding the guide that had taken us around.

"Hello!"

He looked less jovial than he had been during the tour. "Hey there. Can I help you?" He asked white sorting notebooks and what looked like precious stones and pearls into bags.

"Yes, please."

He occupied himself with his work so I just kept on talking.

"You said something about mermaids before."

"Yeah what about that?"

"Can I know more?"

"There's not much to know. Elly wrote about them in only like... two pages." He shrugged.

"What did she write about them?"

"She said they were nothing like the legends. No trident, vicious looking, nothing beautiful, you know, things along those lines." He shut the drawers he had been collecting books from and opened another one for pens.

"Sorry for taking your time but us there any way I could read her diary?"

The guide stopped all of a sudden. "Are you for real?" He stared at me unbelievably. "No. No. We don't rent that out."

"Okay. That was all I wanted to know." I slipped away to join Mr Silvan again.

Not before long, the guides arrived with packs for each of us.

We exited the museum and while waiting for our ride back home I realized the tour must have cost Mr Silvan direly.

"Thank you, Mr Silvan." I hugged him.

"For what?" He blushed.

"For everything."