Page 7 of The Mer-Mate
“Thank you,” I say to her. “Why don’t dolphins and whales usea’weshto breathe?” I ask them both.
“They tried a few million years ago,” my merman replies. “Allergic.”
“That sucks for them.”
“They manage.” My merman and the dolphin exchange a few clicks and squeaks, and she sprints out of the cave, leaving us alone in the quiet blue.
He floats a few feet away from me, watching my reactions. Some of the hardness has left his expression, or, at least I think it has.
Everything about him is a mystery. This creature I’ve been searching for since I was a child. The scientist in me is begging to come out. I want to know everything.
What about the bends? Can he breathe above water? Why aren’t I hypothermic? How many of them are there? Why do they keep their existence secret?
What comes out is, “Can I touch you?”
He’s been with me for almost my entire life. His kind fascinates me, but I want to knowhim.
Wordlessly, his webbed fingers encircle my wrist again, so gently, I could easily break free. Instead, my body flows through the water, close enough for him to place my palm flat to his chest. The second my fingers touch him, I have to swallow the sob that threatens to burst out of me.
My merman isreal. Even though his hands have been on me, I was too overwhelmed with the whole not being dead and learning that merfolk weren’t a myth, that it didn’t fully sink in until now.
Thirty years I’ve been searching for him, even as I tried to convince myself that what I saw was the dream of a terrified child. All the times I’ve felt alone, he’s been with me. Watching over me.
My protector.
He’s so warm. Muscles vibrate under his slick skin. Streamlined. Better for slicing through the water. I move my hand to where I think his heart will be, and it booms like a drum under my fingers, but at half the speed I would expect it to.
Of course. The water is doing the work of holding him upright. So little effort is required to exist down here. I place my two fingers on my carotid pulse. My own heart rate hammers against my fingertips. Maybe once I get used to this feeling of weightlessness, the ocean will support me, too.
I trace my hand higher up his torso. Sternum. Ribs. Clavicle. If it wasn’t for his sheer size, his anatomy would feel completely familiar. At least, his upper half does.
I move my hand towards his throat, but stop, looking up into his huge, dark eyes. “May I?”
The muscles work in his jaw. “I am yours to explore.”
My thumb brushes the thick column of his neck, gentle over the spot where thea’weshmust live in his throat. I have so many questions. The muscles are more developed than any human, a deep triangle from shoulder to skull. The trained biologist part of my brain marvels at what mechanics must lead to this, but all I can think is that I can’t wait to see him swim. See him in his element. All powerful.
Further up my hands go. His skin is smooth all over. Even his jaw and cheeks, and I realize he must not grow facial hair. The hair on his head though, moves as if it were alive. I comb my fingers into his mane. It’s nothing like I expected. Whenever I’ve left the ocean, the salt tangles my hair, leaving it rough and full of snarls. His flows like silk through my fingers, shimmering shades of olive, leaf, and seagrass.
“Your hair is so beautiful,” I whisper. “It’s like fields of grass, rippling in the sunlight.”
“I do not know of fields.” His black pupils widen, the blue cave light reflecting back at me. I see myself mirrored there, my face full of wonder. Full of joy. I look …
Beautiful. And it hits me.
This is how he sees me.
He wraps a strand of my own hair around his finger. “Yours is the sand born of a thousand shells,” he whispersback.
I hesitate, my fingers trembling along the blade of his cheekbones, down to his mouth. His lips are the most inhuman part of his face. So thin, almost silvery. When I run my forefinger along the seam, a shiver runs the length of his body.
“Do you have a name?” I ask.
The deep rush leaves where my fingers still touch his lips, and I’m left with the image of an underwater river.
“Toren.”
My heart sings. Toren. My merman has a name. I mimic the deep rush. Thea’weshnow living in my windpipe must be changing me already, because the sound that comes out is almost a perfect match, and the light of the cave wall brightens.
