Page 17 of Female Fantasy
You will no longer be alone.
How long have I waited for those words to be strung into a sentence directed at me?
I nod once, resolute. “Show me.”
Ryke’s hand brushes against mine in the shadows, tentative. Our fingers touch, his presence a comfort.
Then the stone beneath my feet begins to rumble, the earth quaking, an angry giant awakening from his slumber. A crack begins to form in the cave, the rift between worlds. I stand on one side of the fissure while Ryke remains on the other.
A portal.
Light pours from the crevice, temporarily blinding me. A gust of phantom wind knocks me off my feet. I gulp, preparingto hold my breath as water rushes in, but find that I am suspended in some sort of air bubble, delicate as the beads of soap I might find at the bottom of a bathing bucket. And when the fog clears and the light dims, my ground is someone’s sky, and I am floating above the land like an angel.
Ryke has transformed before me, his obsidian tail flexing beneath him, strong with muscle and movement. His dark hair billows in the water like tendrils. There are ancient symbols carved into his skin, starting at the nape of his neck and continuing over the ripples of his back.
“Do not be afraid, Merriah.” His use of my name shocks me awake. “Look down.”
And so I do.
The darkness is banished, replaced entirely by a world colored in shades of teal, azure, and aquamarine. Sky that is not sky at all but bright glittering water, shining like gemstones, somehow both clear as day and pigmented in blues and greens. Glowfish strung like twinkling lights and clouds of jellyfish. My breath catches as I take in the great underwater mountain range made of mud and rock and salt, a volcanic seamount larger than any I have ever seen above the surface. And nestled into the cliffside, castles of densely packed sand, decorated with pearls and gemstones. Grander than the royal palace on land, larger than any residence I have ever laid eyes upon. There are great columns outside each entrance, statues of unknown mer in the courtyards. Gardens made of seaweed and kelp, finely cut hedges and extraordinary mazes.
Beside the village is a marketplace. Stalls of fresh halibutand cod, deep-sea clams and freshwater oysters. A stand boasting hand-dyed silk and scales carved in compelling patterns, sewn together into corsets and armor. Combs made of shell and utensils that appear to be made of sanded-down teeth from great extinct beasts. The smells waft upward toward my nostrils, and I inhale, my senses hungry. The scent is sweet as algae and briny, sulfur mingling with sea air. I want to bottle it and smear it upon the nape of my neck. There is something more precious than just life down here. Joy. Unadulterated delight that permeates the water molecules, creating a palatial utopia.
And in this underwater paradise, people can fly.
Well, not people.
Mer.
And not fly.
Swim.
They are scattered everywhere. Traveling in hordes, laughing like ringing bells, carrying scrolls and parcels, perhaps on their way to school. Alone, talking rapidly into shells glued to their ears, as if the objects could possibly transmit sound—an advanced technology that humans have not yet invented. There are mer shopping for underwater antiques scavenged from sunken ships. Mer dining in underwater caverns, drinking wine from chalices made of cockles. Mer playing checkers with ancient coins and riding seahorse-drawn carriages. Living their lives, oblivious to the troubles above the water.
Famine and fire and flooding.
The woes of humanity.
“It is glorious,” I breathe, my voice snagging.
Ryke watches me as I take in Atlantia from above, a dove on the wind.
“It is home,” he answers.
My eyes wander over to an outdoor amphitheater made of carved stone and coral. There are mer of all ages hovering above the stands, their eyes fixed on the performance happening in the center of the circular stage. The players seem to be acting in a tragedy. I watch in awe as false blood is spilled from the chest of a thespian, dissipating into the water around him instead of leaking into a puddle by his tail. The opposing player holds a sword made of sharks’ teeth. He glowers, delivering his lines with gusto.
“Atlantia belongs to the siren race now!” he proclaims.
I suck in my cheeks. The play must be a reenactment of the first war, the battle between brothers, when sirens turned on their rulers and colonized the mer.
As the bloodied actor seizes his chest and pretends to die, he cries out his final words to the crowd of steel-eyed spectators.
“Never,” he swears. “By these watery graves, Prince Ryke will rise again.”
I turn to my traveling companion in shock.
He shrugs. “Guilty.”
