Of Magic and Rum (Beyond a Contemporary Mythos)

Chapter 1

Atlantis is dying. And when I dove to the depths to defend it, the last thing I expected was a portal catapulting me to another place or time. I still can’t fathom that the Charybdis followed me. My legs still feel the vacuum of its strong pull, my ears ring with the echoes of its jaws snapping with rows of vicious teeth. It’s a creature I can’t handle alone, so I did the only thing I could—swam as if my life depended on it. And this island is my savior. Only now, I can’t feel Atlantis’ heartbeat, nor sense its ethereal thrum.

I’ve landed on my knees, fingers digging into the wet sand. Now my eyes can’t seem to open from fear of what or who I’ll see. Salty scents laced with hints of coconut greet my nose. A flock of seagulls caw and squawk as they fly overhead. The rolling water hitting against the bank echoes from my left. A gust of wind rustles my soaked dress, carrying murmurs of overlapping voices from somewhere nearby. It’s enough to make every muscle in my body tense. But when a man’s voice shouts—the distance entirely too close for comfort—my eyes fly open, and I scurry across the sand to seek shade under a palm tree.

My heart pounds against my rib cage, my mind racing and reeling as I take in my surroundings. I’m in some place—tropical? A massive harbor butts against a scattered group of buildings some distance away, and an exceptionally tall ship sails into port.

A tall ship? The modern mortal world has made progress in its maritime vessels, and that is no fishing vessel.

My gaze falls to the luminescent blue scales on my arms glimmering with the sunlight, and I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from shrieking. As a sea nymph, water is both my blessing and curse— if I wished to be amongst humans undetected. Every ocean, sea, and lake is my home, and I thrive in them, breathe better in them, and swim with the aquatic life. But on land, when water touches my skin, my scales reveal themselves, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

I remain under the guise and protection of the palm tree with my arms curled around my knees. All I can do is wait for my skin to dry, for the scales to disappear, and pray no one walks past. The docked ship raises an anchor, and blurs of a dozen people on board hurry across the deck, pulling ropes to mount the sails. Another body swings from the crow’s nest, effortlessly hopping from riggings and mast like a monkey.

Where am I?

I’ve lived for nearly a thousand years, my father even more so, and nothing has happened like this with Atlantis since its creation. My father wouldn’t let it. He couldn’t.

I press a fingertip to my forehead. Relief washes over me when met with smooth skin instead of scaly ridges. And before I rise to my feet to explore, I touch my ears—round and human, not webbed. I’m dry enough to pose as one of them, but I can’t risk anyone seeing me in my Atlantean robes. I’ll need to find clothes and fast .

A sandy path jutting between a thicket of bushes and palm trees leads into the town at the top of a hill. Ducking, I weave through the trees, gaze shifting from behind me and back to the front rapidly. I’m steps away from the town’s threshold when a man carrying several wired cages filled with chickens shuffles past me, his attention elsewhere. I leap to the confines of a palm tree, willing the width of my body to mirror that of the tree, but I don’t own such magic. Instead, I go still and slowly sink to rest my butt on my heels, my back pressing against the trunk so harshly, its grooves dig into my skin through the dress fabric. To my delight, the Chicken Man scoffs at someone and turns back in the direction he came.

No sooner is the coast clear, I scurry to the next best hiding spot behind a wheelbarrow stacked high with hay. A pair of trousers hang to dry on a rope drawn from a protruding beam of a quaint hut. Without remorse, I yank the garment, thankful it’s no longer wet, and duck behind the pile of hay. I tear the bottom portion of my dress away, leaving only my silk linen undergarments on my lower half, and shimmy into the dingy brown trousers. They’re too wide and long for me, but they’ll make do after several folds at the hips and ankles.

As I keep my head held low and avoid eye contact with people passing by, it becomes more difficult to pinpoint where I am. Humans in a myriad of skin tones, ages, sizes, and features surround me, their numerous overlapping languages and accents bombarding my ears. There are also numerous languages bombarding my ears. Concentrating on the grooves in the skewed wooden planks that make up the walking paths, I let the accents settle against my mind. If I’m to get home, if I can get home, I’ll need to blend in for now.

Homesickness is already striking nausea in my gut. I may never see my family again—my father and brother.

Rhode. Concentrate.

Pressing a thumb between my eyes, I mumble to myself, picking out the English-speaking accents the most before, finally, a hybrid of British and Irish flutters from my lips. It’ll do. It has to. Every man that passes seems to leer at me too long for comfort. Given the few women I’ve seen wear corsets and skirts with days’ worth of dirt staining their cheeks, I must stand out like a sheep in a wolf pack.

I dart to a soil patch with potatoes growing from its bed in front of a nearby house and drop to my knees, digging my fingers into the dirt to cake some underneath my nails and rub it on my cheeks. A man with gray, stringy hair and only one eye, the other covered in a brown eye patch, stops and stares at me.

I run with it because I already look like I’m sailing without a compass. “Pardon me, good sir, but would you mind telling me the year?”

“What?” The man croaks, raising a hand to one ear.

I clear my throat and stand, bits of dirt flying from my knees. “The year,” I say louder.

“Aye, it is a good year.” The man smiles with a singular tooth.

For the love of?—

Squinting from the unrelenting sun above us, I dust my hands and move closer. “I seem to have forgotten what year it is.” I pull on my sleeves. “I—I can’t read either.”

The man’s face softens, and deep grooves form in his cheeks as he frowns. “You poor child.” He presses a pitying hand over his heart. “The year be seventeen nineteen. And it’s a good, good year.” The man grins before waving and shuffling off, saying hello to every person he passes.

1719. The eighteenth century. The tall ships. The crystal-clear blue waters. The palm trees.

I continue to walk, my mind reeling at the possibilities, so distracted that I gasp when my hip bumps against a rickety wooden sign reading Nassau.

Bahamas. In the eighteenth century. These people. Most of them are— pirates . And this is the Republic of Pirates.

Immediately spurring thoughts of the violence construed by pirates both by firearm and blade, I splay my hand at my side but pause. The only weapon I can conjure at will is my Atlantean sword—forged with metals that don’t exist in the mortal realm and most certainly don’t resemble any used in this century. I drop my hand at my side with a gruff sigh. It isn’t often I feel so vulnerable despite my powers.

But I can’t use my powers in the open and must arm myself. Stealing clothes drying on a line is one thing, but stealing a knife is another matter. Granted, as a child, I’d always steal—mostly from ships on the surface, their crews none the wiser. I hid a chest under some abandoned cargo debris on the shore, filling it with everything I managed to “borrow”—forks, rope, dresses, lanterns, smoking pipes, and the like. My brother caught me once adding a pewter plate, and I swore him to secrecy because father would’ve harpooned me if he’d found out. Dear old Dad never did find my hoard.

On a ship, everyone is usually distracted by their assigned duties. Land takes a bit more finesse—especially in a port with this much activity and dozens of wandering eyes. My fingers play at the cowrie shell hanging from a piece of twine wrapped around my wrist, and I force myself to stop my nervous twitch. Taking a deep breath, I wipe my clammy palms on my trousers and reach the town’s center. As an old friend said, walking confidently makes you far more inconspicuous. In some cases, you could become nearly invisible.

My eyes dart to empty belt after belt with no knives or swords. I’ll even settle for a blunderbuss. I can figure out how to use it if a situation arises for it. Finally, resting on a pirate’s hip, an unobtrusive accessory to his frock coat, sash, and tri-corner hat, is a dirk knife—small and primarily used for throwing, but with my petite hands, it’ll suit fine.

Keeping the cool and calm demeanor I’ve worked up, I pass the pirate, holding back a gag from the putrid scents wafting from him and another pirate standing next to him—body odor, rotten eggs, and shit . I bump my shoulder against him, discreetly slipping my fingers to the knife’s hilt and sliding it from its holster.

The weapon is hidden within my sleeve when it scrapes against my palm, and I turn toward the pirate with a hand pressed to my chest. “Deepest apologies. Had a little too much to drink today.” I stumble as an extra selling point.

The pirate catches my arm and smiles with a top row of rotting yellowed teeth. “A pretty thing like you don’t need to apologize. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

Damn.

A fluttering cackle pushes past Henry’s lips, and he sidles closer to me, his apparent underbite cutting into his upper lip, hair a brown oily mess, and dirt so thickly coated on his face it makes his tanned skin even darker. “That’s right, John.”

“You know, we just got back from four months at sea and be mighty—restless.” John’s grip tightens on my wrist and he slowly pulls me closer.

Henry laughs again, his gaze glossing over as it unabashedly roams me from head to toe, the tip of his tongue licking his chapped lips.

“I’m sure there’s a brothel in town, gentlemen.” I turn to pull away, but John twists my arm.

It would be easy to break his arm and kick Henry halfway across the port.

“True. But considering our captain is about as useless as a cuttlefish, we returned empty-handed and are a bit scrapped for payment.” John’s hand reaches for my chest, and I let the dagger fall from my sleeve into my grasp. The blade is at his throat a breath later, pushing against his skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood.

Henry yelps, aiming his flintlock pistol at my head with a shaky hand.

John’s palms fan at his sides. “Now, now. No need to be rash, pretty thing. We’re going to get what we want one way or another. Best you make this easier for yourself and spread your legs, hm?”

I couldn’t—I can’t stand here and do nothing. It’s not in my genetic makeup.

Glaring at John, his expression morphs from smugness to confusion to terror within several seconds. Saltwater bubbles from his lips before it begins pouring from his mouth. Henry drops the pistol and shrieks at the sight of John grasping his throat.

I could have brought the water to shore and drowned him where he stands, but calling it to fill his lungs from the inside out is far less likely to catch attention. When John drops to his knees, gasping as the water drains from his lungs, gradually returning his breathing to normal, I’m already walking away with extra vigor in my stride.

They make no effort to follow me. Considering the event’s outlandish, I’m sure they won’t connect me to it. How could they? John will likely assume he swallowed more water at sea than he thought and is now coughing it up. Henry will agree because Henry is a coat-tail rider through and through.

Catching my breath, I find the shade of a palm tree and press my back to it. The dirk’s blade has a speck of human blood on it now, and I wipe it away on my trousers before hiding it back in my sleeve. A sigh pushes from my throat, and the familiar sting burns my nose with threatening tears.

Surely, my family realizes I’m gone by now. And I feel far more guilty over their worry for me than any danger this realm can and will throw at me. The thought of my father, most of all, and what he’ll do to find me, carves a hole in my chest. He’ll search every sea and ocean, visit every powerful being he thinks could help, and run himself ragged because of it. And here, I can’t contact or let him know, at least, that I’m alright—that his only daughter is fine .

Anger overtakes me now, and I kick an empty wooden bucket with a subdued growl. I need a ship. I need to barter passage on a merchant ship stopping in port. Swimming my way back, trying to find my way back, is out of the question with the Charybdis lurking. And there’s nothing I can do marooned on this forsaken island. Out there—in open water—is my best chance. And despite my ability to materialize tail and fins, the idea of mermaids is an old wives’ tale in this time—a mirage sailors have chalked up to deliriousness from starvation or dehydration while at sea for months.

Pushing from the tree, I turn in the direction of the port. As I pass a rickety hovel, the thin wood door flies open. A woman in a bonnet and apron steps out holding a bucket. She tosses its contents toward the street, but instead of the dirty water landing in dirt and sand, it splashes onto me .

Gasping at the scales already shimmering over my hands and arms, I cover my face with my sleeve, panic consuming me as I look for somewhere to hide.

“Goodness, dearie, it’s just dirty dishwater. Sorry about that, though. Would you like a rag to dry off?” The woman leans toward me, trying to look beyond the guise of my arm.

“No,” I yell far louder than intended and startle the poor woman. “Sorry, but no. I’m fine. Thank you. Have a—have a great day.”

As I hurry in the direction I came from, I hear the woman mumble something to the tune of, “How peculiar.”

I find a vacant alleyway and prop against one wall, letting the sun warm and dry my scaled hands and arms. My head remains on a constant swivel for anyone passing by, and my leg bounces impatiently, as I wait for the scales to disappear.

It unnerves me to feel this ashamed about them. I love my scales. Adore my nymph form. And in my realm, I’d started to spend so much time in Atlantis that there was rarely a reason to hide any of it. It felt liberating. Like I’d finally been given the chance to be myself—to be who I was born to be.

A door creaks open nearby, and my eyes dart to my hands. The scales are gone. Peeking around the corner reveals two men dressed in black, carrying someone on a stretcher from within the house, a sheet pulled over the body. A lump forms in my throat—they’re dead. The lead man hitches the handles to readjust, and one of the mortal’s arms falls from beneath the sheet, hanging lifeless off the edge—a slender, pale arm that undoubtedly belongs to a woman. The lump in my throat goes coarse.

A burly man in trousers, bretelles, and a white, stained button-up shirt appears in the doorway with his arms folded. He doesn’t look to be in mourning or even seem to be sad in any way. I glare at the man’s red knuckles, one cracked and bleeding. As the stretcher passes the alley, I note the bruises lacing the woman’s freckled arm and the dingy gold band on her left ring finger catching the sunlight. Strands of deeply red hair, much like my own, peek from under the sheet.

My gaze shoots back to the man in the doorway, a matching ring on his left hand, and the sight of it makes my blood boil. I’d love nothing more than to make a scene of this, the undertakers’ sheer audacity to simply look the other way when this man beat his wife to death. But I can’t do a damn thing. Helpless yet again. But this man’s face? I’ll never forget it.

“Name of the deceased?” A third undertaker asks, holding a small burgundy leather-bound book in his palm, waiting for the answer.

The man in the doorway spits in the dead body’s direction as the undertakers cart it away. “Anne Bonny.”