Mermaid_ A Twist on the Classic Tale - Carolyn Turgeon [71]
“And she was singing, and this voice! This voice. I have never heard anything like it.”
She smiled and stroked his face, tears coming to her eyes. His hand, on her skin, his palm. The grass under her legs. The breeze over her. All this feeling, from the center of her body. Her powerful tail vanished and in its place these fragile legs, this great wound, and this most wonderful feeling, because he knew.
It was as if he had to wrest out every word. “I can’t describe what I felt. How astonishing it was. I thought I had died, that the sea had taken me, too, and God had sent an angel to me, to take me home, and I thought, I didn’t know that dying could be so beautiful as this, and I thought of my family, my friends, and I knew it would all be all right, no matter what happened.
“And the next thing I knew, I was on a beach, bitter cold, and I opened my eyes and she was kneeling over me, this creature. She was so beautiful. My God. Her dark hair and eyes, her white skin. And I was finally able to focus in on her face.”
The breeze shifted and felt cold suddenly against Lenia’s bare skin. Wait. It was me. It was me.
“But this woman … Can I tell you this? I see I can tell you anything. This woman, I have no idea who she was. She could be any woman, from any place, who gave herself to God. A woman of God. Married to Him. And I felt that, spilling over to me.”
No, it was not her. I saved you. I chose you. She shook her head, gesturing No! her heart twisting inside her. It was not her, it was me. I am the one you must love.
He went on, oblivious. “It was a miracle, the way she appeared to me in the water. There is no other way to explain it. A miracle from God. He sent her out to me.”
He sat up then, next to her, and looked at her with a face full of love and wistfulness. “You remind me of her, Astrid. You’re so beautiful, like an angel. Like her.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Princess
THE CASTLE FLARED UP, GLEAMING IN THE DISTANCE. They could see turrets, towers, the pennants of the South, the shimmering gold and green, colors of the old king. Under it, tiny black figures moved about. Around it, the earth was lush and green, like a bright, wet emerald, and beyond all of it was the sea, a shining blue sea sprinkled with diamonds and glass.
They stood in a clearing in the forest, at the top of a hill. “This is where they are to meet us,” one of the guards said. “This is where we wait.”
Margrethe looked down, her whole future laid out before them, filled with secrets and mystery. She turned to Edele, whose freckled face was lit up with excitement. In the sunlight her hair was practically orange. What a strange girl her friend was, Margrethe thought, filled with a sudden affection. She did not know how she could have made this journey without Edele.
“Finally!” Edele exclaimed. “We can rest.”
“Yes,” Margrethe said, slumping against her own rider, who laughed uneasily. She was exhausted to her bones. The guard dismounted and helped her down to the grass. She was unsteady on her feet after nearly seven straight days of riding. Her legs felt numb, her back sore. It would be so good to get to him, to this new life, and to rest. After she reached her goal, Margrethe told herself, she could sleep for days and days.
Edele was still radiant, too, from her time with Rainer, who had promised to see her at Margrethe and Christopher’s wedding, when it would be safe again for everyone to cross from north to south. She ran about picking flowers and humming. Margrethe smiled sleepily at her as she leaned back against a tree.
“Do you need anything, Your Highness?” one of the guards asked, despite his own exhaustion.
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
Already she was falling asleep. She half heard Edele’s humming, her chattering and laughing with the guards, the low tones of their voices as they responded.
She might have dozed off for minutes or hours, when suddenly the pounding of hooves crackled through the forest, into the clearing. A group of soldiers rushed out of the trees, in armor, wearing green and gold. Quickly, Margrethe