It reminds me of something Frederik said. The news lady glances back at the remnants of a second crime scene. Another boy was found in the Hudson by the South Street Seaport yesterday. The wounds are consistent with shark bites, and local fishermen are trying to catch the rogue shark blamed for the attacks.
“Rogue shark?” My mother sucks her teeth. “It’s muddy Hudson water, not Cape Cod.”
Then the weather girl comes on and announces bright and sunny skies for the rest of the week until a storm on Thursday. My stomach heaves. Another storm?
I hit the mute button.
“There’ve been more of them,” Mom says. “Always boys. Your dad’s been using red tacks for where bodies have turned up. The blue tacks are for you.”
I look at the map of the world and the smaller one of just New York. Clusters of red along the Coney Island coast. Ryan’s house in Sea Breeze. Even up by the Bronx. I add another red and then a blue to the Key West part of Florida where I estimate the Vanishing Cove might be. The news shifts back to the bridge and I think of my dream. Frederik standing under it.
“Mom, do you know the other landlocked that live in the city?”
“I’m not landlocked, Tristan.” She frowns. “I chose this life.”
“Okay, but you got stripped of your tail. Even if it was your choice, you still can’t go back to court. Isn’t that what the landlocked are?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
Kurt says, “What Tristan means is, has there been a time when you’ve come across the banished?”
That’s not what Tristan means, but Kurt and my mom seem to have a “court” bond that I’ll never understand.
“It’s just something my friend Frederik said this morning.” I don’t know why she’s getting so mad. “He said all he knew of our people were the landlocked and the old man under the bridge. Does that mean anything to you?”
“I don’t like the idea of you befriending vampires.” She starts making breakfast. Cracking eggs open and tossing out the shells. She clucks her tongue when she misses the garbage.
I clean it up for her. “Ma, Frederik’s a cool vampire.”
“Doesn’t change that they like to drink mermaids dry. Either way, I wonder if he means Gregorious.”
“The historian?” Kurt asks. “I thought he was dead.”
Mom pinches her chin thoughtfully. “If he’s alive, he must be six hundred by now.”
I raise my hand, regretting the pain that shoots up my arm. “Share with the class?”
“The last time Toliss came to the shore,” Mom says, grinding tons of sea salt into the pan, “not the time that I stayed, but around the ’40s, one of our historians stayed on land. He wanted to record our histories here. I tried to find him when I was pregnant with you. I wanted to ask him if there were records of other humanmerfolk children, but the house looked deserted.
“I went back a second time and still nothing, so I stopped trying. I figured he either died or went back to court.” She shakes the salt ten times into the pan. “Though if he is alive, I’m rather offended he wouldn’t see me. He was our teacher once. My sisters and me.”
“The vampire must have mentioned it for a reason,” Kurt says, drawing out “vampire” the way I say “homework.”
“Where is the house?” he asks.
“Under the bridge, obviously.” I smirk.
They ignore my sarcasm.
“It’s a brownstone under the Brooklyn Bridge. Water Street. I remember because I thought it was ironic. Number 33. There aren’t many houses on that street. Mostly factories.” She jots something down on a scrap of paper and gives it to me. “I’ll pack up some food. Landlocked or no, our people hate it when strangers show up without gifts.”
“What about your…other engagement?” Kurt says.
I down my breakfast like it’s my last meal and ignore my mother’s prying eyes. “That’s not ’til later. Let’s go see the merman under the bridge.”
Thanks for the ride, Dad.”
“Don’t mention it, kiddo.” He adjusts his mirror and pulls the top down. “Probably the only useful thing I can do for you.”
I know he’s joking, but when I look at him, I notice the dark circles under his glasses, the slightly green tint to his face. He turns up the volume when his favorite song comes on, something about a girl who’s a sweet little thing and his pride and joy. Then pats my shoulder reassuringly.
On any other day, my dad would start singing at the top of his lungs while giving me and my friends a ride, and I’d roll my eyes and groan. But today with the top down, music blaring, and my dad tapping his finger to the beat of the song on his steering wheel, I just smile at him and promise to always remember him this way.
Dad drops us off in front of a dilapidated brownstone. He hesitates as he drives away. The vintage surf-green Mustang is out of place on a street that’s seen better days.
This isn’t much of a neighborhood. Across the street is a parking lot with only three cars. One is missing all its tires and a bumper. Someone’s written “WASH ME” on all of the windshields.
Farther down is the river, murky and still. I shiver in the heat of the day when I see something sleek and shimmering undulate just above the surface. My first instinct is to go to it, but Kurt points at a wreath hanging on the door to #33. The wreath is a wide coil made of twigs, broken bits of coral, and seaweed.
“Spirula spirula,” Kurt says. “The symbol of the king.”
The front yard is dry, packed earth with weedy shoots lying at slanted angles, like a bad comb-over. Ivy has overrun the sides of the building. Underneath, the brick is broken where two other brownstones used to flank this one.
I press on the bell, but the sound is muted. My neighbor does that so when Halloween rolls around, he has no reason to come to the door. “Maybe Frederik’s wrong.”
Kurt hops off the front steps. “Perhaps there’s a way in through the back.”
“That’s trespassing. I’m impressed.” I knock a few times while Kurt goes around the back. The windows have a thick layer of dust that nearly hides very yellow blinds. I can’t tell if the shadow I see is a man or a lot of dirt.
I give up on the front door and follow the path of decaying leaves to a small backyard buried in withering branches and dry leaves, as if spring never happened here.
In the last couple of days I’ve learned to trust my gut more than ever, and right now I get a familiar coil, like when we went down the well. I pay attention to every twig we snap, the traffic nearby, the unsettling quiet from the house.
Kurt stands on a crate with his hands cupped against a window. It gives out under his weight, and he’s left kicking it off his foot.
There’s a marble water fountain in the center of the backyard beneath a big, fat tree. Fresh green leaves float in the basin that fills up with the spit of the chubby merbaby. His tail coils behind him, and he’s wrestling an equally fat fish with sharp teeth. “Talk about ugly babies.”
Then there’s a loud snap.
The ground is rising around me.
My foot is caught in something beneath the leaves. Kurt tries to knock me out of the way, but we don’t make it and we’re hoisted into the air in a thick, itchy net.
“A fishnet?” I shout. “Really?”
This is a lot closer to Kurt that I’ve ever been before.
“I think it’s safe to say the historian is alive.”
“Watch the hands!”
“I don’t have anywhere else to put them, do I?”
A door slams open and someone shuffles out. Every breath he takes comes back out in a heavy wheeze. The net spins with our weight so all I can see is a mane of white hair and a cane.
“By King Karanos,” Kurt says, “you will let us down this instant!”
“Yo, stop poking me.”
The old man laughs. He holds out his hand to stop us from spinning. Muddy green eyes squint at us. “You’re in no position to be making threats.”
“We’re looking for someone,” I say. Then add, “And we have presents.”
“What kind of presents?” He gets close up to my face and looks into my eyes. His eyebrows are like fuzzy white caterpillars crawling in opposite directions. He gasps like I’m the ghost instead of him. “You’re the son of the king.”
“No. I’m his grandson. Are you Gregorious?”
He shakes his head. “No one calls me that anymore.”
“What do they call you?”
He shakes his head, tsk-tsk-tsking away. Hand pushing hair back, cane tapping dry dirt. He makes to turn away, then hunches down to our faces once again. “Nope. No court politics. Not on my doorstep.”
“Please,” I say. “You’re a historian, right? Aren’t you supposed to, like, keep track of important things? You must know of the championship to the throne. I have the quartz scepter.”
“And, Lady Maia made you breakfast.” Kurt says “breakfast” like it’s the eighth wonder of the world, which in our house it pretty much is.
The old man taps his finger on his thin lips thoughtfully. “Very well. But you’ll have to cut yourselves down. I’ll put on the kettle.”
“Is he serious?” I whisper.
Kurt is trying his best to sit up, but his foot slips and his weight crushes my sensitive areas. “Your hand is closer to my dagger.”
“Can’t. Breathe.”
“Swear by the seas you will not utter a word of this to anyone.”
“My pleasure.” I manage to pull out his dagger and start cutting our way out until the net rips open enough and we fall on the dried branches on the ground.
The back door is open. Stringy broken cobwebs hang from the door like a curtain.
“Come on.” Kurt pulls me up. “Before he changes his mind.”
The back door leads to a kitchen that smells like bath salts and moldy library books.
Flowery wallpaper fades in splotches. Naked bulbs hang from nests of red and blue wires. Every step we take seems to rattle the foundation. The table is a plastic patio set complete with an open umbrella. Stacks and stacks of brittle paper cover every surface, even the floors leading to the living room. I thumb through a stack right in front of me, and the old man smacks my hand away.
“Sit.”
NoOneCallsMeThatAnymoreGregorious sets down three chipped china cups, a tiny blue flower bulb at the bottom of each.
I point to the umbrella. “That’s bad luck, you know.” “What does an old man like me need luck for, anyway?” When he pours in the steaming water, the flower blooms. Blue bleeds from the petals into the water and releases a whiff of mint.
“Where did you find blue poseidonia?”
The old man gets up close to Kurt’s face until Kurt is so uncomfortable that he leans back. “I have my ways. Now, where is my gift?”
I take out the plastic containers, one full of a stack of pancakes and another with bacon. His white eyebrows wiggle as he opens the container and dives right in with his twiggy fingers.
As soon as I take a sip of the tea, I gag. “This tastes like feet.”
Gregorious smacks the back of my head. “Bah. It’s the best tea for healthy, slick scales. Drink up.”
I do, just to keep him quiet. “So, if your name isn’t Gregorious, then what is it?”
“It’s Greg. I’ve assimilated to this shore. Now. Tell me why you’ve come here. I’ve paid my tithes, if you’re here collecting.”
I burn my tongue on a big sip. “You weren’t on Arion’s ship last week with the others.”
“Because this visit isn’t real.” He jabs my chest with his bony finger.
“Uh—there’s a pretty real island floating off the coast of Coney Island.”
His fist comes down on the table. “I paid my tithe sixteen years ago when Toliss made its scheduled stop. Championship.” He says the last word like a curse. “Never in my days.”
“I take it you don’t agree with the king’s decision.” Kurt licks his lips and helps himself to more water.
“It’s why he released me from my position as Head Keeper in our Hall of Records. Among other things.”
Kurt and I exchange skeptical glances. “You mean to say that the king planned for this championship even before Tristan was born?”
Gregorious-Greg scratches his head. His hands are jittery as he crosses and uncrosses his fingers. I follow his stare to a row of clear bottles lined up on the cabinet. He licks his lips with a very blue tongue. “The line of kings has been unbroken since your ancestor Trianos united the trident pieces, therefore unifying our realm.”
Sweet. Go, ancestor Trianos. “If my grandfather just gives me the throne, wouldn’t it cause a civil war?”
His eyes go to the bottles in the cabinet, then to me. “Show me the scepter.”
I take it out of my backpack, still nestled in my sternum harness. When I hold it, it glows bright, then goes dead.
“Good,” he says. “Very good.”
I don’t get it. “What’s very good?”
“The other two are still out there? That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes.”
Greg stands. Goes to the window. The hinges of the cabinet squeak as he opens them. He takes one of the bottles and tips the clear liquid into his teacup. He doesn’t offer it to us. Then he drinks.
I look to Kurt who shrugs and proceeds to eat the smelly blue flowers in our cups.
When I look at Greg again, the change in him is so subtle that anyone else might miss it. The muddy green of his eyes becomes brighter, more emerald. His skin less yellow. Even his hands have stopped trembling.
“What is that?” I ask.
Kurt elbows me.
Greg bats a hand in the air. “Medicine. This body isn’t what it used to be.”
“O-kay,” I say. “Well, now that you know who I am and what I’m doing, I was hoping you could share anything that would help us find an oracle.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, child. I have nothing to do with oracles.”
“But you know of our past, don’t you?” Kurt asks. “You know everything that’s led us here. We’re giving you the opportunity to help shape our future when no one else could do the same, and you would turn us away?”
Greg stares at Kurt for a long time. A grandfather clock dings on the hour from somewhere inside the house. It’s not even noon yet, but the house already feels like a sauna. “I was there when you were born, you know.”
Kurt sits back so hard that the plastic chair nearly topples backward. “Me?”
I’m starting to think Greg’s too senile to help. The way he’s shaking again reminds me of the patients at the old folks’ home where the swim team volunteers during Christmas. Sometimes they just need someone to let them talk.
Greg nods once but doesn’t elaborate. “You have to understand that I watch history. I write it down. I don’t shape it.”
“But you do teach, don’t you?”
“That I did. I taught all the king’s daughters, for what good it did them. Or me, for that matter. A simple disagreement with the king and I’m left to die in this house.”
I reach for the empty teacup to keep my hands busy. Kurt asks, “You mean you want to go back to court?”
Greg crosses his arms over his chest. “I used to. A few days ago, I went to one of those landlocked meetings. A mistake, yes. I am not disgraced as they were. I am not a traitor to the crown. The king and I had a disagreement. In turn, I was allowed to walk away. But I don’t want to see the crown broken to suit my needs the way they do.”
“They said that?”
I think of my friends who are landlocked. Penny and her kid. They seemed cool—on my side.
Greg’s wide eyes nod. “Aye. Though not in those words. I’d keep away from them.”
“That’s sage advice,” Kurt says. Easy for him to say. He hates them.
I take my chances, reaching out to put a hand on Greg’s shoulder. I can feel the bone jutting out. “The way I see it, you don’t
want the line of kings broken. If you help me, we both win.”
“The Council of Keepers was meant to hold our secrets.” The old man takes his time studying Kurt and then me. “But this—the king’s choice—will bring those secrets to the surface.” His lips tremble. He twitches like he senses something else in the room. It makes me jittery. I wonder if it’s too late to bolt out the door.
“If the crown breaks, that will be the end of us.” He waves a finger from me to Kurt. “Both of you, do you understand me?”
I don’t. I have no idea what he’s saying but I nod. Yes. Yes. I’ll take anything you can give me.
Maybe he likes what he sees. Maybe he just wants us to get the hell out of his house and leave him alone. Whatever it is, he says, “Very well. I have something for you. Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.”
He disappears down the hall into his living room. From the kitchen, we can hear books toppling over and an angry cat hissing. I inch to the cabinet with the clear bottle he drank from.
“Tristan!” Kurt says, gritting his teeth. “Stop it. He’ll see you.”
The cabinet door is slightly open. I stick my hand in and grab a bottle by the neck. The hinges creek ever so slightly. Kurt fiddles with his teacup to mask the noise. I pull the cork.
I’ve never smelled anything like it—like my mother’s hair, summers on the beach, riding with my dad’s car top down, the coolness of his aftershave, honey and lavender. “Whoa.”
Kurt whispers my name as a warning, but I can’t stop. I tilt it back and drink, longer than I intended.
I wipe my mouth with my hand. “That doesn’t taste like anything.”
When I hear the rustle of the old man coming back, I put the cork back on and set it down. I pretend to look at the stack of paper in front of me and hold a sheet up to the light. It’s an etching of a tree, the branches reaching up to the heavens and a stream dividing the trunk. There’s another stack of mermaid drawings. They’re all incredibly voluptuous with pouting red lips and thick, winky eyelashes.
“Give me that!” Greg says, snatching the paper from me. He covers up the mermaid pin-ups and turns red.