Serendipity Market Page 3

  “But that is not a lizard thing to do, and as I realize this, I see that my eyes are still very far from the ground. I am still dressed in green brocade. Malvolio is still in his coachman’s suit. That godmother, I think helplessly as the other lizards scuttle away, has got it all wrong. Or—and this thought makes me feel as ill as when I was transformed—maybe it is Malvolio and I who are wrong.

  “I watch dumbly as Cindergirl goes into the house, singing. She does not seem to notice us. The black mouse sits by my boot, her eyes moving between the door and me.”

  “We do it all again the next night.

  “When that fairy godmother shows up, I try to talk to her. She looks at me in surprise, because I am changed even though she has not yet cast her spell. Then she takes two steps back, and her eyes show fear.

  “But now Cindergirl is here, ready for another night with the prince. My heart beats as rapidly as before when I see her. For her, I will do anything. I will even remain a man. I think that perhaps it is something like this, something like love or desire, that has made Malvolio and me retain our man shapes. I am no longer a lizard. He is no longer a rat. We both have exactly what we want. Perhaps life is all in the wishing.

  “That godmother turns away from me, looking relieved to see Cindergirl, and waves her wand. Tonight, that wand shakes.”

  “At half past eleven I wait quietly, halfway up the wide palace steps, but Cindergirl does not come out. I climb higher, beginning to worry. The tower clock plays off the next tune, the one that comes closer to the hour bongs. She is not here.

  “I climb higher still. I am almost at the palace door. The guard there is staring at me.

  “The tower clock begins to strike again, and suddenly there she is. She sees me, recognizes me, runs straight toward me. I feel a flutter of pure happiness deep in my chest.

  “Now we are running hard down those stone steps. The bonging of the tower clock, the clicking of her slippers, the thudding of my boots—all echo through the night. On the last step Cindergirl slips, almost tumbles, but my strong arm is there to help her. We make it to the carriage, which is already beginning to stink of old pumpkin, and Malvolio lashes the mouse horses into a frenzy. As we roll away, I see the prince at the top of the stairs, the glitter of a glass slipper at the bottom.

  “We are barely past the palace gates when I hear the pop again and that godmother’s transformation undoes itself. Coach returns to pumpkin, horses to mice, footmen to lizards. Everything is what is meant to be. Everything except for me and Malvolio. The black mouse follows me, running hard. I pick her up and put her in my pocket, and she wiggles her whiskers against my palm. We leave the other mice to take care of themselves. We kick the pumpkin into the weeds to rot on the side of the road. We escort Cindergirl home, but she does not seem to notice that we are behind her.

  “The next day, everywhere there are criers. ‘Whoever has the foot to fit this slipper shall marry the prince.’

  “Cindergirl’s foot is dainty and perfect, just like she herself. No one else can wear that shoe. Still, there are lines of fine ladies pushing and shoving. Not acting fine at all. Curling their toes, trying to force their feet into the shoe. One of Cindergirl’s stepsisters shows up in the back garden with a butcher knife. I wonder if the sister will cut off her own toes if need be.

  “Cindergirl stays inside. Her stepsisters have forced her to clean the cellar. She cleans, and cries. She has been crying since early this morning. I saw her then, and I see her now when I peer through the window on the garden side of the house, the side near my cistern. I think Cindergirl did not want to leave her prince. I think she may not have heard the crier. I think she does not know the prince is looking for her.

  “Should I tell? I wonder. If I do not, I will keep Cindergirl for my own. We will move to a good place, a better place than this, and I will make her happy. No more cleaning cellars. No more crying.

  “The stepsisters rush down the stairs to the cellar, one limping, her foot wrapped in a reddened towel. She leaves bloody blotches behind her. ‘It didn’t work,’ she is screaming. ‘It was supposed to work!’

  “‘Fix her,’ the other sister yells, shoving the girl toward Cindergirl. ‘Fix her foot before she bleeds to death.’

  “She looks at them, eyes huge and shiny with tears. I can hear the prince and the crier getting ready to leave. Then the black mouse is next to me. She stands on her hind legs, and her tiny paws tug at my pants. My stomach feels full of rocks, my heart emptied of blood, but I know the mouse is right. I must get Cindergirl to the prince. I pound on the window. I will do anything for her.

  “‘Hurry,’ I cry. ‘Hurry, before the prince leaves.’

  “They all turn, all stare at me, but on Cindergirl’s face I see a flash of recognition.

  “‘Hurry,’ I cry again, and I see Cindergirl turn from her stepsisters. They do not move as quickly as they might otherwise have done. One, after all, now has only blood where her toes should be. The other seems torn between stopping Cindergirl and helping her sister. I see Cindergirl’s foot touch the bottom cellar stair.

  “I run to stop the prince from leaving. Cindergirl is close behind me, having come straight up those stairs and out the back door.

  “‘Wait, Highness,’ I cry. ‘There is one more lady who has not yet tried the shoe.’

  “The prince stops and sees Cindergirl, who runs to meet him. Happiness lights his face.

  “The slipper, of course, fits perfectly.

  “Now my crying is in my eyes, not in my voice. I watch Cindergirl ride away with her prince. Malvolio follows, his questions of how he may serve the court lingering in the air. I do not see Cindergirl look back, although I watch, through wet eyes, for a very long time.

  “Cindergirl has been gone for many days. I count each day as carefully as I counted the sounds of the hours from the palace clock on those nights when I was dressed in brocade. Now I wear rough homespun that I have stolen from a neighbor’s stableboy. I try to do jobs I am not suited for. Kitchen work, fetching and carrying. Jobs that make me feel clumsy. And stupid. The only goodness I feel is in the black mouse, who has been my constant companion.

  “Life may be in the wishing, but try as I may, I have not been able to wish myself back to my lizard shape. I search for that godmother every day, whenever I am not being called upon to do some chore. She seems to have disappeared.

  “And then, there she is, that fairy godmother, walking through the garden with another lady, collecting herbs in a little grass basket. I drop the bucket I am supposed to be filling and hear it crack as it hits the cobbles. Water leaks through the broken staves. I do not stop to try to fix my mistake, even though I can hear the cook screaming at me from inside the kitchen.

  “‘You!’ I cry, running at her, fast as I would have run away from the cat in my lizard shape. ‘You! Make me whole again.’

  “That godmother turns at the sound of my voice, turns to see who calls out to her. She recognizes me, I can tell, because her face, pink from the sun that brightens this day, pink from the stooping to gather lavender and sage and parsley, turns the color of new milk. I am close enough to her to hear her friend, the other lady, say, ‘Who is that?’

  “That godmother tosses her head and answers, ‘I have no idea.’ But I know that she is lying.

  “Even with only two legs, I cover the ground quickly, because these legs are long. I grab that godmother by the arm, making her, by accident, drop her little gathering basket. ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I do not want to stay in this shape. Let me go back to what I was. Let me forget about these man feelings.’

  “Her friend is holding her other arm, as if she is afraid I will take that godmother away. But I only want to return to my lizard self. ‘Please,’ I repeat.

  “That godmother shakes her head at me. ‘Go away, young man. I can do nothing for you.’

  “‘You have not even tried,’ I say, but she shakes my fingers from her arm, grabs her basket, and quickly walks away. Her friend l
ooks back at me over her shoulder. She looks at me like I am a bad person. Just before they turn the corner near the cistern, that godmother meets my eyes. She shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. Then she and her friend disappear.

  “‘Leave! Go away!’ The cook has come into the garden and is screaming. ‘All you ever do is make messes. Leave here at once.’ And her finger is pointing at me.

  “That godmother cannot help me. Or will not. Either way, I am stuck in this shape. What will I do? I think hard, trying not to listen to the cook. I turn toward the palace, but I feel a tug on my pant leg that makes me look down. The black mouse is watching me, and her head shakes no. I keep my eyes on her as I turn a slow circle in the yard. Only when my back is to the palace does she nod, seeming satisfied.

  “So I decide to do as the mouse says. I will go, as Malvolio did, but I will go in a different way. I turn my back on that screaming cook, on my garden, on the cistern and the downspout, and I walk away from the direction that Cindergirl and her prince went those many days ago. The little black mouse watches me leave.

  “I will find something to do in some other place. There must be one thing I can be good at. And soon, soon, I will forget Cindergirl. When that happens, fairy godmother or not, I will return to myself. Then, lizard or man, I will be at peace.”

  People clap, and the Lizard Man, straight and proud, walks away from the teller’s cushion. Watching him, Mama Inez is well pleased. She remembers how long she stayed with him in her mouse form, how long she watched him, how she tried to help him see what he could do with his new, human life. Seeing him, hearing his confidence grow as he told his story, she feels assured that he’s picked a good path for himself.

  Now she looks for her next teller. Renata still clutches her basket of shells. She’s given the pink one, the one that most reminds her of Clarisse, to Mama Inez. Still, having the rest makes Clarisse feel closer, makes Renata feel that she has a second voice to help her tell this story. She’s more nervous than she’s ever been, but she remembers the man with the cloth, the one who was so excited about making that shirt. He said he felt he could learn from her. And if that was the case, maybe someone else could learn something, too. As she watched the Lizard Man, she listened carefully and tried to learn from the things he did.

  Now she looks at the moon and sees its reflection in the mirrors on Mama Inez’s scarf. She thinks of her own moon and of waves lapping on the sands. She walks through the tent flap, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back.

  Mama Inez stands to one side as Renata goes to the teller’s cushion. She, too, looks at the moon, feels its strength, and remembers her own moon bond on those two nights not all that long ago.

  Renata sits on the golden cushion. Her basket of shells is next to her right foot. One hand rests on the large brown-and-white shell that’s shifted to take the place of her pink talisman shell. She draws a long breath that pulls her into her story.

  Conversions

  “SOME OF YOU MAY remember the tales of the Merfolk, but in case you don’t, let me tell you. They’re water people, but they have the ability to stay on land if one of two things happens: they fall in love with a human and want to stay, or they’re captured by a human and forced to stay. Either way, fins turn into legs.” She pauses, then adds, “From what I’ve heard, it can be quite painful.”

  The audience mutters.

  “True. Even when one is in love, pain, actual physical pain, may make things so difficult that one needs to return to the sea, no matter how much it costs. For those forced to stay, life can be unbearable.”

  More mutterings, some angry.

  “Sometimes the legend works in reverse. And it comes without the pain, or so I hope.”

  “I still remember the smell of the sea, the grit of the sand, the color of Vachel’s blood. Especially the color of that blood.

  “My first reaction was to turn away from the shadowy shape on the beach.

  “‘We can’t just leave him there,’ Clarisse told me. She grabbed my shoulders and twisted me around. ‘He’s dying. Look at him, Renata. Really look!’

  “I really looked, and damn it, she was right. Later I wished I hadn’t looked. Then everything would have been different. I bit my lip, trying not to breathe too deeply, and approached the Mer. Clarisse was tight against me. ‘Do you think he’ll understand us?’ I asked softly.

  “‘I don’t know. Do you know his language? Because I don’t.’

  “I could write the word ‘door’ in hieroglyphics. I’d taken some Welsh in school and knew the words for ‘father’ and ‘mother.’ I could also say ‘banana’ and ‘gorilla’ in the tongue of my forefathers. Right now none of this seemed at all useful. ‘No,’ I sighed. ‘Of course not.’

  “‘Then we’ll try normal, everyday speech,’ Clarisse said.

  “Now that I was helping, she was ready to take charge, so I shoved her in front of me. She stopped just short of touching distance and said, in a clear, slow voice, ‘Are you hurt?’

  “‘Stupid question. You just said he was dying,’ I hissed.

  “The Mer didn’t answer, but his eyes flicked toward us. They were the blue of the sea that rippled behind him. It was just far enough away that it couldn’t take him back to his world and had left him in our place instead: a place where you need legs, not fins.

  “‘We want to help.’ Clarisse moved fractionally closer and reached down to touch his shoulder.

  “He yanked his body out of her reach, moving frantically. ‘No!’ The one syllable seemed torn from him. It was accented with an inflection I’d never heard before. But right then, that didn’t seem important. When he’d shifted, I’d seen the long blue gash on his chest. The edges were flayed and wet, and the wound looked deep.

  “‘Do Mer have blood?’ I asked.

  “Clarisse looked up at me. ‘How should I know?’ she almost yelled. ‘I’m sure there’s something inside to make them work.’

  “‘Well, if they’ve got blood, that might be what’s leaking from that cut on his chest.’

  “‘Ah. I get it,’ she said, and she didn’t even come close to yelling this time. In fact, she now seemed interested, in a strange, tender kind of way. She tried to touch him again and he tried to pull away, but it was obvious that he’d used up most of his strength with his last move.

  “I inched over to his other side. ‘Let’s both try to turn him over. He seems to be able to understand some of what we say. He answered us, after all. He ought to be able to tell that we aren’t going to hurt him.’

  “‘The word ‘no’ hardly qualifies as answering. And would you trust us if you were him?’

  “I thought about the ones who caught them. They’d bodysurf on the Mers’ backs, foot to fin, chest to back, fingers digging hard into the muscled shoulders, faces brushing the braided hair. Something I thought of as a nasty master-slave relationship, but that Mer riders described as ‘incredible fun.’ They’d use them after they cut them from the nets, wear them out, then abandon them. If they went back to the sea, fine. They could always catch more. If they didn’t, fine, too. It hardly seemed to matter. Sometimes I’d find the dead bodies on the shore, empty shells, the iridescent gleam long gone from their bronze-colored skins.

  “But finding dead bodies was better than finding live ones, like this. Bodysurfing was one thing. Actually talking to a Mer, that was something else. Mers were untouchables unless they were being used. There were laws about dealing with untouchables.

  “I didn’t go to the beach much.

  “I shook my head in answer to Clarisse’s question. Of course I wouldn’t trust us. ‘But I still think we need to see that wound on his chest,’ I said.

  “We approached from opposite directions, moving carefully even though he seemed way too exhausted to fight.

  “Clarisse’s voice sounded like warm honey. ‘We only want to help. We can get you back to the water if you’re okay.’

  “I stopped halfway down to his shoulder. ‘How?’ I asked her, shocke
d. He was big, both long and strongly developed. I doubted that both of us could drag him the two feet it would take to make it to the shallows, and even if we could, that still wouldn’t be deep enough.

  “She glared at me, so I stopped talking and leaned closer to his right side. That was when I realized that I’d been breathing normally for some time now. I stopped moving again. ‘He doesn’t smell. Smell bad, I mean.’ I sounded surprised, even to myself.

  “Clarisse shook her head. ‘Just like the sea. I’ve always wondered if they knew what they were talking about.’

  “‘Fear,’ he said.

  “We both jumped back.

  “‘We smell of fear. When they catch us.’ His speech was careful, the accent making him hard to understand. ‘When they—ride us.’ This last sentence was spoken so softly, I almost missed it. He sounded ashamed.

  “‘Of course,’ Clarisse said. She sounded practical and calm. ‘I would, too.’

  “He turned his head and looked up at her, straining his neck. From where I stood, I could see the tendons stretch. She crouched near his shoulder.

  “‘Can we turn you? To look at your wound?’

  “His nod was slow in coming, but at least he seemed willing to let us touch him now. We rolled him between us, slowly, carefully. The cut looked like something intentional, something made with a fishing knife. Under the bronze skin, the layers of flesh were blue tinged, the gore around the wound almost the same color as his eyes. Clarisse winced visibly, face paling, then raised her eyes to mine over his body.