it.”
Cleoma pulled her knife from her belt of braided grass. She handed it to Jolie. The blade was gray and pink, a long conch shell filed to a sharp edge.
“Take it,” Cleoma said. “I am swimming quiet waterways back home. Where you are going, you will need it more than I.”
The whorl was covered in a tight wrap, and Jolie’s fingers closed tentatively around the handle. A siren’s knife was one of her few worldly possessions. When she was with her sisters, Jolie had not been old enough to need one. She knew Cleoma must have spent a long time seeking the right shell with the proper weight and patiently crafting the weapon. Jolie had never known a siren to give away her knife. Even the dead returned to the sea with the knives tied to their hands.
“Thank you,” Jolie said. “I will return it to you one day.”
Cleoma nodded and embraced Jolie, kissing her several times before turning to go toward the stream.
“Be swift,” Jolie called to her sister. She wanted to send some message with Cleoma, but she was already gone. The dark waters left no ripple to show her passage.
For several days, Cleoma traveled. The stream from the well became a creek, and after a time, it met a river. When she could swim no farther, she found a bed of soft grasses down at the river’s bottom. She did not allow herself to rest long, and when she woke, night had fallen.
She emerged from the water to hunt a quick meal before continuing. In the reeds growing along the river’s edge, she left the waterskins, wanting to keep her hands free as she hunted. As she came up into a forest thick with the sound of frogs and insects, she smelled the men—two of them—before she saw their campfire.
Through the dense shadows of the trees, the glow of their fire formed a balloon of flickering orange. She could not see the men from her distance, and considered returning to the river to swim past them and look for food elsewhere. But she wondered: if the men were already asleep, it might be easier to steal a meal from their cook pots. This would be the quickest option, so she crept closer, her bare feet making no sound as she drew near their camp.
She could not see the men until she was nearly to the edge of the fire’s light. The two men were awake. An animal, reduced to little more than blackened bones, was mounted on a spit over the flames. The men ate greedily, tearing the meat off in their teeth and licking at the grease dripping from their hands. Their rough appearance—each man wore a pistol ortwo at his belt, and the handle of a knife protruded from one’s boot—told Cleoma these were not simple farmers out on a hunting trip. These were dangerous men. She began to back away toward the creek.
When she had gone a few steps, she turned to run, but slammed abruptly into the chest of a third man. He had her by the arm before she could escape.
“Don’t you make a noise,” the man whispered. “It’s best my boys don’t know you’re here.”
Cleoma’s breath drew in quick gasps and she tried to back away. But as she did, the man’s grip tightened. She struggled, digging her fingertips into his arm, but when the edge of a long razor touched her stomach just below her rib cage, she stopped her fight.
Where had the man come from? How had she not heard him moving in the forest behind her?
She stared up into the man’s penetrating face. He had a square, chiseled jaw and cheekbones: a black man who wore a neatly trimmed mustache just above his upper lip. His clothes were fine, unlike those of the other two, and he wore a crisply creased gray Stetson hat, as handsome as any constable’s.
“There’s no need for any singing neither,” he said. “See, I know you’re a siren, and even though I ain’t never met one of you, I know about your songs.”
Something was wrong with the man, Cleoma knew this. She could sense the presence of the two men behind her by the fire. She could sense other animals—night birds, bullbats,
Cleoma pulled her knife from her belt of braided grass. She handed it to Jolie. The blade was gray and pink, a long conch shell filed to a sharp edge.
“Take it,” Cleoma said. “I am swimming quiet waterways back home. Where you are going, you will need it more than I.”
The whorl was covered in a tight wrap, and Jolie’s fingers closed tentatively around the handle. A siren’s knife was one of her few worldly possessions. When she was with her sisters, Jolie had not been old enough to need one. She knew Cleoma must have spent a long time seeking the right shell with the proper weight and patiently crafting the weapon. Jolie had never known a siren to give away her knife. Even the dead returned to the sea with the knives tied to their hands.
“Thank you,” Jolie said. “I will return it to you one day.”
Cleoma nodded and embraced Jolie, kissing her several times before turning to go toward the stream.
“Be swift,” Jolie called to her sister. She wanted to send some message with Cleoma, but she was already gone. The dark waters left no ripple to show her passage.
For several days, Cleoma traveled. The stream from the well became a creek, and after a time, it met a river. When she could swim no farther, she found a bed of soft grasses down at the river’s bottom. She did not allow herself to rest long, and when she woke, night had fallen.
She emerged from the water to hunt a quick meal before continuing. In the reeds growing along the river’s edge, she left the waterskins, wanting to keep her hands free as she hunted. As she came up into a forest thick with the sound of frogs and insects, she smelled the men—two of them—before she saw their campfire.
Through the dense shadows of the trees, the glow of their fire formed a balloon of flickering orange. She could not see the men from her distance, and considered returning to the river to swim past them and look for food elsewhere. But she wondered: if the men were already asleep, it might be easier to steal a meal from their cook pots. This would be the quickest option, so she crept closer, her bare feet making no sound as she drew near their camp.
She could not see the men until she was nearly to the edge of the fire’s light. The two men were awake. An animal, reduced to little more than blackened bones, was mounted on a spit over the flames. The men ate greedily, tearing the meat off in their teeth and licking at the grease dripping from their hands. Their rough appearance—each man wore a pistol ortwo at his belt, and the handle of a knife protruded from one’s boot—told Cleoma these were not simple farmers out on a hunting trip. These were dangerous men. She began to back away toward the creek.
When she had gone a few steps, she turned to run, but slammed abruptly into the chest of a third man. He had her by the arm before she could escape.
“Don’t you make a noise,” the man whispered. “It’s best my boys don’t know you’re here.”
Cleoma’s breath drew in quick gasps and she tried to back away. But as she did, the man’s grip tightened. She struggled, digging her fingertips into his arm, but when the edge of a long razor touched her stomach just below her rib cage, she stopped her fight.
Where had the man come from? How had she not heard him moving in the forest behind her?
She stared up into the man’s penetrating face. He had a square, chiseled jaw and cheekbones: a black man who wore a neatly trimmed mustache just above his upper lip. His clothes were fine, unlike those of the other two, and he wore a crisply creased gray Stetson hat, as handsome as any constable’s.
“There’s no need for any singing neither,” he said. “See, I know you’re a siren, and even though I ain’t never met one of you, I know about your songs.”
Something was wrong with the man, Cleoma knew this. She could sense the presence of the two men behind her by the fire. She could sense other animals—night birds, bullbats,
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