At World's Beginning

A Captive's Lot

Then

No one could get within ten feet of the cell door without the woman screaming like a banshee.

She had woken up several hours after they'd found her; Franklin knew this because he'd been keeping a close eye on her. She had tolerated his presence more than the others, to which Franklin couldn't explain or understand, and the shrieking had only begun when another member of the crew had entered the brig. She'd stared at the man as if he had come to murder her and raged at him with the force of a hurricane.

She didn't speak, no matter how much Franklin tried to converse with her. He talked about inane things, like the life he had left behind in Westminster, becoming a shipmate on a privateer vessel to send back coin to his mother and sisters. He talked about the places he'd been and the strange sights he had seen, already a numerable amount even at his young age.

The woman never looked at him, instead settling into a corner of the cell with her legs pressed tight to her chest. She was still wearing the cloth tarp, the ropes lashed around her middle so it reminded Franklin of a toga. She looked like she could be a lost Roman, displaced across time and space—the last survivor of a dead empire.

He had offered her clothing, perhaps not fit for a woman given that it was breeches, a linen shirt and a waistcoat, but Franklin didn't think she would care. To be honest, he didn't really either. Perhaps it was being raised around women, but he knew they were every bit as capable of men, and oftentimes more so.

But she had ignored his offer, much the same as she'd ignored everything else. When she hadn't eaten or had anything to drink since she'd been brought onboard, Franklin began to fear she would succumb to thirst. Not to mention, if she was what he thought she was, then she should be suffering from a lack of access to seawater.

But she had not dried out, like a fish left to bake on the sand, but the dark circles under her eyes did indicate she was suffering in some way.

"You've got to at least drink some water," he said, nodding his head at the small bucket in her cell. He had managed to open the cell door and set it inside quickly, not wanting to distress her, but she hadn't made a sound and had only stared at him with those strange eyes of stormy blue.

"Or maybe you'd prefer tea? I have a secret stash I wouldn't mind sharing with you," he said, rather cheerfully. "Just... let me know. Give me a sign. Throw something at my head if you feel so inclined."

He had fully expected her to remain sullen and silent. Instead, she opened her mouth and spoke for the first time.

"If you continue along this heading, you will surely die."

Franklin's mouth hung open as he stared at her. Her accent was thick and vaguely familiar. Northern. Icelandic perhaps, but definitely Scandinavian in dialect. He wasn't sure what he expected a mermaid's voice to sound like, or that they could even talk at all, but her timbre was smooth and low. Quite pleasant to the ears, actually, and it took him a moment to process the dire warning of her words.

"What's that?" he asked, his voice cracking in an undignified way.

"These waters belong to the kelpies," she said, appraising him in a way that made him think she believed he might be a bit slow. "They will summon a storm and wreck your ship and drag your men to the bottom of the sea."

Franklin had no idea what to say to that. Her words were outlandish but there was something in her eyes... A steady certainty that made his mouth go dry and his throat click painfully when he swallowed. Whatever the truth was, she certainly believed they were headed into dangerous waters.