Siren's Call

Nash wrapped his arms around his bent knees and stared out over the marsh. “Go on.”

“Whenever you find patches of light-colored water in the bayou, that is where they live. If you swim near them or fish near them, they’ll grab your ankles and pull you under.”

The theme from Jaws played in his mind. “So don’t worry about sharks. People should fear capture by mermaids.” Death by mermaid.

Not even a ghost of amusement lit Sam’s eyes. “Yes. Except, like I said, they aren’t exactly mermaids, although they must be closely related.”

“C’mon. I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t really expect me to believe that tale. Surely you don’t either, do you?”

“It’s passed down from our ancestors.” Sam’s eyes flashed and his spine stiffened. “Every word is true.”

Nash kept his face blank and his tone neutral. “I mean no disrespect.”

“Of course you do. You think I am a foolish old man.” Sam eased up out of the chair and stood, looking out to sea.

Nash reached up his hand and touched his grandfather’s knee. He might be a skeptic and occasionally amused at his grandfather’s ways, but he would never think him foolish. “Not foolish. Please sit.”

Sam stayed rooted, as if debating. Finally, he sat. “I’m an old man. I’ve kept in shape by walking these woods for years, but my time’s short. So while you’re here I need to explain more of your heritage.”

“I’m listening.” He felt chastened like a small child. “I respect my people and their ways. Nothing will ever change that.”

“I know it makes you uncomfortable when I speak of the spirit world. But it’s there. It’s real. Just as you are sensitive to nature and its creatures, my gift is seeing the spirits around people. They can be human, animal or plant spirits, sometimes all three.”

“Father said you chose my name because you saw a wolf spirit near me.”

Sam nodded. His serious, deeply lined face rearranged to an unexpected, wistful smile. “When you were born, I fasted three days and went on long walks, seeking guidance. The first time I held you in my arms I heard a wolf howl. I envisioned a pack of wolves celebrating your birth, tails wagging, the males wrestling one another in a show of affection.”

“So you named me Nashoba—Choctaw for wolf.” He’d heard this before, remembered Mom rolling her eyes at Dad’s insistence on naming their children with traditional names. “So how did you end up with a name like Sam?”

“My parents did it to honor a gentleman named Samuel who was good to them. He hired my father as a laborer and paid him a decent wage for the times. But my middle name is Chula.”

“Chula means fox,” Nash said, combing through his memory of their native language.

Sam fixed his gaze back to the water’s expanse with an absorbed look Nash remembered from childhood. He would stay in this same spot for hours in deep contemplation, the fishing pole loose in his hand like an afterthought.

“Do you think about grandmother out here?”

She’d died decades ago from a boating accident. The one memory of his grandmother was of her shucking corn in the kitchen. The room was cozy and warm, smelling of fried goodness, fresh vegetables and herbs. When he’d entered, her dark eyes sparkled in greeting. She’d dropped to a knee and held out her arms and he’d run into them. The safest, most loving, secure spot in the universe. And it was but a thirty-second memory.

“Yes. And all the others that have passed before and since.”

It was a shame he’d never remarried. Nash struggled for words to convey sympathy while not sounding like a condescending jerk. “I wish you would leave this place. At least for a few vacations. You should see new things, meet new people.”

“I can’t leave.”

More like don’t want to leave. Sam was old and stubborn as barnacles clinging to a ship hull. No changing him at this late date.

The silence stretched between them as the sun had completed its day’s journey and disappeared. All that remained was the water’s memory of it in coral-and-purple sheens that rippled in the Gulf breeze. Grandfather turned to him. “The spirits say it is time.”

“Time for what?” So that’s what he did alone out here—communed with spirits. He should have guessed.

“One last story.”

Alarm brushed the back of his neck like a nest of crawling spiders. He half rose. “Do you have chest pains? Should I call a doctor?”

“It’s not my time tonight. Although it draws near.”

“Don’t say that. There must be something the doctors can do.” A suspicion gurgled up. “Are you taking your medicine? You can’t depend only on the spirits and herbs for healing.”

“There’s more to tell you of the Okwa Nahollo,” Sam continued, ignoring Nash’s question. He fixed him with sharp, dark eyes. “You are a descendant.”

“Of the mermaids?” Nash scoffed. Really, Grandfather had gone too far this time.

Sam’s jaw clenched and his mouth set in a determined line. “It is in your blood.”

* * *

“I want purple or pink highlights. Something striking.” Opal fingered a lock of lavender in Lily’s hair. “Something deeper than this.”

No point mentioning the subtle pastels in her hair were entirely natural. Fortunately, Lily kept a rainbow of hair-dye colors stocked because so many requested some version of her unusual hair hues. The beauty shop, Mermaid’s Lair, was officially closed, but Lily did the odd job for customers who begged for her service. Plus, it was convenient for Jet and Shelly to come in for weekly hair-and-nail maintenance—important because both grew at three times the normal human rate.

Jet winked at Lily from behind the desk where she sat running the numbers for their various family businesses: a maritime and antiquities shop, aquatic therapy and the small income from the beauty shop that kept the rent and utilities paid.

“You made a grand total of fifty dollars in profit last quarter,” Jet said, frowning.

Lily laughed, expertly assembling mixing bowls and chemicals. “Ah, but it was double that amount if you included tips.”

“I’ll tip handsomely,” Opal promised, an earnest look on her face.

Probably thought she was broke. As if. Lily styled hair because she enjoyed it and was good at it. “This is on me.”

“Maybe you should reopen full-time,” Jet persisted. “It would give you something to do.”

Hell, no. She’d had enough of the town women’s snotty, superior behavior and the men ogling her breasts as she stood close by to trim their hair. Besides, shop hours would interfere with her painting.

“Don’t need to.” They were stinking rich.

“But you’re home alone. What do you do all day?”

Lily shrugged. “Paint.”

“She’s really good,” Opal cut in. “I saw her sketchbook.”

“Sure, I know that.” Jet waved a hand around the room. “She did this, after all.”

Opal surveyed the varying shades of coral, rose and ivory on the walls. Lily had painted pearly tones that gave the effect of being enveloped in the shelter of a giant conch shell.

“Remarkable,” Opal said in a hushed tone.