Time passed and my bruises faded, though Mama did notice my abnormal amount of scrapes and cuts one morning. I told her it was from playing, but she kept looking sideways at me, as if she didn’t think I was telling the truth but didn’t know how I could possibly be lying.

As the summer wore on, I became less hopeful that our need for Massacres would disappear. In July, grocery store prices climbed so high that Mama suggested selling the car for extra money.

“Who’s going to buy that tin can on wheels?” said Papa. “Even if someone did, what’ll it buy us? A sack of flour?”

In August, some of the high school kids tried to spend the hottest month of the year like any other teenager in the world: at the beach. A mermaid dragged one of them into the water. Papa went to the funeral.

The first day back to school, the other kids didn’t look as healthy as usual. Everybody had a gaunt, sickly look, even the kids who had farmers or hunters for parents. Prices at the grocery store hadn’t slowed in their skyward pursuit, and it seemed nobody was any better off than anyone else.

About this time, I knew I’d never hate anyone as much as I hated Lysi. Examining my bony ribs and sunken cheeks in the mirror one morning, I wondered why I ever wanted to be friends with the species causing Eriana Kwai so much suffering.

By December, we ate bannock and cabbage on a daily basis, and Mama’s body had shrunk down so that, for the first time ever, I felt her bones when I hugged her.

Tanuu’s papa was one of the island’s best hunters, and his family invited ours over once a week to share his latest catch. Tanuu always made sure I stuffed my pockets with extra before going home, and I was grateful for it. I decided he wasn’t so bad, when he wasn’t trying to be a giant show-off. And anyway, his friendship helped me think less about Lysi.

February brought with it a helicopter full of rice and cans from the mainland, but split among the whole island, it only fed us for a few days. A small amount of food was better than no food, though.

“We are aware of your struggles here on Eriana Kwai,” said the pilot, speaking in slow, deliberate English. “We are working to form a relief effort for your people.”

We had no way to thank him, so we sent him back to Canada with a Ravendust sapling, since the plant was unique to Eriana Kwai. I thought it was lame and embarrassing, but Papa told me the gesture showed gratitude.

Too soon, the last day of April passed, and it went out with pounding wind and sideways sheets of rain. Panic crept up my throat as I wrote the date on my science notes. May 1st. The Massacre was already upon us, and the warriors would depart that afternoon.

Tanuu met Annith and me at the doorway at recess, looking grim.

“What’cha think will happen this year?” he said. “Think they’ll finally kill a bunch?”

By that time, the news had spread across the island that the training program had turned out warriors who could fight blindfolded.

“No,” I said, watching the rain as we huddled beneath the overhang. “My papa doesn’t think this’ll work.”

Beside us, Annith giggled as Haden tried to show her how high he could jump by taking a running leap and pushing off the wall.

I sighed and looked back at Tanuu.

“What I don’t get,” I said, “is why the mermaids are being so violent.”

“What d’you mean? They’re flesh-eating creatures. They hunt humans.”

They’re not animals, I thought, but I didn’t say it aloud.

“I thought they wanted to share the ocean’s seafood and living space,” I said. “If that’s true, they shouldn’t be coming onto the land and sinking our boats. Why us? Why not Alaska, or British Columbia?”

“Maybe they just haven’t got there yet,” said Tanuu, his dark brown eyes narrowing in confusion.

I bit my lip, feeling like we were all missing something. But maybe Lysi’s excuse about coming here to build a utopia was another lie. Mermaids were just vicious and dangerous.

“They don’t care about us, I guess,” I said. I realised I hadn’t thought about Lysi at all in weeks.

I felt Tanuu’s gaze but didn’t look at him.

“Come on,” he said, and tousled my hair. “Let’s play Demon Tag.”

He bolted towards the muddy field. I turned to Annith and Haden, smacked Haden on the arm, and hollered, “You’re it!” before sprinting after Tanuu.

School ended early that day. Our parents picked us up and brought us to the Massacre Departure Ceremony.

We shuffled down the road with the stream of families. As Mama and Papa spoke to some other parents, I ran to catch up with Annith and a sporty, ponytailed girl named Fern, who was Annith’s neighbour.

 “The training master’s a pro,” said Fern. “He can make anyone a demon-killing machine. Five bucks says those sailors could kick anyone’s butt, even blindfolded. Isn’t that right, Scarf?”

She pulled her stuffed tabby cat out from her armpit and stared at his beady eyes, as if he’d answer. Annith always said Fern liked to joke around, but I thought she was a little crazy.

“Gosh, they’d better kick butt,” said Annith, pushing her straggly hair out of her eyes. “They’re toast otherwise.”

“They’re our last hope,” I said, remembering what would happen if the Massacre didn’t work this year. My stomach flipped over.

“What d’you mean?” said Fern, pulling Scarf tight to her chest.

“Just . . . things will have to change if they don’t come back.”

Annith nodded. “We can’t keep sending boys out to die.”

We stopped as we hit the edge of the crowd, Mama and Papa to my left, Annith, Fern, and their families to my right. In the thick of the arriving masses, we found our places in the middle of the spectators’ hill. Everyone chattered in low voices, giving opinions about whether this year would be successful.

Behind me, the dairy farmer and his wife argued in loud whispers.

“Anyo’s a crock who should’ve been replaced years ago. What’s he thinking?”

“I think it’s a fine idea. The old tactics clearly don’t work, and he’s always coming up with creative new ways of battling.”

“This isn’t the time or place for creativity. We need methods that are sure to work.”

“Like what? Name one!”

I stood on my toes to look at the docks, and saw the training master wringing his hands.

The murmuring crowd quieted. All eyes turned to the right, where the head of a narrow trail split the dense bush in half. The other end was at a campsite people used to visit back when seaside camping was safe. Since the Massacres began, the warriors marched from that trail and out to the docks every first of May, where we would bid them farewell and good luck.

I counted all twenty men as they emerged from the trail. They walked with broad shoulders, chins level with the ground, and each wore an all-brown uniform designed to repel water on the outside and keep body heat on the inside. Every uniform had a copper badge over the heart: a medal of honour for the warrior’s bravery. The medals were once made of silver, but Papa said silver got too expensive. And, rather than engraving the medals with Eriana Kwai’s national animal, the sea lion, the northern saw-whet owl had been chosen—an animal of the sky, not the sea. I liked the saw-whet owls—Mama said we had a unique subspecies on Eriana Kwai, making them special to us—but I wished whoever was in charge of the badges would stop being superstitious and just use our real national animal.

Besides, I thought a saw-whet owl gave more cause for superstition than a sea lion. The owls were pretty and graceful and had extra large eyes, and even though they looked innocent, they were predators. They were elusive, and you could miss one if you didn’t look closely. They reminded me a lot more of mermaids than a big, chubby old sea lion.

The twenty men lined up on the docks and faced the crowd. I scanned their serious faces. The first warrior in the line continued for a couple of steps before stopping, and stood intentionally separate from the rest.

Something was wrong.

The way the men stared into the crowd gave me chills. They were looking, but they weren’t looking. Their eyes seemed blank, their pupils too large and the retinas too dark. The surrounding skin was bright red, irritated. Only the first warrior really looked at us with knowing, seeing eyes.

I realised what had happened seconds after somebody screamed. And then more people screamed, and the dormant volcano surrounding me erupted.

My focus jumped back to the training master, who suddenly had to defend himself from a woman who’d lunged at him from the front of the crowd. A man stepped forwards to pull her off.

“You’re a monster!” she yelled, her voice cracking. “Where’s your conscience?”

The training master said nothing, watching the man from the crowd pull the woman away. I scanned the faces of the blinded sailors, and not a single one flinched; they remained at attention with their feet firmly planted on the docks.

“Those poor boys!” whispered Mama.

Papa turned to her with small, darkened eyes, then walked away without a word. The crowd let him pass before oozing into the space he left behind.

I leaned against Mama, and she put an arm around my shoulders.

The training master stepped up to the old, brown microphone and flicked a switch on the side. It crackled in the small speaker up front.

“Ladies, gentlemen, people of Eriana Kwai,” he said, speaking with his usual fervour. “It’s my honour to present you with this year’s warriors. These men have toiled and trained for five years, watching others go out to battle and patiently awaiting their turn to prove their strength. We have a new technique in place to guarantee the men the opportunity to slay without interference. These warriors have been trained to fight with one of their senses hindered, and you would be amazed at their ability to sense, react, and ultimately, massacre.”

The training master beamed with pride, but to me it looked forced. He was nervous, just like the rest of us. He was thinking about Papa’s warning, about how blindness won’t help, just like I was.

“And now,” he said after stunned silence met his words, “a dance!”

The drums started. Two high school boys beat a solemn rhythm onto the rawhide. A man in his twenties—a past survivor—jumped in front of the drums to dance the warriors off to sea.

I watched his feet jump to the rhythm, his brown and orange and yellow costume swinging hypnotically like an oversized saw-whet owl ready to swoop down on a mouse. Rough lines that reminded me of feathers were painted onto his coat, and the black and yellow circles sewn into his headdress resembled pairs of owl eyes staring wildly around.

As he sang, the training master’s daughter, Adette, joined in the dance. She was only seven, though I’d seen her at school. Her hair fell loose, braided with thick blades of grass and waving long past her shoulders. Her skirt was shimmery and brown and drawn tight near the ankles. She was a mermaid.

The two of them danced and sang as the ship drew away, and we continued to watch mutely.

The boy at the helm of the ship—the only one who hadn’t been blinded—turned and waved at us, and I was glad I couldn’t see his expression from where I stood. I couldn’t imagine the terror he must have felt. His eyes were the only set among twenty bodies, and his duty was to stay alive for the sake of the entire crew—even the entire island.

The dance grew more frantic, and we watched the ship wordlessly until it faded behind a veil of fog.

That night, I prayed for the sailors to return, and I wept with the guilt of my selfish motives.

If the sailors didn’t return, my training would begin. They would enrol me in the same program as my brother. They would mould my skills and mind into a warrior just like they’d done to him, and my papa, and every one of the strong, tough boys sent out over the years.

If they didn’t return, my fate would be sealed. I would have to become a killer of mermaids.