Old, decrepit masts bobbed through the air as the sea gently pushed them towards the sky and away from the cliffs and run down settlement the crew ported at. Every time the water pulled back clusters of barnacles peaked out on the docked ships’ bodies, counting time like the rings of a tree. The collective creaks of the pirate and buccaneer ships drowned out any sounds from the shore; it sounded like an army of old men in rocking chairs.

The sinking buildings beyond the ships were hardly in better shape. The wood they were built from was dark with moisture and age, a tinge of white or green ate nearly every wall from the bottom up. Windows were either holes or haphazardly nailed on boards. If any glass remained within the sills it was as shards jetting out at odd angles or so cracked and stained with condensation they looked like cobwebs. Yet, the place was bustling. Unsavoury figures filled outdoor pub tables, laughing and smoking like chimneys. More folk unpacked or replenished their ships in clusters. A few drunkards danced in the streets, oblivious to their pockets being picked by passer’s by. The smell of tobacco, mould, and body odour rolled off shore harsher than the smell of salt that arose from the ocean. The rotten port air even managed to breeze past The Harrowed Maiden at the distance she was, brushing past the captain’s face as she stared out at her destination.

With her sails collapsed and only powered by the crew and oars the vessel moved at a grinding crawl. The tenseness of the crew bled into how the ship shuttered into its place amongst the others. It was as if everyone and everything was collectively holding their breaths, only breathing again as the captain called, “Drop anchor!”

The vessel rocked as the extra weight plummeted into the deep. As soon as she settled the crew left their posts, skittering back to the deck like a pack of roaches. Within the mass, Oliver double checked the security of the sail’s ropes and hopped down from his post at the mast. He was quick to find Rat in the crowd, even if she was a head shorter than most.

“Don’t suppose once we stock up I could take you for a drink?” He asked, his eyes could not meet hers, instead darting to either side of her in frightened search of her father, lest the old man hear the request.

Rat glanced over at him and opened her mouth to speak, but instead her eyes widened briefly before slamming shut again. A cascade of giggles tumbled from her mouth, her hands flew up to try and clasp them in place.

Oliver felt his heart sink, but the erupting murmur and chuckles around him stirred curiosity over embarrassment. They weren’t talking about him. ‘Mermaid’ and every variation of word for the species floated through the air. He whipped around and saw the cynosure everyone was fussing about just a moment before Brigit yelled out.

“Oi!”

There, emerging from the hatch like Venus from the sea, stood a small framed man. The merman. In the sunlight his long auburn hair looked more red than brown, though it was not pooled in his lap as it usually was. It hung freely— but, unlike Venus, he kept it running down his back to reveal he no longer had those eight octopus tendrils at his waist.

He had human legs.

Scrawny legs splotched with patches of orange cephalopod-like skin, sure, but legs none the less. And with that came undeniable proof they had a merman instead of a mermaid on their hands. That was what had the crew in a childish flurry of snickers and chatter. It wasn’t as if the male anatomy was a well hidden thing among the lot of them— anyone with the equipment had no issue whipping it out to piss over the side of the ship when the urge arose. But this? How he stood so delicately, the soft expression on his face, how clean and feminine he was… there was something artful about this nudity. Artful was not the usual context. Artful made the concept of a penis out in the open all the more funny.

Oliver gasped, stuttering on words that refused to leave his throat. His proper British mind reeled, failing to grasp how to react. The feminine face and long hair made him want to protect the merman’s modesty, but the rest of the body made him worry over Rat’s constitution. He teetered heel-to-toe, unsure of how to move his befuddled body until he finally turned away to cover Rat’s already closed eyes. He called towards the captain,“Ma’am! Your mer—”

“It’s sir, and yes, I see that,” Brigit snapped. She pointed to the merman’s odd ‘human’ legs, “Those! What’s the meaning—” She bit her tongue and turned in Santiago’s direction. “—Oi! This normal?”

“It’s known they can take a… humanesque shape, so yes. But it isn’t something they usually do so openly.” Santiago’s eyes scanned over the merman, repulsion curled his lip as he muttered one more snip under his breath, “vulgar thing.”

Brigit let out a low, disgruntled growl. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. “Boy! Whatcha even doin’?!”

“I’m joining you,” the merman said plainly. He adjusted his footing, though his knees still had a slight wobble.

“Joining? Whatever for?” Brigit’s voice was incredulous, she flailed her hand wildly to punctuate her exasperation.

“I have my reasons.”

“And I’m askin’ them! Ain’t you worried ‘bout gettin burnt at a pyre or lynched or—” she rolled her wrist as she tried to think up more execution methods,“—whatever folk do when your ilk washes ashore?”

“We’re in a port of criminals. I’ve travelled plenty before. These kinds will hardly give me a second glance, I assure you.”

“That ain’t answerin’ your reasons!” Brigit shook her head, “Nah, nah. I ain’t arguin’ with a naked man, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement.” A taunting smile pulled at his lips.

“That ain’t what I mean.” Her eyes scanned the crew for someone about the merman’s size. It was hard for her to focus. The crew was a sea of mangy mutts in comparison to the almost pristine painting of a slightly fishy man. He was clean, and in turn looked brighter. Warm with how orange his hair and skin was. Welcoming, almost. Her eyes kept flicking back to him, and worst yet, he seemed to notice. His expression stayed unchanged, but there was a knowing glint in those golden demonic eyes. He tilted his head curiously on one occasion— mockingly questioning her glances. She wasn’t attracted to him, but he must have thought that. It made Brigit grind her teeth and flare her nostrils in overacted disgust. Her eyes snapped leftward away from him like a carriage return on a typewriter; she finally spotted someone small enough to clothe him. A young woman, her hands were clasped over her mouth as her shoulders shook with barely restrained giggles, and her eyes covered by the sail master who looked far more baffled than Brigit felt.

“Rat! Fetch this… thing somethin’ to wear, would ya?”

”Aye aye, sir!” She called as she stumbled back from Oliver. She hurried off, leaving the crestfallen sail master reaching out without an answer.

Rat returned quickly with a bundle of clothes that ‘weren’t really her style’ and an apology since she only ever wore skirts. Of course, her skirts were little more than rags with tears that often reached beyond the bottom hem of her bloomers, but skirts none-the-less. The one she brought out was long, modest, and in far more decent shape. Brigit suspected Rat wasn’t really concerned with “style” and more off put by the idea of a man in a short, tattered skirt rather than a long one. Projection on Brigit’s part.

The octopus was sent off to dress himself while Brigit began to divvy up tasks among the crew. Some were to clean, others were to bargain for supplies, others to carry said supplies. Once their jobs were done the crew could do as they pleased at port. Notably, Brigit and Nia’s tasks were specifically to go to the taverns and gather intel. And, more notably, the octopus returned in time to settle himself into their duo and made it a trio.

***

The merman had been right.

He seemed to draw no attention— rather, not the attention Brigit and Nia assumed he would. It wasn’t as if he was covered enough not to be sniffed out— his golden demonic eyes were not even down-turned nor covered with a hood. In fact, he seemed to be actively scanning the port side settlement. The bottom halves of his scrawny calves poked out from under the clothes Rat had lent him, splotched with shiny, orange octopus skin. Perhaps the folks they passed were simply too intoxicated to notice the trio, but drunken hollering and whistling proved that assumption wrong as they approached the tavern.

“Whatta group of fine young lasses doin’ round ‘ere?”

“That one lass in the back looks mighty easy to throw around.”

“Mighty tidy little thing too. Oi, miss! Lookin’ for some fun? What’s ya name?”

It was a miracle Brigit could understand anything from the slurring, drooling mouths of the group of seamen outside The Flagship— the largest tavern in the settlement. Harmless drunkards, she concluded, as they swayed even as they were draped over barrels and the porch fence like heavy duvets out to dry. Tankards were still glued to their palms, even as their reddened sausage fingers seemed to slip and shake around the handle. The ‘one lass in the back’ was referring to the merman. He was quite womanly as it was, that was only made worse by the fact Rat had given him a skirt of all things to wear. He seemed completely unbothered by the comments, and his attire for that matter, his back stayed straight and his hands stayed politely folded in front of him; his quiet air of proper dignity was more enhanced by his dress than anything. He carries himself like a genteel lady with no shame or hang up, likely due to the fact he was from a matriarchal species. ‘Womanly’ wasn’t an insult.

Brigit pushed the tavern doors open, a flood of cigar smoke and laughter washed over the trio like an avalanche; a bar wench called out to them, telling them to take any open seat and she’d be right with them. Brigit was already on the move before the first full word left the bar wench’s mouth. The floor creaked under her bootfall. Years of soaking in neglect and ale even made the boards bend a little with her weight, a foul cocktail oozed out between the cracks. A faint smell of vomit was hidden under the fog of tobacco and puddles of booze. The three settled at a small table at the back of the tavern. It had mold crawling up its legs, and its face was scarred from prior games of five finger fillet.

No patrons cast a second glance at them. Brigit scrunched her face as she scanned the room once, twice, thrice. No one cared that this magic, vicious, soul devouring sea monster was in their midst. Alcohol and poker entranced the vast majority of the room, blackouts and sleep took the rest. It didn’t sit right with her, something was wrong, yet she could not see anything amiss.

“What did I tell you?” The merman asked as he cocked his head slightly to the side like a puppy. His voice and eyes were flat, but the slowness of his words made it sound like he was mocking her. Brigit only snorted like a bull and crossed her arms in response.

“I’m sorry,” Nia said. She stared at an insignificant rust coloured groove in the table, her head was hung as if she was going to the gallows.“I had never even asked ya name. I ain’t think your kind was so… accepted. My prejudice made an awful fool of me.”

“Her kind? It’s as I suspected then!” A man with a thick Spanish accent at the table next to them whispered over. He pointed an excited, but wavering finger. “You’re a witch.” He leaned so far off his seat only one butt cheek was touching his chair. A gap tooth, yellowed smile broke across his face. His eyes were squinted, focusing on this so-called witch intently.

Brigit’s face squished back towards her neck, her mouth gaped, baffled by the stupid remark, “Witch? Ain’t ya see—”

“Yes. A witch. Esmerlin, or Es for short. I scry for… the usual, if that interests you.” The merman put out his palm and smiled sweetly, the lamp light of the room didn’t quite meet his eyes.

Brigit was sputtering, but as the man pulled out a shiny doubloon her lips sucked together as if she ate a lemon. Any desire to redress the situation vanished as she watched like a shark as he pressed the coin into the merman’s waiting hand.

“What is it you want me to see?” Es asked, flipping the coin over with his fingers, examining it. There was a sick amusement on his face, but the gold had little to do with it.

“My wife and daughter, ya ain’t need more than that, yeah?”

“A chart and quill, please.”

The Spaniard shuffled through his pack and pulled out a piece of parchment and a small box with a quill and ink. He jotted down a rough map of the world, each continent a vague wobbly shape. No borders, no labels, and totally lacking any consistent scale. It looked like a toddler’s approximations. He stumbled from his table to theirs, laying out the items in front of Es. Es looked it over and nodded to himself. He picked up the quill and extended his other hand to the man, who took it. Es’ eyes rolled to the back of his head as the quill jerked to the vague Europe shape, specifically where Spain might be. The tip hovered there a moment too long, the man’s face had begun to droop like melted ice. He perked back up as the quill moved, hovering a path to the sea side, then an arched line over the ocean. Finally it stopped over the cinched part of the large shape to the left of the parchment. The pen tapped down and a blot of ink bled through the page.

“They made it to New Spain,” the man said. He wiped his eyes, a smile barely hidden behind his tattered sleeve. “Aye. Thank you, Esmerlin. I… I need some air.” He picked up his stuff then stumbled out of the bar; happy sobs and proud chuckles emanated from him as hugged his makeshift chart close.

Es blinked and shook his head. He regained his composure before he scanned the room once over, content to see he hadn’t drawn much attention. Brigit watched with raised brows. When Es returned to his normal calm Brigit scoffed incredulously. “Really? ‘Ave ya been ‘ere before? Folks seem quite alright risking their souls asking for favours. Is gold the usual for you?” she gestured widely and heavily leaned back into her seat.

Nia looked a little more uncomfortable, her disappointment was thinly veiled. She almost regretted apologising, but she stayed quiet like a mother waiting to see if her child would lie.

“Oh, no. That was just a smidge of serendipity.” The merman toyed with the coin like a cat with a mouse. “Humans are just foolish. I held out my hand, let him assume.”

“Seren-what?” Brigit muttered, but she dismissed her own question with a wave of her hand and demanded, “What you on about?”

“Favourable happenstance.” Es pressed the doubloon onto the table and slid it to the edge. His hand briefly covered it. A smile crept up on his face as he whispered, “You humans trust in your eyes too much.” He moved his hand.

The doubloon was gone.