The Savage Blue

Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,

It frets against the boundary shore;

All earth’s full rivers cannot fill

The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

- Christina Rossetti, from “By the Sea”

For a merman, I’ve done very little deep-sea exploration.

I grew up in chlorine pools, racing from one end to the other

until I became the fastest kid in all of Brooklyn. Those were

fishbowls compared to the endlessness of the Atlantic Ocean.

I kick my legs harder and harder alongside the belly of the ship

until I grab hold of the ladder.

I consider shifting into my tail, but then I remember these are my

last pair of cargo shorts, and I’ve not yet mastered the half-shift

combination of legs and scales to cover my goods. Instead, I let my

gills develop, only freaking out a little that I, in fact, have gills.

Then I give myself a pat on the back for being able to control them.

Cold water trickles in and out, and I wonder if that’s something I’ll

ever get used to.

With one hand, I secure my footing on the ladder and let the ship

do the heavy lifting. With the other, I lean out to the ocean, combing

my fingers through the water. I want to shout out the thrill of the

moment, of the powerful ship cleaving the ocean like a knife through

the smooth skin of the sea. But I stop myself, realizing that shouting

would give away my position to my opponent.

War games aren’t supposed to be fun , not the way my guardian

describes them. War games teach you skills-fighting, hunting, hiding.

All meant to achieve one thing: survival.

I’m four days shy of turning seventeen, and though I was

technically born with a blue fishtail, I’ve only been a merman for two

whole weeks, ever since the Sea Court returned to Coney Island to hold

a championship for the next king. That would be the Sea King (my

grandfather) and me (one of four remaining champions). Yeah, me a

king. I’m not in Coney anymore, Toto.

The clucking wail of a dolphin echoes from below. He swims up

alongside me, and for a moment, I forget about Kurt lurking nearby. I

reach out a hand and touch the dolphin’s slick skin. I can’t

understand the sounds he’s making, but I can sense the urgency. He

dives downward and disappears into the blue shadows.

Then I see him.

Kurt’s glowing violet eyes lock on me. He undulates like a serpent

rising from smoke. His dark hair billows with every kick.

Kurt takes the dolphin’s place beside me, like we’re two cars

racing on an empty road. He swerves to his left as if to knock me off

my ladder, but I kick out and he swerves to the right. In our last

skirmish, we managed to disarm each other. But I didn’t account for

the small knife strapped to his bicep.

Kurt holds the knife by the hilt. He raises it over his head,

flicks his wrist back and forth. He wouldn’t. As my guardian, he’s in

charge of making sure I don’t meet an untimely death. He wouldn’t.

But he does.

I dive to the left. My back hits the ship hard, and I let the

current pull me away. His deep chuckle lingers in the rustle of water.

He takes hold of my ladder and hoists himself back up onto the ship,

which is getting farther away.

My muscles burn with every breaststroke, every kick. Then the

dolphin returns, and I realize that being the grandson of the Sea King

comes with some perks. His big black eye gleams at me, and I wonder

why dolphins always look like they’re smiling. I grab hold of his

dorsal fin.

In seconds, we’re caught up with the ship. I pat him on his back

and grab hold of the ladder. Halfway up, I see Kurt’s knife an inch

deep into the wood. When I pull it out, there isn’t much resistance. I

break the surface and my gills shut against the wind. My body feels a

hundred pounds lighter. The blisters on my soles pop and bleed with

every step until I’m over the rail and planted on the deck. I strip

off my T-shirt and toss it to the side.

I brush my wet hair from my eyes and spot Layla and Gwen leaning

on the railing of the quarterdeck. All they need is a tub of popcorn,

and it’d be just like being at the circus. Layla’s biting her nails

down to stubs. She runs her hands through the mess of her thick brown

hair, which is growing bigger and bigger with the rising heat. Her

hazel eyes flick between Kurt and me. He’s holding his knees and

breathing hard. He quickly adjusts the sheath at his hip. Great, he’s

got his sword back.

“Tristan,” Layla says, “you guys are still just play-dueling,

right?”

The Sunday morning sun is so hot that my chest is already dry. I

pick up my sword off the deck.

“Best out of five,” I remind her.

“You’ve lost twice,” Gwen says, twirling a lock of white-blond

hair around her finger until it coils on its own.

“He’s also won twice,” Layla counters.

“I don’t know if that last one counts,” Gwen says. “They went

overboard, and the arena is supposed to be the ship. I say that last

one didn’t count.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “It totally counts!”

“Uh-”

“Tristan?” Gwen points a finger behind me.

I hear the wet smack of Kurt’s feet racing. Without a word, it’s

still game on. Kurt drags the tip of his sword along the floor. With

his middle finger, he lightly taps the center of his forehead,

something he does every time we fight. I never ask and he never

explains what it means. It reminds me of going to church with Layla

and her Catholic father. They do something similar-the father, the

son, and the something spirit. I have no secret messages to tap like

Morse code on my face like they do. I’m not exactly sure what I

believe in anymore, now that I know monsters are real and good people

die in the blink of an eye.

I raise my sword just in time to meet his and growl, “I wasn’t

ready.”

“I’m a hungry merrow. I don’t care if you’re ready.” He spins and

strikes the opposite way.

I block, block, block, moving two steps backward with every blow.

Sure, merrows don’t care if you’re ready or not. They come out of the

shadows and attack, the way they attacked us in the football field of

my school and at Ryan’s house Friday night…

Too late, the thought of Ryan, my friend, dead on the ground,

makes me miss a beat, and Kurt’s sword comes a hair away from my face.

I wipe sweat and seawater from my cheek, and a long stripe of red

comes away with it.

“You cut me!”

“It’s a duel , Tristan.” Kurt rolls his eyes, a habit he’s picked

up from Layla. All of his movements, from the eye roll to the way he

turns his dagger like the right angles of a clock, are uptight. “Of

course I cut you.”

But he doesn’t let up. His face is ferocious, shoulders hunched

like a predator. “When Adaro was your age, he slew white-bellied

sharks for supper. Collected their teeth and dipped them in gold to

decorate his armor.”

Block .

The sun is in my eyes and the rail of the ship digs into my lower

back.

“Yeah, well,” I say, “Adaro doesn’t have the quartz scepter, does

he?”

“There are still two pieces out there.” Kurt turns, elbows me in

the chest, and spins back around. “You only have the one.”

Our swords are a mess of clinks and screeches. I’m running on pure

adrenaline. It’s a rush no swim meet has ever given me.

“One is better than nothing.” I push him back with the ball of my

palm, but that only makes him smile. It’s got to be a record. When he