19/02/17--

Written by Mikulia Aveline for Mikulia Aveline's backstory

“19/02/17”, she wrote in her diary.

Her handwriting was smudged, blurry in its extremes: it always had been. When she wished to, she could be quite neat - at other times, quite the opposite instead. Dwelling on this fact, she started to observe the notebook itself. It was rough, coarse, and without much adoration or decoration - off-white parchment clashed heavily with the tanned leather skin, and was held together by clearly reinforced brown thread, of a lighter shade than the whole but only enough to give an aesthetically pleasing quality. On the spine, little white crusts called the notebook home, letting it wriggle with its own mind at times.

However, when you lived under the trenches of the North Sea, you took all that you could get. Everything around them was salvaged from something or another. Take the very structure of their abode, for example. To protect them from irregular undertows, and to keep them warm, they resided in an overturned shipwreck, a cutter in precise - not a very large one, but just enough to be sectioned into a couple of rooms using stolen sail-material from the same vessel. It had sustained great injuries within some type of war, as made clear from the holes made by the barrage of cannonballs, but it did for their lives. Their beds were made out of the same wood, propping up and keeping in place a blanket-of-sorts, created out of kelp carefully weaved in and out, in and out, until it was dead tight. Actual blankets were rare to come across, and even then, they were mostly stained with the blood of a fallen pirate, sailor, or another unfortunate.

It took little to snap out of this observation, however: as a feminine voice of another reigned, calling shrilly in another language. It seemed affected by a plight: one minute, the softest of syllables. The next? The harshest of sounds that cut through the atmosphere like a knife. Though, for the sake of this tale, it was fairly comparable to English in kind.

“Dinner is ready! We’re ready to go up! Mikulia, are you ready?”

She responded with a great shout, as if yelling. Her body was littler than theirs, not being barely older than 13: she wore a jumper, knitted out of dyed kelp, and a skirt to cover the top of her tail. Fashioned out of an old coat that she had salvaged once from a fallen naval officer of the English (or was it Spanish?) fleets, it was held in place with her own stitches, using the same thread as the old coat did.

“Yes! I’m coming now!

She placed her notebook back in her room of their overturned cutter, and swam through the makeshift gateway of a door. Well, if a door was a piece of cloth, that is. She attended the sea as soon as she swam away from it, allowing her eyes to be filled with the still wondrous sights of schools of sandy rays, stingrays, salmon, and argentines. All seemed to wink with their straightforward eyes at her before she started her ascent to the surface. Soon, sapphire turned to azure, and azure to the cyan of the surface. Popping through with a wink, she arrived at the surface - finally able to spot the two residents that lay above. Her immediate family.

The first, to her left, was a tall mermaid with plenty of jewels adorning her neck, chest, and wrists. Her luxurious sakura-coloured hair was the same as what she owned, flowing behind her back always. Her stature was elegant, regal, and proud of what they owned: a beautiful home, in a carefree existence. The second, to her right, was a slightly shorter merman with less adornment: but this more than made up for it in his sheer stature, intimidating, posing, and strong. Yet, when it came to his daughter, he was the sweetest soul that the ocean would ever know, aided by his deep violet eyes that were passed onto her. The two looked towards the horizons, waiting for a ship to pass by. After all, when it was said that they had to take whatever they could from the surface, they were right in every aspect: including food.

This was the part of the day she dreaded with everything she had, as she reached her vision out towards the sky. The day was not the careful peace that sailors admired so: indeed, charcoal clouds approached on the horizon, as if predatory foxes just waiting for their chance to rip their prey to pieces. Her pupils shrunk, with primal disgust, as she awaited the inevitable. Soon, grey dullness overtook the atmosphere, with sharp and quick strikes of lightning raining down like daggers on a practice board. Unpredictable, the waves swelled and fell in patterns incomprehensible to moral minds, crashing against both the family of merfolk and the hidden jagged killers that lay just underneath the surface. All they had to do now was wait - wait until a vessel, full of delicious life, came by. Salty spray filled the air eagerly.

Soon, this arrived, causing a wide grin on the mother’s part, her face stretching eagerly like a cheshire cat. The father was less so enthusiastic, more concerned about the survival aspects of their plan. Yet, as a brig full of English sailors approached, it was now or never. The two opened their throats, minds, and mouths as they started to sing. Denizens of the sea like such were well-warned in naval mythology: either as the awful sirens who tore sailors to shreds, or beautiful saviours who could save a sailor from their inevitable demise with a kiss. As it turned out, neither boundary was the truth: they were just creatures, gaining sustenance by the only means they had. Haunting voices, in twain, filled the ears of every creature within 100 metres with a possessive undertow. In time, sailors on the vessel abandoned their posts at the riggings, galley, deck: everything, just to let the song fill their minds more and more completely. It would be a concert of magnificent proportions, if not so morbid.

During this, she was much quieter than her family. She’d always hated raising her voice to the detriment of souls, forcing them to experience nightmares in their eternal sleep, forever. Whether the legend of Davy Jones’ Locker was true or not, she did not know: it still sat with little ease on her soul. However, she was still a member of that family: and so, in the background, sailors were treated to a warm harmony of her parents’ voices - which only made it ever the more enticing. Even in those days, her voice was able to reach highs that were only capable by the supernatural - she equated it to the hunting call of a horn, alerting others that their time was limited.

Wrapping around them like the softest of blankets and the most accepting of embraces, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable occurred.

SMASH!

The grinding of wood against rocks rang across the ocean, filling it up with a terrible noise. Smashing through the hull of the ship, the rock pierced their supplies, bodies, and even animals, creating a distorted simultaneous whine as cattle, pigs, and others were sacrificed on the spot. With the voices silenced, men came to terms with their predicament - their world (at least for their voyage) was sinking, and no land became available to swim to. Nevertheless, they desperately panicked, running around and praying for their God to save whatever would be left of their measly souls. Blood turned the sea red as injured crewmen were flung down into the liquid abyss, forced by the sudden impact. It took little time for the vessel to fully submit, and submerge itself, leaving the crew to a nasty fate. Most thought that, mercifully, drowning and hypothermia would set in as quickly as possible with as little pain as possible, brought on by the lone chanting of one missionary chaplain. Little did they know that a much worse fate remained in wait for them.

The two elder merfolk first nodded to one another, their mouths giving wait to teeth. Razor sharp, and as pointed as the end of a spear, they salviated at the prospect of another good meal. Adrenaline made them taste oh so sweet, after all. Then, the mother looked at her daughter with an expectant grin. Like every time, she would be expected to partake with ferocity in the ravenous devourment with as much, if not more enthusiasm. Compliantly, she did her best to put on a grin, although she could not force herself into genuine agreement.

So, they set off: the parents dashing over, propelling their tails beyond the waves towards their prey, so eager to take a bite. Their speed was almost astonishing, as soon, they disappeared out of Miku’s sight altogether. The 13-year-old mermaid did not see what occurred afterwards, but she could tell it was unpleasant by the screams of the dying, shouting their last dying words of love to their families and friends before being cut abruptly short.

This was too much for her to bear. For a good couple years, she’d seen and heard hundreds, perhaps thousands, of souls give up themselves and die merely for the sake of her family’s feast. She loved her parents with everything that she had inside, but it was becoming too much for her conscience to bear. The young girl thought that there had to be a better way to feed themselves, rather than subjecting others to a tortuous end.

So, she knew the only thing for her to do was to do the right thing, and give it up for the sake of all those humans.

She turned in the direction of the nearest land, and swam. She flicked her tail back and forth, desperate to leave this horrible circus of a nightmare. Passing through many more schools of fish, she rehearsed her apology in her head. Apologising profusely, she described her agony at seeing hundreds die in a week, and the pain it made her feel. As a thirteen year old, there were little words she could describe it with; as eloquently as she could, she at least hoped to see her family again, one day, when all of their issues had been sorted. Perhaps, she’d return to them in a week’s time with plenty of food from the surface to share with them, or come back with a marvellous new way of gathering food devised in her head. In any case, she’d help her family so that they would never have to do so again.

Fortunately, she overestimated the time and stamina it took to get to the coast, and soon, she arrived at a shallow cove with a little more energy within her, in order to find shelter for that night. Dark, craggy rocks hung over them while luscious vegetation surrounded the hillside. Now being later in the day, a darker bluish hue reigned freely in the skies, while a pebble beach awaited her further inland. In her mad dash to escape the horrible sights awaiting on the open ocean, she forgot that she was now alone, utterly and completely, and now expected to find her way on land. It was daunting, horribly so - but it was of great necessity that she did, so she pushed on, if only for her family’s sake.

Rolling onto the various shades of grey pebbles peppering the beach, for the first time, she saw her cyan tail give way to small legs which were covered well by her homemade, extremely unfashionable skirt. She tapped them, then patted them: it was the first time she’d gained such limbs, and she was unfathomably curious. Her parents had always told her about the times they went above the waves, and performed their travelling works on land, but no amount of stories could ever prepare her for having it herself. Initially, the girl could only crawl away from the shore, one side after another, carefully making her way in land for a quarter of a mile. There, she found herself enveloped in a large wood when night settled in.

Damn it, she thought. She had little preparation, and nothing but current clothes to protect herself from the wintry, blowy night air. Amongst an indigo sky, small but impactful stars shone down on her, twinkling as if winking. Their presence was if the universe was sending her a message - that she’d be okay, no matter what came - even if the stars themselves fell out of the universe. Fittingly, she took this moment to remember what her parents had taught her about the night sky: following the pole star would always bring you north, and the brightest would always bring you where you were meant to be, apparently. Of course, being young, she didn’t question this: instead, she took mental note of both, and crawled underneath a large evergreen spruce tree. She dragged larger sticks and planks of wood that had been dislodged by storms between the needles of the tree, and the ground, creating a makeshift tent. The process of doing so had left her hands, knees, face, legs, and outfit marred by chestnut mud, difficult to remove without a good submerge in water - but she knew she could not go back now.

Her first night on the surface was hence spent there, shivering in the frostiness of the midnight air. In her dreams, she saw her dear family once more: their elegantly and particularly selected jewellery, their teachings of her in the ways of their kind, and the warm hugs they gave her, no matter what happened. This subconsciously affirmed to her that she had to prove all of this a useful exercise, and make sure she found an alternative to their harmful ways. For all of about six hours, however, she forgot about the dire winter season surrounding her, and still had her family by her side. How intoxicating that dream would be - and for the last time in a good five years, for that time, she would know true happiness.

The shrill call of birds awoke her as the sun yawned in the horizon, spreading its arms across the sky like a welcome sign. Particular hues of mauve, magenta and coral decorated the skies as she gently allowed her to rise up from the small piece of mossy grass that she called home that night. Her first point of call was to find food - and soon, she found it. Crawling away from her makeshift shelter, and finding herself on the hill of some greater land mass than she suspected, a nearby bush provided the answer. Carefully plucking the sweet berries from the leaves, avoiding the various thorns by pure instinct, she carefully placed one on her tongue, chewed, and swallowed. They had an awfully sweet, yet tart taste that flowed through her mouth, and the squish was unlike anything she’d experienced before. Another and another entered her mouth, allowing her to fully savour the taste and experience of having even a slightly fuller stomach. Knowing that, even if she wanted to, she couldn’t stay there forever - as the berry supply would soon run out - the young girl decided to head further inland, gazing out of the natural vantage point she held. On the horizon, she spotted the telltale signs of a town: a port, no doubt. Twinkling lights flickered in and out of existence as she spotted them, and she could just about see the hallmark signs of ships coming into view, travelling down a long river to the port. Perfect! She needed a place to go: this would be it.

She fashioned the remains of her once-home into somewhat crutches to support her attempt at walking, and started on her descent towards this ramshackle but bustling town. Moss crunched softly underfoot, while the smell of pine wafted in the air. As she gained ground closer towards the town, the vegetation and mood started to change. Trespassing - although she didn’t know it at the time - on private farms, she trudged through fields of blonde wheat, avoiding the buds of freshly planted potatoes, as fluffy white clouds tracked her progress across the skies. It took a while, but eventually, she made it towards the boundaries of the city.

For a girl who had never seen a town, hustling and bustling, like this before, it was a surreal experience. A maze of cobbled stone paths presented themselves before her, with thatched houses in the telltale English style surrounding every inch of free space that was not already paved. Carts pulled by workhorses- who her heart went out to, feeling the plight of dragging loads for their masters for hours straight - trotted next to her, while the low and high of society alike walked past. Some were dressed in the finery of court dress, on their way to a spot of luncheon, while others begged to survive. Both groups ignored the strange, pink-haired presence initially: the less fortunate believing her a weird experiment - perhaps an escapee from a higher class, infirm and unstable - and the more fortunate seeing her as a peasant, and nothing more. Cream paint decorated the outer bricks of establishments and great and small alike, allowing her to feel a weird sense of sameness, no matter where she went along that initial street.

Soon, her wandering led her to a man, setting up a stall amongst the busy crowds that were on their own little journeys. Some were taking prize cattle to the markets, others vegetables to their homes, and some patrolled the streets, paying little heed to the invisible in society. This stall read in large letters of a “MERCHANT SHIP: OPPORTUNITIES AVAILABLE” posting: the chance to serve on a ship sailing out towards the New World, and plenty of other ‘exotic’ realms.

The advent of this stall presented her with two options: either, the literal fish out of water could try and make a living begging, until she could figure out her way to aid her parents and the humans she sympathised so much with, or she could take this job. She knew she’d be of little importance, just like the occasional cabin boys she saw when a ship sunk, desparating trying to save their young souls, but it would be a life along the sea, with opportunities to find a way to fix her problems - and an out, that could be useful. An escape route she could dive into at any moment, if things went wrong. She was 13, but not extremely naive.

Little did she know that, 5 years later, she would use that to flee her situation, and onto a new life - but for then, she was blissfully ignorant of the unlikeliness of her receiving the position, as she approached the man.

He was a good six foot tall, gruff, and possessed of a strong build. His clothes were fairly wealthy, with tassels and strong leather boots holding himself above the stones. His blonde hair was gruffly cut short, brown eyes piercing through the fog of commuters. The white feather on his hat swayed in tune with the gentle wind as he hummed, searching for someone to serve upon his ship. His red tunic, made of some sort of coarse fabric, seemed a little less fine than the rest, but it was impossible to be picky in a scarce economy.

Eventually, this led him to look down at the quiet girl with the oddest hair known to man, who looked up at him with a polite but pleading demeanour.

“Oi. You want to join?” He asked, with bluntness written all over his voice.

“Yes - please, sir. If you would have me.” The girl answered quietly to the man. She did not want to throw away her only shot at returning to the seas, and her best chance at finding a solution to her problems.

“You look like a little pipsqueak, and a girl at that. Why in hell should I choose you?”

Needless to say, the man was unimpressed, and was about to tell the girl to shove off, and to find whatever parents they came from. Sensing their anger and rage building up inside, she knew she had to counter this the best way she could. Coughing for a second, as her throat was slightly hoarse from the little food she’d had, she opened her mouth and started to sing a shanty just quietly. This wasn’t much in the terms of power, and certainly not the rousing chorus of her family, but it was invasive and gentle, beckoning the Captain of the vessel gently into her mind, and then to persuasive agreement. His eyes dilated, as if unsure of what was happening, for a split second, before she ended up the melody, hoping that her constant thoughts of wishing for a job reached him.

He consulted himself for a moment before sighing with resignation. Unable to see why he’d changed course, his mind filled in the blanks.

“I suppose you can join us, as some sort of servant. It’ll be good to have more for the cannons, and someone to herd the animals. You’ll do just fine.” He admitted, directing her towards the ship.

She grinned eagerly, and excitedly nodded to the man, walking down to their ship: the Ocean’s Grace, and to a whole new world of excitement, which would eventually bring her not only to the seas again: but to the Isla.

This was not a blessing, delivered by a compassionate fate, however: Miku would never see her parents again -

and never would she write another diary entry - not after this fateful day.