Second Honeymoon

By Clarissa Ruth

“Come on Lianna, I got you.” I gripped her hand as I led her down the boulders. We descended toward a deserted cove surrounded by white cliffs where glistening sand beckoned us to play among the turquoise waves. Wearing flip-flops, Lianna hadn’t planned to do any rock climbing on this trip, but she rose to the challenge with a grin and her teasing line, “I’d follow you anywhere, Bo.”

When we hit sand, I discarded my boots and led my wife down to the waves. The water sparkled almost as much as her eyes, and the sunshine on her hair gleamed like silken midnight. I pulled her to me and planted a quick kiss. Then I slipped the sapphire-studded ring off her fourth finger.

Kneeling on the warm sand, I held it out. “Marry me.”

“You goof.” Her grin sent my head spinning. And she wondered why I kept doing this. Playing along, she let me adorn her finger for the ninth time since we’d said, “I do.”

We swam and picnicked, then she napped while I, restless as the waves, swam again. The locals had warned us about undertow, so I was determined to stay close to shore. When I tired of testing my strength against the waves, I turned over and let them buoy me.

Huge cumulus clouds caught my gaze and I drifted, watching the embryo of a storm. The view held me captive until, too late, I realized how far out I’d floated. I dropped my feet to swim back.

A force unlike any I’d experienced lashed around my ankles. I cried out. Lianna sat up and watched me disappear beneath the surface.

The undertow was not water.

I kicked at the webbing, but it only entangled my knees as well. Soon the stuff—a thin, silver thread—had bound me completely. My lungs were ready to burst, but I still fought.

It couldn’t end like this! Not on our honeymoon.

The back of my arms began to itch. From the threads, a cold, clammy sensation spread until it enveloped me. My lungs not only burned, they felt like they were shriveling inside me. I curled up, desperate for air, sure the end had come.

The sensation faded. I lived on.

The itching in my arms intensified, then eased. All discomfort gone, I opened my eyes.

Faces surrounded me. They watched me, intent, excited. Blue.

I backed away, flicking my—

Oh, mercy. I have a tail.

My arms were a deep blue. Fluttering gills lined them, pulling oxygen into my body. I fully comprehended the change as I beheld the merpeople who surrounded me like expectant parents at a birth.

One swam forward, clicking and squeaking almost like a dolphin, but with more intricate and complex patterns and rhythms. I understood.

“Don’t worry,” it said in its language. “You’ll soon forget your other life. You are one of us now. Our world is even better.”

Forget Lianna? Never.

I tried to dodge around them but my lower appendage, clumsy in its newness, failed me. Blue hands latched onto me, pulling me away.

Lianna.

Yet even if I could escape, to return to land—to even breathe—was not an option. Who was I to her now? A dead man. A merman.

They dragged my body away into the deeps, but my heart, my love, still breathed the briny air of the coastland, tears streaming down her face.

I quickly adapted to my new life. Herding fish, lassoing dolphins for sport, and netting jellyfish to clear our waters became routine for me. Bluefish served raw with seaweed fit my palate well, and my craving for challenge found its equal in hunting sharks using sharpened whalebone and swordfish tusks. The sorrow I might have felt seemed unable to exist in my new world or my new body. But still, something was missing.

One day I grew restless, a feeling I’d almost forgotten. I swam far and swam alone. As surely as the silver threads had brought me to a new life, a strange golden band around my fourth finger seemed to pull me back.

In human reckoning, a year had passed since the merpeople took me as their son. All that time, I still remembered a heart-shaped face with sparkling eyes and long black hair. That vision drew me up, close to the world of air where I dared not stay.

Beyond the ripples were cliffs, a small beach, and—my heart lurched—a figure with hair like silken midnight. I drew near, watching from beneath. She did nothing but stare out at the water, with a strange wetness running down cheeks so pale they were almost white.

Almost without thinking, I pushed up until my head broke the surface.

Her eyes met mine and she gasped. She stood frozen, like coral on a rock. Sturdy boots dug into the sand.

I beckoned, she came.

Casting aside the boots, she waded in. She let me touch her hand. With utter gentleness, lest this creature of beauty flee, I pulled the ring off her fourth finger. I held it out to her. No longer equipped with the tongue of men, I willed her to read the question in my eyes. Marry me?

With the merest whisper, she answered, “You goof. You know I’d follow you anywhere.”

I still knew how to smile. I slipped the ring on for the tenth time, then grabbed her hand. She didn’t resist me. Perhaps she could read another phrase in my eyes: “Come on Lianna, I got you.”

With joy bubbling up in my heart, I led her into the waves.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Clarissa Ruth is a storyteller, adventure-loving healer, and an undeserving bride of Jesus Christ. The outdoors may find her star-gazing while whispering a prayer, or weaving a morning dance of praise barefoot on the grass. Indoors, words are her playground. When this world becomes boring, she travels, via her Scriptorium, to Cheled and all the adventures her fantasy world contains. Though writing stories of freedom is her passion, she is lost for words without Jesus.

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