Page 38 of Stealing the Merman

His inability to find Finn enraged him, and although he was spending more time trying to track him down than pillaging ships, whenever he did a raid, he did it with such intensity, it brought booty aplenty.

The constant turnover in crew fueled his loneliness. Where before there’d been camaraderie, working aboard his ship became a business transaction. He distrusted his quartermasters. After the captain, the quartermaster was the second-highest rank aboard a pirate ship. Conall had learned that trusting his second in command was dangerous, and therefore, he kept to himself.

He found company in rum and detested himself for it—he didn’t want to take the same abhorrent path his father had. When he had too much to drink, he sat alone in the darkness of his cabin, crying like the boy he’d once been. The tears fanned his self-loathing, and more than once he laid waste to his cabin in a fit of rage, demolishing his furniture.

His angry outbursts covered up the sadness eating up his heart. For an hour. Then he stood amidst the debris of his storm, and shame gnawed at him.

The crew feared him. When he entered a room, they shrank into the shadows. When he spoke, they stopped breathing.

It was good that he cycled through them quickly; a month or two aboard with Conall and they were ready to run.

Conall’s latest raid had taken him to Vieques, a pirate haven east of Puerto Rico. Several affluent merchants traveled from Puerto Rico to destinations around the Caribbean and beyond, their ships loaded with riches. Vieques was an ideal base to hunt and pillage them.

The harbor was bustling with activity whenThe Pillaging Seasdocked. The crew stormed off board, keen to grab fresh food and well-aged rum.

Conall’s first mate had thrown in the towel, and he better set out to hire a new one immediately before his reputation as a temperamental lunatic spread.

It was midday, and the sun was beating down on the port. Men wearing tricorne hats jostled along the waterfront, drunkards stumbled out of taverns and merchants in booths shaded by canvas awnings sold anything from fruit over boots to rope.

Conall marched along the lines of market stalls until he found one with a sign that read “Labor” in crooked handwriting. An elderly man with a gray, twirled mustache and an eyepatch sat in it, leafing through leather-bound books filled with illegible jumble in black ink.

“Ahoy,” Conall said, and the man looked from his books, his one eye traveling over Conall. “I’m looking to hire a first mate.”

“What did you do with the last one? Make him walk the plank?”

Conall ignored his obnoxious joke. “Do you know someone?”

“Hmm. Let me see. This one lad told me last week he was looking to get hired…” The man scratched his balding head and riffled through stacks of paperwork. “Where are you sailing anyway?”

“East.”

“East?” The man’s head shot up. “You stay away from Culebra if you know what’s good for you.”

“What’s in Culebra?”

“Mermen.”

Conall’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t known there was a merman colony close by. “Mermen? Are you sure?”

“Aye.” The man pushed the pile he’d combed through aside and picked up a stack of books. “There’ve been lots of stories coming out of there over the last three months.”

“What kind of stories?”

“You’re not from here, are you? Well, I heard there was this Spaniard that got lured in by a merman. They fell for each other, and the merman, blind with love, went to Malik for a special kind of potion.”

“And who’s Malik?”

“God, you’re really not from these parts. Malik’s a sea witch, and a powerful one, I tell you that. Lives in the mangrove forest a few miles outside San Juan. He’s eccentric to no end. Anyway, the merman goes to see him and asks for a potion to give him legs for a day so he can visit his Spaniard. Malik spends hours upon hours trying to find a recipe until he has it and says, yes, he can brew the potion, which will grant the merman legs for one day and one night. But in exchange, the merman must serve him for the rest of his life as the ingredients for such a potion are impossible to come by. And the lovesick merman agrees.

“He takes the potion, goes to see his Spaniard, and returns to Malik. Here comes the punchline: while the merman slaves away for Malik, he dives up these obscure potion ingredients from the bottom of the ocean. Crazy things, like mothershell. Can’t find that anywhere. Malik, bless his insane little heart, brews a potion and turns himself into an octoman. As in, he gets tentacles. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t heard the story from my cousin whose old friend from San Juan saw Malik a couple of months ago. Anyway, now that Malik can deep-sea dive, he’s been able to get the ingredients for the merman potion. And he’s selling it, mind you, at a price that borders on extortion.

“But mermen are buying it. That Spaniard, they say he used to bed every woman from whore to lady within a ten-mile radius. He bought out the merman’s obligation to Malik. Now he fucks his merman and no one else. Mermen are total sexpots, and news of the potion is spreading. Soon they’ll all be knocking on Malik’s door. Had a fellow here the other day who wanted to get some before Malik ran out.”

The man droned on about how mermen were dangerous, but Conall wasn’t listening. If there was a potion, unobtainable before, it would change every merman’s life. From the sounds of it, the potion didn’t just grant legs. If he bought some and found Finn, he could take care of him the way Finn needed it the most.

Finn wasn’t in the Bahamas, Conall was sure of it. He’d spent twelve months sailing up and down the islands, looking for him. Was there a chance he’d come to the Caribbean? Perhaps Culebra? One way to find out.

“I’m afraid the lad might be gone already,” the man said, putting his last stack of papers aside.

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