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“I’ll only be a moment.”
How strange that such a simple phrase was portend to a disaster. Barbara had not been a moment; no, she had been gone for so many moments that they had turned into many days. Days she would rather not think about, days she would rather forget. Yet, as she stared at the book in her hands, they were all that came to mind.
The text on the page taunted her. The words, once so beloved, telling her of mysterious journeys and maps. How she had once longed to go on such things herself, discover places and treasures long lost, now new to the current age. It was what led her to join Diana’s crew. Well, that and desperation, when the man who had promised her a life of adventure had left her high and dry in a foreign port. Barbara had been near tears, full of fury, not hurt, when Diana had found her and listened to her plight.
“That is not right,” she had said softly and, in her anger, Barbara had nearly mocked her because yes, yes, of course it wasn’t right to trick a young, educated lady like herself to sell off her worldly goods and follow you on an adventure, only to dump her like an unwanted catch. Diana’s eyes had been so earnest, so honest, that the sharpness on Barbara’s tongue had curled in on itself and died, and she swallowed down her anger, finally letting her sadness overtake her in a wave.
One sunrise later, much sooner than Barbara expected when she had been searching for numerous days, Diana presented him to her in the town square. Wrapped in a golden rope, he knelt at Barbara’s feet and cried bitterly, begging for her forgiveness. He had already spent much of her fortune, but he swore to return what he could and work as her servant for as long as it took to repay the rest.
Barbara did not want him as a servant. She did not want to ever see him again. When Diana asked what she wanted to do with him, she thought to herself that she would like to see him dead. But she faltered, wondering what this tall woman with honest eyes would think to see her so bloodthirsty. With her nerve lost, she demurred to Diana’s judgement.
Diana tied him to a pole in the town square and left a wooden sign hanging from his neck, declaring who he was and what he’d done. Flyers went up all explaining the same with a sketch of his face. His opulent room at the tavern was sacked, his fine things sold, and all coin given to Barbara’s open hands.
“I have a friend here who will watch him,” Diana explained as she handed the last heavy purse to Barbara. “He’ll never be able to trick anyone again. I have another friend to introduce you to as well, and he’ll take you home for a reduced fare.”
Home meant safety. No bustling port cities with thieves, no hidden treasures and secrets, no whispers of gangs of men abducting women to hunt like animals. Home had her bedroom, still mostly intact, her family, and four walls to surround her.
“I don’t want to go home,” Barbara spoke hurriedly. She thought of her father’s pinched expression and the disappointment in his frown. “Can I come with you?”
Diana regarded her in silence for a long moment. “What I do, and where I go, is dangerous.”
“What do you do?” Barbara had an idea from her books and common sense. No navy in these seas had women captains; one would have to go much further south to see such a thing.
“I don’t sail under any nation’s flag,” Diana said and Barbara was silently pleased to have her guess proven correct. “That makes us an enemy of many, and our sailing precarious.”
“I can handle danger, despite what you may think of me. I can help,” Barbara insisted, “I can read maps and the stars. I can read and write, and I know arithmetic. I’ve handled wild beasts.” She did not share that the beasts in question were hedgehogs and songbirds in the manor garden.
She waited and forced herself to remain still, resolute.
Diana watched her for a minute more before she smiled. “All right.”
So Barbara Minerva came to join Diana’s crew. Though she thought she needed little of it, she trained as a navigator under Etta who not only taught her new constellations, but how to read the horizon. She labored with the rest of the crew, Diana included, to keep the Hecate in good condition, tarring her lines and mending her sails. The moon found her peering over the edge of the ship, watching jellyfish mill aimlessly. The sun often found her greeting curious mermaids who came to swim along their ship with the dolphins.
Diana introduced her to each of them as old friends including their queen, Mera. She told her how the merpeople didn’t meddle in human affairs, unless the sea was being harmed; they would not save capsized sailors or warn ships of coming storms. Barbara wondered what sort of friends they were, and thought briefly of the frigid formal gatherings her family hosted.
Homesickness rarely crossed Barbara’s path. There were times, looking out at the calm, glossy sea that she missed the liveliness of her gardens, the butterflies and birdsongs. When she soaked hard tack in weak tea, she missed biscuits and scones. Yet, even in those moments, she never once thought of returning home. Not while the world still beckoned to her.
Not while Diana still allowed her by her side.
Her captain was patient as she taught her the ways of her ship. It had been some years since Barbara felt like she was learning anything new, and she was eager to sharpen her mind once more. Diana taught her all of the Hecate, the names of the fish they caught and how to salt them, and how to care for her clothes now that they would be so freely battered by sea spray and open air.
“I smell of oil,” Barbara complained one evening after supper and Diana laughed.
“You smell of hard work,” she said, her eyes lingering on Barbara’s face. “I like it.”
The first time Barbara stepped into the captain’s cabin, she feared she was in love. Old books in fine condition called to her from every wall, titles she recognized from her own readings over the years. As she hovered, unsure if she was allowed to touch, Diana smiled at her from over the map laid out between them.
“You can read whatever you like,” Diana said and Barbara knew then that her heart was in trouble. First it was stolen by a poet from the east, then an author from the south. A playwright from her own country broke it. She was still recovering when they arrived in a port city far south, away from the navy’s authority. Barbara had read of the riches of these nations, yet she still felt in awe as she walked with Diana along the streets, observing how every person had gold and emeralds around their necks and fingers. Diana introduced her to their queen too, and Barbara wondered how she knew so many royal women.
When she asked, Diana looked towards the sea. “My mother was well-travelled.”
Barbara waited for further explanation and received only an encouragement to finish her mahangu soup. It was fine, she decided. Barbara had no interest in speaking in depth about her parents either, about the coldness of her house and a life left behind.
A year passed and Etta took her leave; she was tired, she explained to Barbara one night, of always being on the move. She wanted to put down roots, far from water. Barbara could no longer imagine spending her days on dry land, but she wished her well and found herself tearing up when it was time to say goodbye. When Diana hugged Etta and assured her she would always be welcome back, the tears flowed hotter.
Barbara had been welcomed back too. The text in front of her lost focus and blurred, and Barbara closed her eyes. She hadn’t left of her own volition. She hadn’t wanted to put down roots. No, she remembered, she had screamed and threatened; she had banged her fists against the ship’s hold until her hands were bloody. She had kicked and fought and bit as men from her own native land had hauled her onto that island. When she had broken free, for a few glorious seconds, she had darted into the darkness of the trees, but she hadn’t gotten far.
Why hadn’t she run faster? Why hadn’t she scaled one of those tall trees? Why hadn’t she thrown herself into the waves? Better to die of drowning in the ocean’s embrace than surrounded by men on strange land.
Why had she left Diana’s side in the first place? Why had she gone down that alleyway in the market? There had been a shop, she remembered, selling ink and paper. Her supplies on the ship were running low and she’d wanted to write a poem. Words had been sitting on her tongue for so long that it had felt awkward to speak them; she’d decided to write them out instead. It all seemed so trite now.
“Are you all right?”
Diana’s voice cut through the fog of Barbara’s thoughts and her eyes flew open, cheeks embarrassingly wet. Her heart hammered in her chest despite reminding herself there was no longer anything to fear. She was safe now, back with her captain. Everything that had happened on that horrid island was simply a nightmare.
“Yes,” Barbara lied, summoning a smile she didn’t feel and pressing a hand over her own chest, willing her heart to calm. “I was moved by this passage, that’s all,” she said, quickly wiping at her eyes.
In the doorway, Diana radiated an uncertainty Barbara had no earlier recollection of. “Are you hungry?” Diana asked finally and Barbara nodded, grateful she wouldn’t have to lie a third time. Before she could speak, Diana told her to stay put, in Diana’s cabin, before she vanished from the door. Barbara stared after her for a long moment, feeling the sudden loss of her, then closed the book.
When Diana returned, it was with a feast in hand: vegetable soup, hard tack, jerky, and fresh fruit from their most recent port, all paired with a strong tea. She had her own meal as well, a smaller affair. “I’m not ill,” Barbara objected, hiding her pleasure.
Diana gifted her a small smile. “No. But I’m glad you’re here again.”
Barbara soaked the hard tack in the soup broth and when she bit into it, she remembered the splintering of hard bone. When she bit into an orange slice and felt it burst on her tongue, she remembered the rush of blood in her mouth. When she bit into the jerky, she vividly remembered the taste of fresh, raw meat.
To quell her now familiar nausea, she focused on the movements of her own mouth. Small, ladylike bites. Chew one, two, three, four times, then swallow. A sip of tea. A grateful smile.
She would not empty her stomach. She would not live at the mercy of her memories.
That night, as she had in all the nights following Barbara’s return, Diana insisted that Barbara take her bed in her cabin. Barbara’s guilt wasn’t strong enough to keep her from accepting, and she curled up beneath the quilt in darkness.
Barbara closed her eyes and strained her ears. She heard the Hecate around them and Diana’s slow, steady breathing, where she slept only two steps away on the floor. Though she tried to cling to those sounds, the smell of Diana’s pillow, and the feel of the worn quilt, she soon found herself lost. The memories spun her in circles, a kaleidoscope of the senses. The smell of earth, the vegetation beneath her limbs, the sound of birds, and, strongest of all, the taste of blood.
In her mind, she saw Diana and saw that she was horrified by her. Barbara Minerva was gone, replaced by a monstrosity with red dripping from her teeth. Barbara at once wanted to leap forward and tear that look from her face, to sink her claws into soft flesh and pull; she wanted to bury herself in the dirt, let her shame eat her from the inside for even thinking such a thing. She would never again be the same Barbara who had stepped into that alley. Diana would never look at her the same again.
Who was she now, but the remains of a monster in woman’s flesh.
Opening her eyes in the dark, Barbara sat up and listened. Diana remained still under her thin blanket, her breathing rhythmic, and so Barbara slipped from the bed, stealing the quilt, and tiptoed carefully out of the cabin.
The sea air filled her lungs and cleared her thoughts, if only for a moment. Once, the interior of Diana’s cabinet had been another, wondrous world with books and maps on the walls and a bed that smelled of her. Tonight, it made her feel like a guest who had overstayed their welcome. Diana had been kind and considerate; she had offered her cabin immediately to Barbara after her rescue, arguably to give her more space and some privacy. Yet Barbara couldn’t shake her suspicion that it was done to keep an eye on her as well.
Were they doomed to doubt each other forever? Barbara had confidence in one thing before her abduction and transformation. It was what had urged her towards that shop, what had inspired the words on her fingertips. She was still confident in her heart and her desire to remain by Diana’s side through all days. Trying to picture Diana having similar confidence in her was beyond her.
“Minerva.”
Barbara startled, looking around wildly before she realized the voice had come from below. Peering over the ship’s railing, she spotted a familiar face framed by long red hair. “Your highness!” she exclaimed, dropping into a curtsy in her nightshift and quilt.
Diana had told her, voice full of gentle amusement, that she didn’t have to do such a thing, but Barbara noticed the way it made Queen Mera laugh every time, and so she greeted her with a curtsy each time. Tonight, the same way as before, Mera laughed, her palms gently pressed against the side of the boat. The moon wasn’t large enough to let Barbara see her tail in the water, but she could still picture it in her mind’s eye, the green scales with lines of gold along each side.
“I’m glad to see you well,” Mera said, “I meant to visit sooner, but we’ve had some trouble with the whalers and I didn’t want to bring them to your door during this time.”
“Are they after you again?” Barbara frowned and Mera nodded.
“As always. The Hecate has been a tremendous help in the past,” Mera said, patting the side of the ship like a noblewoman petting the neck of her horse. “I was pleased to return a favor.”
“Favor?” Barbara prompted, wondering how much she’d missed, hiding away in Diana’s cabin.
“Yes,” Mera replied, sounding quizzical, “You.”
Barbara’s surprise must have been clear, even in the dim light of the half moon and stars, so Mera continued. “When you were abducted, the sea heard you. We were able to help direct Diana to the island.”
“But…” That was impossible. Barbara had stopped keeping track of the days, but she knew she’d been on the island at least a fortnight. She’d devoured the men who brought her to the island, she’d devoured the next wave of men with their ropes and weapons. Then the castaway, who begged her for mercy that she couldn’t feel underneath the growling of her stomach. Mera was unaware of her bloodshed, but seemed to recognize her confusion.
“There was a terrible storm at your earlier port. The Hecate could not sail, then ran afoul of further poor weather once she was able to leave. She also engaged in battle with a ship of men as she grew closer to the island,” Mera said thoughtfully, “We heard the screams of the dying and the sharks followed blood.”
“I thought…” Barbara was suddenly unsure what she’d thought. She had swung from hope to despair and back again so many times during her ordeal. She had believed with all of her heart that she would be rescued from that boat. When her feet touched shore, she knew she was all alone. Moments before the transformation they forced on her, she again felt that hope swell, up until the horrid potion met her tongue. Then all had been lost.
Barbara sat with her thoughts for some time as Mera gazed up at her. “Your highness,” she said softly, “You said you heard me…?”
“Yes. I swam to port and immediately sought a sailor to inform your captain. I didn’t suspect they would be waylaid for so long.”
You still could have come, Barbara thought. You could have capsized the boat long before they got me to that island. I know you have an army. Perhaps this was the extent of merpeople’s empathy; Mera likely already did more than she would for anyone else. Barbara should feel warmed, but she tasted bitterness on her tongue instead. “Thank you.”
Mera smiled up at her before taking her leave. Barbara waved, but didn’t curtsy.
The night air that had felt so refreshing minutes ago now felt cutting, even beneath her quilt. With a shiver, Barbara retreated back into Diana’s cabin, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness again as she shut the door.
“Barbara?”
She inhaled sharply at the sound of Diana’s sleepy voice; would she always feel so jumpy? Swallowing once, she spoke. “Yes, I’m here. I wanted some air.”
The Hecate swayed gently around her.
“Are you feeling better?” Diana asked softly, swallowed up in darkness.
“Yes,” she lied, “Yes, much better.” She put her hand against the wall, navigating along the familiar bumps of books and tapestries, until she collapsed again in Diana’s bed. With a sigh, she laid back down, splaying the quilt over herself again and settled in to sleep.
“It’s all right,” Diana’s voice cut through again gently, “If you’re not.”
The tears that sprung to Barbara’s eyes were unbidden, unwanted. “I’m much better,” she whispered, as much to herself as to Diana. In the dark, she heard the whisper of sheets and the creak of a loose floorboard as Diana pulled herself to the side of the bed. She struggled to make out the shape of her features, blind to the look in her eyes, as she felt Diana’s hand rest gently against her cheek.
“I remember,” Barbara confessed suddenly, a child again in a dirty dress admitting to digging up the garden. A troublesome little worm, too clever and adventurous for her own good. “I remember seeing you.”
“I remember you too,” Diana said as Barbara’s tears ran down her cheeks, against her captain’s fingers.
“I’m a monster, and a fool.” Her voice was as watery as her eyes and it drove her mad; she wished to be strong and steady too. “I should never have gone down that alleyway, I should never have–”
“Barbara,” Diana cut in firmly, “It was not your doing. You did nothing wrong.”
“I killed them,” Barbara gasped out, her tears falling faster, “I killed all of them. I ate them, Diana.”
“You did what you had to to live. You’re hardly the first sailor forced to eat another.”
It’s different, Barbara wanted to cry out, it’s different, they weren’t a furred monster, they had to, but I wanted to when I saw them, it’s different–
Instead, she sobbed wordlessly against Diana’s pillow and Diana let her cry it out, reaching out in the dark to hold her hand. Barbara clung to it tightly, using the warmth of her captain’s skin as an anchor as her cries finally slowed and subsided.
“Do you remember my golden lasso? The rope?”
Yes, Barbara remembered it. She remembered seeing it for the first time, wrapped tight around the man who tricked her. She remembered seeing it put to use at various ports, how confidently Diana wielded what looked like such delicate thread.
Barbara nodded, hiccuping. “You said that was how you changed me back. That it was magic.”
Diana’s hand gently squeezed hers. “It was a gift to me from my mother, who won it from a witch long ago. It shows the wielder the truth.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Barbara confessed.
“It broke the magic those men put on you. It showed me you, the real you: Barbara Ann Minerva, who is brave and clever. If you were truly a monster, you would still be there on that island, gnawing on my bones.”
“I wouldn’t have–” Barbara left the rest of the lie unsaid. She would have; she’d wanted to. Her shame and her hunger had melded into one beast under her skin. She’d wanted to. She’d wanted to.
“You wouldn’t have,” Diana agreed in a whisper, because she’d always thought well of Barbara. Because she didn’t know what had possessed Barbara to leap at her, teeth bared and claws outstretched. Barbara could never tell her.
Diana began to draw her hand back and Barbara couldn’t stand it, the thought of being alone in her own skin in the dark. Blindly, she reached out; luck guided her hand to Diana’s shoulder, feeling the softness of her hair against the backs of her fingers. “Stay,” Barbara blurted out in a moment of crumbled pride.
She felt Diana still, then stand. Wordlessly, Barbara moved away from the edge of the bed, her back against the cabin wall to make room in the narrow bunk. Diana sank down beside her slowly, hesitant in a way Barbara was unfamiliar with. Even on that island, when Barbara’s fur and excess muscle had vanished like a puff of smoke, when she was human again, trembling and terrified of what she had nearly done, Diana had been confident and warm. “Welcome back,” she’d said then, wrapping Barbara first in her arms and then her cloak, “Welcome back.”
Barbara welcomed Diana back into her own bed, in her own cabin, with careful, cautious touches before she grew bold enough to wrap her arms around her captain. Diana’s touches were just as careful as she drew Barbara close, and Barbara tucked her head beneath the taller woman’s chin. Diana smelled of sea and sweat, of tea and oil. She made Barbara want to slip into dark alleys and risk her life for poetry.
Before the island, Barbara had wanted to show her the entirety of her heart. Now, she feared Diana would turn away when she learned of the dark places in it.
“Have you ever thought,” Diana asked quietly, “Of setting your roots down someplace?”
“No,” Barbara answered immediately. She never wanted to take root. She was not a tree or a vine. Even the garden, the one she sometimes looked back on fondly, had had a fence around it. That was why she’d tried to dig out.
“Then…” Diana’s voice was still soft, thoughtful. “Would you consider staying with me?”
“Yes.” The answer was just as immediate as the last. She felt Diana’s fingers brush against her hair.
“Thank you.”
No, Barbara wanted to say, thank you. Thank you for not fearing me, even though you should. Thank you for not leaving me there.
She had been so frightened, on that boat, on that island. She was scared now, in Diana’s arms, that the golden rope would really show Diana the truth about her one day. Yet, as she felt Diana’s fingers gently run back through her hair, staying silent and still felt particularly chilling. She had been on a mission, that day. She’d sought out that shop with its paper and ink for a reason, one she had yet to give form to.
The thought of never being able to was terrifying.
Barbara loved many things. She loved words, she loved relics. She loved watching the dolphins, she loved peeling oranges in the late afternoon. She loved…
Tilting her head just so, Barbara pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Diana’s jaw. She was still afraid her tongue couldn’t handle the words weighing the center of it. Diana’s hand stilled in her hair and Barbara’s blood froze in her veins, her mouth suddenly useless. It was an accident, she would say, I was merely getting comfortable, I’m sorry.
Instead, she felt Diana shift slightly in the dark, the bump of her nose against hers. “Barbara,” she whispered, “May I kiss you?”
“Yes, God,” Barbara choked out before Diana’s lips were soft and upon her own. This was real magic, she thought fuzzily; not potions and witch gifts. No, it was Diana’s ability to drive the breath from her lungs and send her heart soaring. It was their lips moving gently against each other, the feel of Diana warm and solid in her arms.
Diana didn’t ask for more, though Barbara would have given it. She would give Diana everything. Diana’s mouth traced over her cheeks, her forehead, the curve of her nose, and finally her lips again, and Barbara greedily relished every touch. She did not think she was glad she was abducted, for she was not; she did not need that horror to bring forth tonight.
After their lips parted, Barbara tucked her head beneath Diana’s chin once more. Her captain always seemed so steady, but she could hear the quickness of her breathing and it made Barbara smile. It was further assurance. When she closed her eyes, she didn’t think of that other horrid boat, of that island’s shore. Instead she saw Diana buying her persimmons at port, she heard her laughter as Barbara complained about needing to oil her clothes.
She was still not fine. A kiss was not a magic lasso; it did not fix everything. Yet, finally, the night wasn't cold or lonely.