Chapter 2
*If I had to die an untimely death, I suppose I could pick a worse place to go than the bottom of the Tasman Sea. *
Nestled between Australia and New Zealand, The Ditch is some of the roughest water on the planet – a thousand nautical miles of untamable ocean currents and even more unpredictable weather.
It’s also where the first scientifically recognized recording of an honest-to-God siren’s song was captured. At least, that’s the running theory. The audio clip is only eight seconds long, but the melody is clear, even to untrained ears, and that’s exactly what it is — a melody.
The discourse within the scientific community following its discovery has been…considerable.
What most can agree on, though, is that the song’s frequency is too high to belong to a whale, too measured to be any other creatures native to the region, and that no one has ever, ever picked up another sound like it so far below sea level.
But, I know that it’s more than that, I write, my pen digging trenches into the pages of my notebook as my penmanship grows fervent. I sound insane, but I swear that I’ve heard it somewhere before. Not in real life, of course…but, in my dreams.
My breath catches at the reminder of scales against my skin, and the scent of petrichor and brine. Then, perhaps, the months of sleepless nights will finally make sense. If it all turns out to be true, if we actually prove the existence of merfolk, then…maybe, for the first time in my life, I'll feel whole.
A wave hits the trawler, sending the boat listing sharply to one side, along with myself and anything else in my tiny bunk that isn't already nailed down.
“For the love of…” I mutter, bracing myself for the next inevitable collision.
If we manage to stay in one piece long enough to even find the source of the song, I scratch testily before slamming my journal shut and pushing to my feet and am promptly tossed right back onto my ass as the trawler shudders again.
“Damn it!”
No sooner does the curse leave my lips then a brisk knock comes at my door. Before I can answer, the door creaks open and my professor’s head pops through the gap. “Didn’t hurt yourself, did you, sugar lips? Captain says we've hit another rough patch.”
I grimace at the way Stan’s eyes scan my body – no doubt making sure his eye candy is still in one piece. The man is a walking ick, but like always, I do my best to hide it. Stan isn't one for professionalism on a good day, but God help the sorry sucker who attempts to correct his behavior; for a man pushing fifty, he can get downright petty.
“Yeah, I noticed,” I rumble, reluctantly accepting the hand he offers to help me back to my feet.
Another stretch of rough water makes the boat bob, and Stan is there, clutching me to his chest, “Whoa! Steady there, sugar.”
His voice goes husky, and without missing a beat, his hands start to wander, trailing from my shoulders down my back. I pull back right before he tries to grab my ass. “I think I'll survive, professor. Although, you'd think I'd be used to it by now; I don't think we've had an hour of smooth sailing for the last three days.”
His face twists with disappointment, but he continues on. “That's life in The Ditch for you,” He chuckles, then sidles a step closer to me, “I told you when we left shore, the sea is no place for a woman. If it all gets to be too much for you, come find me. I wouldn’t mind a bunkmate, if you catch my drift.” His gaze goes heavy as his pond water gray eyes drop to my lips, “Especially not one as scorching hot as yourself.”
I mentally search around for the most diplomatic way to say, “Not on your life, you skeezy jerk.” But when my lips part, he takes it as an invitation to pucker up and lean in.
I gasp, my hands raised at the ready to shove him back. Just then, the loudest crack of thunder I've ever heard reverberates throughout the boat. Shouts come from above — calls to hang tight, only moments before the evening takes a hellish turn.
Along the corridor, doors are ripped open from the ferocity of the ship's movements. Stan cages me against the nearest wall, trapping me between his body and the debris that begins tumbling past us as research supplies and the crew’s personal effects come flying from their rooms.
“We’ve hit a storm!” I gasp.
“No shit, sugar lips,” Stan mutters, his tone sharp in a poor attempt to mask the fear.
“Stan! Professor Wilcox!” Another student, Will, appears at the top of the stairs leading to the deck. He's soaked all the way through, and shaking, but from the almost manic gleam in his eyes, I don't think it's from fear. “The hydrophone…you need to come hear this!”
“The hydrophone? You're sure?” Stan calls back, and Will nods, waving for him to hurry. “Go to my room and don't move a fucking muscle, do you understand me?.”
Apparently, that's as far as Stan’s concern for me goes as he races for the stairs, leaving me clinging to my door jam.
“Like hell I will,” I shout and take off after him.
If the hydrophone’s picked up on something, I'm not going to wait around to be the last one to hear it. When history books are written about this day, I won't be relegated to a footnote because I was scared by a little thunder and lightning.
I make my way to the top of the stairs, and skid to a stop. Okay, maybe it’s a bit more than a little thunder and lightning.
Before my eyes, day turns to night as thick storm clouds suddenly snuff out the sun as if it had never been. The wind howls as I push open the cabin door, rain slashing at my face. The deck is a flurry of activity, the storm tossing our vessel to and fro like a child’s toy.
I squint through the sheets of water, making out Stan’s figure huddled over the hub of deep-sea detection equipment, his face illuminated by the screen’s glow. I march towards him, my boots slipping on the wet deck.
“Professor! What did you hear?” I shout over the roar of the storm.
Stan’s head snaps up, eyes wild with excitement. “Forget the hydrophone. We've got the bastard on film!” He thrusts the monitor into my hands, his grin feral.
My heart races as I peer at the screen. The silhouette is unmistakable. The form matches the merman from my dreams, the one that’s haunted me for months.
“This is the same location where the original song was recorded. It can't be from the same source…can it?” I murmur, my voice barely audible over the storm.
My pulse quickens. Could it really be him? Could the merman from my dreams be the very same creature that changed the trajectory of my life five years ago?
Stan lets out a whoop, grabbing me around the waist just as lightning splits the sky, a massive wave crashing over the bow. “You can ask it once we haul it in,” he shouts, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity.
I freeze. “Haul it in? But we're only supposed to observe and track its behavioral patterns.”
Stan’s grip tightens, his nails digging into my skin. “The fishman that’s about to win me a goddamn Nobel prize just offered itself up on a golden platter.” His voice booms over the tempest, commanding the crew’s attention. “No one leaves here without that fish, do you hear me? Reel it in, you salty fucks! We did it!”
I watch in horror as Stan rallies the crew, launching the deep-sea trawler net into the dark, churning waters. The storm intensifies, as if the very elements conspire against us. Rain lashes sideways, stinging my face, and the deck tilts precariously with each wave.
The crew moves with frantic determination, their shouts drowned by the storm. Stan stands at the helm, barking orders, his eyes never leaving the spot where the net plunges into the abyss. The boat’s equipment groans under the strain, the net reeling in something enormous.
“Haul ‘em up! Haul ‘em up!” Stan bellows, his voice cracking with excitement.
I grip the railing, my heart in my throat as the net emerges from the roiling sea. The crew’s cheers rise above the storm as the net rises higher, swaying precariously. My breath catches when I see it—the same powerful, thrashing tail from my dreams.
It's him. I found him.
Perhaps that’s because I’m a Nautical Cryptobiology student at Llewellyn University, the world’s leading institution for deep sea exploration.