AGAINST NATURE by Rebecca Katz

The water beckoned me home.
But, I was determined, and
the city air was humid...

I am a siren, which means it’s hard not to drown men. It’s nothing personal. It’s just instinct, like a cat stalking a mouse or chattering at sparrows through a window. The water created us to live for centuries in her womb, but she was often a grave to humans, like the earth they preferred.

Yet Mother Water has been ailing. Every day there are fewer sirens and fewer virgin oceans, free of plastics that turn our homes into chemical traps. Only the furthest deeps are safe from roaring engines now. It’s a poor compromise to hide there singing to dumb animals.

So I left the ocean. I turned up naked near a port, where the sounds and smells of a human city startled me. There was traffic, metal, gasoline, a hundred unknown and pungent foods. I lay beneath a bridge for several minutes, adjusting. The water beckoned me home. But I was determined, and the city air was humid. That was promising: I would not have stayed in a desert.

I wandered into a boutique of overpriced clothing. At the time, I neither knew nor cared that it was overpriced. Humans wore clothes. I needed to pass as human. Therefore, I needed to cover myself. The cashier was a pimply young man whose eyes widened when he saw me. He didn’t mind or call the cops. I didn’t even open my mouth. The old trick—a siren’s beauty—bewitched him. I wanted to learn new skills among the humans, but not just yet. That morning, I was glad to leave the store minutes later wearing clean shorts and a too-large Canada t-shirt, on the house.

Human life had its trials. I learned that one needed to pay rent, which meant working. A large pharmacy hired me. At first I was useless. I made ugly displays of toilet paper or tissues, which crashed down and made uglier messes in the aisles. I did not understand how some packages contained the same kind of item—shortbread cookies or blood-red lipsticks—yet were not the same. Who cared about the names or pictures on the boxes? We had no brands and no trademarks in the water. The cash register terrorized me. There were too many buttons to push, too many codes to remember. I dreaded the days when they put me on cash. So did the customers, who made their contempt clear. Sometimes, when I left work, I was ready either to weep or to drown the lot of them. I could have managed it, too, even in the cramped, smelly pharmacy bathroom.

But there were joys on land as well. Florence, a cheerful, round-faced student who worked at the pharmacy, was my first human friend. She helped me clean up spills and opened extra cashes when I struggled. Sometimes, I found a mindless sort of pride in doing something right—in rolling glitter onto a young girl’s eyelids, and watching her face light up when I turned the mirror toward her. (She made her mother buy two of those little bottles, which we called eye shimmer.) In learning the buttons and keystrokes on the cash, eventually soaring through transactions I had never heard of before that summer. Within a month, I started to enjoy my work. It gave me time to observe humans and to talk with Florence.

“I need to get back in shape,” she said, during one of our breaks. “You’re lucky, Ondine. You’re built like a model. Me, I need to exercise. There’s a pool in my mom’s condo. Come with me sometimes? My mom’s too old, and it’s boring alone...”

That’s how I found my swimming pool. I had avoided them in those early weeks; they made me homesick. Besides, I wanted to succeed in a new element. Now that I was succeeding, I felt a dip in the water could do no harm.

Florence’s mother lived in a lovely building. The pool smelled of salt water, like the sea; no one had polluted it with chlorine. We spent many Saturdays there. Poor Florence would lament that I put her to shame in my bathing suit. I always changed the subject. I helped her improve her swimming strokes while she taught me the names people gave them, which I had never learned. My family did not speak of the front crawl, butterfly, or dog paddle. We simply moved through the water.

Florence helped me in other ways, too. The pool grew busier as the weather warmed, cresting to a dreadful July heatwave. Sometimes the noise of other swimmers made my head hurt. Deep sea creatures are not as loud or boorish as humans, I’ll say that for them. When I felt as if all the chatter had entered my brain, squeezing and choking the blood vessels, Florence would get out of the water, find her purse, and offer me aspirin. Then she would drive me home or take me to her mother’s for iced tea.

One family was especially nasty. An old grandfather winked at female swimmers, who wanted nothing to do with him; complained to his son about his gout or constipation; or whooped at the radio if they were giving the soccer score. If they weren’t—if building management had put on a different station—he would bang on the bench and complain about the music. His son, a father himself, was little better, hooting with the grandfather over sports. At least this specimen tried to pry Grandad away from women. There was a small grandson, too, a blond boy of about four. I worried for that child, even as I wished I could drown his family. What were those men teaching him?

Several times, I nearly dragged Florence from the pool the moment I saw them. Their voices grated, made my skull feel as if you’d loosed all the city traffic inside it. Worse, the instinct to bewitch, then drown them was almost overpowering. It was like a physical ache in every muscle. It rose deep in my diaphragm, where I would begin my song—the low, haunting, music of a siren. Then the urge would move to my tongue. It would be so easy to snare both men by licking my lips, looking them full in the face, doe-eyed, and as harmless as a cool glass on a hot day. At last the itch would creep along my arms, down to my fingertips. I would caress them as I held them struggling beneath the waves. It would take seconds…

I resisted. But it was hard not to see them as my enemies, until the day the boy drowned.

I was alone. Florence had a summer cold, but she had loaned me her key. The child was a strong swimmer, for one so young. He must have had lessons, but any human can find themselves in danger: water does not welcome their kind. It took only a moment. The father had turned away, seeking his ringing cell phone. Grandad wasn’t there. His gout had returned last week, and he’d complained loudly enough for the whole city to hear. Private apartments had no lifeguards, and the other swimmers were busy with their own workouts or their own children. I looked over at the boy by chance. He did not appear to be struggling, but I knew the signs. Wide, frightened eyes. Little arms bobbing on the surface, as if he were playing at some stroke he had not yet mastered. With each upward bob he had less time to exhale, then inhale, and none to call for his father. Then he sank deeper.

I wish I could say I moved instinctively, but that’s not quite true. I shot toward him through the water, kicking some teenagers, who yelped. I didn’t care. Within seconds I had pushed through the crowd and grasped the child around his small chest. He’d had no time to cry before, poor thing, but he cried now. A wail broke from his lips, to be cut short by gasps and coughs.

His father heard us at last. His face contorted and he threw down his phone before hurtling into the water. He was tall enough to stride toward us. The crowd had thinned, naturally. I presented the boy to his trembling father, who took him.

“Buddy—Noah, are you OK? Can you breathe, little buddy?”

“He’s breathing,” I said, “but call the authorities.”

Someone—a plump teenage girl, I think—found another cell phone and called 911. Father and son embraced and I noticed that, for once, the father was silent. Tears shone in his eyes. An ambulance arrived, and they left. I resumed my swim, shrugging away stares.

A week later the father found me and invited me to lunch with his family. He was restrained, still quiet, maybe a little awed. The child, Noah, bounced over and hugged me, before offering me a plastic car. His father ruffled his hair.

“We, uh, don't know how to thank you,” the man said. Once again, his eyes were bright and damp.

“You already have.” I held up Noah’s token. The father smiled, but insisted that I join his family the next day. I accepted.

As soon as I arrived for Sunday lunch, I found myself wishing I had brought Florence along. Noah was sweet. His grandfather, however, made me uncomfortable by gushing about my heroism and saying he would call the mayor or the papers—that the whole world should recognize me.

“Did the paramedics thank you?” he asked from his armchair. His fat frame was sinking into the green velvet. I imagined him sinking beneath my touch in the bathtub instead.

“They did.” I gritted my teeth. The mother, at least, inched into view and gave me a sympathetic look. Yet the sight of her long, glossy hair and pearl necklace felt like a punch to my ribs. She reminded me too much of my own family.

“Did the hospital call you to thank you?” asked the grandfather.

“I don’t think it works that way,” said Noah’s mother, “but we’re very grateful. I can’t even—”

She choked up. Tears filled her eyes, totally unnecessary, because her son was alive. I did not know what to do. I was proud of saving Noah, yet it was harder than ever to break bread with these humans in their chilly penthouse. The drowning itch burned even worse in my arms and my lungs. I had betrayed my nature. Did Mother Water want a sacrifice? A bloated corpse floating in the deep, to replace the one she had lost? Grandad would do nicely.

I accepted the humans’ praise, and told myself that I could make my own nature, write my own story, at least to some extent.

But it was a strain. Perhaps I would return to the water and my sisters while I still could. Perhaps I was due back home, for a visit if nothing else. And perhaps I would come back to Florence and this human city next summer, when the wind blows warm and the air is humid.

Rebecca Katz was born one winter night in the midst of a discussion of Victorian literature. She is currently a PhD candidate at McGill University. Her work has appeared in Enchanted Conversation, Every Day Fiction, and several academic journals. She lives in Montreal with her husband, too many plants, and a beautiful condo pool—an aspect of Mother Water.

Twitter: @mouseyhaired

Instagram: rebecca.katz3

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

THE DUKE OF ALBION by Rebecca Katz

The girls were still at the window,
pale faces fixed on the Duke of Albion.
"What's wrong?" Fran asked breathlessly...

The Duke of Albion had rave reviews on social media – whatever that meant. They had opened in a former Chinese restaurant, on a street which once had plenty of parking. Now, the drivers battled for every spot. The traffic around the bakery was so thick that horns blared all through business hours. Meanwhile, the line of would-be customers coiled around the block like a determined snake. In a city known for its food, the Duke’s success was unprecedented.

Fran had not tried the Duke, despite living next door. It annoyed her: the lineups. The customers traipsing about all day. Their foolish expressions, and their hunger for the latest fad. The neighborhood had gotten much too crowded as a result; someone should do something. There was hardly room on the sidewalk to walk to the bus stop. It was unfair to an old woman. Fran was still spry enough to take the bus, thank you, but she'd rather not get trampled steps from her apartment. Besides, the hype around the Duke was absurd. It couldn’t be that great, despite being famous on the Internet. Her oldest granddaughter had taught her to use the computer, and to find recipes or weather forecasts online. Olivia loved technology. Her sisters did, too, even little Laura, whom Fran babysat twice a week. It was the way of the future, and it had its uses, but you couldn’t always trust it. Everyone could write whatever they wanted, with a computer.

Still, it wasn’t only people on the Internet who were under the Duke’s spell. The newspapers also heaped lavish praise on the place.

“Named for a fictional region of Britain,” the latest review said, “the Duke of Albion offers exquisite desserts at astounding value. Their marzipan will transport you to the almond groves of the Mediterranean; you can almost taste the graceful white blossoms in each bite.” Nonsense on stilts. Worse, the writer made equally silly claims about the Duke’s Turkish Delight, their baklava, and their afternoon tea ($14.95 per person). Fran rolled her eyes. Nothing tasted of English rose gardens, or like the sun-drenched bazaars of some ancient city. That was like saying Fran’s strudel would transport her to the village where she’d lived as a child, or the peddlers’ routes along the river where her late father once sold his wares.

Fran looked at the columnist’s name. She recognized it. He'd gone to school with her daughter and had seemed such a sensible boy. How disappointing. Was he writing a review, or a commercial?

He continued: “I was doubtful, at first, but after visiting the Duke, I’m now a zealous convert. It’s no wonder Montrealers keep going back for more.”

“No, thank you,” Fran said, discarding the paper. She would stick with her own cooking or with the nearby kosher bakery she had always patronized.

But living beside the Duke wasn’t easy. There was the constant noise of customers, far more than the Golden Dragon had attracted. The scents – of nuts and chocolate, pastries and candied fruits – were tempting, too. Sometimes sales girls in crisp aprons stood outside, offering samples. Fran saw them as she ran her errands. She had to keep a chocolate layer cake in her kitchen, a sort of consolation prize. Each afternoon she found herself cutting slices so large that she had little appetite for supper.

It was also hard for Laura to pass by without getting agitated. She would tug at Fran’s sleeve, hopping up and down.

“Mom won’t take us there,” Laura said. “She thinks the line’s too long. Can we go in, please? It's right here.”

Fran eyed the shop’s façade. A shudder ran through her, like a cold touch on her back, disturbing and inexplicable. She collected herself and humphed. Her daughter was quite right not to follow the crowd, she said aloud. There were too many followers in the world.

“But they’re so good,” whined Laura. “Everyone brings their cookies to school.”

That seemed unlikely. Who let kindergarteners bring lavish pastries to school? The kids would make a mess. It was hard enough keeping Laura tidy when she ate a slice of strudel, sitting down with a proper plate, fork, and knife.

“If everyone at school jumped off a bridge,” Fran replied, “would you do that, too? Of course not. Now, hold my hand, and let’s go inside.”

But her granddaughter had a pinched, longing look on her face as they passed the Duke. It would take a great deal of strudel or layer cake to placate her.

Fran had a system for the nights when her granddaughters slept over. It was like a fine-tuned machine, or an art she had long practiced. She just hoped the chaos next door wouldn't disrupt things.

Olivia, the oldest, always grumbled about needing a babysitter. Fran could handle that. She would tell Olivia that she didn’t need a babysitter; she was one. After all, Fran couldn't look after so many children herself, not anymore. Olivia was invaluable. The speech would make her feel important, and she would boss her sisters around good-naturedly. Emma, the middle child, was the easiest. She was happy as long as she had books. Already she was a better reader than Olivia, despite being two years younger. Laura was content to watch Disney movies on the ancient television and VCR. (Olivia would work the machines, quipping that they belonged in a museum. Fran would chide her for sarcasm.) After the film, Fran would read Laura a bedtime story. Her eyes weren't what they used to be, but she could manage the large print of a children's book. There would be liberal amounts of cake and chocolate for all the girls. It was tiring, but Fran wouldn't miss it. Besides, her daughter and son-in-law were never gone for more than a night at a time.

Of course the Duke of Albion interfered with their routine. The crowds got worse every day, meaner, shouting or cursing at each other on the sidewalk. Fran was rather worried about getting the girls into the apartment. Later, the endless traffic and noise distracted Emma from her homework and Olivia from helping with the soup. Laura, too, stared out the window.

“Why don’t we go there for supper?” asked Olivia. The pot was boiling over.

“They’re a candy store, not a restaurant – now turn that down.” Fran sounded more snappish than she had intended. “And move the pot, will you? Anyway, they close soon, thank goodness. You’d never get through the lineup in time.”

Olivia banged the pot onto a back burner. Hot liquid sizzled on the stovetop. “But they’re right next door.”

“I don’t care. We’ve plenty of clean, healthy things here, and that’s all I’ll say about it.”

But the girls remained restless and sat glued to that infernal window. Neither supper nor cake interested them. Fran bit her tongue to keep from muttering as she cleaned up afterward. Perhaps she was getting too old to host the children overnight.

Eventually, the Duke closed its doors, turning away late patrons while the girls watched. To Fran’s relief, some level of normalcy returned. Laura asked to watch a Disney movie. When it was over, Olivia pointed out everything silly about the plot. Fran knitted, listening as the two girls bickered, and as Emma piped up from her book to make peace. Soon they grew tired. That meant Fran could go to bed, too. She wished them goodnight and shut herself in the bedroom.

Their chatter woke her hours later. No: she realized at once that this was no petty squabble, like their argument about the film. She heard real fear in the hushed whispers and staggered out of bed as fast as her body allowed.

The girls were still at the window, pale faces fixed on the Duke of Albion.

“What’s wrong?” Fran asked breathlessly.

Even quick-witted Olivia, the spokeswoman for the family, fell silent. All she could do was point at the bakery below. Fran noticed that the streetlamp, which had broken months ago, had been fixed at last. Then her eyes focused on the shop’s interior, and she gasped. Gone were the friendly sales girls. Instead, strange creatures bustled about the shop, setting delicacies into the display cases. One was a satyr who might have stepped out of Emma’s mythology books. He was leaning on goat legs by the window, and holding something colorful in his – hands? Hooves? Fran could not describe them, though she thought she recognized bright marzipan fruit, even at this distance. Behind the satyr stood a twisted thing with black wings and horns. He looked like the demon Mephistopheles in a silent movie Fran had once seen. There were several others, too, shadowy, inhuman forms. Some flitted about with moth’s wings. Others stood motionless, letting the light of the street lamp catch on glistening scales or gleaming eyes…

For a moment Fran thought her heart would burst. Then she summoned up her courage, and forced the curtains shut with icy hands. She wondered if those creatures explained the shop’s success. All those customers drawn to the place like drug addicts, heedless of everything but the Duke’s pastries… Had they sold their souls for sweets? Could anyone else see what she and her girls had seen? Perhaps they would. Perhaps the game was up, now that the streetlight was fixed.

But she could not worry about everyone in town. She pulled her granddaughters away from the window.

“You are not to go in there,” she said, with all the force she possessed. “Do you understand?”

She thought, based on the girls’ grim nods, that they would listen, for a change. Nevertheless, when her daughter returned from Toronto, she would give her the same orders and the same stern warning.

Rebecca Katz was born and raised in Montreal, Canada. She is currently completing her PhD at McGill University, set high on a hill in Montreal’s historic downtown. She has been passionate about writing ever since childhood, and has published in the Canadian Journal of Law and Technology as well as several online archives. Rebecca has recently grown skeptical about social media, and is striving to engage more with the real world than the world of screens.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff