Prologue
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Syrenka wanted Pukanokick.
She watched him but never spoke to him. She never dared to approach or reveal herself. A year of stealth had taught her his language, his habits, his dreams, his ways. The more she knew, the more she loved. The more she loved, the more she ached.
The sachem’s eldest son did not go unnoticed by the women of his tribe. A quiet keegsqua watched him, too. Syrenka noticed the way she smiled at him, the way she brought her work to the shore while Pukanokick burned and scraped his first dugout canoe. And why shouldn’t the keegsqua want him? His glossy black hair glinted blue in the morning sun, his skin beaded with sweat, his eyes shone as he worked with single-minded passion on the boat. Syrenka read the keegsqua’s shy silence for the desperate proclamation that it really was: the girl wanted Pukanokick, too; she wanted a smile that was meant only for her; she wanted to know his deepest thoughts; she wanted to see him lift beautiful sons onto his shoulders and hug their warm, bare feet to his chest; she wanted to grow old with him. She wanted him to save her from emptiness.
Syrenka’s smoldering ache ignited into a fire. She spent all of her time near the shore now, and ignored her sister’s beseeching to join her below, where it was safe, where she was supposed to be. Where she could not tolerate being.
On the day Pukanokick finished the boat, his younger brother and his mother’s brother helped him drag the charred dugout to the edge of the water. They watched as he paddled it out, and they leaped and shouted with pride to see how true it glided and how stable it was, even in the heavy chop of that day, even when he stood and deliberately tried to tip it. One corner of the keegsqua’s plump lips lifted silently with joy, while she pretended to bore holes into stone sinkers. Syrenka studied them all from behind an algae-green rock.
But early the next day, the keegsqua was gone. Pukanokick’s brother and his mother’s brother were gone. Pukanokick was alone when Syrenka became entangled in his fishing net. Swimming a short distance from the dugout, she was distracted by the rhythm of his body as he plunged the paddle in the dark water, lifting his weight off his knees, stroking a heartbeat into the quiet morning. She forgot that he had set a net the evening before—it was cleverly anchored with rocks and suspended with cattail bundles—until the fiber mesh collapsed around her and her own surprised thrashing caught her fin fast.
Working quickly, she was almost free by the time he had turned his boat and eased it over the net. She was curled upon herself, tugging at her dark tail with her thick white hair in a bloom around her, when she felt the cool shadow of the dugout move across her skin. She looked up and her eyes caught his—they were brown-black, the color of a chestnut tumbling in the surf. Her own eyes would alarm him, she knew. She saw him take in a breath. He did not reach for his club, although he could have. He did not reach for his bow. He watched.
She attended to the net and her tail. She lifted her arm and slashed at the remaining strands with the fin on her wrist, cutting herself loose. She looked back up and slowly rose from the deep, shoulder hunched and face to the side.
Her cheek broke the surface first. He didn’t recoil. She smiled, careful not to show her teeth.
“Kwe,” she said, in his own Wampanoag.
“Kwe,” he whispered.
She tried to keep her voice smooth and quiet, unthreatening. “I am sorry. I broke your net.”
He shook his head almost imperceptibly from side to side. He wasn’t angry. She saw him swallow.
“This is the finest mishoon I have ever seen,” she said, sliding her fingertips along the hull of the boat as she swam its length.
“Thank you,” he said. And then he seemed to remember something. Perhaps that he had a club, and a bow, and that he was the sachem’s eldest son.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am Syrenka. You are Pukanokick.”
“How do you know my name?”
She had never been this close to him. The muscles in his forearm extended as he unclenched his fist. She followed his arm to his shoulder, to his angular jaw, to his broad nose and then his unwavering eyes.
“I have seen you. Fishing. I hear others call you. I follow you. I listen.”
“Why do you follow me?”
She stroked the edge of the boat. “You are not ready for the answer.”
He stood up, balancing easily in his dugout. “I am.”
She whipped her tail below her, rising out of the water like a dolphin—but carefully and steadily so as not to splash him—until she was eye to eye with him. She reached out with her hand and stroked his cheek. He did not flinch. He allowed her touch.
“Noo’kas says I must give you time. You must grow accustomed to me. You are yet too young,” she recited.
“I am a man.” But his breath caught as she traced the line of his jaw. He lifted his chin. “Who is this Noo’kas to question that?”
“Noo’kas is the mother of the sea. I must obey.”
Pukanokick’s eyes widened. “Squauanit. You mean Squauanit thinks I’m not yet a man?—the sea hag who brought the storm that killed my mother’s father?”
“Shhhh,” she said, putting her fingers on his lips. Her nails were long and sharp, but she was gentle.
She sank down into the water again and swam away.
“Come back!” She barely heard the muffled shout. She stopped, astonished. She felt her skin tingle with hope.
She turned and swam underneath the dugout. Back and forth, with his shadow above her as he knelt in the boat. She needed time to consider. To be calm. To choose wisely.
He waited. She gathered strength from his patience.
She rose to the surface.
“You are right. Noo’kas is a hag. She has become ugly as the seasons circle endlessly. She will live forever, but she will never be beautiful again. She missed her time. What does she know? I will decide myself.”
Pukanokick rested his forearms on the edge of the dugout and leaned his head over the side so that his black hair nearly grazed the water. He asked her his question again, but softly this time.
“Why do you follow me?”
She brought her face close. “I follow you because I love you.”
She brushed her lips against his. Warm breath escaped his mouth. He put his arms around her and kissed her. His lips were nearly hot on her skin, but firm and gentle. She felt a hunger for his touch that she could no longer hold back.
The dugout did not tip, but Pukanokick lost his balance. He fell into the bay, clutched in Syrenka’s embrace. She released him instantly. But of course he knew how to swim—she had seen it many times—and he came up laughing. She joined him. He kissed her again, and they sank under the water together. She saw him detach his buckskin leggings from the belt at his hips. He swam up for a breath.
Syrenka surfaced and saw the sunrise, spilling pinks and purples and blues into the sky, as if for the first time.
Pukanokick touched her cheek. “I want to be bare-skinned in the water, as you are.”
She sank under again and tried to undo the belt of his breechclout, but it was foreign to her. His hands pushed hers away and fumbled with it while she pulled down on his leggings to remove them. She brought him deeper and deeper as she tugged.
Lost in concentration, she misunderstood his struggles. She thought he was wriggling to pull out of the leggings. She did not see the bubbles that escaped his mouth in clouds. She did not remember the passage of human time. She forgot her strength.
Finally, triumphantly, she peeled the first pant from his right leg. When she looked up, she realized with an agonizing start that his head swayed against his chest slowly in the swells, and his body floated lifeless.
She screamed underwater, a high-pitched wail with a rapid burst of clicks that caused the sea life around her to scatter. It was as Noo’kas had foreseen. She had dared to love, and she had lost everything.
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Elizabeth Fama is the author of three young-adult novels: Plus One (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014), a RITA Award finalist; Monstrous Beauty (FSG, 2012), included on the 2013 YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults list, and winner of the 2013 Odyssey Honor Award; and Overboard (Cricket Books, 2002), an ALA 2003 Best Book for Young Adults.
Elizabeth is vastly overeducated, with a BA in Biology, an MBA, and a PhD in Economics from the University of Chicago. She enjoys running obsessively while downloading audiobooks into her brain, swimming, tennis, and cooking Sunday Dinners for her extended Italian-American family. She and her husband raised four creative children in Chicago before moving to the San Francisco Bay Area, where Elizabeth successfully pretends that she's living in Tuscany while she works on a manuscript set in sixteenth-century Florence.
To learn more about Elizabeth Fama and her books, visit her
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KEVIN T. Collins: A native of the San Francisco Bay Area, Kevin T. Collins began his career on the stage at the ripe old age of six, performing throughout his childhood and adolescence across the Bay Area in theaters such as Theatreworks in Palo Alto and San Jose Civic Light Opera, now the American Musical Theater of San Jose. He received numerous awards for Drama and Singing throughout Middle School, Junior High and High School, including AMT's Best Actor award for his portrayal of Groucho Marx in A Day in Hollywood, A Night in the Ukraine, and two Best Musical wins, for A Day in Hollywood, and The King and I(in which he played the King).
