Page 35 of The Witches Catalogue of Wanderlust Essentials (Natural Magic #2)

Chapter 20

The Mermaid’s Whisper

G oldie waited until the shadows lengthened across Avalon Bay before making her way to the Casino. The grand white building gleamed against the darkening sky, its circular Art Deco facade a beacon that had drawn visitors to the island for nearly a century. Just like her, it had withstood the test of time, though unlike her, it made no secret of its age.

She’d wound her luxuriant hair into a loose bun beneath a silk scarf and hidden her eyes behind oversized sunglasses. The nondescript canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder held the mysterious film reels.

The disguise felt absurd. She was going to greater lengths to hide her youth than she ever had gone to in order to hide her age. But she didn’t want to risk anyone noticing the overnight transformation. How could she possibly hope to explain it, when she herself didn’t understand?

The afternoon tour groups were just finishing their tours. Streams of tourists flowed out the doors as Goldie slipped inside. A maintenance worker nodded absently in her direction, but his eyes passed over her without recognition. People saw what they expected to see, and no one expected to see a film star from the silent era walking among them.

She hovered near the spiral walkway, listening to snippets of conversation that floated around her.

“Can you imagine being here in the summer, before they had air conditioning?” An impeccably dressed woman muttered, looking horrified.

“There was always a cool breeze. People actually came to the island to escape the heat back on the mainland,” the perky tour guide explained.

It had still been hot, Goldie thought. People just dealt with it. Or they fainted. She could recall at least a few summer nights that involved placing bets on who might swoon next. Of course, with her crowd, some of it was acting.

“Celebrities hung out here? Which ones? Where was the gambling?” The well-dressed woman’s companion, a heavyset man, fired off his questions rapid fire.

“I’m afraid there was never gambling here,” the tour guide apologized. “It’s a misunderstanding. Casino is an Italian term for gathering place.”

The man just stared back at her, still blinking as if that did not compute. “Well, what about the celebrities? What did they even do here if there weren’t any gambling?”

“Oh, the celebrities came for sure. They had dances and film screenings … During its heyday, Catalina was famous for celebrity sightings.” The tour guide rattled off a litany of decades’ old names that, considering the lack of reaction, it was likely only Goldie recognized.

“Nothing more recent?” The couple, upon discovery that there was neither gambling nor more familiar celebs to spice up the historic tour, seemed deflated. Distracted, they drifted away from the guide, arguing over what they wanted to eat for dinner.

Another member of the tour group, a young woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat, stopped to read an informational poster about the upcoming eclipse.

“We’re so lucky. They say that the viewing is going to be ideal from here,” said the guide to the woman.

“That’s cool, but honestly, I’m more excited about that old film footage they found,” the woman replied. “I just love the old-timey stars. What do you think happened to Ondalune? Supposedly, she just vanished one day.”

“Probably ran off with a handsome man.” The guide laughed. “Or maybe she’s still alive. Can you imagine? She’d be like an ancient zombie by now.”

The two young women shared a laugh.

Goldie pressed her lips together. If only they knew.

Movement across the lobby caught her attention. A young man wearing a T-shirt from the film institute was carefully mounting the publicity posters for the upcoming festival. Goldie’s breath caught as she watched him unfurl the centerpiece: a lovingly restored version of the poster for The Mermaid’s Whisper . It showed her ethereal figure emerging from stylized waves. In it, her face had a vacant, dreamy expression. The director loved it. She’d thought it made her look daft.

“Make them yearn for something they can never have,” he’d tell her before each take. “Make them believe you’re something special. You’re not an ordinary human like all those other girls, Ondalune. Prove it.”

How absurd his cajoling seemed from where she stood now, staring at her younger self.

The film had premiered on the island, but Ondalune hadn’t walked the red carpet. She’d been wheeled down it, perched atop a giant papier-maché shell. The seamstresses had sewn her into her sequined costume. After the screening, they rolled her out of the theater and all the way up to the ballroom for the party. She’d finally bribed a waiter to find some scissors so she could use the toilet.

Standing in the same building nearly a century later, looking almost identical to the woman in the poster, was surreal. She wished she could reach through the poster, slap some sense into her face, and cut herself out of the costume. She was done with acting.

She hadn’t thought about that night for ages. She’d forgotten so much of it. Goldie strode boldly across the lobby, forgetting herself for a moment, thinking only of getting closer to examine the poster. She pushed the sunglasses up on her head and the scarf fell to her shoulders.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” The young man hanging the poster spoke suddenly, startling Goldie. “They just don’t make movie stars like that anymore.”

“No,” Goldie agreed softly, “they sure don’t.”

“Are you here for the festival?” he asked, studying her with interest.

“In a manner of speaking. I’m helping with some of the archival footage.”

“Oh! You must know Goldie Pearlmutter, then? She’s the one who donated those monolithic antique projectors. I hear she is a film preservationist extraordinaire, that woman.”

Goldie smiled enigmatically. “Yes, I know her quite well.”

“You know, it’s the strangest thing,” the young man continued, “but you remind me of someone...” He tilted his head, but his eyes darted between Goldie and the poster.

“Did you go to summer camp?” she ad libbed. She might also have asked if he’d been to “that new club” in LA. But this man was barely college aged, and he had the earnest air of a camp counselor. The most important thing was to provide a plausible context, even if it didn’t pan out.

“No, unless you count band camp that one summer …” The man studied the poster and then his eyes flicked back to her, and to the poster again. His mouth curled into a knowing smile. “But honestly, I don’t think that’s it at all.”

“Oh, well, I get that sort of thing all the time,” she said quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, but she didn’t care. She needed to get away from this kid. “Must have one of those faces. If you’ll excuse me, I have to catch up with my party.”

She waved breezily and sped away before he could respond, heart hammering in her chest. She pulled the scarf back over her head.

So she would need to be more careful if she didn’t want to explain why she looked so much like the girl in the posters. She tucked in behind the last tour group, winding her way through the building she knew so well, and biding her time.

* * *

Goldie waited patiently, wandering the corridors and avoiding the remaining staff. She hid in a bathroom stall until the last tour guide departed. Finally, an hour later, the Casino was empty.

She loved being there alone after hours. Goldie made her way to the projection booth, her footsteps echoing.

The booth was her domain, her sanctuary. The donated film projectors, once her father’s pride and joy, stood ready, their metal fittings polished to a gleam. How many hours had she spent at the Oceana theater as a child, crammed into the small booth, watching her father thread the delicate film through its gates? It was one of her earliest memories.

His lessons had served her well. Whenever he could not do his job, because of illness or the drink, she could sneak into the booth and do it for him. Anything to keep the theater running, and her father employed.

Goldie set her bag down and removed the two trays, examining them more carefully now. The first reel was labeled “Ondalune - 1907” in that faded blue ink. 1907? That would make her—what, two or three years old? It must have been a mistake. She hadn’t even started acting till 1920. The second canister read “ The Mermaid’s Whisper - Outtakes, 1930.”

Both labels looked authentic, aged appropriately, though she couldn’t recall any camera rolling during her off-script moments while making that picture. Film was so dear back then, they didn’t waste it on frivolous things like making blooper reels.

With practiced hands, she readied the first reel, threading the film and checking the tension. The projector hummed to life, its mechanical heart beating in rhythm with her own pulse. The blank screen before her flickered, and then … she no longer felt like she was sitting in the theater. She was immediately plunged into the scene, observing it as if she were the one holding the camera.

She was in a garden. Not just any garden, but one she recognized with a breathtaking jolt of déjà vu. It was her uncle Burnie’s summer home in Maine, with its lush green sloping lawn that led down to a private cove. Although the scene was filmed in black and white, somehow she could feel the colors trying to bleed through. Pink and yellow tulip borders skirted the stepping-stone path. A bright red tricycle lay discarded beside a tall shade tree. Oh, how she’d loved that trike.

They hadn’t visited her uncle Burnie often, but when they had, it had been such a treat. Unlike her parents, Uncle Burnie was very well to do—at least he had been until the crash. Afterward, like so many others who lost everything, he’d just quietly disappeared from their lives. Goldie never learned the true story of what happened to her uncle. Her mother was long gone by then. Burnie’s theater, where her father worked, had been sold and her father hadn’t wanted to talk about it. She hadn’t pushed him. He was already three sheets to the wind by noon on most Tuesdays. Thankfully, by then, her acting career was taking off.

The camera panned unsteadily, amateur in its movement, until it settled on what must have been a copper bathtub set out on the lawn. A woman, Goldie’s mother, looking younger than she had ever remembered seeing her, lifted a small child into the tub.

The shock of recognition gave her gooseflesh. She gasped.

The child in the film was none other than Goldie herself, only two or three years old. She had the same wild hair that somehow looked bright red, even in black and white. The little girl laughed as she splashed in the water, her mother smiling indulgently. There was nothing remarkable about the scene at first. It was just a wealthy-looking family home movie, capturing a child’s beachside bath on a warm summer day.

Until the child stopped splashing.

Little Goldie looked directly at the camera, her expression suddenly serious, almost knowing. Then she slipped beneath the water, completely submerged. Her mother reached forward in alarm, but before she could pull the child up, the water shimmered with an odd, electric blue light. It was almost like a special effect from a modern film. But Goldie knew well that no such special effects existed back then.

When little Goldie resurfaced, her legs were gone.

In their place was a small, perfectly formed tail, scales glittering blue and green, even in the grainy black and white footage.

Goldie felt the blood drain from her face as she watched her childhood self flick the tail experimentally, splashing water over the tub’s edge. Her mother looked not shocked but resigned, glancing uneasily toward the camera. Finally, shaking her head, she rose and strode forward to block the lens with one hand.

The film ended abruptly, jolting Goldie back to the tiny film booth where she presently sat. For a moment, the reel continued to spin, along with her mind. It made a nonsensical clack, clack, clacking sound as the film flapped with every revolution. Goldie quickly stood to switch off the machine. Her heart was pounding so wildly, she had to fight the instinct to fling the tray away. She almost wished she hadn’t seen it.

Guardedly, she placed the film back into its container on the table. She pushed it as far away from herself as possible, without tipping it out onto the floor.

She sat motionless, her mind struggling to process what she’d seen. None of it made sense. Had this film been doctored? Was it some kind of elaborate hoax? But the film stock was clearly authentic, the aging consistent throughout. And something deep within her recognized the truth of it. Was this the truth, then? A truth her conscious mind had either forgotten or been made to forget?

With trembling hands, she loaded the second reel. She needed to see more.

The projector whirred back to life. This time, the footage showed the familiar Catalina pier, remarkably unchanged even after all these decades. This scene was clearly from a more professional shoot. The camera’s mount was steady, the framing deliberate. Goldie recognized herself immediately. She was wearing the flowing gown she’d worn for the last scene in The Mermaid’s Whisper. She recalled how itchy and uncomfortable it had been. But she’d put up with it. She hadn’t wanted to get a reputation for being difficult. She’d needed the money from the films to support her father.

The camera followed behind her in the moonlit scene, capturing her bare feet as she walked to the end of the pier, glancing furtively around. The footage had no sound, of course, but Goldie could read her own lips as she turned to say something.

It looked like “I can’t wait any longer.”

Then, without the slightest hesitation, the woman on screen dove into the water.

Exactly how the director had desperately wanted it to end.

Except that’s not what she recalled had happened, nor was it the end of the classic film that had been screened at hundreds of theaters across the country. Ondalune hadn’t jumped into the water. It was one thing to wear a costume that was uncomfortable. It was another thing entirely to put her own life in danger. No job was worth risking that! Avoiding any exposure to seawater had even been written into her contract. Goldie had refused to dive into the water for that last scene. Hadn’t she?

She sucked in a breath as she plunged into this impossible scene, utterly unable to reconcile the footage that followed.

The camera followed her beneath the waves, capturing underwater footage that should have been impossible with the technology of the time. Yet there it was, crystal clear and shining: Goldie swimming beneath the surface, her gown billowing around her legs—until they weren’t legs anymore.

The transformation was swift and fluid. Where her lower body had been was now a magnificent tail, iridescent scales catching what little light penetrated the water. The mermaid—for she was undeniably a mermaid—moved with grace and freedom, circling back to gaze at the camera with an expression of pure joy before turning and swimming away, out toward the deeper waters.

The film continued for another minute, following her retreat until she was just a distant shimmer in the vast ocean, and then it, too, ended.

Goldie switched off the projector again and sat in the forgiving darkness of the projection booth as she tried to catch her breath. The only sound was the steady tick of the cooling fan they used to keep the projector from overheating. As Goldie’s breathing steadied, she began to feel strangely calm, almost as if some part of her had always known. Everything was beginning to make sense. Here was a reason for her unnaturally long life. She’d finally found the explanation for her lifelong connection to the sea. And she understood the inexplicable pull she felt toward the water, even when it hurt her.

She was a mermaid. Or part mermaid. Something not quite human.

Could it be true? She ran her hands over her arms and legs, reveling in the feeling of strength and vitality that had surged since her meeting with Cosimo last night. Last night. Only one day since her “reaction!”

She’d seen it with her own eyes, the way her saltwater-dampened skin glowed silver in the moonlight. She should have been shocked by it, but she hadn’t been. Nor had Cosimo. Had he known what she was all along?

She thought of his words on the beach: “If I told you what I was, you could only hate me.” What did that make him then? Something like her? Or something … else?

She took the matchbook from her pocket and examined it again, looking for clues in the photo. She recognized the sequined gown. Off camera, beneath the table, she was certain that the dress she was wearing was missing the tail that she’d snipped herself out of. The program laid across the table in front of them confirmed her suspicions. She could just make out the tiny print. It read The Mermaid’s Whisper .

The photograph, Goldie realized, was taken on the night of the premiere. Why couldn’t she remember?

She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes as pieces shifted into place. Her mother’s overprotectiveness around water. The strange “treatments” she’d endured as a child that she could barely remember. The odd, knowing way that her director had spoken to her on that set, and for years afterward.

But questions still outnumbered answers. Who had filmed these moments? Why couldn’t she remember transforming? And most urgently—who had kept the films all these years, only to send them to her now?

She rewound both reels carefully, closing them back inside to their containers. It was late, and the security guard would make his rounds soon. As she packed up her things, she looked down once more at the silent movie palace.

“ The Mermaid’s Whisper ,” she whispered to the empty theater. “If only the mermaid had known her own truth.”

Moonlight rippled across the water as Goldie stepped outside, her treasure tucked safely in her bag. She had spent a lifetime, an unnaturally long lifetime, wondering what she was. Now she knew, but the knowledge only made the mystery of her existence deeper.

She turned toward home, her step somehow lighter despite the weight of her revelation. She needed to find Cosimo. If anyone had answers about what she was and why she was this way, she suspected it would be him.

Goldie touched the scarf still covering her hair, then deliberately removed it, letting her red-gold locks catch the moonlight.

Let people see me. Let them wonder .

She was done hiding from herself.