Tiger Lily By Jodi Lynn Anderson

Tiger Lily By Jodi Lynn Anderson

Prologue: She stands on the cliffs, near the old crumbling stone house. There’s nothing left in the house but an upturned table, a ladle, and a clay bowl. She stands for more than an hour, goose-bumped and shivering. At these times, she won’t confide in me. She runs her hands over her body, as if checking that it’s still there, her heart pulsing and beating. The limbs are smooth and strong, thin and sinewy, her hair long and black and messy and gleaming despite her age. You wouldn’t know it to look at her, that she’s lived long enough to look for what’s across the water. Eighty years later, and she is still fifteen. These days, there is no new world. The maps have long since settled and stayed put. People know the shapes of Africa, Asia, and South America. And they know which beasts were mythical and which weren’t. Manatees are real, mermaids aren’t. Rhinoceroses exist and sea monsters don’t. There are no more sea serpents guarding deadly whirlpools. There are pirates, yes, but there is nothing romantic about them. The rest is all stories, and stories have been put in their place. Now, the outsiders keep their eyes on their own shores, and we keep our eyes on ours. Too far off route, we’ve been overlooked, and most of us don’t think about the world outside. Only she and I are different. Every month or so she comes here and stares toward the ocean, and all the village children whisper about her, even her own. It has become such a ritual. And when she surfaces from her dream, she calls me by my old name, though no one uses it anymore. And she turns to me, her eyelashes fluttering in the glare that surrounds me, and whispers to me in one short syllable. Tink.

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