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  To my mom, dad, and sisters for putting up with me as a child.

  To Sheldon, Sadie, Tela, and Mayan for putting up with me as an adult.

  Look at my face—dark as the night—

  Yet shining like the sun with love’s true light.

  I am the black girl who crossed the dark sea

  Carrying in my body the seed of the free.

  —“The Negro Mother” by Langston Hughes

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As a child, I would stay in the ocean for hours, floating and swimming, submerging myself for impossible lengths of time. My finned tail (acquired upon contact with the salty water) would propel me to fantastical depths. Such are the gifts of childhood.

  I would paint the mermaids brown in my coloring books. Though Daryl Hannah and schools of monochromatic mermaids swirled around me, I would draw aside the platinum and golden curtains of their hair to reveal underwater cities full of multihued Black Mer beings! At the time, I had never heard of Yemaya, the Yoruba deity of the sea, who is often depicted as a Black Mer Mother.

  Written accounts of Yemaya, originally known as Yemonja, go back as far as the sixteenth century. It is hard to know how old the parables actually are because they have been handed down from generation to generation as oral history in Nigeria. Stories of Yemaya were brought to the New World by enslaved Africans along the Middle Passage. Throughout the African diaspora, from Cuba to Brazil and Haiti to the US, we find different versions of Yemaya. People would hide the fact that they were worshiping her and other Orishas (gods and goddesses) by assigning Catholic saints to each deity. Despite the threat of death, enslaved Africans remained connected to their Orishas and passed on their stories during the most turbulent times.

  I wrote Shallow Waters to create an empowering narrative with a Black female heroine that takes place during an extremely painful part of American history. Many of us are stepping onto the path of healing our ancestral wounds. The story of Yemaya in Shallow Waters is precisely that: a personified tale of my healing. No matter the side of history upon which your ancestors reside, we must all contend with the wounds that are still present today.

  Shallow Waters is a mermaid tale (pun intended), both a historical fiction and fantasy. Many of the characters I developed are actual figures from the past. I have shared an accurate timeline because within the novel, some of the events do not occur in chronological order. The rituals and practices that I included throughout the story are a mix of researched facts, experiences, and intuitive recollections.

  I hope you enjoy Shallow Waters, an offering drawn from the watery depths, a gift from my heart to yours.

  FOREWORD

  In creating Shallow Waters, Anita Kopacz has brilliantly stepped into the role of ritual storyteller, one who borrows the essence of her story from ancient ancestral lore, spins it as a yarn for modern times, and casts it as a soulful summons to the young and the old alike.

  A ritual storyteller unleashes a magical power and awakens an inner genius that invites her audience on a mesmerizing journey that captures the heart, releasing it only when the final word of the final sentence has been spoken. Anita has done no less.

  Yemaya, the central character, is fashioned from the myth/history of the Yoruba pantheon of gods and goddesses known as Orisha. In the Ifa/Orisha tradition, Yemaya (Yemoja, Yemonja) is respected as the nurturing mother, the Black mermaid who accompanied and watched over the enslaved Africans on their long and treacherous journey from their homeland to the Americas. She is called the Mother of Fishes, fertile life-force energy.

  Though Anita demonstrates a keen knowledge of the myth/history, she also clearly knows Yemaya on a personal level. When asked about her connection with the Yemaya energy, she responded, “I would say that my connection is ancestral. My ancestors came from Nigeria and Ghana. My grandmother in St. Kitts would go to the ocean every morning at sunrise and pray. I feel like Yemaya has been with my family line for as long as I can remember.”

  Shallow Waters is a story of healing and hope, enduring love in the midst of chaos and despair. It is a story that is not only crafted from the realm of the imagination but also released from generational memories held in the DNA. By sharing it, Anita creates space for awakening and releasing the healing energy of Yemaya for today’s culture.

  Before I met Anita and long before she conceived her story, I researched the Orisha tradition as practiced by African Americans. After many hours of reading and many conversations, I came to an understanding of Yemaya as the name for a Yoruba divinity of the waters, an energy that plays a central role in creating, nurturing, and sustaining life. Etched in my memory is the experience of attending a beautiful ceremony for Yemaya at Rockaway Beach in Queens, New York.

  About seventy-five to a hundred devotees, dressed in blue and white, gathered on the shore, bringing watermelons, flowers, and molasses for ritual offerings. They danced to the rhythms of drums, sang their songs and chants of gratitude, and soaked up the vibrant energy of the ocean. A priestess, in an altered state of consciousness, directly channeled the energy of Yemaya and spoke with deep compassion to some of those gathered. She confronted one man about not taking care of his health and sternly invited him to gaze at the ocean and be renewed. Not until I read Shallow Waters did I recall this experience. I was a stressed-out doctoral student at the time. Attending the Yemaya ceremony was magnificently refreshing and healing.

  The person who invited me to the ceremony was a priestess of Yemaya. When I interviewed her, she explained that she was the mother of six children, that she had always loved children, and that she had always felt a connection to plants and animals, that she talked to them as though they were people. Anita has artfully woven these qualities into the Yemaya of her story.

  Just as Shallow Waters revived a memory buried in the recesses of my mind, it promises to awaken something in the minds and hearts of its readers… some joy, some compassion, some delight, some unknown gift, or some figment of the imagination.

  In her story, Anita creates a character who embodies the spirit of the ocean in all of its glory and its power. Driven by the force of an enthralling love, Yemaya follows the ships of the enslaved Africans across the waters and endures many challenges and hardships, all the while displaying her compassionate nature and healing powers.

  Perhaps during this present age of a global pandemic, political upheaval, social unrest, and highly charged racial tension, a well-told magical tale, like those of the African griots of the past, can offer a form of cultural healing.

  Shallow Waters takes its place among other cultural balms of the twenty-first century, like the screenplay Black Panther, coauthored by Ryan Coogler and Joe Robert Cole, and the young adult fantasy novels Children of Blood and Bone and its sequel Children of Virtue and Vengeance, authored by Tomi Adeyemi. Kopacz, like Coogler, Cole, and Adeyemi, provides space for young people of African descent to see the likes of themselves as heroes and heroines in fantasy tales of superhero magic, mystery, and power. Such stories strengthen one’s sense of self and elevate a cultural tradition that has too often been overlooked or misrepresented.

  I consider it an honor to have been given the opportunity to pen this foreword. Anita is a dear soul, to whom I am connected in a special way. We are both Geminis and we both deeply
loved someone who now resides in the Spirit realm. I knew of her before I met her. My son told me about her free spirit, her radiant smile, her capacity to love and care for her friends, her creative energies, and her nurturing nature. During an impromptu visit to her home in Los Angeles, I experienced all of these qualities. Within minutes, she had ordered food, called friends, and assembled us all around the table for a time of sheer delight, but not without first lighting a candle and inviting the wise and well ancestors to join us. Only she could have written this story, for it comes from within and from beyond, but certainly through the spirit of Yemaya, an incarnate spirit who has traveled with her family for generations.

  I hope this riveting tale will captivate you, tickle your fancy, and draw you in as it did me. Maybe it will upset your sleep rhythms and you will find yourself reading it when you thought you would be sleeping. You might find yourself racing through it to see what happens next, thinking you will put it down when you get to the end of the chapter. But let me warn you, that will be very hard to do, for you will be caught in Yemaya’s net and you will stay with her until she releases you. You might find your muscles tightening with anticipation or a chuckle escaping your lips. But you will certainly not be bored, and you will most likely be a little bit sad when the story is over. Shallow Waters is anything but shallow.

  —Velma E. Love, PhD

  PROLOGUE

  A long grunt escapes my lips. My body is numb. I cough up the last gulp of water I had taken in and held before I passed out. As I sluggishly blink my eyes, one thought repeats in my mind: I have to break through as soon as possible. I didn’t need to breathe during the transformation, but now my need for air is urgent.

  My nerves awaken from the inside out. I can feel the change in my body. Everything is different. My eyes are dry. I blink a few more times in the darkness, working to clear away the crust that has formed over my lashes. Slowly I become aware of a dim light penetrating the shell of my cocoon. The sun’s rays reveal a complex webbing within the shell’s walls, strong enough to withstand the ocean’s waves.

  My body stirs, and I can feel the shrunken cocoon chafing against my skin. I pull away from the rough interior. Something’s wrong. I’m lying on my back and I can feel that the pod is still—no longer bobbing along the ocean’s surface. I have to get out now! I push with every molecule of my body, but it’s no use. The shell is as hard as rock. I fumble in the darkness trying to find the last section of the cocoon that I had sealed, in hopes that it might be a bit softer. My fingers meet at the top of the pod and I use my thumbnail to puncture a small hole. A bright beam of sunlight streams in and momentarily blinds me. As I had suspected, there is no water. I begin to panic. Where am I?

  I need the ocean’s pressure to help me break through the shell. I frantically chip away at the small hole and attempt to push one of my newly developed legs out. The sensation of being able to move my lower limbs independently throws me off balance. They flail weakly as I try to maneuver them over my body to thrust them up and out.

  Although I’ve watched humans walk and dance and kick, I don’t know how to use these new limbs on my own. I grip the backs of my smooth thighs with my hands and pull my knees toward my chest. It’s so strange to feel skin and not scales—to have no control over what was once my powerful finned tail. I position my feet against the top of the cocoon and kick the damaged shell with all my strength. The debris shatters away from my body.

  Stunned by the bright sunlight again, I clamp my eyes shut and roll over. I strain to push myself up, and wobble as I attempt to stand steady. For the first time in my life, I am vertical, held upright by two feet! I squint through tears and I’m terrified to see that I’m surrounded by a pack of them. Humans who I do not recognize. They don’t look like the ones from my home, but I am somewhat relieved to see that they do not look like the pirates, either. I am completely exposed. My body trembles so violently, I’m afraid I will collapse.

  1

  HIM

  Three Months Earlier

  The coarse net hits my face and abruptly thrusts me into my bleak reality. I fight with all my might, but it makes no difference. I am ripped from the water. The sting of the crisp morning air shocks me and makes it easy for the fisherman to pull me aboard his splintery boat.

  His eyes are the first things I notice. They are deep and dark—like the mysterious realms of the ocean. His hands are gentle and warm, so I surrender to his touch. His coarse hair holds perfect droplets of water as if cradling them until they fall and return to the sea. His skin is so black, I can see a hint of the brilliant blue coral reflected in it. There is something oddly familiar about him.

  He lifts the net, gapes at me, and yells something to his friends on the shore. I try to cover my ears because his voice is too loud. Everything is muted in the sea. His deafening tone ignites my will to survive. I begin writhing to free myself, and I manage to flip out of the boat. On the way out, my tail bashes the top edge, and I return to the sea amid the wreckage.

  When I look back, he is leaning over the side of his boat. His eyes are alert, and he is breathing heavily. Before he turns back to his companions on the far side of the reef, he spots me. I hold my breath, and I think he does, too. We are frozen in that moment, our eyes glued to each other until his friends come to rescue him. I retreat back to the ocean floor.

  His boat returns the next morning, patched with fresh strips of palm wood. I watch as he releases his net into the waters. His strong hands grip the trap, pulling an array of sea life aboard. As he turns to assess his catch, I see the scars on the back of his neck: three straight horizontal slashes.

  Obatala!

  * * *

  Ten years have passed since the last time our eyes met. I had erased that day from my memory, but Obatala’s scars have reopened deep wounds.

  My father knew how much I loved the shells lined with iridescent mother-of-pearl—the shells that could only be found in the shallow waters beyond the reef. I had six of them, one for each year of my life. He’d left early on the morning of my seventh birthday to fetch my gift, promising to be home before our first meal.

  We lived in the depths of the sea, in a cave with limited access to the light of day. Mother and I waited until the sun was high above the water. When he didn’t return home, my mother decided to go search for him. She made me promise to stay, but as soon as she left, I stealthily followed her into the forbidden waters. Brilliant red coral was scattered throughout the reef, and a school of small yellow fish with black spots darted in and out through the maze. Unlike our home in the cold, dark ocean, the shallows were bathed in sunlight. I caught the flicker of my mother’s tail as she dove beyond the ridge. I navigated through the coral to follow her to the other side, where the sea was deeper.

  Mother forged forward. The sand beneath us seemed to bubble as we drew closer to land. My eyes darted between my mother and the gurgling seafloor. Something was wrong. Before I had time to warn her, a fog of sand engulfed us. Within seconds, an enormous net dragged me and all the surrounding sea creatures toward the shore. I struggled to find my mother, but it was no use. The coral reef disappeared in the distance.

  A human boy around my age dove into the water. As he was examining his catch, our eyes met, and he choked on the seawater. I watched him struggle up to the surface, where he gulped air. But he quickly returned to stare at me. He pulled a small knife from his belt and began to cut through the rope around me. There was still no sign of my mother. The boy finally cut a hole large enough to release me.

  I frantically searched the net for my mother as the animals filed out of the tattered hole. I grabbed on to the twisted rope in desperation. The boy pulled me off just in time to prevent me from being pierced by a long, sharp spear. He urgently motioned for me to flee. A huge man dove into the water to retrieve the spear and patch the hole in the net.

  I swam away as fast as I could, far enough to make sure I was safe. When I was a fair distance from the shore, I watched the man sco
ld the young boy. He raised his voice, and I heard him scream the name “Obatala!” The man wrenched Obatala around, pushed him to his knees, and pulled a heavy rope from around his own waist. He hit Obatala across his hands until he cried out in agony. As Obatala’s back was toward me, I could see three horizontal scars at the base of his neck. They were raised and discolored and looked like the gills of a shark. Obatala screamed in pain and defiance as he crumpled to the ground. For years after, I heard his wails in my nightmares.

  I wanted to save him as he had saved me, but I couldn’t rise from the sea to do so. I felt a deep connection with him, like he knew me somehow, in a way no one else ever had. There were lines of fishermen pulling in the net he had rescued me from, so I had to stay out of sight. I cursed my helplessness as my tears mixed with the seawater.

  Despite my fear of the shallow waters and the fishermen with their nets and long spears, I returned to that place beyond the reef over and over, hoping to find my parents and to see the boy who’d saved me. It seemed as though he was more like me than any other creature I’d ever known. I could see myself in him. Even though he was a human, he looked like me—the part of me above my fin and scales. He looked like he could have been a part of my family.

  A family who I had lost. The six iridescent seashells my father had found for me in the shallow waters are my most precious possessions and at the same time cause me unending pain. When I look at them and hold them in my palms, I feel my parents’ souls still with me. They remind me to keep track of each passing birthday, although I’m not sure why I continue to count.

  Mother and Father vanished before they could explain to me what I was—not fully human, but also not a sea animal like those we swam alongside in the depths each day. I had never met another creature like us. We were Mer, unlike any other beings we encountered in our days together. My mother would never explain more when I asked about where we came from. She would simply smile and say, “You’re special, Yemaya. One day you will know why.”