The Cetus

　　Now it's dark. The moon, a skinned onion, white and mighty, with reluctance I'm sure, helps to guide the Cetus through my calm.

　　I can't be biased, though I can tell you that the Cetus is most feared pirate ship in the world. A villainous, wicked ship, with its crew, the Cavities, even worse. To call you ship such a name only certifies that the pirates abroad are bloodless and nasty; that they fear nothing and have little respect for the water and all that inhabits it. Any right-minded sailor or pirate with a regard for superstition knows that just saying 'Cetus' on board is a terrible omen, so you can imagine the statement these women and men are making. With charcoal-black sails, masts like cindered kindling and an engine that pollutes a vile sludgy smoke into my bodies, they hum over my surface. Other than the purr of the engine, the pirates' snorts and the vile spitting, the only other sound is the clanging knell that hangs round the neck of the mermaid skeleton roped to the mast of the ship. The brittle, dry salt-drenched bones. And not just any mermaid skeleton; this is the carcass of Neta, Lorali's grandmother.

Lorali, P75-76
Laura Dockrill
ISBN 978-1-4714-0422-1