The Fisherman and the Merman
Jan. 2nd, 2020 01:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tgarnslAn unfinished, unpolished fairy story I might eventually go back to and finish. Usual suspects. Blatantly stolen from Cornish and Irish mythology, and Hans Christian Andersen, of course.
A long time ago, when the greenwoods still held their ancient magic and the seas were filled with strange creatures beyond imagining, there lived a fisherman in a village by the sea. He had once been a sailor, fighting a war for his king, and had lost a leg in service of his country when he was no more than a boy. When the war was over, he found that there were few ships willing to take on a man with only one leg, and the ones that were willing to take him on tended to be smugglers and the like, and the sailor was too honest for that line of work. So he took to the sea in a ship built with his own hands, and in that way provided reasonably well for himself and his four sisters. As the years passed, his sisters had married and moved away, until he was alone, and in time he was happy enough, if perhaps a little lonely.
One winter there were terrible storms. All along the coastline the fishing boats hid away in their harbours, unable to venture out to sea to bring home a catch. By mid December the fisherman’s village was near starving, having eaten their gardens bare and emptied their cellars. The fisherman found himself eating turnips, much to his displeasure, but there was little choice. Even if he’d had coin to spend, there was no food to buy, and in desperation the people of the village gathered in the tavern to discuss what to do.
“We should move inland,” suggested one, “And steal from the farmers there.” This suggestion was ignored; it was quickly agreed upon by all in the village that they would not see their children be hanged as thieves.
“We should boil our shoes for soup,” suggested another. “Catch rats and gulls and cook ‘em.” No one liked that idea, and so it too was ignored.
“We must send someone out there,” cried one. “One of you must brave the storm and go out and catch us fish.”
The tavern set to mumbling. Then finally, one man pushed back his chair and stood. “I will go,” the fisherman said. “I have no children, no wife to leave behind. If I do not return there will be no one to mourn me.”
The villagers were uncertain; the fisherman had only one flesh-and-bone leg, after all — the other made of wood — and in treacherous seas a slip could prove deadly. Yet there was no other choice, and so it was quickly agreed upon that when the storm subsided a bit, the fisherman should go out and catch fish. The other fishermen gave him their finest nets, and their wives mended his warmest clothing, and the fisherman himself tended to his boat, readying it for his venture. Finally, a few days after he had made his decision, he awoke early in the morning to find that the sea was reasonably calm, and so he went down to his little boat and took her out to sea to the fishing banks closest to shore.
All morning he fished, and yet by noon his nets were empty. He knew he did not have much time, and so he hauled in his nets and set a course for the fishing banks further out. He had been warned by the other fishermen to avoid going out so far; there were mermaids in those parts, they warned, and mermaids had the ability to call up storms and drown sailors with the power of their song and did not like fishermen encroaching on their hunting grounds, yet he did not have a choice. He knew he would brave a hundred mermaids if it meant bringing home a catch and saving his village.
When he came to the banks where the mermaids did dwell he cast his nets. There were no mermaids in sight; a lone seal watched him from a distance, but he could not see any of the golden-haired mermaids he’d been warned about. It was not long before he hauled in his first catch: a whole netful of herring, glistening in the cold winter light. He found himself entranced for a moment by the sight of all that silvery fish, floundering on the bottom of the boat. When he turned to cast his net back into the sea he froze, for he found himself not looking at a seal, but rather at a man near his own age with dark hair and dark eyes who was watching him with a cold expression.
“You have stolen from me,” said the merman. “Those fish are mine by right.” He crossed his arms. “Give ‘em back, and I won’t call a storm down upon your head.”
“I can’t,” said the fisherman. “My village is starving. We have no more food. I tried to catch fish closer to shore, but there were none.”
The merman’s face grew dark. “They’ve been hunting too close to shore again, I know it,” he muttered. “The rest of my kind,” he explained, when the fisherman stared at him, confused. “They like to cause trouble for you humans: steal your fish, drown your men. I would not be surprised if they’ve been wrecking ships too. They think it fine sport to lure ships onto rocks and see them dashed apart.”
“But not you?”
The merman looked away. “No, not me,” he said, a little proudly. “I am not welcome among their kind. I am…” He paused. “I am different, and so they shun me.”
“Oh,” said the fisherman, who was a kind and generous soul. “I am sorry.”
“They are fools,” said the merman. “I’m perfectly content on my own. I don’t need anyone. Although-”
The merman smiled. It was the smile of a predator, and the fisherman remembered with a start that he was not dealing with a fellow man, he was dealing with a strange creature whose rules and morals were likely very different to his own.
“Although?” said the fisherman, wary. The smile widened.
“What if I let you take the fish you require, and in exchange you bring me something?”
The fisherman shook his head. “I will not bring you babies to eat,” he said firmly.
The merman laughed: a strange, gurgling sound. “Why in tides would I wish to eat a human baby? I have fish aplenty. No, I would like for you to bring me something of your world that might interest me.”
“I am not a rich man, I cannot bring you jewels or gold.”
“I do not wish for them,” said the merman.
“Then-?”
The merman disappeared beneath the waves quite without warning, leaving the fisherman wondering, for a moment, if he had gone mad and the whole conversation had been some figment of a crazed mind. He waited a minute, then a minute more, then another, until he had quite convinced himself he was insane and was about to throw his net back into the sea when the merman reappeared, clutching something in his hands. He threw it into the boat, where it landed with a thump at the fisherman’s feet.
“There,” the merman said. “I want something like that.”
It was a waterlogged book, the fisherman realised. An old sailing almanac. He had the selfsame book in his cottage, on the shelf near the fire.
“You want a book?” he asked.
The merman nodded. “I have tried to examine that one, but it falls apart. I have found others, too, but they always end up in pieces,” he said, disappointed. “I have tried wrapping them in kelp, I have tried keeping them safe beneath stones, but nothing works.”
“They can’t be kept in water,” said the fisherman. “Have you tried keeping them dry?”
The merman’s expression was puzzled. “You mean, keeping them above water?” The fisherman nodded. “Perhaps… I know of a cave where the tide would allow me entrance. I could keep this thing you call a book there.”
“You can read?” asked the fisherman, somewhat incredulously.
The merman turned an odd shade of blue that the fisherman took to mean he was blushing. “I am a quick study,” he said. “Bring me that book, and teach me to read, and I will ensure you always bring home a catch,” he commanded in a voice that would not be out of place on the deck of a ship of battle.
The wind was rising and the waves were growing rougher. The fisherman knew he only had a short time before the storm returned in full force.
“Alright,” he said to the merman. “I will bring you your book and I will teach you to read.”
“Then cast your nets,” said the merman.
The fisherman did so, and the merman dived beneath the sea. Within minutes he surfaced and called for the fisherman to haul in his catch. Into the belly of the boat went pilchards and herring, hake and mackerel, dogfish and sand eels; it was more fish than the fisherman had seen in months, and his mouth watered at the sight. “Thank you,” he said to the merman. “You have saved us.”
The merman smiled gently, and it was a soft smile, so impossibly warm that the fisherman’s heart leapt at the sight. He knew he would do anything to see that smile again.
“Come,” said the merman, his face growing serious once more. “The storm is almost upon us. Give me that line at the front of your ship, and I will pull you in close to your village.”
The fisherman furled his sails and threw the painter to the merman. It was not long before the skies opened up and the sea grew fierce, and the fisherman was very glad that the merman had decided to help him. When at last shore was in sight the merman threw back the painter and the fisherman unfurled and reefed his sails, for by now the wind was blowing very strong indeed, and it would be difficult sailing.
“You must go on from here,” shouted the merman over the wind. “I cannot risk my kin finding me here.”
“Thank you,” cried the fisherman, as he trimmed the sails. “I will bring you your book when next the weather calms.” He saluted. “It has been an honour to meet you, sir.”
The merman smiled, a little puzzled, and returned the salute. “An honour,” he echoed, and dived back beneath the waves.
It seemed a lifetime before the little boat made her way into the village harbour. When the fisherman looked up, he found the whole village standing there, waiting for him, and when they saw what he had brought they hoisted him into the air and carried him into the tavern with great whoops and cheers.
That night the village feasted on what the fisherman had brought. The women of the village crowded into the tavern’s kitchen and made enough fish stew to feed everyone twice. Even the cats and dogs were given scraps aplenty to eat, and after they had feasted they toasted the fisherman and cheered him. Several of the young women and one brave young man tried to get him to dance when the band struck up a merry tune, but he demurred, embarrassed and shy at the attention. It was well after midnight that the revelry died down- the merrymakers either having gone to sleep or busy preparing the fish for keeping- the fisherman slipped out of the tavern and made his way home. Before he went to bed that night he took down his old almanac and wrapped it in oilskin, and in a fit of sentimentality he tied the bundle with a long red ribbon that had once belonged to his youngest sister. It would look nice tying back the merman’s wild hair, he thought distantly as sleep took him at last.
It was not for another month that the storms subsided, but when they did at last ease the fisherman took his boat and his almanac and went out to the fishing banks where he first had met the merman. He sat, and he waited, and he waited, until he thought perhaps the merman had altogether forgotten him. As he made to sail for home the face he’d dreamt of every night for a month appeared, just off his bow, and smiled at him.
“Have you brought my book?” asked the merman.
The fisherman nodded and held up the package. “Take me to the place you spoke of, and I will show it to you.”
The merman assented, and once more took the painter line in hand and made for the shore, only this time he did not stop, taking the fisherman’s little boat in to a narrow gap between the cliffs. The tide was low and so the fisherman threw down his anchor and waded in to the little beach where the merman had pulled himself onto the sand to sit, his long silver tail resting in the water. The fisherman sat down beside him and handed over the package. The merman stared at it, entranced. His elegant fingers touched the red ribbon reverently, as though he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
“I thought the ribbon made it look pretty,” the fisherman explained, flustered. “The oilskin is too plain.”
The merman smiled warmly. “If this is what a few of my fish will bring me, I should have traded with you humans long ago,” he said, unwrapping the book. “Tell me, what does this say?” he asked, and the fisherman did.
It soon became routine that on days when the seas were calm the fisherman would take his little boat into the cliffs and sit with the merman and teach him to read and write by tracing letters in the damp sand. In return, his nets were always full, and in time the villagers came to believe that the fisherman had been blessed.
For half a year this continued on, until the almanac had been read and re-read half a hundred times, and the mathematics had been worked through until they were memorised, and the knots had been tied and untied until the merman could do them in his sleep. One fine day in late summer, as they sat on the beach in the cave, the fisherman dared to ask why it was the merman avoided his kin. They had barely read that day, for they both knew their time was at an end, and had instead talked for several hours, almost as if they were old friends.
“I am cast out by my own kin,” said the merman, carefully avoiding the fisherman’s eyes.
“Whatever for? Is it because of your sex?” the fisherman asked, for while he had heard much about mermaids he had heard little of mermen.
The merman shook his head. “There are males too, though we number far fewer than the females. My kind value males, for each one may mate with many females and thus bring about many children, but I…” He trailed off, visibly uncomfortable. The fisherman tried his best to not think about how wonderful it must be to mate with beautiful mermaids. “They will not mate with me,” he said pointedly.
“Why?” asked the fisherman. “You are handsome enough. You have all your parts, which is more than can be said for me,” he said lightly, knocking on his wooden leg.
The merman sighed. “I cannot sing,” said he. “I try, but…” He opened his mouth and let out a discordant wail that made the fisherman cover his ears and wince. “You see?”
The fisherman nodded sagely. “You could make a horn from a shell and blow that like the sea-gods of old,” he suggested.
“My kind sing, they do not blow horns. Do not mock me.” the merman said, irritated. “You should leave.”
The fisherman had learned by now that the merman’s temper ran hot, and so he nodded again and looked out to sea, where the tide was coming in.
“I suppose we are finished with the book,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing the sand from his trousers. “My debt to you is settled, unless you can think of some other way to put me in your debt.”
“Your debt is paid in full,” said the merman, stiffly. “You have your fish, and I have my book.” He sniffed. “I suppose this is farewell, then.”
The fisherman waded out to the boat and rolled himself in over the gunwales. When he stood up, boathook in hand for pushing off, he nodded at the merman, still sitting there on the sand with the book on his lap. The red ribbon was wound neatly beside him.
The fisherman saluted. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
The merman returned the salute, looking rather forlorn. “Goodbye then,” he said. “Full nets and calm seas to you.”
The fisherman turned away and began to push his boat out of the cave. He did not look back.
For the rest of the summer into autumn the fisherman took his boat out daily onto the sea, but he never again went back to the merman’s fishing grounds. Yet at night as he lay fast asleep in his bed he dreamt of the merman: strange dreams he had, of swimming deep beneath the waves. They were odd dreams that disquieted him, for the fisherman could not swim, but he brushed them aside. He had never been a man for melancholic misery.
Yet as summer turned to autumn and the sea became colder the fisherman began to regret never returning to the merman. While the villagers respected him, they never knew what to think of this strange, stern man with the wooden leg. In truth, the merman was the closest thing to a friend that the fisherman had ever known.
It took him several days to contrive a plan, but contrive one he did. The fisherman was not a well-educated man; he had gone to sea at twelve like most sailors, and he had little interest in literature. Yet the merman had liked the almanac, and had seemed interested in the fanciful stories the fisherman had told when he wanted to distract the merman from geometry, so perhaps tales of some kind were in order. He asked all through the village where he might find such books, and after days of searching, the village priest, pleased to see the fisherman trying to improve himself, sold him some heavy books written in ancient Greek and Latin, and lexicons to go with them. The fisherman took his prizes home and wrapped them in oil cloth, tying them off with string, for he had no more ribbon.
He took to sea the following day, and made his way to the cave and waited for the merman. All day he waited, until the moon was low in the sky and the tide was far out, and then he went and sat on the sandy floor of the cave and lit the lantern he had brought with him, hoping it would act like a beacon to draw the merman to him.
It was not long before he heard a splash and the face of his friend appeared above the water.
“What are you doing?” hissed the merman, angry. “You might have attracted my kin!”
“I didn’t,” the fisherman said.
“They would have killed you had they found you here, and taken your soul to rot in a cage for eternity!” snapped the merman, hauling himself up on the beach beside the fisherman. “You are a fool,” he pronounced.
“Perhaps you are right,” said the fisherman. He knew better than to take the merman’s words to heart.
The merman’s face softened and he sighed. “Forgive me,” he said at last. “I am angry that you went away.”
“I dreamt of you,” said the fisherman. “We were swimming together.” The merman was smiling. “What?” he asked.
“I dreamt of you too,” the merman confessed.
“I never knew a friend before you,” the fisherman said quickly. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I did not mean to.” He pulled out the package and handed it to the merman. “Here,” he said. “A gift.”
The merman stared at it, confused. “A gift?” he asked. “What do you want in return?”
“Nothing,” said the fisherman.
“I can give you fish,” said the merman, turning the package over in his hands. “I can bring you treasures from the deep- I know of wrecks where there is gold and silver and-”
“A gift is something you give without expecting anything in return,” the fisherman said firmly, pushing the package back into the merman’s hands when he tried to hand it over.
“I am sorry,” said the merman. “No one has ever given me anything before. I must offend you with my rudeness. I am the most foolish son of a sea urchin who ever lived. I am as dumb as a rockfish. I-” He stopped himself before he could go on, mastering his emotions with practiced ease. “Thank you,” he said. A sly smile came across his face. “Perhaps there is one thing I can give you.”
The fisherman sighed. “I want for nothing-” he began, but the merman lunged at him, pinning him down on the sand, and kissing him soundly. He kissed like a shark- all teeth and enthusiasm- and the fisherman felt as though he were being devoured, but the merman’s body was soft and warm against his as they lay there, and the fisherman knew this was the best kind of devouring.
At last, when he could breathe no more he pushed the merman off of him and wiped his mouth, breathing hard. The merman’s expression was that of amusement as he lay on his side, looking at the fisherman, his head propped up on his arm.
“I’ve seen you humans do that for years,” he said. “Always wondered what it was like.”
“Did you like it?” asked the fisherman, nervous.
The merman thought for a moment. “I am uncertain. Perhaps I will try it again later, after I look at my gift.”
The books made the merman smile, and he thumbed through their pages with undisguised joy. He quite liked them, and told the fisherman as much. When the lantern burned low, and the fisherman made overtures of leaving, the merman kissed him once again: a good, sound kiss that made the fisherman ache for more. They parted that night with fond farewells, and as his little boat made its way back to the harbour the fisherman felt warmer than he had all year.
They met almost every day from that night on. The merman quickly puzzled out Greek and Latin and was soon reading to the fisherman. He developed a taste for Latin poetry, becoming strangely fond of Horace, and devoured any of the old Greek tales. The village priest soon began to send to the city for books, and seemed pleased that the fisherman had developed such refined taste.
It did not take long for the villagers to notice the flush in the fisherman’s cheek, or the smile on his face, and soon a joke began to circulate that he’d gone and fallen in love with a mermaid. It was a joke, of course, for in truth they thought it was all due to the extra coin he’d been making, bringing full boatloads of fish as he had been. Perhaps he had a girl over in another harbour, some said. None of them could guess the truth.
The truth of the matter was that no matter what he told himself, the fisherman had fallen in love. It was foolhardy, perhaps, maybe even dangerous to fall in love with a merman, but he could not help it. Perhaps his sentiments were returned, for the merman began to wear the red ribbon in his hair, but the fisherman was never certain. What he did know, however, was that the merman had discovered that he quite enjoyed kissing, and though some days it was impossible to tear him away from his Horace or his Herodotus, there were still more days when he put aside his books altogether and lay in the sand and kissed the fisherman. By spring the fisherman summoned up the courage to ask the merman how he liked to be touched, and they spent so long kissing and exploring each other that the tide came in and soaked them quite throughly, much to the fisherman’s distress and the merman’s delight.
One night, near midsummer, the merman took the fisherman to a wide stretch of beach, and there they lay down and under a blanket of stars entwined themselves so tight it was as though they were one being.
The fisherman woke later in the night to find the merman awake, sitting at the edge of the water, staring out into the darkness. He was keening softly to himself, and the sound was so dissonant and eerie that the fisherman shivered to hear it.
“What is it?” asked the fisherman, sitting down by his friend. He touched the merman’s hand. “Have I caused you distress?”
The merman was silent for a very long time.
“I thought it would be different,” he said at last. “I thought I would feel whole.” The fisherman did not understand, and so the merman tried again. “My kind, we do not have souls like you humans. When we die there is no paradise for us, only nothingness, but if we capture the heart of a human we gain a little bit of their soul, and so we are granted heaven.”
“Is that why the mermaids entrance sailors so?” asked the fisherman.
The merman frowned. “They take the souls of the drowned and keep them in cages, but those souls will never belong to them. The heart must be given freely, not stolen, but my people are inherently selfish.”
The fisherman floundered, having never been good with words. Finally he spoke.
“You have my heart. If my soul is mine to give to whom I will then you have that too. There is nothing I will not share with you: my heart, my hearth, my bed- even my life, all of them are yours.”
“Can you make me human?” asked the merman, hopeful.
“No,” said the fisherman. “I do not have that power.” When he saw how the merman’s face fell he reached out and took the merman’s hands in his. “If I could see you made human, I would.” He smiled, suddenly as shy and tongue-tied as a lovestruck boy. “You could share my home, and we would never have to spend a day apart. You could even sleep in a real bed, with sheets, and everything.”
“Tell me what it’s like to be human,” demanded the merman, and so the fisherman spoke of his life until the sky began to lighten and he knew he had to return to his village before he was missed. With a kiss he bade farewell to the merman and headed for home.
Every day for a month the fisherman returned to the merman’s fishing grounds, and every day for a month he waited in vain for his friend to appear. He was neither a man of great imagination nor a man prone to worrying, so he did not think much of it, but when the merman returned, one month after they had lain together on the beach, the fisherman grew concerned. Something had happened in their month apart. There was a restlessness to the merman that the fisherman had never seen before, a hunger in his strange dark eyes that made the fisherman shiver.
“I have found something marvellous,” said the merman, a shark-like grin on his face. “Meet me on the beach where last we met, three days hence.” And without another word he dived back beneath the waters and disappeared into the depths.
It was on the third day that the fisherman returned to the beach where they had lain together all those months ago, and there he found his merman, sitting on the sand with his library of books — only it wasn’t his merman, not really, for the creature in front of him was wholly human, from head to foot. He stared, unable to speak, and the creature that had once been a merman began to laugh at him.
It was his laughter that broke the spell, for despite appearing human the creature still laughed like the merman — that dreadful gurgling noise that made the hair on the back of the fisherman’s neck stand up. He was the merman, there was no doubt, yet somehow he had achieved the impossible; he had become a man.
“What have you done?” asked the fisherman, afraid. The merman rose to his feet. He was tall, realised the fisherman, perhaps six feet in height, taller than the fisherman. He wavered, unsteady on his new legs, and stepped towards the fisherman. The fisherman stepped away. “What have you done?” he asked again.
The merman ignored him. “There is an old witch who dwells in the sea-caves in the dark depths of the sea. There she keeps a garden of plants that glow blue and green in the black of the deep ocean. I heard of her when I was a pup, but never believed she existed until I found her. Her people dislike her, you see, because she has a soul — when she was younger, she fell in love with a human maiden. This maiden returned her love, and the witch scoured the world to find a way to allow them to be together. At last she found a plant that was said to transform birds into fish, and so she took it to her beloved, and so they were united beneath the sea. Her beloved is long passed — humans live such short lives — but the witch has a soul and will be reunited with her beloved in the beyond.”
“What was it that gave her a soul?” asked the fisherman.
At that, the merman frowned. “She says in order to gain a soul, love must be given freely without any expectation. To be prepared to give up everything for the sake of that one person. That, or a lifetime of hard work. She says I will know when I have a soul — I will feel free.”
“I see,” said the fisherman, although he did not.
“Well now,” said the merman. “We’d best get going. I’d quite like to see that bed you promised me.”
The journey back to the fisherman’s village was quiet. The merman observed everything with hungry curiosity — how the fisherman handled the tiller and the sheets, how the waves parted before the bow of the little boat, how the seagulls screamed and circled above them. He was even more wide-eyed when they sailed into the little harbour, and the fisherman drew up his boat beside all the others on the soft sand.
“These are what you live in?” he asked, looking around at the stone houses that lined the harbour. “These… caves?”
“Houses,” corrected the fisherman gently. “The white one on the far side, there, with the blue shutters, that’s mine. Here, put this on,” he said, throwing the merman his oilskin coat. “People don’t like it when others walk around without clothes.”
The merman rather begrudgingly pulled the coat on. “It’s uncomfortable,” he complained.
“I’ll get you something better at home. I think I still have a couple pairs of trousers with both legs intact,” he said, and together they went up to the fisherman’s cottage.
The evening proved to be both amusing and frustrating. The merman was reluctantly coaxed into clothing, which he wore with an air of distaste, and then settled down before the fire with some fried fish and bread.
“I don’t like it,” said the merman, throwing the fish into the fire where it sizzled and blackened.
“If you are as human as you say, then you cannot eat what you are used to,” said the fisherman. “Raw fish will make you sick.”
The merman cleared his throat in displeasure. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said peevishly.
The fisherman sighed and went back to his own dinner.
As the fisherman washed the plates later on, he noticed the merman limping as he walked around the room, picking things up and examining them.
“Have you hurt your feet?” asked the fisherman. The merman shook his head.
“It is the curse of walking on land. I am human, yes, but not wholly. When I walk I feel as if I am stepping across sharp barnacles.” He squared himself. “I will learn to keep it hidden, of course.”
The fisherman went over to the merman and took him by the hand. “You must not pain yourself for me. You must understand: when you hurt, so do I.”
The merman stared at him, bewildered. “Is that truly how you feel?”
“There is nothing I would not give up for you,” said the fisherman, and then blushed. “Forgive me, I did not mean to be so forward. I do not expect you to understand. You are so very different than me.”
The merman’s hand on his face was warm — far warmer than it had ever been before. “I still haven’t seen that bed of yours,” he said in a low, quiet voice. “You say that is where you humans-”
“Yes,” interrupted the fisherman, his face now very red.
“Good,” the merman said, grinning. It was the grin of a shark who had cornered a seal. “Those dishes over there can wait. I have some new body parts I’d quite like to try out.”
Over the next few days the true nature of the merman’s new body became clear. He was, for all intents and purposes, a man, yet there were still parts of him still otherworldly. He always smelled of salt, and he gurgled when he laughed, and he could see frighteningly well in the dark. He was also drawn to water; a bath every day kept him happy, though it had to be freshwater as submersion in seawater would see him lose his legs. His feet hurt him with every step, though at the urging of the fisherman it was discovered that soft shoes did help a little.
It was a week after the fisherman had brought the merman home that they ventured out to sea again, this time in search of fish. Though the merman could no longer see the schools of fish beneath the sea, he had such knowledge of the workings of the sea and the movements of the tides and the winds that it made no difference. It did not take long for them to bring back a haul of shiny silver fish, and in time, they became quite well-off indeed. Soon, their presence was noted at the weekly dance in the tavern, and though the fisherman did not participate it was clear he was just as happy watching his friend dance the hours away, until the early hours of the morning when they would limp back home together.
And so they carried on in this manner quite happily for a time, though it could be said that the merman was perhaps a little restless. But on one terrible day, war was declared. Across the country able-bodied men were called into service, and soon the merman volunteered himself to join the fight. The fisherman, though still young, knew he could not follow the merman to sea on account of his leg. A sailor who could not climb the rigging was not fit for the king’s navy. He sat in his armchair and wept bitterly the night before the merman left him.
“I must go,” said the merman, kissing the fisherman’s forehead. “Don’t you see? I can earn my soul this way.”
The fisherman did not understand. He stared into the fire blankly, cursing this world that would see them separated.
The merman tried again. “I am going to sea,” he said. “There is no storm I cannot outmanoeuvre, save the kind my kin can call up, and even then I have my tricks; I know their hunting grounds and where they would seek to wreck ships. No harm will come to me. I will win my soul, and then we will be together.”
The fisherman yet wept, and so the merman took him in his arms and kissed him. They fell asleep that night tangled in each other’s arms, but when the fisherman woke the next morning his bed was cold. There was no trace of the merman in the cottage, no trace of him in the village. The fisherman might have thought it all a mad dream had not news of the merman come to the village some months later. The merman had fought in a great battle, it was said, and won great renown for himself through his courage and ability. It did not take long for the merman to be promoted, first to lieutenant, then to commander. The fisherman noted with amusement that the papers seemed to think the merman was some kind of gentleman magician, like the late great admiral had been — the kind of man who can conjure storms with alchemical flasks, or predict the weather with a mirrored bowl, all while quoting the great philosophers. The fisherman read it all and laughed; the papers would never guess that their hero was a creature feared by sailors.
He wrote the merman as often as he could, and he received letters in return, but it was never enough. He found his hands ached at night for want of something real to touch and hold. Perhaps that was why he began to build the boat, perhaps it was to keep his mind off how empty his bed felt at night. He did not bother himself with the reason — he wanted to build a boat, and so he did, working late into the night in his boathouse on the craft. Just a small thing, but with a draught just shallow enough to be manoeuvrable close to the shore, but with enough of a keel to provide stability in rougher seas. He poured his heart into the boat, obsessing over every detail, spending hours painting and varnishing her until she shone like a new coin. He took her out to sea once, to test her seaworthiness, and satisfied, returned her to the boathouse where he polished her obsessively. She belonged to the merman.
Finally, two years and five days since the merman had gone away, he returned. He was a post-captain now, the epaulette on his shoulders shining in the evening sun as he stood on the doorstep of the fisherman’s cottage.
The fisherman embraced him, and drew him inside the cottage where he could kiss him out of view of the village. The merman still tasted of the sea, the fisherman thought quite happily, as he was bundled into bed. All the hours of longing came undone at once, and it was not for two days that they finally left the bed for good. They walked through the village, where the fisherman pointed out the subtle important changes that had happened in the merman’s time away — the baker’s new sign, or the vicar’s Sisyphean attempt to grow begonias in such an unsuitable climate. When at last they came to the boathouse the fisherman’s hands were shaking, and he could barely look as the merman stepped inside and saw what awaited him.
“She’s yours,” the fisherman said.
The merman ran his hands lightly over her gunwales, unable to believe what was before him. When at last he spoke he was overcome with emotion in a way the fisherman had never seen.
“Is there nothing you will not give me?” he asked, incredulous.
The fisherman smiled. “No,” he admitted. “I would give my life for you.”
The merman looked at him strangely. “Come,” he said, “Let us go out on the water. I have something I wish to show you.”
They took the little boat far out to sea, to where the shore was no more than a dark smudge on the horizon. The sun was setting, the heavens ablaze with light, and the merman sat back in the boat and gazed up.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“I suppose,” said the fisherman, who considered one sunset much like the other. “What was it you wanted to show me?”
“Patience,” said the merman. “We must wait.” He did not speak again until the sky grew dark and the stars appeared. Finally, he spoke. “There,” he said, pointing at a star. “That is what I wished to show you.”
The fisherman stared at him, confused. “The North Star? It’s just a star to set your course. Nothing special about it, other than its steadfastness, perhaps.”
“Every night it rises, stead and true, even though we do not always see it. Every night I look to that star to be reminded of you,” the merman said softly, and in that moment the fisherman understood. The merman was not a creature who could ever love — love was not natural to his species as it was for mankind, but he was a creature who knew of devotion, and as much as a creature such as he could ever be devoted, so he was devoted to the fisherman.
A long time ago, when the greenwoods still held their ancient magic and the seas were filled with strange creatures beyond imagining, there lived a fisherman in a village by the sea. He had once been a sailor, fighting a war for his king, and had lost a leg in service of his country when he was no more than a boy. When the war was over, he found that there were few ships willing to take on a man with only one leg, and the ones that were willing to take him on tended to be smugglers and the like, and the sailor was too honest for that line of work. So he took to the sea in a ship built with his own hands, and in that way provided reasonably well for himself and his four sisters. As the years passed, his sisters had married and moved away, until he was alone, and in time he was happy enough, if perhaps a little lonely.
One winter there were terrible storms. All along the coastline the fishing boats hid away in their harbours, unable to venture out to sea to bring home a catch. By mid December the fisherman’s village was near starving, having eaten their gardens bare and emptied their cellars. The fisherman found himself eating turnips, much to his displeasure, but there was little choice. Even if he’d had coin to spend, there was no food to buy, and in desperation the people of the village gathered in the tavern to discuss what to do.
“We should move inland,” suggested one, “And steal from the farmers there.” This suggestion was ignored; it was quickly agreed upon by all in the village that they would not see their children be hanged as thieves.
“We should boil our shoes for soup,” suggested another. “Catch rats and gulls and cook ‘em.” No one liked that idea, and so it too was ignored.
“We must send someone out there,” cried one. “One of you must brave the storm and go out and catch us fish.”
The tavern set to mumbling. Then finally, one man pushed back his chair and stood. “I will go,” the fisherman said. “I have no children, no wife to leave behind. If I do not return there will be no one to mourn me.”
The villagers were uncertain; the fisherman had only one flesh-and-bone leg, after all — the other made of wood — and in treacherous seas a slip could prove deadly. Yet there was no other choice, and so it was quickly agreed upon that when the storm subsided a bit, the fisherman should go out and catch fish. The other fishermen gave him their finest nets, and their wives mended his warmest clothing, and the fisherman himself tended to his boat, readying it for his venture. Finally, a few days after he had made his decision, he awoke early in the morning to find that the sea was reasonably calm, and so he went down to his little boat and took her out to sea to the fishing banks closest to shore.
All morning he fished, and yet by noon his nets were empty. He knew he did not have much time, and so he hauled in his nets and set a course for the fishing banks further out. He had been warned by the other fishermen to avoid going out so far; there were mermaids in those parts, they warned, and mermaids had the ability to call up storms and drown sailors with the power of their song and did not like fishermen encroaching on their hunting grounds, yet he did not have a choice. He knew he would brave a hundred mermaids if it meant bringing home a catch and saving his village.
When he came to the banks where the mermaids did dwell he cast his nets. There were no mermaids in sight; a lone seal watched him from a distance, but he could not see any of the golden-haired mermaids he’d been warned about. It was not long before he hauled in his first catch: a whole netful of herring, glistening in the cold winter light. He found himself entranced for a moment by the sight of all that silvery fish, floundering on the bottom of the boat. When he turned to cast his net back into the sea he froze, for he found himself not looking at a seal, but rather at a man near his own age with dark hair and dark eyes who was watching him with a cold expression.
“You have stolen from me,” said the merman. “Those fish are mine by right.” He crossed his arms. “Give ‘em back, and I won’t call a storm down upon your head.”
“I can’t,” said the fisherman. “My village is starving. We have no more food. I tried to catch fish closer to shore, but there were none.”
The merman’s face grew dark. “They’ve been hunting too close to shore again, I know it,” he muttered. “The rest of my kind,” he explained, when the fisherman stared at him, confused. “They like to cause trouble for you humans: steal your fish, drown your men. I would not be surprised if they’ve been wrecking ships too. They think it fine sport to lure ships onto rocks and see them dashed apart.”
“But not you?”
The merman looked away. “No, not me,” he said, a little proudly. “I am not welcome among their kind. I am…” He paused. “I am different, and so they shun me.”
“Oh,” said the fisherman, who was a kind and generous soul. “I am sorry.”
“They are fools,” said the merman. “I’m perfectly content on my own. I don’t need anyone. Although-”
The merman smiled. It was the smile of a predator, and the fisherman remembered with a start that he was not dealing with a fellow man, he was dealing with a strange creature whose rules and morals were likely very different to his own.
“Although?” said the fisherman, wary. The smile widened.
“What if I let you take the fish you require, and in exchange you bring me something?”
The fisherman shook his head. “I will not bring you babies to eat,” he said firmly.
The merman laughed: a strange, gurgling sound. “Why in tides would I wish to eat a human baby? I have fish aplenty. No, I would like for you to bring me something of your world that might interest me.”
“I am not a rich man, I cannot bring you jewels or gold.”
“I do not wish for them,” said the merman.
“Then-?”
The merman disappeared beneath the waves quite without warning, leaving the fisherman wondering, for a moment, if he had gone mad and the whole conversation had been some figment of a crazed mind. He waited a minute, then a minute more, then another, until he had quite convinced himself he was insane and was about to throw his net back into the sea when the merman reappeared, clutching something in his hands. He threw it into the boat, where it landed with a thump at the fisherman’s feet.
“There,” the merman said. “I want something like that.”
It was a waterlogged book, the fisherman realised. An old sailing almanac. He had the selfsame book in his cottage, on the shelf near the fire.
“You want a book?” he asked.
The merman nodded. “I have tried to examine that one, but it falls apart. I have found others, too, but they always end up in pieces,” he said, disappointed. “I have tried wrapping them in kelp, I have tried keeping them safe beneath stones, but nothing works.”
“They can’t be kept in water,” said the fisherman. “Have you tried keeping them dry?”
The merman’s expression was puzzled. “You mean, keeping them above water?” The fisherman nodded. “Perhaps… I know of a cave where the tide would allow me entrance. I could keep this thing you call a book there.”
“You can read?” asked the fisherman, somewhat incredulously.
The merman turned an odd shade of blue that the fisherman took to mean he was blushing. “I am a quick study,” he said. “Bring me that book, and teach me to read, and I will ensure you always bring home a catch,” he commanded in a voice that would not be out of place on the deck of a ship of battle.
The wind was rising and the waves were growing rougher. The fisherman knew he only had a short time before the storm returned in full force.
“Alright,” he said to the merman. “I will bring you your book and I will teach you to read.”
“Then cast your nets,” said the merman.
The fisherman did so, and the merman dived beneath the sea. Within minutes he surfaced and called for the fisherman to haul in his catch. Into the belly of the boat went pilchards and herring, hake and mackerel, dogfish and sand eels; it was more fish than the fisherman had seen in months, and his mouth watered at the sight. “Thank you,” he said to the merman. “You have saved us.”
The merman smiled gently, and it was a soft smile, so impossibly warm that the fisherman’s heart leapt at the sight. He knew he would do anything to see that smile again.
“Come,” said the merman, his face growing serious once more. “The storm is almost upon us. Give me that line at the front of your ship, and I will pull you in close to your village.”
The fisherman furled his sails and threw the painter to the merman. It was not long before the skies opened up and the sea grew fierce, and the fisherman was very glad that the merman had decided to help him. When at last shore was in sight the merman threw back the painter and the fisherman unfurled and reefed his sails, for by now the wind was blowing very strong indeed, and it would be difficult sailing.
“You must go on from here,” shouted the merman over the wind. “I cannot risk my kin finding me here.”
“Thank you,” cried the fisherman, as he trimmed the sails. “I will bring you your book when next the weather calms.” He saluted. “It has been an honour to meet you, sir.”
The merman smiled, a little puzzled, and returned the salute. “An honour,” he echoed, and dived back beneath the waves.
It seemed a lifetime before the little boat made her way into the village harbour. When the fisherman looked up, he found the whole village standing there, waiting for him, and when they saw what he had brought they hoisted him into the air and carried him into the tavern with great whoops and cheers.
That night the village feasted on what the fisherman had brought. The women of the village crowded into the tavern’s kitchen and made enough fish stew to feed everyone twice. Even the cats and dogs were given scraps aplenty to eat, and after they had feasted they toasted the fisherman and cheered him. Several of the young women and one brave young man tried to get him to dance when the band struck up a merry tune, but he demurred, embarrassed and shy at the attention. It was well after midnight that the revelry died down- the merrymakers either having gone to sleep or busy preparing the fish for keeping- the fisherman slipped out of the tavern and made his way home. Before he went to bed that night he took down his old almanac and wrapped it in oilskin, and in a fit of sentimentality he tied the bundle with a long red ribbon that had once belonged to his youngest sister. It would look nice tying back the merman’s wild hair, he thought distantly as sleep took him at last.
It was not for another month that the storms subsided, but when they did at last ease the fisherman took his boat and his almanac and went out to the fishing banks where he first had met the merman. He sat, and he waited, and he waited, until he thought perhaps the merman had altogether forgotten him. As he made to sail for home the face he’d dreamt of every night for a month appeared, just off his bow, and smiled at him.
“Have you brought my book?” asked the merman.
The fisherman nodded and held up the package. “Take me to the place you spoke of, and I will show it to you.”
The merman assented, and once more took the painter line in hand and made for the shore, only this time he did not stop, taking the fisherman’s little boat in to a narrow gap between the cliffs. The tide was low and so the fisherman threw down his anchor and waded in to the little beach where the merman had pulled himself onto the sand to sit, his long silver tail resting in the water. The fisherman sat down beside him and handed over the package. The merman stared at it, entranced. His elegant fingers touched the red ribbon reverently, as though he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
“I thought the ribbon made it look pretty,” the fisherman explained, flustered. “The oilskin is too plain.”
The merman smiled warmly. “If this is what a few of my fish will bring me, I should have traded with you humans long ago,” he said, unwrapping the book. “Tell me, what does this say?” he asked, and the fisherman did.
It soon became routine that on days when the seas were calm the fisherman would take his little boat into the cliffs and sit with the merman and teach him to read and write by tracing letters in the damp sand. In return, his nets were always full, and in time the villagers came to believe that the fisherman had been blessed.
For half a year this continued on, until the almanac had been read and re-read half a hundred times, and the mathematics had been worked through until they were memorised, and the knots had been tied and untied until the merman could do them in his sleep. One fine day in late summer, as they sat on the beach in the cave, the fisherman dared to ask why it was the merman avoided his kin. They had barely read that day, for they both knew their time was at an end, and had instead talked for several hours, almost as if they were old friends.
“I am cast out by my own kin,” said the merman, carefully avoiding the fisherman’s eyes.
“Whatever for? Is it because of your sex?” the fisherman asked, for while he had heard much about mermaids he had heard little of mermen.
The merman shook his head. “There are males too, though we number far fewer than the females. My kind value males, for each one may mate with many females and thus bring about many children, but I…” He trailed off, visibly uncomfortable. The fisherman tried his best to not think about how wonderful it must be to mate with beautiful mermaids. “They will not mate with me,” he said pointedly.
“Why?” asked the fisherman. “You are handsome enough. You have all your parts, which is more than can be said for me,” he said lightly, knocking on his wooden leg.
The merman sighed. “I cannot sing,” said he. “I try, but…” He opened his mouth and let out a discordant wail that made the fisherman cover his ears and wince. “You see?”
The fisherman nodded sagely. “You could make a horn from a shell and blow that like the sea-gods of old,” he suggested.
“My kind sing, they do not blow horns. Do not mock me.” the merman said, irritated. “You should leave.”
The fisherman had learned by now that the merman’s temper ran hot, and so he nodded again and looked out to sea, where the tide was coming in.
“I suppose we are finished with the book,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing the sand from his trousers. “My debt to you is settled, unless you can think of some other way to put me in your debt.”
“Your debt is paid in full,” said the merman, stiffly. “You have your fish, and I have my book.” He sniffed. “I suppose this is farewell, then.”
The fisherman waded out to the boat and rolled himself in over the gunwales. When he stood up, boathook in hand for pushing off, he nodded at the merman, still sitting there on the sand with the book on his lap. The red ribbon was wound neatly beside him.
The fisherman saluted. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
The merman returned the salute, looking rather forlorn. “Goodbye then,” he said. “Full nets and calm seas to you.”
The fisherman turned away and began to push his boat out of the cave. He did not look back.
For the rest of the summer into autumn the fisherman took his boat out daily onto the sea, but he never again went back to the merman’s fishing grounds. Yet at night as he lay fast asleep in his bed he dreamt of the merman: strange dreams he had, of swimming deep beneath the waves. They were odd dreams that disquieted him, for the fisherman could not swim, but he brushed them aside. He had never been a man for melancholic misery.
Yet as summer turned to autumn and the sea became colder the fisherman began to regret never returning to the merman. While the villagers respected him, they never knew what to think of this strange, stern man with the wooden leg. In truth, the merman was the closest thing to a friend that the fisherman had ever known.
It took him several days to contrive a plan, but contrive one he did. The fisherman was not a well-educated man; he had gone to sea at twelve like most sailors, and he had little interest in literature. Yet the merman had liked the almanac, and had seemed interested in the fanciful stories the fisherman had told when he wanted to distract the merman from geometry, so perhaps tales of some kind were in order. He asked all through the village where he might find such books, and after days of searching, the village priest, pleased to see the fisherman trying to improve himself, sold him some heavy books written in ancient Greek and Latin, and lexicons to go with them. The fisherman took his prizes home and wrapped them in oil cloth, tying them off with string, for he had no more ribbon.
He took to sea the following day, and made his way to the cave and waited for the merman. All day he waited, until the moon was low in the sky and the tide was far out, and then he went and sat on the sandy floor of the cave and lit the lantern he had brought with him, hoping it would act like a beacon to draw the merman to him.
It was not long before he heard a splash and the face of his friend appeared above the water.
“What are you doing?” hissed the merman, angry. “You might have attracted my kin!”
“I didn’t,” the fisherman said.
“They would have killed you had they found you here, and taken your soul to rot in a cage for eternity!” snapped the merman, hauling himself up on the beach beside the fisherman. “You are a fool,” he pronounced.
“Perhaps you are right,” said the fisherman. He knew better than to take the merman’s words to heart.
The merman’s face softened and he sighed. “Forgive me,” he said at last. “I am angry that you went away.”
“I dreamt of you,” said the fisherman. “We were swimming together.” The merman was smiling. “What?” he asked.
“I dreamt of you too,” the merman confessed.
“I never knew a friend before you,” the fisherman said quickly. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I did not mean to.” He pulled out the package and handed it to the merman. “Here,” he said. “A gift.”
The merman stared at it, confused. “A gift?” he asked. “What do you want in return?”
“Nothing,” said the fisherman.
“I can give you fish,” said the merman, turning the package over in his hands. “I can bring you treasures from the deep- I know of wrecks where there is gold and silver and-”
“A gift is something you give without expecting anything in return,” the fisherman said firmly, pushing the package back into the merman’s hands when he tried to hand it over.
“I am sorry,” said the merman. “No one has ever given me anything before. I must offend you with my rudeness. I am the most foolish son of a sea urchin who ever lived. I am as dumb as a rockfish. I-” He stopped himself before he could go on, mastering his emotions with practiced ease. “Thank you,” he said. A sly smile came across his face. “Perhaps there is one thing I can give you.”
The fisherman sighed. “I want for nothing-” he began, but the merman lunged at him, pinning him down on the sand, and kissing him soundly. He kissed like a shark- all teeth and enthusiasm- and the fisherman felt as though he were being devoured, but the merman’s body was soft and warm against his as they lay there, and the fisherman knew this was the best kind of devouring.
At last, when he could breathe no more he pushed the merman off of him and wiped his mouth, breathing hard. The merman’s expression was that of amusement as he lay on his side, looking at the fisherman, his head propped up on his arm.
“I’ve seen you humans do that for years,” he said. “Always wondered what it was like.”
“Did you like it?” asked the fisherman, nervous.
The merman thought for a moment. “I am uncertain. Perhaps I will try it again later, after I look at my gift.”
The books made the merman smile, and he thumbed through their pages with undisguised joy. He quite liked them, and told the fisherman as much. When the lantern burned low, and the fisherman made overtures of leaving, the merman kissed him once again: a good, sound kiss that made the fisherman ache for more. They parted that night with fond farewells, and as his little boat made its way back to the harbour the fisherman felt warmer than he had all year.
They met almost every day from that night on. The merman quickly puzzled out Greek and Latin and was soon reading to the fisherman. He developed a taste for Latin poetry, becoming strangely fond of Horace, and devoured any of the old Greek tales. The village priest soon began to send to the city for books, and seemed pleased that the fisherman had developed such refined taste.
It did not take long for the villagers to notice the flush in the fisherman’s cheek, or the smile on his face, and soon a joke began to circulate that he’d gone and fallen in love with a mermaid. It was a joke, of course, for in truth they thought it was all due to the extra coin he’d been making, bringing full boatloads of fish as he had been. Perhaps he had a girl over in another harbour, some said. None of them could guess the truth.
The truth of the matter was that no matter what he told himself, the fisherman had fallen in love. It was foolhardy, perhaps, maybe even dangerous to fall in love with a merman, but he could not help it. Perhaps his sentiments were returned, for the merman began to wear the red ribbon in his hair, but the fisherman was never certain. What he did know, however, was that the merman had discovered that he quite enjoyed kissing, and though some days it was impossible to tear him away from his Horace or his Herodotus, there were still more days when he put aside his books altogether and lay in the sand and kissed the fisherman. By spring the fisherman summoned up the courage to ask the merman how he liked to be touched, and they spent so long kissing and exploring each other that the tide came in and soaked them quite throughly, much to the fisherman’s distress and the merman’s delight.
One night, near midsummer, the merman took the fisherman to a wide stretch of beach, and there they lay down and under a blanket of stars entwined themselves so tight it was as though they were one being.
The fisherman woke later in the night to find the merman awake, sitting at the edge of the water, staring out into the darkness. He was keening softly to himself, and the sound was so dissonant and eerie that the fisherman shivered to hear it.
“What is it?” asked the fisherman, sitting down by his friend. He touched the merman’s hand. “Have I caused you distress?”
The merman was silent for a very long time.
“I thought it would be different,” he said at last. “I thought I would feel whole.” The fisherman did not understand, and so the merman tried again. “My kind, we do not have souls like you humans. When we die there is no paradise for us, only nothingness, but if we capture the heart of a human we gain a little bit of their soul, and so we are granted heaven.”
“Is that why the mermaids entrance sailors so?” asked the fisherman.
The merman frowned. “They take the souls of the drowned and keep them in cages, but those souls will never belong to them. The heart must be given freely, not stolen, but my people are inherently selfish.”
The fisherman floundered, having never been good with words. Finally he spoke.
“You have my heart. If my soul is mine to give to whom I will then you have that too. There is nothing I will not share with you: my heart, my hearth, my bed- even my life, all of them are yours.”
“Can you make me human?” asked the merman, hopeful.
“No,” said the fisherman. “I do not have that power.” When he saw how the merman’s face fell he reached out and took the merman’s hands in his. “If I could see you made human, I would.” He smiled, suddenly as shy and tongue-tied as a lovestruck boy. “You could share my home, and we would never have to spend a day apart. You could even sleep in a real bed, with sheets, and everything.”
“Tell me what it’s like to be human,” demanded the merman, and so the fisherman spoke of his life until the sky began to lighten and he knew he had to return to his village before he was missed. With a kiss he bade farewell to the merman and headed for home.
Every day for a month the fisherman returned to the merman’s fishing grounds, and every day for a month he waited in vain for his friend to appear. He was neither a man of great imagination nor a man prone to worrying, so he did not think much of it, but when the merman returned, one month after they had lain together on the beach, the fisherman grew concerned. Something had happened in their month apart. There was a restlessness to the merman that the fisherman had never seen before, a hunger in his strange dark eyes that made the fisherman shiver.
“I have found something marvellous,” said the merman, a shark-like grin on his face. “Meet me on the beach where last we met, three days hence.” And without another word he dived back beneath the waters and disappeared into the depths.
It was on the third day that the fisherman returned to the beach where they had lain together all those months ago, and there he found his merman, sitting on the sand with his library of books — only it wasn’t his merman, not really, for the creature in front of him was wholly human, from head to foot. He stared, unable to speak, and the creature that had once been a merman began to laugh at him.
It was his laughter that broke the spell, for despite appearing human the creature still laughed like the merman — that dreadful gurgling noise that made the hair on the back of the fisherman’s neck stand up. He was the merman, there was no doubt, yet somehow he had achieved the impossible; he had become a man.
“What have you done?” asked the fisherman, afraid. The merman rose to his feet. He was tall, realised the fisherman, perhaps six feet in height, taller than the fisherman. He wavered, unsteady on his new legs, and stepped towards the fisherman. The fisherman stepped away. “What have you done?” he asked again.
The merman ignored him. “There is an old witch who dwells in the sea-caves in the dark depths of the sea. There she keeps a garden of plants that glow blue and green in the black of the deep ocean. I heard of her when I was a pup, but never believed she existed until I found her. Her people dislike her, you see, because she has a soul — when she was younger, she fell in love with a human maiden. This maiden returned her love, and the witch scoured the world to find a way to allow them to be together. At last she found a plant that was said to transform birds into fish, and so she took it to her beloved, and so they were united beneath the sea. Her beloved is long passed — humans live such short lives — but the witch has a soul and will be reunited with her beloved in the beyond.”
“What was it that gave her a soul?” asked the fisherman.
At that, the merman frowned. “She says in order to gain a soul, love must be given freely without any expectation. To be prepared to give up everything for the sake of that one person. That, or a lifetime of hard work. She says I will know when I have a soul — I will feel free.”
“I see,” said the fisherman, although he did not.
“Well now,” said the merman. “We’d best get going. I’d quite like to see that bed you promised me.”
The journey back to the fisherman’s village was quiet. The merman observed everything with hungry curiosity — how the fisherman handled the tiller and the sheets, how the waves parted before the bow of the little boat, how the seagulls screamed and circled above them. He was even more wide-eyed when they sailed into the little harbour, and the fisherman drew up his boat beside all the others on the soft sand.
“These are what you live in?” he asked, looking around at the stone houses that lined the harbour. “These… caves?”
“Houses,” corrected the fisherman gently. “The white one on the far side, there, with the blue shutters, that’s mine. Here, put this on,” he said, throwing the merman his oilskin coat. “People don’t like it when others walk around without clothes.”
The merman rather begrudgingly pulled the coat on. “It’s uncomfortable,” he complained.
“I’ll get you something better at home. I think I still have a couple pairs of trousers with both legs intact,” he said, and together they went up to the fisherman’s cottage.
The evening proved to be both amusing and frustrating. The merman was reluctantly coaxed into clothing, which he wore with an air of distaste, and then settled down before the fire with some fried fish and bread.
“I don’t like it,” said the merman, throwing the fish into the fire where it sizzled and blackened.
“If you are as human as you say, then you cannot eat what you are used to,” said the fisherman. “Raw fish will make you sick.”
The merman cleared his throat in displeasure. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said peevishly.
The fisherman sighed and went back to his own dinner.
As the fisherman washed the plates later on, he noticed the merman limping as he walked around the room, picking things up and examining them.
“Have you hurt your feet?” asked the fisherman. The merman shook his head.
“It is the curse of walking on land. I am human, yes, but not wholly. When I walk I feel as if I am stepping across sharp barnacles.” He squared himself. “I will learn to keep it hidden, of course.”
The fisherman went over to the merman and took him by the hand. “You must not pain yourself for me. You must understand: when you hurt, so do I.”
The merman stared at him, bewildered. “Is that truly how you feel?”
“There is nothing I would not give up for you,” said the fisherman, and then blushed. “Forgive me, I did not mean to be so forward. I do not expect you to understand. You are so very different than me.”
The merman’s hand on his face was warm — far warmer than it had ever been before. “I still haven’t seen that bed of yours,” he said in a low, quiet voice. “You say that is where you humans-”
“Yes,” interrupted the fisherman, his face now very red.
“Good,” the merman said, grinning. It was the grin of a shark who had cornered a seal. “Those dishes over there can wait. I have some new body parts I’d quite like to try out.”
Over the next few days the true nature of the merman’s new body became clear. He was, for all intents and purposes, a man, yet there were still parts of him still otherworldly. He always smelled of salt, and he gurgled when he laughed, and he could see frighteningly well in the dark. He was also drawn to water; a bath every day kept him happy, though it had to be freshwater as submersion in seawater would see him lose his legs. His feet hurt him with every step, though at the urging of the fisherman it was discovered that soft shoes did help a little.
It was a week after the fisherman had brought the merman home that they ventured out to sea again, this time in search of fish. Though the merman could no longer see the schools of fish beneath the sea, he had such knowledge of the workings of the sea and the movements of the tides and the winds that it made no difference. It did not take long for them to bring back a haul of shiny silver fish, and in time, they became quite well-off indeed. Soon, their presence was noted at the weekly dance in the tavern, and though the fisherman did not participate it was clear he was just as happy watching his friend dance the hours away, until the early hours of the morning when they would limp back home together.
And so they carried on in this manner quite happily for a time, though it could be said that the merman was perhaps a little restless. But on one terrible day, war was declared. Across the country able-bodied men were called into service, and soon the merman volunteered himself to join the fight. The fisherman, though still young, knew he could not follow the merman to sea on account of his leg. A sailor who could not climb the rigging was not fit for the king’s navy. He sat in his armchair and wept bitterly the night before the merman left him.
“I must go,” said the merman, kissing the fisherman’s forehead. “Don’t you see? I can earn my soul this way.”
The fisherman did not understand. He stared into the fire blankly, cursing this world that would see them separated.
The merman tried again. “I am going to sea,” he said. “There is no storm I cannot outmanoeuvre, save the kind my kin can call up, and even then I have my tricks; I know their hunting grounds and where they would seek to wreck ships. No harm will come to me. I will win my soul, and then we will be together.”
The fisherman yet wept, and so the merman took him in his arms and kissed him. They fell asleep that night tangled in each other’s arms, but when the fisherman woke the next morning his bed was cold. There was no trace of the merman in the cottage, no trace of him in the village. The fisherman might have thought it all a mad dream had not news of the merman come to the village some months later. The merman had fought in a great battle, it was said, and won great renown for himself through his courage and ability. It did not take long for the merman to be promoted, first to lieutenant, then to commander. The fisherman noted with amusement that the papers seemed to think the merman was some kind of gentleman magician, like the late great admiral had been — the kind of man who can conjure storms with alchemical flasks, or predict the weather with a mirrored bowl, all while quoting the great philosophers. The fisherman read it all and laughed; the papers would never guess that their hero was a creature feared by sailors.
He wrote the merman as often as he could, and he received letters in return, but it was never enough. He found his hands ached at night for want of something real to touch and hold. Perhaps that was why he began to build the boat, perhaps it was to keep his mind off how empty his bed felt at night. He did not bother himself with the reason — he wanted to build a boat, and so he did, working late into the night in his boathouse on the craft. Just a small thing, but with a draught just shallow enough to be manoeuvrable close to the shore, but with enough of a keel to provide stability in rougher seas. He poured his heart into the boat, obsessing over every detail, spending hours painting and varnishing her until she shone like a new coin. He took her out to sea once, to test her seaworthiness, and satisfied, returned her to the boathouse where he polished her obsessively. She belonged to the merman.
Finally, two years and five days since the merman had gone away, he returned. He was a post-captain now, the epaulette on his shoulders shining in the evening sun as he stood on the doorstep of the fisherman’s cottage.
The fisherman embraced him, and drew him inside the cottage where he could kiss him out of view of the village. The merman still tasted of the sea, the fisherman thought quite happily, as he was bundled into bed. All the hours of longing came undone at once, and it was not for two days that they finally left the bed for good. They walked through the village, where the fisherman pointed out the subtle important changes that had happened in the merman’s time away — the baker’s new sign, or the vicar’s Sisyphean attempt to grow begonias in such an unsuitable climate. When at last they came to the boathouse the fisherman’s hands were shaking, and he could barely look as the merman stepped inside and saw what awaited him.
“She’s yours,” the fisherman said.
The merman ran his hands lightly over her gunwales, unable to believe what was before him. When at last he spoke he was overcome with emotion in a way the fisherman had never seen.
“Is there nothing you will not give me?” he asked, incredulous.
The fisherman smiled. “No,” he admitted. “I would give my life for you.”
The merman looked at him strangely. “Come,” he said, “Let us go out on the water. I have something I wish to show you.”
They took the little boat far out to sea, to where the shore was no more than a dark smudge on the horizon. The sun was setting, the heavens ablaze with light, and the merman sat back in the boat and gazed up.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“I suppose,” said the fisherman, who considered one sunset much like the other. “What was it you wanted to show me?”
“Patience,” said the merman. “We must wait.” He did not speak again until the sky grew dark and the stars appeared. Finally, he spoke. “There,” he said, pointing at a star. “That is what I wished to show you.”
The fisherman stared at him, confused. “The North Star? It’s just a star to set your course. Nothing special about it, other than its steadfastness, perhaps.”
“Every night it rises, stead and true, even though we do not always see it. Every night I look to that star to be reminded of you,” the merman said softly, and in that moment the fisherman understood. The merman was not a creature who could ever love — love was not natural to his species as it was for mankind, but he was a creature who knew of devotion, and as much as a creature such as he could ever be devoted, so he was devoted to the fisherman.
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Date: 2020-01-17 04:07 am (UTC)The fisherman likes it. *singsong* He liiiiiiiikes it!