Fearie Tales

by Fearie Tales- Stories of the Grimm

  He suddenly stiffened, sat up straight and seemed to gaze far out over the reef. And: “Look at that!” he said. “Directly behind you, out there! Are those dolphins I see in the bay?”

  I at once turned, looked and saw nothing: just a splash in the water, maybe, where a fish—but only a very small one—might have jumped and soared aloft for a single moment. So I narrowed my eyes, squinting in order to focus more intently on the calm surface out beyond the reef. And still there was nothing to be seen …

  But there was something to be felt!

  I felt it on the towel that covered my thighs where I had draped it for modesty’s sake while removing my swimming trunks and pulling on my shorts: the soft thump! of something landing there. And I immediately snatched my head around to see what it was, never for a moment thinking it might be the ornament from the stranger’s shriveled ear. But that’s exactly what it was: the golden medallion on its inch of fine chain.

  Then as I switched my gaze to the man himself, I saw the disturbed motion of his robe: purplish ripples spreading over its dense, singular surface. So then, it seemed I wasn’t alone in my concerns about modesty. But still I had to ask myself: What harm would there have been in letting me witness the action of hand and arm as he plucked the ornament from its anchorage and tossed it into my lap? Why the obvious red herring—the pretense and distraction—of a nonexistent leaping dolphin?

  And then there was another thing: from what I could make of it, there were no openings in his robe, which appeared to be fashioned in a single piece. More truly like a monk’s cassock, it lacked buttons or an overlap in front; neither were there sleeves nor any visible armholes! But while I would later remember and think of these things, at that time my interest was more especially centered on the medallion.

  It was indeed of a kind with those two or three items I had managed to collect over the years; it had the same silvery luster. But I had long since had my specimens tested and there was nothing of silver—or platinum, or any other easily identifiable alloy—in them. As for the ornament I now held in my hand, trying to keep it from reflecting the odd beam of failing light: for all that it was scarcely two inches in diameter, still the intricacy and marvelous quality of its almost cabalistic, minuscule designs—not to mention their otherworldly, often as not sub-aquatic themes—imbued it with an appearance that was in short completely weird and indeed alien. And these were the qualities which had attracted me to this anthropologically esoteric strain of art in the first place. Even as they continued to attract me now.

  The craftsmanship, as I have mentioned, was of an amazingly high quality. But despite that it looked stamped, almost to the “proofed” degree of fine precious-metal coinage, still the otherwise undeniable beauty of its reliefs was spoiled by their depiction of awesome, indeed sinister monsters. This was hardly surprising: the specimens in my personal collection were adorned in a like fashion with grotesque ichthyic high reliefs where lesser fishlike or batrachian figures—including several that appeared to be hybrid varieties of both types—were not only extraordinarily humanlike in their postures and attitudes but were also very bizarrely attired in late eighteenth-or nineteenth-century-styled clothing! These lesser figures were pictured as the servitors, even the worshippers, of greater, far more horrifically alien beings or creatures.

  As for the source of such ornaments and the queer alloys from which they were fashioned, who could say with any degree of certainty? Among my friends back in England were several so-called experts who at various times had hazarded opinions that ranged from Cambodia or perhaps Papua New Guinea to the South Sea Islands, in particular Hawaii; yet despite my contacts abroad I knew of no outlets in such foreign parts and had purchased my own specimens from salesrooms and numismatic sources in towns in the English southwest, which is to say Exeter in Devon and Penzance in Cornwall.

  With regard to the latter: that should not be considered especially surprising, for in the day there were indeed “Pirates in Penzance,” and examples of their booty—the foreign plunder they brought back with them from many a blood-soaked voyage—may still be discovered, albeit increasingly rarely, at small-town auctions, or for sale in antique curiosity shops across the counties of the far southwest … always assuming of course that one knows where to look.

  Moreover, in comparatively recent to modern times there has been no lack of legitimate eighteenth-and nineteenth-century commercially venturesome seafarers, ensuring that ports such as Plymouth and Falmouth have been ever astir with vessels returning from afar full of foreign produce. And among the crews of those vessels were those who came home with other than typical goods—even a few who brought back to British shores “companions” in the form of dusky tropical-island ladies, some of whom were as “wives” to their sailor “husbands.”

  According to rumors passed down the decades by word of mouth from old salts—tales that may still be heard to this day in certain wharf-side taverns—at least a handful of these kanaka women were known to have worn outlandish, cold but seductive golden jewelry.

  That stories such as these were not so much rumor as factual, reasonably accurate contemporary reports and accounts had always seemed self-evident to me, which my personal possession of those several aforementioned items had, to my satisfaction, amply served to corroborate.

  And now, as I gave my attention to the stranger’s earring, all such facts were passing in short order through my mind; so that it was probably my expression as I handled the thing—an expression that displayed less of surprise or amazement than of definite familiarity, perhaps strengthening in the other’s eyes my claim of ownership—which decided the course of the rest of this unconventional encounter.

  For now it seemed he accepted all that I had said, though so far there had been little enough of that, as a result becoming far more conversationally reasonable. And thus:

  “Interesting, are they not?” he said, all signs of enmity gone as quickly as that from his voice and attitude. “The tiny reliefs on the disk, I mean.”

  “Very,” I agreed, albeit stumblingly. “Indeed fascinating … if less than entirely unique.” Then, remembering his alleged sensitivity, I hoped that I had said the right thing. But I need not have worried.

  “Apparently”—he nodded—“for I note from your expression that you have indeed seen such before; which is to say the several items that you profess to possess. But may I inquire where you obtained them? Not that I doubt you, you understand, but it may perhaps explain something of how an Englishman such as yourself comes to own such … well, such rarities … not to mention your obvious interest in them.”

  I saw no harm in answering his inquiry, and so as I finished dressing and bundling my things, without making a meal of it I told of my beginnings: my young, earliest years as a math teacher in a school in Newquay; my interest, living so close to the sea, in all aspects of oceanology, but more as a hobby than a career; my later obsession with numismatics that came with my father’s lifelong collection of precious coins and medals when he had passed on, and which in my early thirties replaced teaching as my career of choice. And yes, indeed there had been just such coins or medallions as the earring among the many hundreds of items the Old Man had left to me.

  More, I went on to speak of my discoveries and theories—mainly the lack of such—regarding the source of these peculiar, oddly repellent yet fascinating ornaments: that I believed they had arrived in England around the 1820s and ’30s along with the South Sea Island women; and finally I described as accurately as I could remember them the samples in my collection and how and where I had come across them.

  Then, when I was done, he who had remained silently attentive in the ever more swiftly deepening dusk—the sun having by then gone down behind the rim of the cliffs at the western curve of the bay—at last cried out, or rather choked, gasped and gurgled:

  “Ahhh! In the southwest! But of course! Taken to England by … by my people. It all fits, yes. But the only thing that doesn’t fit is you yourself!
I mean, why your obvious affinity with these golden baubles? For that is all they are—or were—to them that fashioned them. But you don’t have the eyes for it, or the chin, the lips—the general otherness—that results from the changes. Nor for that matter do you seem to have the additions—or, to your way of thinking, the ‘anomalies’—necessary for any sort of prolonged … of prolonged survival out there! So that for your part the connection must be circumstantial, entirely coincidental, including your coming here. Quite remarkable!”

  I had no idea what he was talking about—or perhaps only the faintest idea, as yet half-formed in the back of my mind—and made as if to rise. For coming to me from nowhere I sensed a need more urgent than any I had known so far to be away from that no longer idyllic place, and from him, both of which were suddenly and utterly alien to me. But while the urge to depart was very strong, so was my … my desire to know whatever else there was to know, which I had not yet learned or understood.

  In any case, before I could get to my feet:

  “Ah, but wait! Don’t be in such a rush!” he said. And his words, while gutturally formed, sounded at least reasonably normal when compared with what had gone immediately before, as he almost visibly attempted to exert a measure of control over himself. And in the next moment, as I surrendered to my natural curiosity and remained seated—for I still couldn’t allow that I was in any way actually threatened by the other, whether he was entirely sane or indeed suffering from some kind of sorely disordered intellect—he said:

  “Perhaps to explain something of my own presence here, which I had mistakenly thought might in some way apply to you also, perhaps I should relate … perhaps I might tell you a story, yes? One that I heard a long time ago and which has for origin those same counties of southwest England where you say you discovered your own—er, should I call them exotic, even though they are scarcely that to me?—but your own specimens anyway. And then, in payment for your patience, your audience, you must allow me to make you a gift of the one you hold in your hand, hopefully to enhance your collection.”

  And before I could protest or immediately offer to return the thing:

  “No, no!” He shook his head. “For when my … my story is done you may be sure I shall feel compensated for the bauble, if only by virtue of your company for a few extra minutes.”

  And now there was no way out but to sit still and listen, and suffer his stench, as the light in that cliff-shadowed bay grew dimmer by the minute and the air cooler but no less vile; until after a longish pause—I assumed to gather his thoughts—finally he continued:

  “There was in Cornwall a young man who loved the sea. An orphan, found as a babe on the shore where the tide could not reach him, he had grown up on the charity of others until, in recognition of his superior intelligence, he secured a grant which permitted him to attend a university. There he obtained excellent grades that guaranteed him later work in a suitable occupation—as a theoretical physicist—which in turn made him completely self-reliant.

  “He lived alone, earning a more-than-adequate living from his work, and just like you spent much of his free time beach-combing or swimming, but mainly thinking, which I am sure you will appreciate is the way of men of his persuasions. And in a bay similar to this one—though more dramatically in keeping with the craggy Cornish coastline—he would don his mask and snorkel to go exploring on and just below the surface of the water. Which is where any comparison with yourself would seem to end.

  “One day, a little further out at sea and in deeper water than usual, while observing a great but entirely harmless basking shark, he failed to notice the storm that was suddenly brewing as the wind picked up and the sky began to darken over. By the time he became aware of the danger the waves were beginning to throw him about and his swim-fins were inadequate against powerful surges and a tide driven by the wind.

  “Well, to cut a long story short, he quickly found himself in trouble; indeed he was sure it was the end as his strength gave out and his lungs filled with brine, and he began to sink beneath an increasingly turbulent surface … and the land so seemingly close and yet so far away.

  “And then for a while no more …

  “Except it wasn’t the end but in fact the beginning of a very different life—or existence!

  “He regained consciousness in a fisherman’s ancient cottage, in a tiny village close to the Devon-Cornwall border, where he was tended by just such a dusky female—the fisherman’s wife—as your research shows was brought to England from the South Sea islands all those many years ago as the common-law ‘wife’ of a sailor … or she was at least descended from such. And in time it transpired that this was indeed the case, mainly because of the evidence which was apparent in the … well, shall we say the nature? … in the nature, then, of her son; which at first seemed anything but natural in the opinion of our very slowly recovering protagonist.

  “But enough of that; rather than slow the story down, let it suffice to say that this lone child of the fisherman and his exotic wife was a changeling creature, not so much a freak as a mutant, and less of a mutant than a protean … But there again, even that is not entirely correct, for the word ‘protean’ is more the definition of an ability to assume different shapes, while the youth of the story had no such ability but was fixed in his changeling guise or form.

  “And if I may for a moment digress: as a man of learning, indeed a teacher, I am sure you will recognize the source of that word ‘protean.’ It derives, of course, from ‘Proteus,’ the name of an ancient Greek sea god with the power to readily change his shape to whatever was desired. Ah, those remarkable Greeks and their yet-more-remarkable mythology! But which sea god were they in fact referring to, eh? The Philistine sea god Dagon, perhaps? Or possibly something much older than him? For, like the Romans, they were inclined to adopt willy-nilly the so-called gods of other lands and civilizations. Or was this Proteus some even greater power: one that Dagon himself might have worshipped, for example? And despite the name they’d given him, was he really so variable, so instantly inconstant? Or was that in fact his skill in … well, in bringing about changes—sea changes—in others?

  “But there, I must relate the tale as I, er, heard it, and not get too far ahead of myself. And, to return to the subject of the only gradual recovery experienced by our protagonist—not to mention the constant care, peculiar physiotherapeutic and other esoteric treatments provided by the fisherfolk, or more properly the fisherwife—here was a mystery indeed. For apart from his near drowning, before being rescued and taken aboard the fisherman’s boat, details of which he recalled little or nothing, he did not appear to have suffered any especially threatening injury. In short, from the moment he regained consciousness he seemed entirely intact, if weak from prolonged inactivity, but in every other respect ‘as sound’—as they are wont to say—‘as a bell.’

  “So why, then, all of this dusky lady’s tremendous efforts on his behalf? And why had he not been visited or seen, and his treatments overseen, by a properly qualified physician? But on the handful of occasions when he thought to ask such questions they were never satisfactorily answered—at least, not for quite a long time …

  “But it was not too long a time before certain changes began to manifest themselves, when at last his nurse, the dusky lady of the house, became more voluble as to his specifics.

  “She did not wish to shock or frighten him, she said, but now that his condition was—how to put it?—in flux, it was time he knew the truth: that he hadn’t merely nearly drowned in that storm but had very certainly drowned; in short he had been dead, albeit recently so, when her menfolk snatched him from the raging sea. Thus her first efforts on his behalf were performed in order to revitalize him … She had quite literally brought him back to life!

  “Well of course he found that difficult to believe. He was a learned man of science, albeit mainly theoretical, but metaphysics was not within his scope! On the other hand, however, the changes I have mentioned—subtle and no
t-so-subtle alterations in his physical being—were similarly incredible however self-evident. Indeed, and if he was not losing his mind, they were utterly impossible. And yet they were real!

  “But the dusky lady, this descendant of a heterogeneous people from far foreign parts, was also able to explain at least something of these transformations: knowledge or understanding that had been passed down to her by her ancestors. For it was in her blood, her very genes—which were not entirely human! It was why her son was the way he was, though he would and did pass for human: a throwback, however malformed! And the freakishness that our protagonist had noted in him corresponded in part, if only a small part, to greater changes that he could sense were even now taking place in him!

  “For the ungainly youth was certainly a kind of reversion, one that showed some of the characteristics of an earlier developmental type. A throwback, yes … but to what? To those monstrously alien creatures on the disk that I have given you? Or, if not them, to their protean creators, then? For that disk is nothing less than a sample of several items which the dusky lady would later entrust into the keeping of our horrified protagonist … !”

  Horrific, yes: a fitting description of this extraordinary, indeed incredible story. And now, as its narrator paused to take great gulping, wheezing, powerful emotional breaths, I became aware of his growing agitation: the way he seemed to wobble where he sat, like some enormous, freshly set jelly. Then, as I tried to gather my own more-than-mildly-disturbed thoughts, he said:

  “But look, it’s getting late and we must go our separate ways … soon. For though I promise that I shall not keep you too much longer—and I can see how very eager you are to be on your way—still the tale is not yet told. Not in its entirety …”

  He was of course right: the shadows in the little bay were almost visibly creeping now, and likewise my flesh as the—the person?—opposite me, where I sat shivering, prepared to continue the telling of what could only be his own fantastic story; a tale which I had no doubt he believed in every detail, despite that it was obviously the figment of a warped imagination.