The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  Fionn broached the subject first. "Da', about the mermaids. Is it true if you catch one and take it home to wife, you will become rich and powerful?"

  "Richer than the Earl of Seaforth?" Derry wanted to know.

  "More powerful than the king?" asked Dugan, the oldest.

  "Is that what they say?" Seamus mused. "I never met anyone who caught one."

  There was another long, companionable silence while the three digested that. Again, Fionn reopened the subject: "Was there no' a French lord who married one?"

  "Ah, yes, Raymond of Poitou. It was quite a story. Judge you for yourselves. It seems, a century or so ago, the count met this beautiful woman in the woods. Immediately he fell in love with her. And she with him. So, he proposed. She accepted on one condition: that he never attempt to see her on Saturday. The count agreed and they were married. Over the years, she gave him three sons and made him rich beyond his dreams. He grew old, but she did no'. He suspected the secret of her youthfulness lay in what she did on Saturday in her room. Overcome by curiosity and consumed by jealousy, he bored a hole in her door so that he might see what she did on this day. He was half pleased, half disappointed to discover she spent her time innocently enough taking a bath. He was about to leave his peephole when he saw this tail go flip-flop in the bathwater.

  Thinking only to protect his wife, he drew his sword and charged through the door. There in the tub was a naked woman from the navel up... but from the navel down, she had a long, scaly fish tail. Since the count had broken his word, Melusine kept hers. She flew out o' the window and was ne'er seen again."

  Fionn it was, with the mind as quick as his mother's lovetap, who put his finger on the fallacy. "Da' you say they had three boys?"

  "Aye."

  "And the count did no' know his wife was a fish from the waist down?"

  Dugan, once he was pointed in the right direction, was no simpleton either. "Can you imagine sharin' your bed with a slippery fish and no' knowin' it?"

  "Those nobles," guffawed Deny, "must do it different from you and me."

  Seamus kept a straight face and continued drawing shapes in the sand. The other three picked their teeth—Bonn's mother had supplied the smoked meat and it was a bit stringy—or they scratched, since they shared the cave with sand fleas.

  Again it was Fionn, who, like a terrier with a rat, refused to let go but must play with the subject till satisfied it was dead. "They say the Seaforths could tell us a lot about mermaids if they wished."

  Seamus's head snapped upright. "Who says?"

  "Many, no' just one or two."

  "And what do they say?" Seamus's eyes narrowed; he sensed real trouble.

  Dugan, the oldest by three months, came to his younger brother's rescue. "That long ago, a Seaforth found a mermaid stranded high up on the beach. Instead of killing her, he carried her down to the sea and let her go. She would have married him but he was already wed. So she told him the whereabouts of a treasure chest. To this day, whenever they need money, they just go dip in that chest."

  "That's no' all," Deny added. "They say she gave him a ring carved with the figure of a Mer-Lion on it and told him, if ever he were in trouble, to turn the ring on his finger and a real Mer-Lion would come to the rescue."

  "You believe this?" Seamus asked incredulously.

  "I've seen the ring,'' Deny said, the other two nodding agreement.

  Seamus, in the face of stupidity, turned sarcastic. "And if a Mer-Lion could come to the Seaforth's rescue, why did the beastie no' come to the mermaid's?"

  Logical Fionn knew the answer to that. "Maybe she didn't have the ring with her."

  Now, Seamus knew he was losing his temper, "But if the ring could have rescued him, why did he no' use it two months ago to escape his assassins?"

  "Yes," Dugan agreed, "why didn't he?"

  "Ninny," Fionn answered, "this Seaforth lost one arm, how could he turn the ring on his only hand?"

  That did it. Seamus saw red. He wouldn't stand for his sons' making his lord's honorable wound a source for such speculation. He surged to his feet like a bear at bay, and his boys, who had felt the heavy weight of his ham-like hands before, scrambled for safety. Lowering his head purposefully, he stalked back into the cave. At the sight of his glowering face, all of his men retreated. On he came, until he had his whole troop backed up in the depths of the cave.

  Then his men felt the full weight of Seamus's tongue:

  "You make me sick, you and your talk! Mermaids, you say. And what would mermaids want with the likes o' you, you weasel-beaked sons of harlots. Faced with a middenhill full of drabs with their skirts around their waists, you would no' ha' the sense to untie your codpiece. As for a mermaid, dizards! Dodkins! Dolts! You would no' know one if you saw one. I'll be shit if I think you even know which end to make love to. If there be any but bairns among you, we'll find out the truth of this mermaid story. Here and now. Tonight. If the lights dare come back. Now get out of my sight."

  The men scattered as best they might. For the rest of the evening they gave Seamus a wide berth.

  The night came and went without event, as did the next and the next. It was only toward the end of the week that the men began to step less fearfully and talk more freely. It was not that tongue-lashings were new to them. In fact, it was almost a matter of pride with them that their Irish captain was the tongue-lashingest, evil-speakingest, most foul-mouthed fulminator in all of Scotland. Like a storm, they knew his anger would eventually pass. What they didn't know was when. Besides, by the end of the week they had another subject to keep minds and mouths busy. Would the new Lord Seaforth really come home? Would he, after eight years' absence and eight years' silence, answer his mother's summons?

  Seamus didn't want to admit, even to himself, that their wait here might be in vain. Only a dullard, however, would deny that the young master was taking his good sweet time. If he did, indeed, arrive this night, it would not be one day early.

  One way or another, with the young master or without, Seamus decided, he and his men would be gone before daybreak; their saddlebags were already packed. He couldn't wait to be gone. Then, one week to the night of their first sighting, the mermaids returned.

  Passing among his men as they stared wide-eyed, fearful yet fascinated, out at the flickering, shimmering lights dancing so lightly over the reef and waving enticingly from deep within each breaking wave, Seamus did what came naturally to him in extremity. He swore. At the mermaids. At Frenchmen in general. At French seamen in specific. At young lords who keep their men waiting. At Douglases in Tantallon. At assassins of good, honest men. At anything and everything. Gradually, he could see the men relax and shift their attention away from the sea to their captain. His swearing they could deal with. It was the unknown that terrified them. Once he had completely loosened the hypnotic grasp of those lights, he would make his move; for he knew it would take more than words to quell their fear. It was time to challenge their manhood. Without pause, he raised his voice and called to the lights:

  "Come ashore, you blinkin' scaly lasses. C'mon in here and meet up with some o' Scotland's finest. They're so hard up they'll be good for the whole night. You can steal the heart of every mother-lovin' son of them. Wink an eye and you can tow 'em out to sea like speared whales. C'mon in, I say, they're waitin' for you. Well, what's keepin' you? You fickle, slimy-tailed harlots o' the sea. Shake your tails and get on in here where we can get a look at you."

  The men waited in silence as Seamus stood motioning the glimmering lights in toward the rocky shore.

  "Well, if they will no' come to us, we'll go to them. Who is with - me? That is if there are any but bairns among you. Or is mat why the mermaids leave you alone? Do they know something I don't? Maybe those codpieces are empty. Or ha' you all been gelded? Who'll go? Or do I have to kick some buns first?

  "Florin, Dugan, Deny, get the boat ready to launch. Who else is man enough to row out and bring back a wife, or at least a jewel or two?"

 
; Greed fought with fear, and greed won. John the Small stepped forward first. He was joined by one, then another of his coterie. Then by twos and threes and fours, they volunteered until Seamus had the entire troop from which to choose. Other than John the Small, whom he couldn't very well pass over, Seamus chose the least imaginative among them. Stalwart, steady types—ones you might call slow—and his own sons.

  Dugan, as oldest and steadiest, he put in the bow. His other two sons he assigned to the prow with him. The three of them launched the boat with such great force that it sent waves out to meet the breakers head-on. At this, the lights retreated, moving, as the legend had it, temptingly out to sea. Seamus, who had in his time gentled many a nervous colt and wooed as many sensitive lasses, knew what to do. His voice like thick honey-syrup, he kept up a steady chatter as much to calm the rowers as to tempt any mermaids closer

  "Steady now, lads... gently does it. Pretend the ocean's a woman; keep your stroke long and slow, just the way she likes it. That's it. That's the way to do it. Nice and easy."

  He let his voice die down until there was silence except for the protesting of oarlocks and the soft splash and drip of water as eight blades slipped into the water in unison. The lights kept their distance, but seemed to grow brighter.

  Fionn took advantage of the pause to lean over and whisper, "Da', how do you do it?"

  "Do what?"

  Fionn was very serious. "Make love to a mermaid!"

  "From the rear, I should think. Let me know if you find out."

  "God, she's-got my oar!" John the Small flung his oar from him and leaped to his feet. Oars crashed into each other, whipped about as rowers let go; the boat rocked crazily and the lights went out.

  Suddenly, it was pitch black about them, the only sound the deep rasping breathing of frightened men.

  Seamus's voice was soothing. "If there's a mermaid out there waiting to be ravished, we're willing, aren't we men? Lucky lassie, with a whole boat of Scotland's best to choose from. But let's not rush the lassie. Let's just sit here and let her look us over."

  Gradually, the sounds of harsh breathing leveled out until all was silence except for the lapping of waves against the boat's sides. Then, like camp fires being lit in the midst of an army encampment, the lights came on again, one after another, even brighter than before.

  "Okay, lads, let's try it again. Steady now, all together. That's it. See? The jewels are almost as good as won. Just a little further now." Seamus realized he was shouting against the roar of the waves as they grew higher and hit with more force, the closer they got to the reef. He signaled the men before him to weigh oars and pass the word. Anchors dropped fore and aft, and the boat swung between like a cocoon dangling between twigs being buffeted by the wind.

  The mermaids kept their distance from the boat, at least at first. But gradually, when the boat didn't approach them, they came to it. Soon, the whole area about them was filled with diamonds of the deep that made the stars up above seem dim by comparison. Still, with hand signals, Seamus cautioned his men not to move, to keep silence. Their patience was rewarded. The lights came still closer, until they were treated to a show of beckoning jewels real enough to drive a man mad.

  As the others watched, mesmerized by the flashing of jewels hither and yon, Seamus found his attention drawn to John the Small. He was leaning over the side, dangling something from a cord just inches above the water. As it swung back and forth twisting and turning, Seamus squinted and shielded his eyes from the spray misting his face. John the Small was using the Mer-Lion crest from his jerkin as bait.

  Seamus roared with outrage. Men jumped, the boat rocked, and .John the Small dived for his mermaid's jewels. He came up triumphant, the jewel held high in his upstretched hand.

  "I've got it," he mouthed, his words lost in the surf.

  Suddenly, as the men watched, envying their fellow, the lights blinked out, and John's jewel went dull. Then, John the Small flung the thing from him, his scream so piercing, the men could make it out in spite of the waves. He had expected a handful of hard, crystalline jewels and instead had closed his hand on a cluster of jellied slime, the parasites that grew upon the coral. When his mates pulled him back into the boat, his teeth were chattering. No one could make out what it was he tried to tell them. And later, he refused to talk about it.

  As the men were attempting to dry him off, Dugan looked out to sea. "A signal, Da'," he shouted, "out there to our right." Sure enough, a light flashed again in the void. Seamus swore. In his desire to solve the problem of the mermaids, he'd forgotten then-own signal lantern back on shore. He could not flash a light in return.

  "Back to shore, and don't spare your guts, men," he shouted. The men jumped to it as he got anchors weighed, and the oars moved in earnest, rushing the boat headlong back to shore. Once there and getting confirmation from the watchers there that they too had seen the signal, Seamus struck spark with flint and lit his own signal lantern. Carefully covering it with an oiled cloth, he held it in his lap as he was rowed back out to the break in the reef. The absence of lights from the deep was a pleasant relief.

  Once. Twice. His signal light flared. Then was hooded. And all waited.

  From the black velvet void beyond the reef, there came an echo, a speck of light that repeated itself. Seamus, if he hadn't known what a sudden violent move could do to a boat, would have jumped for joy. Instead, he muttered what words of thanks were due, then set about rigging up the special oiled cloth shield he and his men had brought with them, to protect the lantern on three sides against watchful enemies eager to interrupt the ship, and later its longboat, now being guided by its light to the only known break in the reef.

  Now, there was nothing else to do but wait. He wished he were back at the Seaforth Castle or Rangeley, or the Lady Islean's keep at Alva, or even the cave. His childhood trip from Ireland had soured him on the seagoing life forever.

  Here, at the opening in the reef—the only passage through—all hands must man the oars to keep the sea from rejecting the boat and vomiting it back to shore like flotsam. Sleep being out of the question, and conversation virtually impossible over the roar of the surf, each man was left to his own thoughts. Seamus's began with the man whom he awaited tonight, the one he loved as a son; then as thoughts have a way of doing, they ranged further afield and deeper into time until he was back in Ireland and reliving the pain of his parting from his mother. Her face remained clear in his memory, but those of his brothers were a blur as was that of his father. Not for the first time, nor for the last probably, he wondered if that had been his father's voice he'd heard as the ship left.

  Rough hands shook Seamus out of the past, the events of all that had happened twenty-nine years ago in 1503. Tonight was the last of May 1532, and he had his duty to do.

  "The longboat comes, Captain," came the shout over the roar of surf on the reef.

  For a long moment, Seamus saw nothing; his eyes were too befuddled with memories. Then came a glint. And another. The splash of oar in water. The boat was almost upon them. "Up anchor. Pull for your lives 'lest they breech us." Urged on by the lash of Seamus's cursing, his own boat barely cleared the opening in time to allow the French longboat through. Strain his eyes and squint as he might, he could not discern within the other boat the hoped-for passenger. Seamus knew better than to attempt to make himself heard across the water, so he simply signaled the Frenchmen with his light to follow toward shore.

  As first one boat, then the other scraped upon the shore, eight long years of separation should be over. Seamus sat where he was. He couldn't force himself to move. Suppose Jamie hadn't come. Suppose he had changed. Suppose— Even as his mind made him miserable with speculation, through the babel of voices issuing from the other longboat one drew his attention. It was low-keyed but authoritative, rich but decisive. Seamus's French was frayed, so the words he heard had little meaning, but he recognized the voice. He'd obeyed its commands many times before. He rose to go to that voice, then realized
it had come to him, its resonance muffled by a heavy cloak, its owner's face concealed by a hood.

  "Is it you?"

  The newcomer chuckled. "It is I."

  "You've grown."

  Although the man didn't approach Seamus's height, he was taller by a hand than many. "I should hope so." "Is it really you?"

  Seamus read amusement in the glint of teeth that he glimpsed within the depths of the hood. "Do you need proof?" Two slender aristocratic hands, bare of rings, drew back the hood. In the moonlight, the man's hair shimmered in shades of metallic gray white. Seamus was dumbfounded.

  "Had you forgotten, good Seamus? The hair is part of my Seaforth legacy."

  When Seamus had come to Seaforth as a child twenty-nine years before, both the old earl and the young had been white-haired, but both were beyond middle age. Yet he had heard even then of the early graying that distinguished Seaforth men.

  Satisfied that Seamus had seen enough, the man drew the hood back in place. And just in time. For an unctuous voice interrupted them, "My lord de Wynter? Your baggage is ashore. You understand I cannot tarry. I must leave now if we are to get back to the ship while still dark." Seamus heard the clink of coins as money changed hands. Then, the Frenchman, all effusive thanks, took his leave.

  "You... are the de Wynter?"

  "Ah, my fame has preceded me."

  Indeed, it had! Such deliciously wicked gossip could not be contained within any one country's borders. The de Wynter was reported to have been both delicious and wicked, in and out of as many scrapes as he'd been in and out of beds. Men used a gruff tone of voice in disparaging him that clearly reflected envy. Women were more honest and less discreet. "I thought de Wynter was an Italian."