by Jean Rabe
“You want to watch yourself, mister, or the mermaid’ll have you,” said a girl’s voice from behind me.
I turned. She was skinny and looked to be about seventeen. Her hair was jet-black, like everyone else’s in Morwenstowe. Most of the locals’ faces were browned from constant exposure to sun and wind, but she had pale skin. She wore cheap blue jeans and a thin brown jumper, clothes that could not possibly keep out the wind.
“No mermaid, but I did see a seal,” I said, with an attempt at humor, “unless the seal is really a mermaid in need of a shave.”
She said nothing but gazed at me thoughtfully through brown eyes.
I pointed at the ruins of the cottage that had first drawn me to this spot. Only the chimneybreast stood more than two feet high.
“That might make a decent summer holiday cottage with a little renovation,” I said.
She still did not laugh. My chatting up skills seemed to have deserted me.
“That’s Morwenna’s cottage,” she said.
“Morwenna?” I asked.
“Morwenna, the Welsh princess who crossed the white water,” she answered, pointing at the sea in the direction of Wales. “She was the one who taught the Cornish to speak Welsh.”
“Welsh?” I asked, repeating her word like a parrot. I was beginning to wonder if she was simple. They must do a lot of inbreeding around here. I had not actually heard any banjos, but you never know.
“Cornish-Welsh, same language,” she said. “But the Cornish have forgotten it.”
“So Morwenna crossed the white water in vain,” I said with a smile.
“Yes,” she replied, seriously.
Gulls flew overhead, squawking and squabbling. She held her head on one side almost as if she was listening.
“I have to go,” she said.
She ran down the valley and disappeared among some trees. I really was losing my touch with the fairer sex.
I walked back to the village. It was quite pleasant taking exercise in fresh air rather than a sweaty gym. I spotted wild rabbits and even a fox. I know a fox when I see one. London is full of them.
After an indifferent plowman’s lunch in the pub, I took a stroll down to the harbor. A handful of sea boats floated at anchor. I suppose from the lobster pots stacked up on the shore that they did a bit of shellfishing, but faded signs advertised boat rides out to the lighthouse. I surmised that tourists formed their primary income.
The tide was half out, revealing a sandy beach. The surf was quieter in the harbor, but the retreating waves ran back across the sand with a metallic hiss.
One of the boats was drawn up on the beach. It was open design apart from a covered wheelhouse at the front. The license number, MW33, was painted on the bow in large black characters. The boat’s name, Sea Dawn, was written over the top in faded red. An elderly fisherman stood in the wheelhouse supervising a younger man who was fiddling with something down in the hull.
“Good morning,” I said, “lovely day.”
The fisherman examined the sky over the sea and considered. “There’s a storm brewing,” he said, after a long pause.
He had a Cornish accent so thick you could have used it to pad envelopes.
“Could I have a trip in the boat?” I asked.
“I can’t take her out with only one passenger,” he said. “That would not even pay for the diesel.”
“Tell you what,” I said, haggling. “I will buy a dozen tickets, how about that?”
He considered again. Clearly he was not a man to rush important decisions.
“No,” he replied. “It’s not the tourist season. I only take tourists out in the tourist season.”
I was getting nowhere so I inclined my head politely and walked across the sand toward one of the quays.
The younger man’s voice lifted from the bowels. “What did the grockel want, Pa?”
“He wanted a trip round the bay,” said the fisherman.
“But ’taint the right season,” said the younger man in astonishment.
Close up, I could see that the quay actually leaned inward. The sea had moved the massive granite blocks. They must get some rare storms here. I climbed steep steps that were slippery with green algae. Once on top I walked to a small raised lookout on the end. From here I could see out along the coast. High cliffs stretched out to both east and west. This must be the only harbor for miles.
Atlantic rollers broke on the quay like a besieging army at a city gate. Mere ripples passed through the offset entrance into the harbor, but the anchored boats tossed like racehorses waiting for the off. For a moment, I thought I saw the seal again. It failed to reappear. Maybe it was just my imagination.
I had this feeling of being watched, but there was no one there. Then I noticed the gull perched on the quay wall. It stared at me with cold yellow eyes. Dinosaurs must have hunted little mammals with eyes like that. Since the Cretaceous was over, I decided to update the gull on the current evolutionary pecking order. I picked up a stone. I missed by a mile, but the bird flew off with an outraged squawk. It swooped over the harbor and defecated into a boat with stuka-like accuracy. I didn’t care.
The one street that the village boasted ran alongside the stream. Farther up the valley it changed banks, passing over a narrow medieval bridge that had built in refuges for pedestrians. On the other side was a small church made of gray granite. There was so much gray in Morwenstowe—the church, the cottages, the sea, the sky.
I bumped into a middle-aged woman at the black-iron gate into the churchyard. Ever the gentleman, I held it open for her. She was sensibly dressed in a tweed skirt and jacket, all very rural middle class. I noticed she carried a basket of flowers.
“Thank you,” she said politely.
She had a no-nonsense way of speaking. I surmised she was not a local.
“My pleasure,” I replied.
I pointed to the flowers. “For the church?”
“Yes,” she replied. “The visiting vicar rotates around the parish, and it is our turn for a service next Sunday. I like to make the church look nice.”
She looked me up and down, apparently in no hurry. “It is a bit late in the season for tourists. Do you have business here? Have you relatives in Morwenstowe? I suppose that expensive looking car is yours.”
The flurry of questions allowed me to pick which one I wished to answer.
“The Aston Martin is mine, but I think a Land Rover would be more practical here,” I replied.
“But nowhere near as much fun,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
The flower lady was the nearest thing to a human being that I had met in Morwenstowe, and she seemed happy to chat so I accompanied her.
“Putting up those granite quays to create that large harbor must have cost a fortune. It surely was not built just for a few local fishing boats?” I asked.
“Well, there used to be more fishing boats before the pilchards stopped coming. But you’re right. Morwenstowe was once a thriving port for larger ships. They imported coal from Wales and exported slate and tin ore. Sir John Hawkins, the famous buccaneer, once sheltered here. A storm forced his fleet into the Bristol Channel so he was unable to make Plymouth. The story goes that he was on his way back from a raid on the Spanish Main. Barbary pirates used the harbor as a base for slave raids for a while until forced out by Sir Richard Trelawny,” she said didactically. “Morwenstowe was not always a sleepy backwater.”
“Arab slavers, here?” I was intrigued.
“The last North African slaver raids on the West Country were in the nineteenth century,” she said, clearly amused at my surprise. “Maybe a million Europeans were taken as slaves over the centuries to the Middle East and North Africa.”
“They don’t teach us that at school.”
“No? Well, I suppose it does not fit the modern PC narrative,” she said.
We walked slowly through the graveyard.
“How do you know so much about Morwenstowe’s past?” I asked.
&
nbsp; “I have become something of a local historian since my husband died. We retired here from Exeter when his health failed. Researching the past gives me an interest.”
“So why did traffic at the port die out?”
“A sandbar formed just outside the cove and it became increasingly unsafe for ships,” she replied. She waved a hand vaguely around the churchyard, “You will find quite a few unknown sailors’ graves here. The locals have a quaint myth to explain it. They claim a local fisherman killed a seal that was raiding his lobster pots, but the seal was really merefolk. His mermaid wife cursed the port so the pilchards failed to come and she built the sandbar to catch unwary ships. She sang in a voice so magically fair that it lured sailors onto the bar.”
“Isn’t that a siren?” I asked, vaguely remembering some Homer.
“Siren, mermaid, silkie, all different names for the same mythological creature,” she replied, shrugging.
“I saw a seal from the cliffs,” I said. “And this girl talked about a mermaid.”
“You must have been up by Morwenna’s cottage,” she said. “That would be Mo.”
“Is she simple?” I asked bluntly.
“In some ways,” the woman replied, “but in others she is quite complicated.”
We walked on in silence.
“You always seem to find these old trees in rural churchyards,” I said, point to a squat hollowed-out tree with straggly branches. It was protected by a circle of black-iron railings.
The church woman laughed. “That’s a yew, a witch-tree sacred to pagans. Christian churches were usually built on old religious sites. Yews are the oldest living things in Europe. That tree probably was planted when pagans worshipped here.”
“That would make it more than fifteen hundred years old,” I said, disbelievingly.
“Some of the Hampshire and Shropshire yews have been shown to be at least three thousand years old,” she replied.
“You’d think the Church would have chopped the yews down if they are sacred to pagans,” I said.
“And risk a witches’ curse?” she asked, the twinkle back in her eye.
We arrived at the church door. “Would you like to come in and help me arrange the flowers?” she asked.
“Ah, no thank you,” I replied. “I have to finish my walk.”
Supper in the pub was a surprisingly good roast lamb, spoilt only by overcooked soggy vegetables. I turned down the offer of coffee. I had tried a cup earlier with my lunch and had no desire to repeat the experience. Instead, I retreated to the public bar with a glass of Johnny Walker’s finest happy juice.
Londoners have this romantic image of the welcoming country pub. I found the reality something of a shock. It was cold and dingy. Everything was brown, the walls, the carpet, the ceiling and the stains. The dominant smell was mold and stale beer. A couple of rusty horseshoes nailed to the wall did not rescue the ambience.
I was the only customer apart from an ancient rustic who sat on a stool at the bar and two fishermen playing dominoes at a table. I assumed they were fishermen, as they wore the same heavy salt-stained blue jumpers as the charmers down in the harbor. They slapped down the dominoes in fast sequence, sounding a sharp rat-at-at-at. The patrons ignored me so I sat in a corner.
The bar did not even have a television. An ancient cassette player relayed muzak. Fortunately, it was too underpowered to be a nuisance. The rustic read a local paper out loud to the landlady.
“I see the Beast of Bodmin Moor has been at it again,” said the rustic.
I assumed it was him speaking. It was a little difficult to tell as his beard was overgrown and scraggy. He was also bald, so he looked as if he was wearing his head upside down. His shotgun was propped up against the bar in contravention of every sane health and safety rule. I had heard of the Bodmin Moor Beast. It was so famous that it was a regular silly-season filler in the national press.
“What’s it done now?” asked the landlady.
“Killed three sheep over Gomorah way,” the rustic replied.
“That’s Berty Trebarra’s place, isn’t it?” asked the landlady.
“Yes. I heard he was a bit short of cash since he drove his Land Rover into the quarry. I told the silly ass that he should lay off that there scrumpy. No doubt the compensation on the sheep will come in right handy, especially as they was very old sheep.” The rustic looked meaningfully at the landlady.
She laughed. “Ah, the Beast, what would the farmers do without it?”
Simple honest rural folk, my sainted butt. Even the Beast of the Moor was nothing but an insurance scam. I swallowed my remaining whiskey in a single gulp, savoring the peaty flavor and relishing the fire in my belly. Not even Morwenstowe could ruin a glass of Johnny Walker.
“I think I’ll take a walk down by the harbor,” I said to no one in particular. I felt the need to say something to establish my existence. I was beginning to feel invisible.
I was not expecting a reply, but when I opened the pub door one of the fishermen turned his head and spoke. “Don’t go out of the harbor mouth. There’s a low spring tide tonight and the water will come back in with a vengeance when it do turn. You don’t want to get yourself trapped against a cliff. I ain’t be coming in after you.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said politely, as if I actually valued his advice. I was wasting my breath. He had already turned back to his dominoes.
I stepped out into the wind. Morwenstowe was not blessed with much in the way of street lighting, so it was darker than I was used to. I expected the sky to be a blaze of stars, but it was overcast. I have a degree of red-green color blindness. The upside of this is that my eyes are very sensitive to monochrome, so I see rather well in low light.
Something white and ghostly hurtled silently at me through the air, passing close over my head. I automatically ducked. The “ghost” uttered a raucous cry of triumph. It was a seagull lit up from underneath. I saw, and heard, more of them down in the harbor.
Lights marked the end of the quays, presumably to guide boats to the harbor at night. The sea had retreated, leaving the harbor dry and all the boats beached. The tidal range here must be phenomenal. The wind had got up and was gusting strongly, pushing at me. I walked across the wet sand, out of the harbor mouth, and down to the booming surf. The waves shone white in the lights.
The wind and the sea sang to me. Their song had a mournful quality, like a lament. I could almost make out words. I followed the surf line, fascinated by the dirge. It got stronger when I stood under the cliff where Morwenna’s cottage lay ruined. There were words in the music, beautiful words in a language foreign to me. A woman sang a requiem amid the surf and wind. Rain started to fall. Lightning flashed and I heard thunder. The song filled me with sorrow. My eyes filled with tears. They dissolved into the raindrops.
I could see the singer in the surf. She was beautiful with shining emerald green eyes. She held her arms out in supplication. A white gauzy gown drifted in the water that surged around her waist. I walked into the sea until my coat floated about my knees. She sang to me about loss and despair.
I waded deeper into the water to help her. I was up to my waist when I reached her. She sang to me, just for me. Tears ran down her perfect cheeks. I could not stand her anguish. I reached for her to offer comfort, to kiss the tears away. She embraced me with arms as cold as night. They sucked the heat from my body; I no longer felt anything. I drifted in warmth and peace, listening only to her song. I could no longer hear the wind or the water. My mind detached from my body. A small voice in my head warned that these were the symptoms of hypothermia, but I did not care.
A hand gripped the collar of my coat and dragged me back. I fought without success to remain within the singer’s embrace.
“Back off, sea-hag, I saw him first,” Mo said, getting between me and the woman.
The woman spat words at Mo that I could not understand. The lightning flashed again, clearly illuminating the singer. How could I have ever imagined that
she was beautiful? She was an ancient crone with long whiskers.
Mo threw herself at the hag, who responded with a speed and strength that belied her age. I was still frozen, like a statue. One hell of a fight ensued, with much punching, kicking, and scratching. They went at each other like a couple of cage fighters. Mo sank her teeth in the hag’s neck. The woman screamed, pulled herself free, and dived under a wave. I caught a glimpse of flippers.
“Come on,” Mo said. “We have to get onto dry land before she comes back.”
The girl dragged me through the water. I would not have thought her capable of such strength. The tide had come in, so we were still knee deep when we passed through the harbor mouth. I stumbled up the shoreline and fell forward on my knees onto the sand. I felt cold—that was a good sign—feeling.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Who was that bloody awful woman?”
Mo did not reply. She leaned toward me and opened her mouth. She had unusually long canine teeth that glittered in the light from the harbor lamps. Her eyes were black pits. I shuddered. She really was not much like a teenage girl at all.
Cold green flame exploded between us, and Mo threw herself back with a howl of pain. The churchwoman pushed a burning yew branch into Mo’s face, forcing the girl away from me. Green flames ran up and down the branch, but the wood was not burning.
“He’s not for you, Morwenna,” the churchwoman said. “Remember the concord.”
“He’s not covered by the concord, witch,” Mo said. “He went to the mermaid of his own free will and I took him off her. That makes him mine.”
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t stop with him, once you acquired the taste,” the churchwoman said. “You can take sheep when invited, but not men. You would break the concord, eventually. Then we would hunt you down.”
Mo hesitated, looking at me the way a fashion model looks at a line of coke.
“Do you wish to try your strength against mine?” asked the churchwoman.
