Night Gallery 2

by Rod Serling

  With this, Hendrick Lindemann opened the door and walked out onto the cobblestoned street, past the dirty little lofts and shops that huddled along the street front facing the sea. He went in and out of the little pools of gaslight that shone so weakly through the layers of fog, until he reached the wharf where his little ketch was berthed. He was halfway down its length when he noticed three men of his crew gathered at the far end, murmuring, whispering, and pointing toward the net at their feet.

  When Lindemann emerged from the fog, it was Granger, his first mate, who rose to his feet and faced him. "Cap'n," Granger began "either we're out of our minds—"

  Lindemann curtly cut him off. "Likely. Or full up on some bad grog. Or maybe you can tell me why three full grown men kneel around a fish net and shiver."

  The smallest and oldest of the sailors, a gnarled little Pole named Bernacki, kicked at the net, "Lookee here, Cap'n. Lookee at what's in that net. If you see what we see, maybe you'll shiver."

  Lindemann picked up a ship's lamp from off the wooden planking of the wharf and held it over the net, peering down through a maze of seaweed and dead fish until what he saw chopped off his breath. He straightened up and dropped the lantern. At the same moment, the light went out and there was nothing but darkness, mixed with the breathing of the frightened men and the sound of some flapping thing inside the net.

  Granger thumbnailed a match and relit the lantern. His voice was a whisper. "Do you . . . do you see it Cap'n?"

  He started to bring the lantern back over to the net. Lindemann grabbed his arm and held tightly to it. "There's no need of light," he said through his teeth, "to look at an illusion."

  The third sailor, a young harpooner named Doyle, pulled the lantern from Granger's hand and slammed it down on the plank next to the net. "Take a look at that illusion, Cap'n. Just take a look at it."

  Lindemann, with an almost desperate reluctance, let his eyes focus on what he knew he had already seen.

  Through the mesh of the net there was a wornan's face—white, cold, the lips a shade of purple, but the face incredibly alive and also incredibly beautiful. The folds of the net covered the outline of her body from face to waist, but protruding out of the net on its other side was the lower half of the woman's body—a long, fin-tailed protuberance that flapped weakly from side to side.

  Lindemann closed his eyes briefly. "Kill it," he said in a strained voice, "then throw it back into the sea."

  His first mate let out a gasp. "Cap'n it's Part woman."

  Lindemann wrenched his eyes away from the net. "It's all monster."

  Old Bernacki scratched at his seamed face. "Fifty years I've sailed, Cap'n, and I've never seen the likes of this." He shook his head back and forth. "It would be sacrilege to harm this creature."

  "And you're suggesting what?" Lindemann roared at him, trying to disguise his fear with a semblance of rage. "Take it home? Fondle it from the belly up and fry it from the waist down?" He pointed to the net. "That Goddamned thing isn't from Davy Jones—it's from the devil."

  The men on the wharf turned toward the sound of voices and footsteps. Approaching the moorings were at least a dozen figures, some of them carrying lanterns, their voices full of growing excitement. The village was like a stagnant pool, desperate for some kind of tidal wave to break the killing monotony. Obviously some of Lindemann's crew had hurried over to the inn with news of the catch. Onto the wharf they came, tramping feet on the wooden plankings, until they stopped at the periphery of the ship's lamp and stared down at the net.

  One of the crew members looked around proudly, challengingly, as if vindicated. "There she is," the sailor said loudly. "It's the creature, just as I described her."

  It was Dr. Nichols who pushed his way through the knot of men, to move over to the net and kneel down beside it. He shook his head in disbelief. "I wouldn't believe it if I weren't . . . if I weren't seeing it with my own eyes." He looked up at Granger, the first mate. "Cut her loose out of there," he ordered. "She looks half-frozen."

  Doyle, the former harpooner, took out his skinning knife from his belt and started to chop at the netting.

  Lindemann, in a quick, sudden motion, twisted the boy's wrist, sending the knife falling to the ground; then he turned, facing Nichols. "This your catch, is it, Doctor? Or are you just confiscating it in the interest of public health?"

  "She's half-frozen—" the doctor started to explain.

  " 'She,' " Lindemann interrupted, "is a finned and scaled nightmare, and that knife would be better used . . ." He stopped abruptly, noting that Nichols was not looking at him but over his shoulder at the thing in the net, as were all the others.

  Through the mesh the thing's hand had pushed its way out and was stretched out toward Lindemann in a gesture unmistakably supplicating.

  There were hushed, whispered Voices, and then silence.

  "You call her a nightmare," Dr. Nichols said, "But the gesture, Captain Lindemann—the gesture is human."

  "Cap'n," Doyle said, "think a bit. We could keep her alive. We could put her on exhibition. I've seen men pay good money to look at doughy things floating in alcohol." He pointed toward the net. "What would they pay to see a mermaid? A real mermaid."

  Peg-legged Bennett stepped out into the lantern light. "To that end, Cap'n," he said, "count this an offer. Let me take her. I'll feed her and care for her, and I'll put her on display. And what's more—one-half of the take will go to you and your crew. And I have no doubt but that that take won't be minnow-sized, either. Doyle's right. Barnum himself couldn't come up with anything like this."

  The crew members smiled hopefully and looked toward Lindemann. Four dollars a week and keep—that's what they sweated for, froze for, risked their scrawny, perpetually bone-tired bodies for daily, casting nets into the always quixotic and frequently menacing sea. And there in the net was one of the few gifts ever offered up in return. They held their breaths, waiting for Lindemann's response.

  The captain looked around the circle of faces, and then, for a reason he couldn't explain, he knelt down and very tenderly touched the hand stretched out through the net. The hand, in response, enclosed his, and Lindemann yanked his away as if touching fire; but he did look at the face that stared at him through the mesh and weed; and the face was undeniably beautiful.

  He slowly rose to his feet. "I'll think it over," he said.

  "Cap'n," his mate Granger said in a tremulous voice, receiving encouraging nods from the rest of the crew, "we've got ourselves a gold mine here. Woman or fish—she's a gold mine. I'd be thinkin' we should take her aboard—"

  "You'd be thinking too much, Mr. Granger," Lindemann answered. "You're not master of this ship, and the catch isn't yours. It belongs to me. Now, I said I'd think about it. And while I'm thinking—please to leave the wharf, all of you."

  "Captain," Dr. Nichols said, "you just can't leave her in the net there and—"

  "No more, Doctor," Lindemann barked out at him as if ordering him up a mast. "No more from any of you. Just go back to your houses or that pig trough Mr. Bennett calls an inn. Or lie in the gutter, for all of me. But I want all of you out of here."

  Reluctantly, still whispering and murmuring, the group started backing off the wharf, Lindemann's crew the most reluctant.

  He waited until the lights of their lanterns disappeared into the fog and night and their voices could no longer be heard. Left alone, he stared down at the apparition, then picked up the skinning knife and took it over to the net. It glinted in the light of the lantern.

  The face of the thing inside the net looked directly into his.

  Lindemann cut away some of the strands, then held up the knife and in a quick, sudden motion sailed it through the air until it embedded itself in a post.

  The thing in the net looked toward the knife, then back to Lindemann—the eyes wide and frightened; one of its hands touched the side of the newly cut hole.

  Lindemann caught the wrist in a vise. "No, my dear," he said evenly, "not back in
to the sea. Not yet. The sea gave you to me. Now I'll ponder it a bit—as to your value to me. Maybe there's a breed of gawker who'd pay money to gape at you. Maybe that's the case."

  He moved over to the gangplank of the ketch. "But while I ponder this, my dear, I'n have to take away any temptations you might have." He moved quickly across the gangplank to the deck of the ketch and picked up a coil of heavy rope. He carried it back across the gangplank, unfurling it as he moved back toward the net. "Now, don't look so frightened," he said. "I'll not mistreat you." He waited for a moment, seeing the unspeakable fear in the thing's eyes. "Can you talk?" he asked. "Do you have a language of a sort?"

  The eyes just stared back at him.

  Lindemann laughed. "I expect too much. Talk from you yet. Conversation." He knotted one end of the rope. "But you might consider your blessings. As cold as that wood is, and the air—the water is much colder."

  Then quickly and expertly he had the line around the net, imprisoning the thing inside, as he drew the free end of the rope through the knot and pulled it taut. He pulled the net off the planking, flinging it over his shoulder like a sack, and started back across the gangplank, feeling the creature struggle and thresh about as he did so. At last, he thought, as he crossed the gunwales onto the dirty, greasy deck—at last, a catch that had some worth; at last, that murky bastard of a sea had rewarded him with something other than bleeding hands and bent back.

  He lifted up a hatch cover with the toe of one of his boots and started below, carrying the squirming thing over his shoulder.

  The crew members of Lindemann's ketch stood on the wharf like a silent, disapproving jury, occasionally whispering among themselves, then looking toward Granger, waiting . . . expecting . . . hoping.

  The first mate took a step away from the group, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out. "Cap'n Lindemann?" He waited for a moment. "Cap'n Lindemann?"

  On the ketch the door to a small cabin opened. Lindemann came out, walked the length of the small ship over to the stern, and looked out at the men.

  "Cap'n," Granger called out again, "The men wanna know when you plan to take her out again. It's been three days."

  "When I'm ready," Lindemann shouted back. "Did anyone go get Doc Nichols?"

  "On his way, Cap'n," old Bernacki called back in a cracked voice. "But what about the fishing, Cap'n? Three days without a catch, sir . . ."

  "Tell Nichols to come right on board into my cabin," Lindemann said over his shoulder as he turned and started back toward the cabin.

  The crew members looked expectantly again at Granger. The first mate was their voice, and under the complex but unwritten protocol of ships and men, he was their link to the throne of that wet little kingdom called the Sea.

  "Cap'n," Granger called out, reluctance softening his voice. "Begging your pardon, sir, but the men wanna know if . . . if you don't plan to fish . . . what about the . . . the creature? She came in the catch, sir. And by agreement, we're owed a percentage . . ."

  Lindemann paused at the cabin's door. "You'll get a percentage," he said through his teeth. "You'll get a percentage of a pike staff across your heads. Now, clear the hell out of here, all of you—all of you." With that he disappeared into the cabin.

  Moments later Dr. Nichols approached the wharf and was immediately enclosed by the men, all talking at the same time, all protesting and explaining, until Nichols held up his hand.

  "Hold it," he said. "You, Granger. You tell me. What's it all about?"

  Granger looked toward the ketch. "Three days he's stayed aboard, Doc. He'll not see or talk to anyone. And our last catch rotted right where we put her. At least, the fish did."

  Nichols looked at him through narrowed eyes.

  "What about that . . ." He stopped, unable to identify by name or description the thing they all knew had been put on board.

  "You tell us," Granger said meaningfully. "You know the Cap'n. With that raging northwind temper of his—he could've cut her up for bait by now."

  "What does he want to see me for?" Nichols asked.

  "Tell us that, too," the first mate answered. "He said to come right on board and go to his cabin."

  Nichols nodded, hoisted up the little black bag that he carried, and walked the rest of the length of the wharf to the rotting gangplank spread from pier to vessel. He walked across it onto the deck, looked briefly at the crew members who remained there, then took a step over to the cabin door.

  "Captain Lindemann," he called out.

  The cabin door opened. Lindemann was silhouetted against a lantern light from inside. "Come in," he said.

  Nichols, with another look toward the men, moved through the cabin door.

  It was a tiny, low-ceilinged little cubicle, sparse of furniture save for fishing equipment and a few navigational aids.

  Nichols looked briefly around the squalid interior as if expecting to find something other than the cot that was the only piece of furniture in the room. "What's it all about, Captain?" Nichols asked.

  Lindemann handed him a pewter mug. "Warm yourself." It was more a command than an invitation.

  Nichols took the mug, nodded his thanks, then sipped at the rum. "Your crew tells me," he said, "that you haven't shipped out in three days."

  Lindemann's face looked inexpressibly tired. "A little shore leave for them," he said tightly.

  "What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  "Captain," the doctor said, "the creature caught in your net—no one's seen her since you took her in."

  He waited for a response. Lindemann just turned his back.

  "Bennett is willing to pay cash for her," Nichols persisted, "or work out any arrangement you think fair."

  There was a silence for a moment; then Lindemann said, "Shove her in a tank someplace while the bumpkins stand around drooling out a lot of filth at her."

  Something in Lindemann's tone made Nichols stare at him. There was an emotion deeper than anger, a quality of desperation that Nichols had never heard before.

  "Captain," the doctor began softly.

  Lindemann turned abruptly. "She's sick, Doc," he said, his voice nakedly placating. "She's not eaten in a day and a night. She just . . . she just lies there on the floor."

  "Where?" Nichols Whispered.

  "In the hold. She seems to be . . . just wasting away." He took a step toward Nichols, both his hands held out. "Look at her, Doc," he implored, "and treat her. Give her medicine. Keep her alive."

  Nichols stared at him.

  "She's . . . she's more human than anything. We can communicate together."

  "She speaks to you?" Nichols asked, astounded.

  "Not in words," the Captain answered. "Not in any language. But she makes herself understood. And I to her. Please, Doc—see what you can do."

  Lindemann moved across the small cabin to another door that led to a passageway to the hold below. He stepped aside and pointed.

  Nichols started slowly and carefully down the rickety steps. Lindemann held up a lantern behind him. At the foot of the steps Nichols stopped and stared, his eyes wide, unbelieving, full of both pity and horror.

  Lying on the floor, half-covered by a filthy blanket, the thing threshed about weakly. Her finned tail protruded from the foot of the blanket.

  Both men moved over to her. Again Lindemann held up the lantern. Nichols stared, then looked at Lindemann. "Captain," he said, "it . . . that is to say . . . she is amphibian, and she's been without water too long."

  Lindemann didn't answer. But again Nichols looked at his face. Twenty years he had known the sea captain. And he'd known him as a cold, emotionless, taciturn, frequently cruel man; silent, ungiving, unsharing, full of secret anguish that, with so much rum, would hiss out in a steam of rage and then be bottled up again in his own special, unpeopled hermitage. But there was want on Lindemann's face now a raw, naked desperation that went beyond language.

  Nichols put a hand on Lindemann's arm. "You've got to throw her back," he s
aid gently but firmly.

  Lindemann shook his head. "Give her medicine, Doctor. Something to get her strength back."

  "Her strength comes from the sea, Captain."

  "Save her, Doctor." The intensity of Lindemann's voice almost charged the room.

  "I'm sorry," Nichols said softly. "I wouldn't know how. I treat only . . . humans."

  "She is human."

  Nichols let his eyes move down the prostrate form, from the closed eyes in the pale, wan face, down the length of the blanket to the fins; then he looked up at Lindemann. "Three nights ago you called her a nightmare . . . a monster. I'll tell you something, Captain. She's a little of both. But I'll tell you what She isn't. She's not a companion to man. Any man."

  He started back toward the steps, picking his way carefully over piles of flemished rope and buckets, reaching for the rail.

  Lindemann's voice was more a cry than anything else, more a deep sound of pain. "Help her," the captain said.

  Nichols turned at the foot of the ladder. "Help her? No, Captain. I can't help her. You must. Give her back to the sea."

  He started up the ladder, suddenly conscious of a cold and dampness that ate into his body, like the moisture-laden air of a tomb underneath water; but as he reached the entrance to Lindemann's cabin, he heard the unmistakable sound of the big man's sobs. Lindemann was crying. Good God, he thought, as he walked through the cabin and out through the door onto the deck—there was no mountain that could not be scaled. And there was no man, no man on earth, who in some way at some time could not be torn into.

  Inside Bennett's inn, Lindemann's crew mixed with the usual nightly coterie of rum drinkers. Doyle pounded his tankard on the bar. "Crazy," the young sailor said. "Turned crazy is what he did."

  Bernacki nodded and wiped the rum off his mouth. "Keepin' her down there in the hold. And plannin' on sellin' her—that's what he's a mind to. And that's the last we'll have seen of him. And of the thing, as well."