Finn's Rock

by Briggs, Laura

  The Codswallow was marked by a more modern sign, hand-painted with a pale green fish and swirling letters. A quick bite on your way to and from, read the caption below. A neon sign fixed to the door spelled out “open” in glowing letters as he lifted the door handle. A small crowd was visible within, women in sweaters and slacks having coffee, a businessman with a loosened tie studying a paper menu.

  Landen’s entrance attracted the notice of both employees present: a man in an apron and faded white shirt who was squirting mustard on a hamburger, a waitress with a frown topping off cups of coffee.

  “Hi,” said Landen to the waitress as he slid into the nearest seat. The menu propped against the napkin holder offered fried clams with ketchup and shrimp and rice balls as the luncheon specials.

  He cleared his throat. “Hamburger, please.” The waitress scribbled something on her pad.

  “What to drink?” she asked, with a friendly smile.

  “Just water,” he answered. He glanced at the businessman, the two women having lunch, and a fisherman carefully draining a ketchup bottle a few tables beyond.

  “I was wondering,” he said, aloud to no one in particular, although his eye was still fixed on the waitress. “If anyone around here rented boats. Or gave people a tour of the waters for hire.”

  In his bag was a volume mentioning the first sighting of a mermaid off the shores of Fair Island, a view from the decks of a ship sinking offshore, a Lacordia whose wreck was a less than a mile out to sea and a favorite spot for mermaid sightings. A visit there, even by day, would be the sort of thing the journal would expect from his column.

  The fisherman spoke up. “Lots of people give pleasure tours around here,” he said. “You can ask at the shipping office, where they weight the catch.” He set aside the bottle of ketchup. “Just about anybody around here would give you a lift to somewhere if you needed it.”

  “I’m interested in seeing a tourist spot,” said Landen. He didn’t want to discuss his actual assignment, if possible to avoid it at all. “The, um, spot where a lot of people see the mermaid. I read about it and I wanted to see that point.”

  “The fisherman considered this a moment. “You’d be the writer, come to do a story on Fair Island,” he said, indicating Landen with his knife in between slicing apart fried fish strips. “I’ll bet anything that’s what you are.”

  Landen cringed. “That’s correct,” he said. “I’m merely writing a journal article on ... seaside myths,” he answered. “I’m only here for a couple of days, but I’m interested in seeing some of the sites, maybe talking to some of the...eyewitnesses.” It was all very standard language for his position as a researcher, but the words had grown tiresome as countless explanations made to so many curious locals.

  The man in the business suit chimed in. “You know, my wife saw one once,” he said, echoing Turret’s words. “When she was a little girl out on a seashore picnic. Me, I never did.” He chuckled.

  “My father saw it,” said the waitress. Landen saw the name Lorrie emblazoned on her name tag as she placed the glass before him. “He used to have a lobster license. Go out fishing early all sorts of mornings. If he were still around, he’d give you some stories.” She smiled with these words.

  Landen wondered if half the town had seen “something” over the years. The same story, the same various points along the beach, requiring him to weed out most of the material by the end of this expedition.

  The old fisherman rose from his seat. “Name’s Morgan Malloy,” he said, extending his hand. “I’d take you out there myself if me boat wasn’t in other hands these days–”

  “I’ll take him.” A voice interrupted from the doorway of the Codswallow, the newest customer to enter. Landen turned towards the sound, surveying the woman in the doorway. A girl in figure and appearance: thin and delicate in a pair of faded jeans and fisherman’s boots, an oversized Jersey coat buttoned high. Long, thick hair made dark by the doorway’s poor light.

  The old fisherman’s face brightened. “Ay, then,” he said. “Finn’ll take you. That’s as good as me.” With a large wink directed at Landen before he resumed his seat.

  “When do you want to go?” The girl addressed Landen this time, hands stuffed in her pockets.

  “After lunch is fine,” he said. “If you don’t have anything pressing today. Business-wise.”

  She shook her head. “No catch today,” was the only answer she volunteered. When she raised her eyes to meet his, he saw a glimpse of brilliant blue. A small smile formed below for an instant before she moved on towards the counter.

  The door behind her was now revealed to him, framing a view of the shop across the street. A resin mermaid figurehead affixed beside its door like a barber’s striped pole. An imitation, although poor, of the real thing, right down to the simulated weathering and chipped wood of a Sotheby’s auction antique, beneath the plastic sheen of modern manufacturing. A perfect summary, in Landen’s mind, of what he would find in this place.

  *****

  Finn steered the motorboat away from shore, the propeller churning white foam as it glided swiftly out to sea. She glanced back towards the shore briefly, then at the companion across from her.

  The journalist’s jacket was open, the salt water’s spray stinging his skin. A digital camera was tucked partway up his sleeve to protect it from the water, a series of books visible in the open bag at his feet.

  “How far is the ship’s wreck?” he called, over the motor’s roar. His gaze was scanning the shore now fast-growing distant, moving to the wide waters around them.

  “Ship’s wreck is about half a mile out,” she answered. “But that’s not where we’re going, is it?” Her hand steadied the tiller as the boat bobbed its way towards a left-hand point.

  “Why not?” he asked, frowning. “Isn’t that where the mermaid’s usually spotted?”

  Finn’s only reply to this was a silent smile. The wind whipped through her hair, fanning auburn strands outward from beneath her grey cap. Ahead, rocks protruded from the water like massive fingertips reaching through the waves. The one in the middle a thick, high crag as if carved from a cliff into a dwindling surface.

  “There,” she said, as the motor sputtered into silence. “Finn’s rock. That’s as close to the point as we can get by boat.”

  His brow furrowed. “Finn’s rock?” he repeated, one eyebrow raised. “Named after you?”

  She laughed. “Finn was a surname, then,” she answered. “My mother’s family. Long ago, they were the Finns. Lived on a point where this rock could be seen–many a ship ran aground on it, including my long-ago grandfather’s.” As she spoke, the boat drifted closer, revealing stone worn by water’s blows, deep furrows worn in its plateau.

  “Down below us is the ship,” she said. “The wreck of the Lacordia, that is.” He leaned forward, peering into the water as if expecting to see it.

  “Divers say that part of the mast is still there,” said Finn. “The body of the ship’s broke in half by the waves. No treasure,” she said, as he glanced up. “Just a merchant boat. Most of the trinkets were carried away by the water or souvenir hunters back when the old story became popular again.”

  “Then this is where the sailor had the big mermaid sighting?” said Landen.

  She shrugged. “If you believe it,” she said. “Some say it’s just a tale made up for tourists. Nobody knows when exactly the story was first told about the sailor seeing a mermaid watch the ship sink. Maybe somebody made the story up later on–to give the sinking a bit more romance.” In the distance, a ship came into view, floating along so distant it appeared like a small white duck drifting towards the shore.

  “Half a mile,” he said, as if still thinking about something she had said awhile ago. He gazed at the shore, the sandy beach facing them, the glimpse of the ships moored in the distance.

  “Not far,” she said. “Lots of people swim out this far. To the rocks out this way, to the point over yonder where the light house stan
ds.” She indicated the point of the shore visible further left, a spire near the cliff’s edge. Even from here, there were signs of ruin about the place, as if it were an antiquated figure left abandoned on the point.

  “A working one?” he inquired.

  “Not in a long while,” she said. “There’s a modern one out further, on Crescent Point.”

  The choppy water forced Landen to brace himself with one hand as a sensation of sickness passed over him. The girl across from him was studying the view with an impassive gaze. He withdrew the camera and snapped a photo of the rocks, of the shore in the distance. Then one of the ruined lighthouse.

  He lowered the camera. “Have you ever seen it?” he asked. Hesitating a moment, before reminding himself she expected this question. It was why he was here, after all.

  He expected her to say yes, given the pause of silence in between. Her arms rested on her knees, face turned to a profile of tan skin and faint freckles from sunlight. Eyes only for the sea and its stones, as if her mind was there instead of turned inwards with boredom.

  “None of your business, is it?” she answered after a moment, as her fingers gave the motor’s cord a swift pull and brought it to life again. But there was a playful smile with these words, meeting his glance briefly before she turned away.

  The roar of the motor seemed deafening as the boat twisted towards shore again, the turn jarring Landen to one side. Behind him, the view of Finn’s rock slipped into the distance as the sandy curves of the shore grew closer; the boat gliding in a graceful turn, as if skating along the edge of an icy pond.

  “We weren’t formally introduced earlier,” Landen shouted over the noise. “I’m Landen Grantham, by the way.” He gripped both sides of the boat now, feeling the water bump beneath as it scurried towards the distant docks.

  “Finn Malloy,” she called back. Not turning around, her hand firmly gripping the tiller.

  “Malloy?” he echoed.

  “My grandfather,” she shouted. “In the coffee shop.” Glancing over her shoulder with another smile–this one broader than before.

  “Any chance he’s seen the mermaid?” asked Landen, with a laugh. “And wants to be quoted in a national journal?“ He hoped it didn’t sound bitter, given the early stages of this story. Finn had already turned away again, suggesting the subject didn’t interest her as much as reaching shore did.

  “You’ll have to ask him,” she answered.

  *****

  “Show him a bit of charm,” said Morgan. “A bit of a smile. That’s all that’s asked, while you lead him in another direction.”

  Finn bit her lip. “I know what you‘re saying,” she answered. “It’s just ... maybe we should hope for the best and wait for him to go away.”

  “That’s not the Malloy spirit,” he coaxed. “Come on now. There’s no reason to think he won’t be the same as all the others.”

  They were in Finn’s kitchen, where the coffee was growing cold in her cracked mug depicting an antique mermaid illustration. Barefoot, with her flannel-robed knees drawn up tight, Finn gazed sullenly towards the window. The view of the sea and sand seemed almost colorless in the cold white of pre-dawn.

  “We need you in this, Finn,” said Morgan. “We’ll have to pull together. No different from any other time in the past.”

  “Nothing stays a secret forever,” said Finn. She raised her head and looked at him, her fingers brushing through her frizz of hair. “You’ve got to realize that. Some things can’t be protected when times change.”

  “But this would change it all for us,” said Morgan. “For everyone. You know that.”

  Until now, she knew he assumed she could be counted on. It would be a foregone conclusion. At this moment, she was probably the only person who had their doubts about this next week.

  He sighed. “Then you won’t be helping, I take it?” He offered her a sad smile, lined by creases. Finn drew away from his gaze, although she knew it was too late. She had waited too long; cracks in her resolve were like strands of rope fraying beneath the salt and sunlight.

  “Let me think about it,” she said. “If no one else–”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “That’s my girl,” he said. “I’ll be looking for you, then.” He retrieved his hat from the table and opened the kitchen door, whistling as he set off down the beach.

  *****

  “The rowboat was stranded. Like a leaf on the water, I was–afloat without a paddle and a mile’s distance from the shore. Oh, I could swim it, but it t’was a cold thought, the swim to shore. That’s why I stayed put and waited for a sign of Jim’s light when he would put out to sea for the morn. And at that moment, I saw her.”

  The storyteller’s voice dropped low as he drew breath. “She was a grey figure, wet and silent on the rocks. Had a stare like something inhuman as she gazed straight at me. Curtain of hair parted, long, wet, thick strands as black as seaweed from the bottom of the ocean. An’ she was staring into my soul as if she could read it all there. All my misdeeds and good thoughts and all that hadn’t yet been.”

  Morgan Malloy’s audience for this tale consisted of a handful of children, present on a Saturday morning for plates of gooseberry pancakes and the ordinary mild gossip of doting grandparents bringing them in tow. But even a few of them listened to Morgan’s story with a half-hidden smile as they waited for coffee refills or hot muffins.

  Morgan held up his finger, “But what was that?” he asked. “Ah, t’is the sound of Jim’s motor as he goes out to sea. Until that moment I’d forgotten him, but it was the knell that sent the mermaid into the deep again. Before I could say “Jack Sprat”, she slipped below the waves in a wink. Like a flounder slippin’ from the decks of a fishing boat into the water below.” The small sounds of murmurs and gasps followed from his audience, no doubt forming digital noise on Landen’s nearby recorder.

  “Of course, Jim caught sight of me out there, flagging him down with a wave of my hand. Pulled me up and towed the dingy along behind. The moment I was aboard I told him about it–kept pointing to the water as if that proved something. Right good laugh, had Jim, at my expense, of course.”

  He shook his head. “But here, even today, I still remember her as if it was but a moment ago. That’s how real it be–seeing the merpeople. And don’t you forget it.” With a warning finger pointed at the four or five eager faces latched on his, the stern expression followed by a grin which concluded the story. A few laughs echoed from the grown-up listeners, a few shining-eyed faces whispering excitedly as they were ushered back to the breakfasts at hand.

  “I wish I saw the mermaid,” said one of the youngest children, squirming in its seat as Lorrie set a platter of pancakes before him. Morgan took a swig from his coffee cup and nodded in Landen’s direction.

  The journalist snapped off the recorder. “Any of it true?” he asked. He was already prepared to laugh–or not laugh–at whatever response Morgan Malloy might have.

  The old fisherman chuckled. “Some of it,” he said. “Bein’ lost at sea in the rowboat is true. And seeing ... well, seeing something. That’s true, too.” He took another sip of his coffee. “This story’s for the wee folk, you might say. And for the young at heart, who remember when the Lacordia was a name on their grandparents’ lips, as it had been on the lips of those come before.”

  “So what do you think you saw?” Landen cupped his chin with one hand, attempting to look interested as opposed to exhausted. “If you were out there, shivering in the morning cold, thinking this might be your last hour on earth...do you think you dreamed up whatever was on that rock?”

  Morgan’s fork cut through a stack of pancakes, reminding Landen that thus far he had only seen the fisherman eat, as opposed to any other activities. His own jam muffin was untouched on its plate, next to a cold cup of coffee Lorrie had poured for him an hour ago. His night at the Mermaid’s Arms had consisted of unsettling sounds from the small parking lot and the roar of wind and waves in the distance.

  Af
ter considering the question for a moment, Morgan swallowed a mouthful of food. “Don’t know,” he answered. “T’is a bit embellished, I know. The ‘pale figure on the rock’ and such is in all the stories, as they say. But what I saw...” Here, he paused for a moment.

  “What I saw was the same, in a way. It weren’t human–that much I know. I could see the fish as well as the next fisherman. And if this were a tuna seated upright on the rock, it t’was of a size and shape like none any fisherman’s ever snared by rod or net.” With a grin which seemed a little embarrassed as he cut another strip of pancakes with his fork and knife.

  Was the edge of doubt in his voice for the sighting or for the questions? Landen had learned over the years that most people avoided being pinned down on a belief in their sighting, except for the truly diehard devotees. Admitting one has seen something strange, easy. Admitting what one thinks it might have been, considerably harder.

  “But if you want to see one that has a bit more interest in the merfolk, that would be Farcus,” said Morgan. Landen’s ears perked up at this remark.

  “Who’s Farcus?” he asked, prepared to turn his recorder on again. Morgan cut another generous slice from his pancakes.

  “Friend o’ mine. Keeps open the visitors center down at the ferry dock. Well-liked by one and all, but a bit strange, if you know what I mean.”

  “Has he experienced a ... sighting?” ventured Landen. He took a sip from his cup of coffee and grimaced at the taste of cold grounds.

  “Farcus? Nay. Only obsessed with those that ‘ave.” With one sweep of his fork, he lifted the last of the pancakes from his plate and polished them off.