There are several different stories about the mermaid of Fair Island–all equally unproven and incapable of being proved. Even the local museum has no pretense of offering evidence to support the claims of sightings among its handful of antiquated items. Most of the locals who have seen the figure can agree only on one thing: it was a shape seen in the dark and the fog.
That being said, the investigation into the mermaid unearths some unusual stories. For instance, the selkie-based myth (that’s the magical seal-turned-human mythical creature for those not familiar with Celtic folklore) now adapted to include a secret ceremony for merpeople. A kind of campfire and sing-along for the creatures of the sea come ashore...
Landen paused in the middle of his draft, letting his forehead rest on his hands for a moment. Clearly, the statements on his screen would need softening–would need romanticizing, for that matter. The readers interested in mermaid myths weren’t the same ones who wanted to hunt werewolves in the Colorado wilderness.
He was uncertain how to inject any sense of romance into this piece. There, he needed something more human than a grey and apparently slimy figure out on the rocks. He needed something with a bit more beauty. A mermaid akin to the namesake of the mermaid’s rock, the girl whose boat carried him above the legendary wreck in the depths.
He stretched, running a hand over his face and forehead. The clock in his room at the Mermaid’s Arms was off by fifteen minutes, he had noticed. Drifting towards the past in the same manner as the faded wallpaper and threadbare carpeting. Outside the window came the same roar of the distant sea and the occasional passing motor from the road. Parting the curtains, he peered out at the faint light of morning’s approach, the black speck of the lighthouse in the distance.
The climb to the lighthouse was steep. Landen’s legs ached from the effort as he picked his way up a series of rough, narrow ledges worn into steps by human passage over the ages. His fingers gripped the rock sides, brushing against tough sea grass and weeds clinging to the bits of dirt in the stone’s cracks. He found himself wishing he had thought to bring shoes built for the endurance of hiking instead of mere sneakers.
He was surprised that there was any means of reaching the top of the cliff, that any road from the town diverged to this view–the thought that someone owned this property had failed to cross his mind until this point. His view rose above the stone to the lighthouse directly ahead. It loomed above him, a pillar faded by sunlight and rain until its painted stripes were long-vanished. A series of boards were nailed over the door, lower windows smashed as if by rocks.
Even in the darkness of pre-dawn, it seemed impressive. Above, the panels of glass curving like a tumbler, circling the top beneath a pointed roof, glass eyes facing every angle of land and sea.
He crossed the grass towards the door, fully expecting a padlock or an entrance barred by something more than a piece of lumber. He slipped his arm beneath the board across the frame; he touched the handle beneath a rusted-out padlock and lifted it. To his surprise, the door shoved open.
There were no furnishings left in the lighthouse, no possessions of any kind. The bare space was covered in a film of dust and layers of cobwebs, disturbed as Landen crawled beneath the barrier and crossed towards the stairs. He remembered Angus’s warning about the rotten stairs, hesitating before he placed a foot on one of the steps. It creaked, but did not give beneath his weight as he tested it.
As he climbed, he half-expected to encounter some sign of mermaid culture along the way. A mural painted on a wall, an old poster tacked beneath the webs. There was no sign of the legend anywhere; nothing but the grimy traces of time passing over the walls inside and out.
The floor at the top seemed sturdy as he stepped into the room with the light. The reflecting mirrors were broken, the pieces scattered on the floor. Here was evidence of a party sometime in the past–a few crushed aluminum cans too dirty to identify, an old sneaker tossed in a corner. Near the windows stood the remains of an old telescope.
He swiveled the lens to face the sea outside; his fingers traced the damaged casing as he peered through the eyehole. A view marred by scratches and obvious damage to the lens, revealing the stones which formed Finn’s rock and the mermaid island doubled in number beneath the waves. A grey figure seated on one, facing the glow of sunrise.
Landen registered a double-take, his fingers almost losing their grip on the scope. The view swayed, then refocused as he closed in on the sight again, careful to tilt away to avoid the fracture which doubled objects on one side. The figure below came into focus as he adjusted the eyepiece. No fish tale, but human legs folded against a body, held in place by a pair of arms. The namesake of Finn’s rock had taken her seat on the island of stone.
*****
From her vantage on the rocks, Finn could see a movement in the lighthouse: a shaft of refracted light, as if glass upon mirrored glass. Meaning someone or something was upstairs.
She shivered in the cold morning air, her skin wet and salt-coated from the sea. Untangling herself from her crouched position, she slid into the water. The slick fabric of her bathing suit made it possible to swim swiftly towards the beach, where she climbed ashore and hurried towards the house.
Inside, she dug around for a shirt and jeans, a jacket slung across the back of a kitchen chair. The faint tick of the shelf clock was the only sound in the house except for her own movements.
A flashlight wouldn’t be necessary; it was almost light enough to see her way up the cliff’s path. As she climbed, she reflected on the fact that it wasn’t the first time she had spotted intruders lurking around the lighthouse–more than one villager had found teenagers poking around the barred-up doorway or tourists trespassing on the grounds. It had been awhile, giving Finn hope that the kids had lost interest in the ruins.
The door was ajar, a man visible crawling beneath the boarded-up portion to the weedy grass on the other side. For a moment, Finn slowed at the sight of the stranger, until he raised his face and she recognized the visiting journalist.
"Mr. Grantham?" she said, surprised that his name came so readily to her memory. He stood upright, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"You know you're trespassing," she said. "This is the Camden's property. They don't care for strangers poking about in the old lighthouse–bit of a danger."
He grinned, instead of appearing dismayed. "I can see that they've had more than a few up there in the past," he said, glancing towards the upstairs. "You ran off the more recent visitors, I assume?"
She shrugged. "They asked me to keep an eye on it," she answered. "I live down there." She gestured towards the view of the beach in the distance, where her house was visible. He gazed down at it, studying it with a look of interest, although it would simply seem another shabby sea dwelling to anyone but herself.
"What were you looking for?" she asked, crossing her arms against the cool breeze. "I don't suppose you–expected to see a mermaid from there?"
He laughed. "It would have made this assignment a lot easier," he said. "But I'm getting the impression that seeing a mermaid isn't as easy as the story claims. All this–stuff about foggy mornings and shipwrecked souls, a mermaid ceremony–"
"The ceremony?" she snorted. "Who told you about that one?" In her mind, she pictured the face of her grandfather, although she had no idea how often he had spoken to the stranger in their midst. It would be like him to mention something like that to pique the interest of their visitor.
"You never did answer my question," he said. "About whether you've ever seen anything around here." A half-smile tugged at his lips as he asked this question.
She could see by his face that he was genuinely curious for the answer. She wondered if it was for the sake of the story, or merely personal curiosity. Perhaps too personal, as she felt a blush creep into her cheeks and turned away.
She hesitated before she spoke the words aloud. "Suppose I showed you something you want to see," she called over her shoulder as she moved tow
ards the cliff's path again. "Suppose I showed you the ceremony."
"Then you've seen it?" He followed her, steps quickening to catch up. She could see his raised eyebrows when she glanced back, the surprise in his face over her answer.
"Lots of people have," she answered. She slowed as the path took the form of crude stone steps; she felt a hand touch her elbow, not to stop her but to steady her. Landen Grantham had caught up with her.
"So where–when?" he asked.
"Tonight," she answered. "There's a moon, so it must be tonight." She could see the curiosity in his face in response to these words, but pressed on without acknowledging it.
“I'll take you to the spot," she said. "I'll meet you outside of my house if you'll come there." Her fingers felt for another steadying hold, making contact with the grass along the sides before brushing against his sleeve by accident. She felt the rough fabric of his coat, the firmness of his arm beneath, before she withdrew again.
He seemed unfazed by the accidental touch, making no attempt to draw away from her. He continued to move alongside her as they made their way towards the beach.
"What time?" he asked.
"After dark," she answered, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She crossed the beach more slowly than she traversed it earlier, waiting for him to move on in the direction of the village road. Instead, he continued following her as the house drew near. Her kitchen light was still burning, an oil lamp she had ignited when she brewed her morning coffee.
She hesitated. "Do you want something to drink?" she asked. "A cup of coffee."
She could tell he was surprised by the question; his face betrayed it as much as the moment of silence following her question. "Sure," he answered. "I'd love one."
She unlocked the door and let him into the kitchen. The room was dark except for the lamp and the morning light streaming through the open curtains. The grey board walls were bare, as was the surface of the table, a wool throw tossed over the antique sofa. A row of painted tins on the counter depicted ships riding the waves, a mermaid rising above the water.
"Mermaids," said Landen. He leaned against the table, peering around the room as if uncertain if he should sit or stand. "I wonder if everyone on this island has a mermaid souvenir tucked away somewhere."
"Yeah, well, those are my only ones," she answered, nodding towards the tins. Her fingers scooped sugar and creamer into a pottery mug, indicating a second one beside it.
"Just a spoonful," he answered. She poured coffee into both mugs and stirred them before handing him one.
"So give me a hint about tonight," he said, taking a sip. "About this mysterious ceremony."
"I don't want to spoil it," she answered. "Best left to the imagination, that one is." Her smile had gradually crept into place the last few minutes, a slow build which set alight her blue eyes. She settled on the nearest stool, letting the shadows hide her face, making her expression inscrutable to his gaze.
He watched her intently, not speaking as he held his coffee cup. It was as if he had forgotten himself; something he seemed to realize all of a sudden. He stirred, hiding himself behind the cup of coffee for a moment.
"Good," he said, lowering it with a nod after taking a generous swallow. "Very good. Better than Lorrie and her never-ending cup at the Codswallow."
"The Codswallow's more about bulk than flavor," she answered. "Anyway, you're a good liar, Mr. Grantham. Given that you're complimenting stewed coffee that's over four hours old." She raised her cup as if toasting him with this remark.
"Four hours?" he repeated.
"I'm up early," she answered. "Before the dawn. Fishermen don't sleep in. They see the sunrise on the water more than they see the sun set from the shore." She poured more coffee in her cup, topping off its contents. "Me, I'm no different. Rise and prep the boat, have a swim in the water."
"I saw you out there," he said. "Sitting on Finn's rock." As her expression changed, he added, hastily, "There was an old telescope up there–when I swung it out to face the sea, there you were." His eyes flickered towards the pale green bathing suit draped over a chair.
Her cheeks flushed at the thought of what he must have seen from the tower: herself crouched upon the rock, mostly bare skin and streaming hair. But there were other things he could have seen instead, if the weather had been different: imaginary visions in the fog that would pique his imagination more than a local girl seated on a rock.
Even when she was out on the waves in the morning sun, she was still picturing him standing in her kitchen with the cup of coffee. Imagining the thoughts which must have been in his mind as he studied the plain interior of her house; and studied her on the rocks below from the lighthouse windows.
*****
"I'll show him if they agreed to it," said Finn. "If you think this is going to change his mind."
"It doesn't have to," Morgan reassured her. "It just has to make him think about it a little. C'mon, darlin'–just show him a little of what he wants to see."
Finn scoffed. "And seeing the lights on the beach is going to steer him away from the truth? You've talked with him longer than anybody. You know that he's not that type. Fooled by the famous sights of Fair Island."
"He's looking for a quick answer," said Morgan, leaning forward so his elbows rested on the table. "If we give him a push–who's to say?"
Who was to say? Certainly not Finn–she had made her reluctance clear from the start. She suspected that Morgan misjudged Landen Grantham's curiosity on the subject, although she had no way of proving it. But there was something beneath the surface of his smile, beneath his questions, that she distrusted.
But was distrust the word she was looking for? Or was she willing him to expect more from the mermaid than a threadbare story? More from the island than a sad tourist spot on a map where strangers purchased clay sculpted mermaids and wooden ships carved from driftwood.
Carefully, her fingers stitched a tear in the fabric on her lap as she turned these thoughts over in her mind. She bit off the thread, then shook out the folds. The tinkle of soft plastic discs, of silvery threads rasped beneath her skin as she folded it up and placed it in the bottom drawer beside her bed.
She stowed the scissors in the sewing basket on top, then rose from her seat on the bed. Her bare feet crossed the wood floor to the window, where she pulled the curtains closed softly against the dying light.
*****
"It's just a bit of fun. A few friendly faces gathered for a quiet drink down at the pub." Angus puffed his pipe.
"Linus'll be there, I wager. He saw the mermaid once, didn't he? Out in the Bay of Battery, near Northport." This, from Codswallow's owner, who was wiping down the lunch counter with a damp rag. "Get a few pints in him and the stories he'll tell about anything–" He whistled softly and dried his hands on his apron as he moved towards the kitchen.
At his table, Landen could feel the glance of more than one customer drift his way as he idly poked at his plate of eggs with his fork. He knew this conversation was being held for his benefit, although no one had directly addressed him. Until now.
"Ye'd be welcome there as any." Morgan Malloy was not so shy. He addressed Landen from his seat at the counter with a plate of jelly doughnuts before him.
"At a local party?" Landen answered. "I think it might be better if I conducted my interviews in a quieter atmosphere, Mr. Malloy. But thanks anyway."
"The pub's not so loud as a Dublin brawl, lad. You'd have quiet enough for talking," said Angus. "No real noise in the place to speak of except when there's a sports match on the television. Then the young rowdies make the roof raise with their racket."
"Good chance to see everyone ye'd wish to talk to," hinted Morgan. "They 'll all be there in one spot for the askin'. No more chasing about the village for eyewitnesses, so to speak." He motioned for Lorrie to refill his cup.
"It's good fun, love," she said, offering Landen a wrinkled smile in place of her usual frown. "Why don't you drop by at least? Wally Howser's
ale's a good glass; his brother's got a brewery in the northwest." She topped off Landen's cup while she was present, without asking if he preferred it.
"Drop by around ten or so," coaxed Morgan. "There'll be Linus and a lot of others present with interesting recollections for your story. That much I'll wager." He edged aside at the lunch counter, making room for a heavyset fishermen whose coat was stained with mud and scales.
Ten o' clock wasn't late–except he had a prior appointment. His agreement to meet with Finn Malloy had bobbed in and out of his thoughts all morning, since the moment he struck off for the village path away from her house. Pausing once on the road to watch a boat moving out to sea, he imagined that it must be hers from the dock.
What kind of living did they earn here? Competing with bigger boats and corporate fishing companies, with foreign enterprises, no doubt–and all for a small wage and an evening spent cleaning gear and watching the sun dip below the sea. Was it romantic, noble? Or merely a long stretch of existence which much surely rival his disillusionment with endless stories of the unexplained.
Strangely enough, that was not the thought in his mind that night as he made his way down the beach after sunset. In the dying light, Finn's house was a dark shape on the sand, the water aglow with pink and orange lights burning fiercely on the horizon. He imagined her within, her dark hair twining past her shoulders in waves, her blue eyes gazing through the window at the sunset as she waited.
The thought of her waiting for him sent a pleasant and inexplicable shiver through his frame as crossed the sandy plain.
*****
At the sound of his knock, Finn opened the door, her dark shape framed by the bright glow of the lamps within. She was wearing a fitted leather jacket and denim jeans, a button down shirt which showed no signs of a hard day's work. An almost shy smile appeared on her face.
Finn's Rock Page 4
