Song of the Sea Maid

by Rebecca Mascull

  After a time, I spot a curious object on the horizon. Across the landscape, to the south of the road we use to traverse the island, is what can only be described as the tidiest pile of stones I have yet seen. It is only as we approach nearer that I see it is a building of some sort, not an accidental pile at all. It is a broad, rough circle of boulders, some of which are built up one atop the other, to create an almost oval wall of sorts. I can see there are olive trees – somewhat stunted by the fierce wind blowing through them – and other vegetation growing all around and between the stones, so that perhaps this was once a walled structure with even a roof, yet neglect and nature have overtaken its grandeur and created this rubbly ruin. Of course, this must be one of the ancient sites Pilar told me about.

  I ask my driver in Spanish and we converse simply, in our half-Spanish, half-English with a smattering of Menorquí.

  Say I, ‘You see that old building over there? Can we stop and see it?’

  ‘We never go in them. We stay away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ghosts.’

  My cheery driver frowns, gees up the mules and will not stop. Further along the road I see another such structure. This is more extensive, with longer walls, what look like caves in the rock and a peculiar construction of boulders, which for all the world seem to have been balanced one atop the other almost like an archway or pair of stone columns. I simply must see that cave, but I know my driver will not turn for it, and I must be patient. Yet my loss at the Berlengas has made me fearful and obsessive. I half expect this site to be gone if I come back tomorrow, though it has sat here for generations. I keep my eyes on it and seek out answers in its eccentric forms until the land rises, falls and hides it from me. I will go back.

  On our welcome approach north to Fornells, I look up to see the castle of Sant Antoni surrounded by scrubby ground, patches of brave green shouldering dusty yellow soil; I have since read of its history, built against the Barbary pirates about a century ago. From there the small outpost of British soldiers must possess the ideal panoramic view over the bay of Fornells and the village nestling beneath them, with the Fornellers going about their fishy business and the goats clambering in herds across the landscape. Some houses are brightly whitewashed, neat and well-kept. I spot a cormorant preening its oily feathers, then diving into the clear blue sea – the clearest I have ever seen – with patches of marine life here and there beckoning me to examine them later with my glass viewer. There is an attractive mixture of white and golden rocks, green plants clinging resolutely beneath the strong sea winds that have bent some trees to the ground. We pass a pretty church amber in the sunshine.

  My driver deposits me at a reputable guest-house owned by a lady from a place he cannot remember, which he attempts to explain is English but not English. I suspect she is from Scotland, yet on entering the Hotel Cardiff I find the lady is Welsh. Her name is Mrs Meredith and she greets me with kindness. She has a room spare and by late afternoon I am fed, watered and situated in a small yet comfortable room overlooking the harbour of this sleepy fishing village. I sit at a table beside the window and write a brief letter to Mr Woods, informing him of my new address and location. I tell him I intend to stay here for six months, until early summer. This is vague enough to give me some time to decide for myself what my plans are. Truth be told, I have not a clue what I shall be doing by the spring. My experience in Lisbon has taught me that plans too long in advance are pointless, as the future may crack open in a moment and devour you, most literally, plans and all.

  I leave my room, letter in hand, and Mrs Meredith offers to arrange postage of it tomorrow. I thank her then ask if she knows of a local fishing family called Cardona, specifically Pilar’s brother whose name I was told is Mateu. She says rather imperiously that she has little to do with the local fishermen, but directs me to her fishmonger who she says deals with such people. This man does know Mateu Cardona. He sends his boy to accompany me, a dark-eyed scallywag with a cheeky gait who runs too far ahead of me around corners, then pokes his head out to see if I am yet lost. But I can run too, when I need to. We arrive at a row of houses two streets back from the sea, the accoutrements of their trade to be seen all along the street, with old nets being mended by women seated on stools and gossiping in the dying sun. The boy points to them, turns on his heel and runs away, the little scoundrel.

  They raise their heads and stare curiously as I approach. Once I begin to speak in Spanish, their faces light up and nod, though one young woman giggles at me, as perhaps my Castilian pronunciation sounds odd to Minorcan ears. We converse in a mixture of Spanish and the strange nuances of their Menorquí. I ask if they know of this man, that I knew his sister in Portugal and wish to pay my respects to him and his family. ‘Pilar?’ they say, ‘Pilar, Pilar!’ And they laugh in recognition and I know I am in the right place. One woman stands and approaches me, smiling. It is at this moment I realise something I had not thought of: perhaps Minorca felt the distant effects of the earthquake and yet it is very likely that none of these people will have heard of Peniche’s disaster. And almost certainly they will have no knowledge of Pilar’s death. And the fact occurs to me that I will be the harbinger of this hateful news and I must give it without delay to her bereaved brother. How stupid of me not to have foreseen this, to have been so caught up in my own affairs and desires that I have forgotten how sluggishly intelligence travels. I have arrived here far quicker than the news trundles through continents, and I wish I did not carry it to this lovely place. I now regret my hasty choice to come here. Would it not have been better for him never to know? To imagine his sister, if he thinks of her at all, happy in Peniche with her fisherman husband? I must choose now, to tell the horrible truth or keep it my secret.

  The woman tells me her name is Francina and she is Mateu’s wife. He is about to return from fishing with their two sons. She asks me, ‘How is Pilar?’ She tells me they were friends, as girls, that she has not seen her for thirty years or more.

  And I am torn, whether to tell this good woman first, or save it for the brother. But I am saved from my indecision as the tramping of boots resounds at the end of the street and a group of men come down greeted by the women with indifference. I ask Francina if her husband is among them. And she nods, taking my arm and leading me towards a man with white hair and an ample moustache covering his mouth. He looks older than Pilar yet has young eyes, green like hers and glinting.

  Francina explains who I am. All the men have stopped now to stare at me and listen. But then Mateu brings his own surprise. There has been news, he tells the rapt audience about him, from the Portuguese ship that brought me. Word has taken a day to travel across the island and now all talk is of the disaster that afflicted Lisbon. Mateu questions me politely: was I there, in the centre of the earthquake? They did indeed feel it here, yet it sounds as if it were quite weakened by distance. How did his sister fare? Did her husband lose his boat? The women sewing have ceased their work, and wait to hear what the curious Englishwoman has to say. I stand in this cobbled street, Pilar’s family home behind me, her brother, his wife and their sons leaning forward to hear my news. I wish to say that Pilar is well and sends her best regards and love. But I cannot.

  ‘I am very sorry to tell you that Pilar and her husband Horacio died in the earthquake,’ say I in Spanish, and a gasp ripples through the assembly.

  Mateu frowns and glances at Francina, who shakes her head, her hand covering her mouth.

  Mateu asks me, ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Mateu,’ says his wife, as if to warn him from seeking too much.

  I mean to say in peace, she died peacefully. But I cannot lie, and yet I cannot speak the words. I open my mouth to say it and stop.

  ‘Please, young lady,’ says Mateu.

  ‘After the earthquake, there was a great and terrible wave that came across the sea. Pilar was on the beach with her husband.’

  I need say no more. It is understood. People begin to mutter and comfort e
ach other. I stand alone and do not know where to look or what to do with my hands.

  Then Francina takes my hand. ‘We are very glad you came.’

  ‘But I bring such awful news,’ I reply softly, as if it were my doing, as if I were the cause of the earthquake and I come carrying my shame.

  Mateu adds, ‘Then we are glad it was brought to us not by a stranger, but instead Pilar’s friend. We are glad it was you.’

  He bows deeply and retires into his house. He is clearly moved and I feel I must remove myself. Francina kindly offers that I should stay for some refreshment, yet I thank her and make my excuses to go. She asks me where I am staying and says I must come to visit them again soon, under brighter circumstances. With that, I leave Pilar’s family to grieve. I came to this lovely place with knowledge of their countrywoman, so long gone away and now, out of nothing, there is news. But it is fearful news, of the worst kind. I feel I have infected this street with bad tidings.

  The next day, I wander mournfully on the local beach. I pace across white sand strewn with curious balls of fibrous material I believe must be washed up by the sea. I bring my usual bag of specimen collectors and my viewer. I remove my stockings – to the surprise of some nearby fishermen who grumble and point at me. But I am used to being the odd foreigner – indeed, the English mermaid – and I paddle to the edge of a reef. Beyond it, I can glimpse the edge of a captivating underwater meadow of swaying seaweed, bright green clumps aligned along a channel with ribbon-like leaves almost as long as I am tall, swaying elegantly in the water. I believe the balls I see on the beach may be the desiccated foliage of this seagrass. Its genus may be the zostera described by Linnaeus, yet I am not sure, so I make a quick sketch and write a brief description. My viewer also affords me a clear view of red coral, crustaceans and molluscs, and even a blue spiny lobster scuttling to hide from me. It is true I have brought sadness to this place, as I have carried my own within me. But there is such vivacity here, I feel somewhat renewed and sleep that night with visions of ocean gardens replacing my customary recent nightmares of destruction and death. Instead, I dream of life.

  22

  I spend the next two days similarly surveying the coast, notebook and pencil to hand, recording my first impressions of the local flora and fauna. Over breakfast on my fourth day, Mrs Meredith hands me a note delivered very early this morning while I still slumbered. It is from the Cardona family and they are inviting me to lunch at midday. I walk over there slowly in apprehension. When I arrive, I believe there remains a subdued tone to the street’s inhabitants, yet at the sight of me, all I see are respectful and nod, smile and greet me most decorously.

  Once inside the Cardona home – simple, comfortable, clean and painted bright white, just as Pilar described it – I am made to feel most welcome by Mateu and Francina. From an awkward first few moments – where I feel Pilar stands in the midst of us like a haunting – a slow yet steady stream of questions trickles from them, about how I met Pilar, of her home, her habits and Horacio – whom they have never met – and from Pilar’s nephews, two or three very particular questions about the construction of Horacio’s boat and how well it sails, which I endeavour to answer, casting back my mind to happier days on the gay Gaivota. During this latter delightful interrogation, Francina has been busy in the kitchen and soon returns with steaming plates of the most marvellously scented food.

  It is a Sunday and I am treated to what I am told is a traditional Minorcan Sunday lunch. Francina tells me with regret that we will not be having the English bifi with grevi, and there again is that curious mish-mash with English I have heard before. There is something endearing about it, yet I would not wish this lovely island to lose its unique quality in subjugation to an alien culture such as my own. Let us hope the two cultures enrich each other, indeed like a fine gravy, and do not repel, like oil on water. We eat a delicious stew made of lobster, served with thin pieces of toasted bread and small potatoes. There are clams too, eaten with lemon, and curious crustaceans that appear to be a barnacle of sorts, the kind of animal an Englishman would turn up his nose at, but the flavour is quite good. The delight of eating and sharing good food seals our ease with each other. And by the end of it I am as fat as a belly-god, only to be told there is dessert: a kind of nougat mixed with almonds, and soft pastry cakes that melt on the tongue. The kindness and good nature of the Cardona family is exceptional; though they are not poverty-stricken, the simplicity of their dwelling shows how little they have to spare, and yet they feed me like a queen and keep bringing more. After the sweets, Francina offers me a small, tasty plum and she says in English, ‘Never Saw Plum.’

  Whatever can she mean?

  Say I, in Spanish, ‘Would you like to learn English?’

  ‘No, no!’ she says. ‘An Englishman, the governor here, ten years ago or more. He was in the market in Máo and he saw a woman selling fruit. She asked him, “What do you call this plum in England?” And he said, “I never saw it in England.” And from that time on, everyone calls this fruit the Never Saw Plum.’

  How we laugh! This curious procreation between my country and this enchanting island is most diverting. I begin to feel at home here, though it is a far cry from the squalid streets of my youth.

  After dinner I offer to assist in clearing away the platters and so forth but I am refused, so ask instead to speak with Mateu. I am eager to explore the coastline hereabouts and need a kind of Horacio to help me. I know how busy these fishermen must be – and I wonder for a moment if it is somehow inappropriate to ask – yet as soon as I moot the idea of a boatman to assist me with my studies, Mateu assures me he would be honoured to take me. Not every day, of course, but once or twice a week. I explain to him my work on islands and he nods gravely. He says he can take me out to broad beds of the local seagrass, which are flanked by rocky outcrops rich with sea life. It is then I ask him about Pilar’s mermaids.

  He lifts his eyebrows, pauses a moment, then tells me we can look, but that these creatures are hard to find nowadays. He adds, ‘The English have frightened them off!’ He uses a lovely Spanish word for them: doncella, meaning a pure young woman – maidens of the sea.

  I ask him, ‘Do you believe they are real? Have you seen them?’

  Francina has overheard our conversation and joins us. She adds, ‘There are surely mermaids in these waters and have been for ever. Some are helpful and kind. They have married our men. Others are cruel and lure ships to disaster. When I was a child, they said there were giant sirens near here, male and female, who would rise high above the water and make a terrible screaming sound when boats came near. And some even came to shore and dragged two men and a woman into the sea and drowned them.’

  I shake my head with appropriate awe. Yet I consider this may well have been a cautionary tale to frighten little Francina and her friends, to keep them away from the dangerous tides. I turn to Mateu to see what he makes of all this.

  He shrugs. ‘I have seen something in the water,’ he says. And no more. He does not chatter, like his sister once did, as if his heavy whiskers discourage it.

  We sail the next day in an attractive boat Mateu calls his llaüt. There are many of these to be found about Minorca, so I surmise they must be a traditional vessel of the island. He tells me he builds these boats with his sons and sells them at a good price, and now I understand how a fisherman can provide such a good meal as I had yesterday. He is clearly a skilled craftsman, as this neat little boat cuts beautifully through the blue waves, swift and true. He takes me to the next headland to the west and we dabble about the adjacent reef, my viewer affording me – and an ever more curious Mateu – some wonderful views of the abundant sea life. I see a blue lobster again and Mateu tells me this is what I ate in Francina’s delicious stew.

  We head towards two tiny uninhabited islets. Mateu tells me this is where he and his family have seen flickers of tails in the water in the past.

  ‘I am not a fool,’ he says, a slight twitch of his moustache sh
owing he is amused by the thought, not annoyed. ‘I think the mermaid is most likely a child’s story. But there is something here, sometimes, in the water. Something we cannot name. From time to time.’

  We sit, drifting fitfully on the currents, for a while. We have brought food: cheese, bread, spiced sausages and a tasty sweet concoction of breadcrumbs and cinnamon baked by Francina. We eat in silence, pensive, watching the waves, scanning the islets. Time passes. I will something to appear in the water. Yet I know it will not. I am not that lucky.

  After a day at sea, I trudge back exhausted to Mrs Meredith’s guest-house and collapse on my bed. I can neither stir leg nor arm. I sleep, woken only by her feisty knocking to rouse me for supper. She has sent out a rabbit for roasting in the local baker’s oven and I devour it hungrily. I adore the simple yet hearty food here, the fresher than fresh food of the sea and the sugary rich treats Francina bakes for me. I adore the crystalline water, the emerald seagrass swaying and the blue lobster clambering about its reef. I adore Minorca.

  These winter months I sail to the islets twice a week with Mateu. We wait and watch, yet see only fish in the waters. I ask to land on an islet and we spend time at several different ones. A curious fact reveals itself: there is a species of lizard living on these islets, and Mateu tells me that it is not to be found anywhere on the main island. On closer examination, I discover that the lizards one finds on each islet are slightly different. There are variations in colour and pattern on the skin of each separate lizard, yet within each tiny landmass the lizards are all the same. For example, on one all the lizards are tan mottled with black patches. On another, they have a green tail and a dark brown body; others have aqua patches beneath the chin; one islet is home to only black specimens, while some are striped and more still are spotted. It is as if the Creator grew burthened with tedium at the idea of one single lizard species when painting the island of Minorca and thus decided to mix up His palette and experiment.