Song of the Sea Maid

by Rebecca Mascull

  I make sketches of each variation of lizard and paint them in watercolours, and sit in the evenings by candlelight in my guest-house mulling over the differences. One could explain it with the idea of a bored deity, many would agree. Yet I am not satisfied with this. Why would there be a different sub-species of lizard on each little island, each with its own markings? What else differs between the islets? Is the vegetation distinct, the colouring of the land itself marked differently? Does each lizard fit its situation neatly, unable to conceal itself successfully anywhere else? Does it need to conceal itself? Does it have natural predators – perhaps birds of prey? Such questions fill my mind, requiring answers and producing more by the day.

  When Mateu is busy working, I spend the rest of my days exploring the ancient sites of the island. I hire a cart and mule and show myself around, following directions from the local people. My mule I christen Horacio, as he is good-natured and has a comical aspect yet soft sweet eyes, and he likes me because I feed him apples for treats. I visit the ruins I saw on my first day, as well as several other walled constructions made in a dry-stone fashion. Some are almost complete as dwellings, containing rooms, windows, and doorways constructed with a colossal coping stone placed to form a lintel. Inside, I am disappointed to discover there is no decoration, though there are a few bones and artefacts, such as carvings on small pieces of stone, decorative rather than figurative. When I find my first of these and pick it up, I feel it almost vibrate in my hand with pride in its own history, though I believe it is rather my hands trembling at this thought. There are also more extensive ruins, with walls running around and towers set to guard the inhabitants. Small details suggest a domestic situation, such as a water basin.

  The evidence of these architectural endeavours suggests a more advanced ancestor than those in my Berlengas cave. These people knew how to build, though their art is not half as accomplished as the cave paintings. However, there are sites here that seem more about ceremony. There is one where a tall pedestal forms the shape of the letter T, from two slabs of rock. It is not a door gone awry or any such error – it has clearly been designed that way. And nearby is a great single stone standing tall, with a massive hole excised from near its top, like an ancient eye glaring over the land. What curious purpose these stones once played is beyond my imagination, at present. It is as if the Berlengas artists were painters on rock walls and the Minorcan artists were sculptors of the rock itself. I have heard tell of monuments like these in England – in the West Country, I recall – and resolve to see them for myself. At the base of one of these mighty Ts, I find a few terracotta objects: small bowls and drinking vessels, half buried among the scree and vegetation.

  Within some of these ancient hamlets, I find my sought-after caves, but there is no painting or decoration here, only that some have been enhanced by a built entrance surrounding the cave’s natural opening. There are carved caves here as well – too numerous and uniform to be aught but human-made – high up on the cliff-face above a cove. The climb seems impossible and is infuriatingly tantalising. I have asked and asked around the locals but nobody knows of a safe way up there and they seem quite impenetrable. I stand land-bound and eye them, listening to the sea, watching the seabirds above that chatter and jibe at me in their swooping flight. If only I could follow them.

  In January, I receive a letter from my benefactor:

  My dear Dawnay,

  I am much relieved to be in receipt of your letters from Lisbon, Peniche and Minorca. To see your words formed by your own little hand gives me much succour, as you are a world away and seem very tiny and distant in my sight. When I read of your plan to travel on to Minorca, I was extremely displeased at your extravagant conduct and it seemed an unworthy journey. Yet, I have enough self-knowledge to recognise that this is largely selfish as I do so miss our fireside conversations and your cluttering presence in the house. I never married because, as they say, it were better to dwell in the corner of the house-top, than with a contentious woman in a wide house. But you are my anchor, my child, and I do feel your absence and think myself a poor sort of being. As is my lot, I continue to suffer from a long list of mortifications regarding my health and also social endeavours – (I have again embarrassed myself in public with drinking too much bumbo) – which only your presence could soften. I realise now that I was foolish to imagine that a few months in Portugal would be enough for a restless mind such as yours, and I was not surprised to hear that you wished to extend your odyssey.

  But I am highly concerned about your safety, my dear girl, as your lucky escape from the ravages of the earthquake has shaken me to the core. We have received more reports of this late dreadful event and London talks of little else. Clearly it was the most grave judgement of God’s wrath inflicted on sinners. Many say that it was a punishment for the idolatrous ways of the Portuguese, but you know I do not agree with such extreme views of any foreigners (excepting the French of course) and I do not believe it was proof of God’s particular anger towards Lisbon but instead that such an event reminds us all to be circumspect. Whatever is, is right, as the quake awakens in us a truly Christian spirit towards the suffering of our fellow man, and in this way the earthquake can be seen as a good thing and thus, all is well.

  I did however lose some significant stock and funds in the disaster too, and for this reason have some concern over financing your travels indefinitely. Do not fret too much about this last point, but be aware that you must return in the summer at the latest, as you have promised. Somewhat more frugal times may be ahead, unless Lisbon recovers itself more swiftly. There are also rumours of imminent war with France which some do not take seriously but I know the French of old and I do not underestimate their capacity for double-dealing and downright viciousness. Therefore, I urge you to return home sooner than your desires may wish, and be safe here with us for good.

  All best regards and love to you, my dear, and keep well &c.

  M. Woods

  Post Scriptum: I almost forgot to mention our old friend Lieutenant Robin Alexander came to visit me the other week. He is now a master and commander with his own frigate to direct. He was in London for a few days to visit his handsome family and then was off to blockade the French. He asked after you, my dear. I do believe he admires your work and says it is extremely fruitful. It is only his good word of it that prevents me from becoming too disappointed with you, as I understand from him that you have been working very industriously and not wasting your time in the sunshine.

  And by the way, did you retrieve any relics from the ruins of Lisbon, such as melted coins? They sell very well or would be an interesting keepsake.

  To hear of Robin! I smooth the letter carefully on the table before me and stare at my lover’s name. To hear that he is safe and well – or was then – that he thinks of me and made a special visit to speak of me with Mr Woods. And my dear benefactor, his rambling tone moves me so very much – despite his chiding and his outrageous viewpoints and ridiculous signature almost obscured by pretentious flourishes and folderols – that I find tears rolling down my face at the thought of him, of England, of the Applebees, even of Matron. Of home. Yet I fear I may have to disappoint my benefactor again, as I do not wish to leave this place soon or in the near future. But, guided by the real nature of my situation, I must admit the lack of finances may force me home.

  In February, news rustles around the island that the British garrison has put out a call for local volunteers, from their base at Fort St Philip at Port Mahon. It is well known that the soldiers live in squalor there and some have taken their own lives in their misery. It is said only two dozen locals have volunteered to join them. Many Minorcans tolerate the English here, and some speak in romantic terms of the French and even with nostalgia for the Spanish, but I believe the truth is that they simply wish to live their lives peaceably on their own island, and have no interest in the intrigues of their overseers, whatever nationality they are. It does make me query, though, for what purpose the
garrison may require more men. Perhaps I ought to return to England sooner than I planned, but first I must complete my studies here satisfactorily.

  By March, the waters are warming. Mateu says he will take me to a spot along the coast, new to me. He says there is a sea cave near Aranel d’en Castel, where something has been spotted in the water this past week. We go there and wait. We go again the following week and wait. Mateu naps beneath a hat, just as Horacio did. Spring flowers are blooming on Minorca: scrambling pink convolvulus, asphodel, buttercup, narcissus and red poppy. There are already tiny irises poking through, which will bloom in the coming months. Soon I must leave this place. A slight breeze gets up and the water turns unsettled.

  ‘Per allà,’ says Mateu. Over there.

  There is a glimpse of something. Out in the blue, our eyes dazzled by the sun. Nothing. Then a plash and a switch of something breaking the surface, closer. I grab my viewer and thrust it into the water, swivel round to see if I can catch sight of it moving underwater. I spy a blur of movement in the corner and I drop the viewer.

  ‘There!’ cries Mateu and points to the sea cave behind us.

  There is something in the water, beneath the surface, quite still. The shadow of the rock obscures it. I steal a glance at Mateu – as I know he will try to prevent me from what I am about to do – and I throw off my outer garment and slip into the water. I hear Mateu shouting at me but I am not listening. I am under the water, eyes open, swimming towards the rock. It is gone. I turn a complete circle under the water, swim deeper. My lungs are crying out for their medium of air. Then I spot it, some yards away from me, side on, undulating. Blurred yet quite distinct, a creature. Pale, curved, forearms dangling. I simply must have air or I will faint. I race for the surface to gasp and return, but the choppy waves hurl me back and as I turn to see how close I am to the rock I feel myself smacked against it and the water turns red with blood from the back of my head. I wish to dive again but arms are about me and Mateu is dragging me into the boat. He is scolding me in lively Menorquí slang and I have no idea what he says, and care less, as I beam and beam and say to him, ‘I saw her, I saw her!’.

  The blood dries stiff in my hair and I cannot comb it or allow it to become wet for a week. Mrs Meredith says so, or the wound will open again.

  ‘One of those fishermen hit you with a rock. They want their wicked way with you, they do.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I insist and smile to myself. I saw her. But what did I see? There was no long flowing hair, no breasts that I could discern. But it was a shape wholly unlike any animal I have ever seen, not fish, porpoise or whale. Something – or other.

  Once my landlady agrees my head would be safe to be wet again, I fairly run down to the Cardona home and I am made a fuss of by the ladies. I assure them I am quite well and eager to get back in the boat. Mateu agrees and along comes Francina. She would like to see the doncella too.

  We sail out again to the same sea cave. Mateu reveals he has visited several times this week already, but seen nothing. My hopes fade. We wait for hours. Francina is bored. I see glances between them, hinting we should return. Then we feel a tap under the boat. We all look at one another. There it is again, another tap. We throw ourselves around to look over the side and see a mass in the water. It is huge, long, pale, curved, its forearms hanging before it. A flat tail projects backwards, as round and large as a serving platter. Its head is bulbous, its snout tapping curiously against the boat. I hear my friends chatter away beside me. I have lost my viewer on the previous trip, so I ignore what I know they will say and, as before, slip over the edge to come face to face with my mermaid.

  It is grey as an elephant. Small dark eyes, widely spaced, consider me sleepily. A circular snout twitches with white whiskers. Its fat body is as round as a wine cask. It swivels one forelimb back and forth, back and forth, as if beckoning me. It lifts its head until its nose just breaks the water, sniffs the air then lowers again to regard me. A graceful way to capture breath. I need it too and tear myself away to surface. I see the faces of Mateu and Francina shouting at me and I sink again, to find my new friend has lost interest in me and is floating serenely away into deeper waters. I swim after it, yet despite its bulk it moves effortlessly and is soon far away and impossible to catch. I watch it go with sadness and fondness. It is no mermaid. There is nothing human there. It may be related to the porpoise or whale, perhaps a type of seal or walrus. I recall a picture in Applebee’s encyclopaedia of something found near Russia in recent years, a sea cow. My creature has those gentle, bovine qualities. It is certainly no mermaid. But my, it is marvellous.

  For days after, there is much chatter between my Minorcan friends and me about the creature and what it is. We are all agreed it does not resemble our traditional ideas of the mermaid, yet I can see how, from a distance, its pale colouring and curvy form – quite unlike the sleekness of the porpoise – could be mistaken for a human female. It occurs to me in these discussions that these folk memories of peculiar creatures – from mermaids and sea monsters to dragons and ogres – could simply be animals that once lived alongside humans yet died out like the disappeared fossils one finds in rock; that is, perhaps giants and ogres were a folk memory of early humans; dragons a kind of early reptile; mermaids a mammal who tired of land or whose environment altered through earthquake, volcano or other disaster and fled to the sea, changing over the years – as Raleigh conjectured – into limbless sea creatures, perfectly adapted to their medium and quite helpless on land, as would be our sea cow. It is a sad thing to think our folklore may be lost to science, yet I believe too that there are countless more species hidden in the seas and forests and deserts of this earth that we have not stumbled across as yet, awaiting us, innocently living, reproducing and dying in utter ignorance of us and we of them. There is much more to look forward to.

  I am taken out several more times in March and early the month after to our cave to look for our aquatic friend, but it does not return, not once. I spend my evenings sketching the sea cow – if that is what it is – comparing it to other animals it resembles – under the sea and on land – from whales to seals to hippopotami to elephants. I write notes on the ancient dwellings scattered across this fair isle and compare these with my cave notes. I begin to place my notes and drawings on the floor. I use dried seagrass, available in abundance, like twine to fashion diagonal connections between the pages, a visual representation of my thoughts. I begin to see patterns there. I scribble down series of thoughts. I formulate my theory. I am on the cusp of something new, and it thrills and frightens me in equal measure.

  I sit on my bed and stare at the patterns on the floor, sometimes for an hour or more without moving. Mrs Meredith thinks I am going queer. She complains that she cannot sweep the floor and she and I quarrel about it. What has more importance, after all? Yet I do consider of course that the cleanliness of her establishment is her work, as my papers are mine. Still I insist they must not be moved.

  One morning, there is a harsh knocking at my door and I step across the display to reach the door, in readiness for more debate and open the door, finger raised to say, Now then, my dear lady. But she is shouting through the door: ‘Miss Price!’ she cries.

  I open the door swiftly and ask, ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘The French are here! The ships have been seen, out there. The French are coming to Minorca! To invade!’

  23

  I am running up the hillside to the castle of Sant Antoni, and see the British soldiers there rushing to and fro in their brick-red coats with a flash of yellow, a flurry of panic. They are gathering their equipment and readying to move out, chattering and pointing out to sea. I look and there are the French ships – a dozen or more – traversing the horizon in a stately armada. I call to a young soldier and tell him I am English.

  ‘What of it?’ says he and turns to ignore me.

  ‘But what will happen? What should I do?’

  ‘Not my business, miss. You do what you l
ike. We’re off to Mahon to bunk down. Best hope we have is to stick it out there till the navy come, if the buggers ever do.’

  ‘Are you not to defend the island?’ say I, with some disgust.

  ‘Look here, there’s only three thousand of us. You see those ships? There’ll be twice that or more of them. We haven’t got a hope.’

  And with that, he trots off down the hill with his comrades, some of whom were already on the road shambling eastward. The navy, he said, the navy. I turn and watch the French ships sail smoothly on south. They look as if they are heading for Ciutadella. I turn and make my way over to the Cardona home, but nobody is there. Perhaps they are all gone to see the new invaders.

  I return to Mrs Meredith and ask her, ‘What do you think we should do?’

  ‘Do? I’m not doing anything. I’m staying here.’

  ‘Should we not try to leave, now, while we still can?’

  ‘I’m not leaving. I buried my husband and son here and I won’t leave them for the French or anyone else, thank you.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear of that, Mrs Meredith. I did not know.’

  ‘No reason you should. They were carried off by a malign fever, ten years ago now. Fair broke my heart. But I picked myself up and made this guest-house pay and here I am. You go if you want to. But I’m staying put, I am.’