Song of the Sea Maid

by Rebecca Mascull

  When I am done, he rests his chin on two fists, his elbows perched on his knees. He sits this way for some time, thinking.

  ‘Miss Price, you have told me a variety of fascinating things about your travels. You have dropped tantalising hints at ideas that have been sparked in your mind. You have quoted to me from great thinkers of the past. But I do believe you are tiptoeing around your subject. I do believe you have something to tell me, something buried within that pile of papers you cosset in your lap that you have not yet passed to me, though we have sat here more than an hour. And so, I would ask you to tell me what it is you really want to say. I am quite sure by now that I am about to hear something quite extraordinary from you, something quite new, and I am quite out of patience. Will you please, in as few words as you can muster, expostulate your theory to me, and explain what you are really trying to tell me?’

  ‘Do I have your word that everything I am about to say will be kept confidential, for the time being at least? In particular, that my ideas and my name attached to them will not be repeated to another living soul, without my full written and signed permission?’

  ‘You have that assurance, miss, and my hand as covenant on it as a gentleman.’

  We shake hands. He continues, ‘And you must say it all, without pause, and I will not interrupt. I wish to get to the heart of the matter, Miss Price.’

  I sip from the glass of water he has poured for me, then begin.

  ‘These are the truths postulated by myself concerning the origins of humans, that is, of man and of woman, and their place here upon this earth. I put it to you that the earth is far older than the Bible suggests. Perhaps millions of years as opposed to thousands. Earthquakes, resultant tidal waves, volcanoes and other catastrophic phenomena can explain the changes that have taken place in the history of the earth, such as the rising and falling of sea levels and the distribution of evidence as to the ancient animals that once lived upon this earth and yet do not exist any more; namely, fossils. I believe that fossils were living creatures that expired, whereupon sediments were laid down upon them and in time their forms became rock. Such finds age in correspondence with their depth, thus the lowest levels of the rock are the most ancient. These levels show a development of fauna over time, from more simple organisms to more complex ones. Thus, this law of nature explains the development – perhaps from their origins in the seas – from tiny animalcules to the zenith of the animal world, humans.’

  Mr Graybourn coughs and is about to interject, perhaps even contradict.

  Instead I say, ‘Please, sir. You assured me, no interruptions.’

  ‘I did, yet …’

  ‘I believe if you give yourself pause, and listen to the full argument, your queries may well be answered in the telling of it.’

  ‘Very well,’ says he, nodding. ‘Proceed.’

  ‘Now, I was speaking of humans. Man – and woman – are but another step on this ladder of life, which resembles that of a spider’s web rather than a straight line, in that each animal group split off – according to where it found itself living – and developed along its own lines. For example, just as the lizards of the Minorca islets developed different markings to disguise themselves in their own environments, each branch of the animal kingdom developed similarly according to its situation. I contend that there was a branch of monkeys, and then chimpanzees and other apes, who for reasons as yet unknown to us – perhaps to do with the unsuitability of their location – moved into the shallow waters of the oceans, lost their hair, except that on their heads, for their infants to cling to, began to walk upright, developed a layer of body fat not unlike seals and sea cows and other mammals of the sea – and for a time lived mostly in the water.’

  Graybourne’s eyebrows sit high enough to leave his forehead. ‘Rather far-fetched?’ he muses.

  ‘Not if one considers not only the physical evidence of the strangeness of humans – why do we walk upright and have so little hair? – but the evidence I found in the cave. I conjecture that this period in our development was documented on an islet off the coast of Portugal, but was destroyed by the earthquake, yet seen by this witness and, who knows, perhaps other local people have seen it too. This evidence suggests a society redolent with the myths of mermaids – a kind of folk memory of our ancient sea-going past – whereupon the female of our species dominated and the male was subordinate. There is a possibility that these artistic females – shown by their exquisite cave paintings – even manufactured coral gardens and thereby created the origins of the reefs we see today. Perchance some land-based people remained on the mainland who were developed from apes – hairy and stooping, tree climbers and dwellers on all fours – while island-based humans developed from the fish – hairless and smooth, graceful, long-legged as swimmers – and eventually came ashore and mated with the land humans and created the hairless, upright apes people have become today.’

  My listener’s eyes grow as big as saucers and his mouth is set, it seems, in disbelief. As I say it aloud, it does sound outlandish. Yet I steel myself with the thought that many have gone before me in the history of science and discovery, and spoken new ideas that appeared as preposterous fiction, yet over time were proven as true as day follows night.

  I forge onward with an alternative argument: ‘Or it could be that the land conditions improved and humans returned to it. With their newly found hair loss and upright posture, they were forced to seek out shelter, such as caves, and new ways of finding food – as they could not run efficiently on all fours as they had once – and therefore were forced to develop new ways of living, seeking out static food – such as agriculture and animal husbandry – and creating new ways of carrying food. Since their babies could not cling to their fur any more, as they had none, the mothers needed a hand free, and this led to the development of pottery; likewise weaving, and the design of clothes in order to keep their naked bodies warm. Their search for safe grounds and new forms of food led them away from the shores and out into every corner of the globe; they were able to do this as at one time all the land of the earth was of one piece, and earthquakes and suchlike did break up the pieces later.

  ‘When caves were not readily available, these early humans created their own by building structures such as those found on Minorca, and used their bigger brains to create artefacts of beauty and use, such as oil lamps, painting implements, stone axes and so forth. Indeed all these changes and developments show that the history of humankind was not always one of male over female, or even female over male, but more often a history of equality of the sexes. Not only that, but that in times before the long-term settlement of humans in one place, there was no division into rich and poor; and no requirement to protect the rich from the poor as is the defining social structure of our own time; and crucially no need for a leader, a hierarchy of any sort, and thus no divine right of kings.’

  Graybourn’s wide eyes have flickered to the window, as if expecting an angry mob to appear there at this very moment. ‘My dear lady, you are dangerously close to—’

  ‘Please, let me finish. If this web of life is taken as the model of life on this earth, therefore the logical conclusion is that there is no need for a designing hand, an overseer, or even a mind to create it; that the system functions perfectly well on its own; indeed, that there is no need for a creator at all.’

  ‘Miss Price!’ cries Graybourn and throws up his hands. But I hold up mine to silence him.

  ‘I must finish, now that I have started. I must be heard. You see, as a species, we have developed a complex form of communication that we call language, and we have married language with thought and thus created ideas. And perhaps our most ambitious idea was that of an almighty creator, a father figure, who would watch over us always and protect us from harm, but only if we fear Him and serve Him, and that the fear of the loss of Him is too great to transgress, and the fear of becoming an orphan in the wide world is too dreadful to contemplate, that this story of our Father has become one
that dominates our lives and even our thoughts, and all is coloured by it. But if we accept the fossil record, the evidence from the effects of disastrous natural phenomena, the similarity of different animal species to each other and therefore the likelihood of a parentage and relation between them … surely, this is strong evidence to suggest a denial of the very existence of God. And if we discard the Bible’s version of events as no more than legend, and if we lose this conception of God as the Father of everything, we will not become orphans, but instead will discover that we are connected with all life upon this earth, and always have been, and always will be, and that we are not and never will be alone.’

  ‘My God,’ says he. ‘They’ll have you whipped.’

  I say nothing to this.

  Graybourn stands and removes himself to the window. He stares out of it for a time at the street below. There is no mob there, no angry priest or magistrate. Only the trundling of waggons and the shouts of hawkers. London ignores us. ‘And what is the name of your paper? Does it have a title?’

  ‘It does. I have named it The Orphan Myth.’

  He stands for a time longer. I feel serene. Saying it aloud has had the effect of a dam of thought bursting; the release of ideas pent up and under pressure for so long that a mighty flood has saturated the land of my senses and, once the deluge has passed, the waters of my mind are calm, and still, and at peace.

  Graybourn then turns to me and says, ‘No one in London will publish this. No one in the British Isles would dare do it. Even in France. My God, don’t you know Voltaire is constantly on the run from one country to another, just to escape arrest and imprisonment for his writings? And they are not half as insane as this.’

  ‘You believe my theories are insane.’

  ‘No, I do not. I believe they are eminently sensible, most of them, at least. I’m not sure about the coral gardens or the mermaids. But the rest of it? I believe they could well be a breakthrough of significance. But there is no way that I or anyone else can publish this. You must realise that?’

  ‘I have been advised of it.’

  ‘Then what is your business here, Miss Price? What on earth do you hope to achieve? I could have been an unscrupulous man, a devout zealot who would cart you off to the nearest magistrate. You are most fortunate that I am not. That I will not speak a word of this to anyone. And I strongly suggest you follow the same course. What possessed you to speak of this to me today?’

  ‘I am forced to. I must earn my living. I need funds in order to travel and continue my work. And thus, the only skill I have is to write of my studies and to have my writing published.’

  ‘Show it to me,’ says Graybourn and reaches out for my manuscript. With reluctance, I pass it over. He seats himself and begins to read, whispering salient words, nodding his head and scratching the bristles on his chin. ‘Why, Miss Price,’ he says, once he has leafed through its entirety, ‘you write beautifully. And I have a proposition for you.’

  ‘Is it within or without the law?’

  He guffaws, then carefully neatens the manuscript and passes it back to me gently, with great care, which act warms me to him. ‘It is within the law. Listen, I will pay you to write. Not about such rhetoric as this, but other topics of scientific interest. There is a new audience out there hungry for popular science. Our public are more literate than ever, and our ladies – as you are evidence – are hungry for texts that explain the nature of things in clear, precise and lovely language, just as you possess. You and I could make a good living together, as I commission topics of interest from you and you produce them to this high standard. Does the idea appeal?’

  ‘It does indeed!’ It is the first broad smile I have given in weeks.

  ‘And in no time, you should amass the money you need to go on your travels, collect your necessary data, and continue your private work – your most secret work, I would advise – gathering evidence to prove your more, shall we say, controversial theories? And in the meantime, you can write for me travel journals of your adventures, as the public lap those up too. Are we agreed?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘And you are quite free, quite unattached? No husband in the offing to keep you chained to the hearth, no child at home awaiting its mother’s attentions? I need to know that you can dedicate your full attention to it, that each piece once commissioned will be produced swiftly and efficiently, and that you do intend to go travelling again as soon as you are able? I would need such an assurance to enter into a contract with you.’

  ‘Quite so, sir. Nothing, absolutely nothing, stands in my way. I am utterly free.’

  ‘Then, Miss Price, if that is your name—’

  ‘It is!’

  ‘Then we shall make money together, I warrant! And who knows, one day, when you and I are old and doddering, we might be able to publish your real work.’

  ‘Bless you, Mr Graybourn, thank you!’

  And I stand up to shake his hand jovially, yet my eyes mist and hand trembles and down again I sit, with a thump.

  ‘Whatever is it, Miss Price? Are you well?’

  ‘What hour is it, Mr Graybourn?’

  ‘Why, it is nearly three.’

  ‘Ah, I have not eaten since breakfast, that is all. I have been so caught up with my visits to publishers that I have not dined. I must repair home now and do so.’

  But I cannot stop my hand from shaking, and I curse myself for being so weak. Perhaps it is a throwback to the appalling sea journey I undertook, the month of work and occasional sleep, or even some ill-defined sickness as Susan suggested. I take another sip of water to steady myself and resolve to stand – which action occasions my head to ache violently. I so desire to quit this stuffy office – my word, it is insufferably hot in here, my cheeks are burning, my stomach, chest and armpits are drenched with perspiration. I try to speak, to ask that my coach be hailed, that someone assist me, and then the room tips. And all I can think is that the earthquake has come again. I fall, there is a tremendous blow as my head hits the floor and then there is nothing.

  I awake on a chaise longue in a room with dark brown panels. I hear voices, distant. My head aches appallingly. My dress is damp with sweat. My throat is as dry as straw and I cannot speak for a moment. In my silence, I hear mutterings from male voices somewhere behind me. I think I discern Graybourn’s voice and another, older, deeper one.

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘It is possible. Her weakness, the shape of her abdomen, despite the rest of her body being so slim.’

  ‘She is unmarried.’

  ‘Well then, I shall not treat her. Or her bastard offspring.’

  I gasp and turn my head. And then an older man with a long peruke wig looms into view.

  ‘She wakes.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  Mr Graybourn’s face appears above. ‘You fainted, Miss Price. We transported you to a physician’s room in the next house.’

  And my publisher’s face disappears and is replaced by the peruke, a stern and disapproving scowl upon his face.

  ‘You must get yourself home forthwith and look to your condition, miss.’

  On arrival, I slink to my room and sit on my bed, the truth of my condition glaringly evident before me in the modest dome of my belly. Again, my sense has been blinded by attention only to my work, yet inside me, a secret was burgeoning and I was too clever in my stupidity to see it. I stare at it, this new shape, this new life lodged in me, this part of me, of Robin, of us. A wave of nausea rises in me, yet mingled with it is bliss, pure bliss, soon replaced by terror of what will come to pass. I place my hands over it and stroke it, as I know for certain that whatever comes, I will defend it with my very life and no harm shall come to it, to her, or him: my child.

  The door opens – Susan rarely knocks – and she looks to my face, then my hands placed just so on my belly.

  ‘Oh, Susan!’ I cry. ‘What is to become of me?’

  Nothing is said for some minutes. Susan holds me and rocks me, as
I clutch on to her clothes and wet them with my tears.

  ‘I thought it,’ says she. ‘The moment you came home from your travels, I suspected it.’ She was always wiser than me, even with all my book learning. ‘Where have you been today, to see him?’

  ‘No! No …’ I sigh. ‘If only I could.’

  ‘He is far away? Not dead? Or a foreigner? Not a foreigner, Dawnay?’

  ‘Oh spare me, Susan, please.’ I turn from her and wipe my face on my sleeve. ‘I will never tell of it, so do not ask me.’

  She is quiet for a moment, then asks, ‘Was it conceived … in joy, or by force?’

  ‘In joy! Oh yes, in joy.’

  ‘Good, good.’ She is thinking. ‘I will not ask you again who he is, as one day you will tell me, if you wish to. But is there a chance that he could come to you, before too long, and marry you?’

  I shake my head forlornly. ‘If his situation were altered, or had never been what it is, there would be no happier union. But no, he will not come to me and we will never marry.’

  ‘Oh, Dawnay!’ she scolds me and stands up. ‘Could you not have chosen a single man, one who could stand by you? You did not think on it at all?’

  ‘I did not think at all. I simply loved, that is all. I did not choose it.’

  ‘Oh, why have you been so stupid? Now there is nothing I can do to help you.’

  Susan turns and stares from my window, rubbing her palms together slowly. Now she has gone from me, I feel the isolation of my position, and know I am alone in this, that indeed it was my choice, my folly and yet my delight. I alone chose it, and I alone will face it.

  ‘You are disappointed in me, perhaps even disgusted. I know that.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ says she. ‘And I know everything you are feeling at this moment.’

  ‘I do not think so, Susan.’

  She turns and comes to me, sits beside me and takes my hands. There are tears in her eyes. ‘There is much you do not know, despite your great store of knowledge. Stephen was once a curate. You did not know that, did you? When I met him, he had a good career before him, a nice living in Marylebone and he delighted in it, a renowned expert in scripture and a marvellous preacher of God’s word. But I was just a cook and there was no chance for us. No educated man would ever marry beneath him, marry a servant. But we loved each other, and we defied it all to spend secret time together, and I grew heavy and then we knew. He left the Church – his one calling, his vocation – and Mr Woods helped us, gave me a position in his home and secured a teaching post for Stephen. Thus Mr Woods is our benefactor too. He did not approve of what we had done, in fact he railed against us and was quite red-faced about it. But he and Stephen are boyhood friends, a bond that has never been broken, and he did not want to see his friend live in penury. He knew that Stephen loved me and would never leave me. Thus, we married and Owen was born soon after. Stephen became a struggling tutor, but in general a happy one, with his wife and son and a home full of laughter and books. Yet I know he thinks on his lost career, and mourns it, from time to time. It was only when you came to us, and I saw the pleasure and solace he took in your lessons, and as you grew, your discussions and the work you undertook together, that I saw something of the fire in his eyes I had once seen in his regard for the Church. And I thank you for that, Dawnay.’