The Merman's Children

by Poul Anderson

  “That remains to be seen,” Ivan interrupted.

  Petar clutched at the zhupan’s wrist. “Lord-my son-my son,

  dare we risk damnation such as they could bring? The Holy Gla-

  golitic Church is beleaguered already-by the Pope, who should

  be our loving father, by the Orthodox of Serbia and the Empire,

  by the Satan-inspired Bogomils—“

  “Enough!” Ivan freed himself. “I bade Father Tomislav come

  here and meet those beings for sound reasons. Must I repeat them

  to you? I know him of old as a man wise in his fashion; he’s no

  ignoramus either, he studied in Zadar and later served its bishop;

  as for devilment or witchcraft, he lives where folk know more

  about that than we do. He himself has been touched-“

  There appeared that on Tomislav’s face which caused the war-rior to break off his speech and finish lamely; “Have you, then, discovered aught?”

  The rustic priest stood a moment, fighting down his feelings, before he replied. Then it was with a trudging calmness. “I may have. Petar addressed their leader wrongly when he showed he commands a bit of Latin. That person is proud, he’s suffering from his wounds, he’s sick with fear on his people’s behalf. Shout at him like at a slave, rail at him about their ways, which have harmed no one unless maybe themselves. . . how do you expect he’ll behave? Naturally he turned his back. You did better for us, Zhupan, when you sent in your military chirurgeon to treat their hurts.”

  “Well, then, you spoke softly to the chief,” Ivan said. “What has he told you?”

  “Little as yet. However, I feel sure that’s not out of unwill-ingness. His Latin is scant and bears a grievous accent.” Tomislav chuckled. “I confess my own has gathered rust, which didn’t help matters. Moreover, we’re entirely foreign to each other. How much can we explain in a few hours?

  “He did convey to me that they came hither not as enemies but only in search of a home-beneath the sea.” That occasioned less surprise than it might have, for the looks of the merfolk had immediately raised speculation. “They were driven out of their country in the far North; I’ve not learned how or why. He admits they’re not Christian, though what,they are is still a mystery to me. He promised that if we let them go, they’ll seek the water and never return.”

  “Lies are cheap,” said Petar.

  “Do you think he was truthful?” Ivan queried.

  Tomislav nodded. “I do. Of course, I can’t take my oath on

  It.”

  “Have you any notion about their nature?”

  Tomislav frowned out at the sky. “Um-m-m. . . a guess or two,

  maybe. Just guesswork, founded on certain things they know or believe in my flock, on what I’ve read or heard elsewhere, and on my own. . . my own experience. Most likely I’m wrong.”

  “Are they of the mortal world?”

  “They can be slain, the same as us.”

  “That is not what I asked, Tomislav.”

  The priest sighed. “My guess is that they are not of Adam’s

  blood.” In haste: “That doesn’t mean they’re evil. Think of Leshy,

  domovoi, poleviki, such-like harmless sprites-well, sometimes

  a touch mischievous, but sometimes good friends to poor hu-

  mans-“

  “On the other hand,” Petar said, “think of viljai.” “Be still!” Ivan shouted in a flash of wrath. “No more croaking out of you, hear me? I may well ask the bishop to send me a different confessor.”

  He turned back to Tomislav. “I’m sorry, old fellow,” he said.

  “I. . . am not... that tender-skinned,” the priest of the

  zadruga answered with difficulty. “It seems to be true, in the past few years a vilja has been flitting about my neighborhood. God forgive the malicious gossipers.”

  He squared his shoulders. “My guess is that we’d do best, both for ourselves and in the sight of God, to let those people go,” he said. “Take them back to’ the sea, under spears if you like, but take them back and bid them farewell.”

  “I dare not do that, save at the behest of an overlord,” Ivan replied. “Nor would I if I could, before we are quite certain that no harm can come of it.”

  “I know,” Tomislav said. “Well, then, here’s my advice. Keep them prisoners, but treat them kindly. And let their headman go home with me, that we may get acquainted.”

  “What?” shrilled Petar. “Are you mad?”

  Ivan himself was startled. “You’re reckless, at least,” he said.

  “That wight is huge. When he has recovered, he could rip you asunder.”

  “I hardly think he’ll try,” Tomislav answered low. “At worst, what can he slay but my flesh, whereafter my parishioners will cut him down? I’ve long since lost any fear of departing this life.”

  The zadruga was a hamlet of less than a hundred souls, whose families were close kin. It lay a full day’s travel from Skradin, on a path that wound northerly, then westerly, through the woods around the lake, though never in sight of yon water. Here men had once cleared land along a brook and settled down to live by farming, with timber cutting, charcoal burning, hunting, and trap-ping on the side. They worked the soil in common, as they would have done were they free peasants. Most of them were actually serfs, but it made small difference, for the nobles of Hrvatska were seldom oppressive or extortionate, and nobody wanted to leave.

  The thorp formed a double row amidst croplands, shaded by trees left standing. Of wood, one- or two-roomed, thatch-roofed, houses stood off the ground, with stalls beneath for livestock and gangplanks to the living quarters. The lane between them was muddy when it was not dusty, and thick with dung. Smells were not offensive, though; sweet green distances swallowed them up. Nor did dwellers pay much heed to the flies of summer. Behind each home was a kitchen garden.

  Granaries stood about, small, slat-sided, elevated on skinny boles whose roots made birdlike feet, as on Baba Yaga’s famous abode. A couple of sheds held tools and related necessities. Two-wheeled carts were parked beside when not in use; these were gaily painted. At one end of the lane was a little workshop, at the opposite end the chapel, hardly larger, also colored in fanciful designs, the shakes of its roof bulging to form an onion dome that upheld the Cross. There was no mill, but foundations and the crumbled remnants of an earthen dam showed there formerly had been.

  Nowhere did fields and meadows reach beyond sight. The forest encompassed them. Some places it was at a distance, other places it crowded close, but everywhere it brooded, crowns in sunlight but full of shadows beneath. Most of the trees were oak or beech, with a mingling of different kinds. Brush grew dense between.

  In many ways the settlement reminded Vanimen of Als. As time passed, he came to understand how shallow the likeness was.

  The journey here, on a borrowed ass, had been agony. Once in Tomislav’s house, with a bed to rest in and plenty of hearty food, the merman healed faster than a human would have done. A second Faerie gift was the speed wherewith he mastered the Hrvatskan language. Erelong he and the priest began to hold real discourse, which day by day grew less halting. After people lost fear of him, he came to know them also, and somewhat about their lives.

  He sat with Tomislav, sharing a bench, on the gangway landing below the long-raftered roof. It was Sunday, when men rested after their worship. The priest had been laboring at harvest as hard as anyone; Vanimen, now hale, had lent strength which was great if unskilled.

  Summer was yielding to autumn. Leaves seemed paler green than erstwhile, a few already brown, red, gold; the sky too had gone wan, pierced by geese whose cries awoke wordless longings; when the sun went under the treetops, a breeze that had been cool became chill. Most persons idled at home. Those who passed by simply hailed Tomislav and his guest. That sight had grown fa-miliar. Clad like the rest, aside from bare feet, Vanimen could almost have passed for a human of mighty stature.

&nbs
p; The two were drinking beer out of wooden bowls and had grown a trifle tipsy. “You ‘re a good sort,” the merman remarked. “Would that I might help you live better.”

  “That’s the kind of wish that makes me think you can indeed receive God’s grace if only you’ll choose,” Tomislav said eagerly.

  As his own distrust faded, Vanimen had gotten frank. The priest had softened the story when he wrote it in the reports he dispatched, by a boy, to Ivan. “I’ll not lie to him, but I’ll not needlessly worsen hostility against you,” he had explained.

  For his part, Tomislav had tried to make clear what sort of land this was. Hrvatska shared monarchy with Hungary. Richly endowed by nature, with numerous seaports for trading abroad, it was an important realm in its own right. It would have been more so, save that the great clans were generally at odds, some-times at outright war. Alas, then foreigners, notably the damnable Venetians, took advantage of chaos and occupied what was not theirs. At the moment, peace prevailed. An alliance of the Subitj and Frankapan septs gave strong government. Most powerful was the Count of Bribir, Pavle Subitj, who had won to the position of Ban-provincial ruler, save that his province today was the whole country. Ivan was kin to him.

  This eventide Vanimen evaded talk of the Faith by saying;

  “Toil and poverty may purify the soul, but they’re hard on body and mind. Why, you’ve not even a proper housekeeper.” Women came in by turns to work, but none had much time or strength to spare. Often the priest must do his own cooking-which went rather well, for he enjoyed food-and cleaning; always did his own gardening and brewing.

  “I need none” really. My wants are simple. I get my share of jollity. You’ll see when we hold harvest festival.” Tomislav paused. “Indeed, my earthly lot became easier in several ways when my poor wife passed away. She was long helplessly ill, needing my care.” He crossed himself. “God called her to come and be healed. I’m sure she’s in Heaven.”

  Astonished, Vanimen said, “Were you wedded? I know cler.. gymen formerly were, at least in the North, but I hadn’t heard of it for generations.”

  “Aye, we’re Catholic, yet of the Glagolitic rite, which is not Rome’s. Though the Popes have ever misliked that, they’ve not outright forbidden our usages.”

  Vanimen shook his head. “I’ll never grasp why you humans wrangle about such snailshell matters-how you can do it, when you might be savoring this world.” He saw his host would fain avoid dispute, and went on, “But tell me, if you will, of your past. I’ve heard mere shards thus far.”

  “There’s naught to tell,” answered Tomislav. “A most ordi-nary, stumbling mortal life. It can’t interest you, who for centuries have known marvels beyond my imagining.”

  “Oh, it would,” Vanimen murmured. “You are as strange to me as I to you. If you would let me glimpse your inwardness, might see-well, not only how the tribe of Adam inhabits earth, but why. . . .”

  “You might see what God means!” Tomislav exclaimed. “Ha, that chance is worth baring my breast t~ you.

  “Not that I’ve much to reveal. Ask what questions you will as I go along.” Talking, the man let his voice drop. His gaze went outward, over the roof opposite, to trees and sky-to lost years, Vanimen supposed. Now and then he took a swallow of beer, but not with his customary gusto; it was a thing his body did to keep his throat moist.

  “I was born a serf, though not here: in Skradin, ‘in the shadow of the castle,’ as the saying goes. My father was a groom there. The chaplain of that time thought me worth teaching to read and write. When I reached the proper age, fourteen, he recommended me to the bishop. Thus I went to Zadar to study for holy orders-hard work in truth, for both flesh and spirit. Nonetheless, there was a city full of liveliness, men from beyond every horizon, wQrldly goods, worldly pleasures. I confess, for a while I fell into sin. Afterward I repented, and dare believe I’ve been forgiven, and may have gained a little insight into my fellow creatures.

  “Repentance made me long back, however, long for my birth-land, simple ways, my own kind of people. No pastorate here-abouts fell open for several years. During them, I was amanuensis to the bishop.

  “Meanwhile I’d turn lust into lawful conjugality by arranging to marry a woman from these parts. In fact, because of my wish still more than canonical requirement, that was before I entered orders. Ah, lovely in her youth was my Sena!

  “But early on, sadness came over her. At first it may have been due to her new environs. Crowds, noise, chaffering, intrigue, restlessness, ever-changefulness, those things frightened her and weighed on her soul. Besides, we lost two children to sickness. She found less comfort in the three that lived than I did, or than I hoped she would.

  “Finally I got this church. The bishop grumbled at letting me go, but relented when 1 made clear what it should mean to Sena.

  “Well, it was of no avail. More babies of hers died or were stillborn. Worse, our three growing children found this life as bad as she’d found the city. They missed the outside world; they chafed, waxed rebellious. My ordination had freed my whole family from serfdom. Thus no law bound them in place. One by one, when they grew old enough, they defied us and broke away.

  “First Franjo went to sea. After a few voyages, his ship was never heard of again. It may have been wrecked, it may have fallen to pirates or slavers. Could be, this moment, my son is a eunuch in some Turk’s harem. Kyrie eleison.

  “It was less bad for Zinka. She wed a merchant she met once when we were in Shibenik-wed him without our leave, almost the day afterward. We could do naught, for the priest was a countryman of his and he took her home with him to Austria. Never a word has come since. I pray she is happy. Christe eleison.

  “Later our younger son, Juraj, ran off. He’s in Split, working for a Venetian factor-Venice, the ancient enemy. I hear about him from time to time, through the kindness of a tradesman I know; but I never hear from him. Kyrie eleison.

  “Maybe you can guess how this clawed Sena’s heart, which she could never harden. A few years after she bore her last child, she withdrew into silence, and scarcely moved. . . only lay there in bed, empty-eyed. Though I wept when she died, ten years ago. I knew it was God’s mercy. And our little daughter was still alive then, still alive for her.”

  Tornislav shook himself. He uttered a laugh. “You must think

  me sodden with self-pity,” he said as he came back to awareness

  of the evening. “Not at all, not at all. God gives me many con-

  solations: Himself, the greenwood, music, merrymaking, fellow-

  ship, the trust of my flock, and, yes, the love of their small

  children-“

  He stared into his bowl. “This is empty,” he announced. “Yours too. Let me go tap the keg. We’ve time before vespers.”

  When he returned, Vanirnen said with care: “I also have lost children.” He did not add that he had lost them forever. “Tell me, you bespoke a girl who came late. Did she likewise die?”

  “Yes,” Tomislav told him, plumping back onto the bench.

  “She was a lovely maiden.”

  “What happened?”

  “No man knows. She drowned in the lake, where she had

  wandered. Maybe she stumbled, hit her head on a root. For once,

  it can’t have been the vodianoi’s doing, because after many days

  of search we did find her body afloat-“

  · bloated and stinking, Vanimen knew.

  “I, 1 did not have her buried with her mother and the rest,” Tomislav said. “I carted the casket to Shibenik.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, my thought was-oh, maybe she’d lie easier-I was

  dazed, you understand. The zhupan helped me get permission.” As if springing to an attack, Tomislav leaned close and went on: “I warned you, mine would not be a very stirring tale. Besides, you’ve yet to outlive your own woes.”

  While Vanimen had more steadiness of mind than n:t°st mer-folk, he could shift a topic or a mood as swiftl
y as seemed de-sirable. “Aye, for my whole tribe,” he said. “I meant to raise this matter with you.”

  “You’ve done that”-Tomislav attempted a smile-“in words which got pungent.”

  “Merely to complain that they’re still kept penned; and with females and young apart from males, I hear.”

  “Well, their conduct was unseemly. Talk about it became a threat to public morals, Petar claimed.”

  “How long must this go on?” Vanimen smote his thigh. “I see before me-how. sharply I see, feel, hear, smell, taste-their misery in unfreedom.”

  “I’ve told you,” Tomislav said. “The Ban’s decision is that they be held, properly cared for, till he’s gotten full information about them. I think that time draws nigh. You and 1 between us, we’ve learned much. Now that you’ve got the Hrvatskan tongue, you can speak with him yourself. He desires that.”

  The Liri king shook his head. “When? I gather he’s busy, fares up and down the realm, may be gone for weeks at a stretch. Meanwhile, I say, my people are in quiet torment. Your baron may think he feeds them well, but my own belly tells me there’s too much grain and milk, not enough fish. They’ll sicken-from lack of water, too. Doubtless they get ample to drink, but when were they last swimming, when were they last down below, as nature meant for them? You let me refresh myself in the brook here, but even so, I sense how my flesh is slowly parching.”

  Tomislav nodded. “I know, Vanimen, friend. Or what I don’t know, I can guess. Yet what may be done?”

  “I’ve thought on that,” the merman said with rising spirit. “A short ways hence is a lake. Set us free there. A part of us on any given day, no doubt; the rest will be hostages, abiding their turns. It won’t be as good as the sea, but it will sustain us, it will bring us back from what’s half death.

  “Besides, I gather that nobody fishes the lake. We could and would. It must be aswarm. We’d fetch back plenty to share with you humans. It’ll more than pay the cost of keeping us. Would that appeal to your baron?”

  Tomislav frowned. “It might, were the lake not accursed.”

  “How?”