by Cach, Lisa
Konstanze stopped where she was, knowing that to indulge her curiosity and enter the church would be foolish. As she stood taking in the scene, a chorus of male voices started up, the notes of their song reaching her faintly from the church. She was surprised to recognize it as a sea chantey that her grandfather had sometimes sung. The choir was more skilled that she would have expected, and she smiled behind her veil and found a rock upon which to sit and listen.
Time passed quickly as she listened to the choir practice and watched the sunset begin to color the sky in yellows and oranges. She was feeling relaxed and peaceful when, several songs later, two figures emerged from the church. One wore a blue coat and white trousers, which meant it was likely Foweather, and the other’s black hair and frock coat told her he was none other than Mr. Trewella.
Damn. She had the worst luck when it came to those two. Peace and contentment fled, replaced by heart-thumping anxiety.
She started to rise, then decided against it, afraid the motion would draw attention. Perhaps if she sat very still they would not look in her direction. Her green dress was very nearly the color of the bracken that rose up nearly to her shoulders as she sat on the stone, and perhaps the black hat and veil would appear as a shadow only. Maybe Mr. Foweather had poor eyesight—he had after all thought she was a mermaid.
One could hope.
“It’s astounding, perfectly astounding!” Foweather declared as they emerged from the church. They had been inspecting the famed “mermaid bench.”
“I had always thought it a legend, myself,” Tom said, “built up around a curious piece of furniture with an inexplicable carving. I had never believed the tale to be based on fact. I’m still not certain I do.” He gave himself a mental kick. He was not supposed to be the voice of reason; he was supposed to be deceiving. Somehow, though, it wasn’t much fun when the target was as credulous as Foweather.
“But it is, Mr. Trewella. I saw her with my own eyes, and heard her with these very ears. I cannot blame you for not believing, based upon the words of another. I never did, either,” Foweather said, and gave Tom a consoling pat on the back. “When I read in the Sherbourne Mercury about those fishermen up in Scotland, why, I didn’t believe what was there in print.”
“What happened with the Scottish fishermen?” Tom asked, although he already knew. The Sherbourne Mercury was the only news sheet to regularly make an appearance in Penperro, and its articles were read by—or read to—every living soul. People still talked about articles they’d read five years ago.
“They caught a mermaid in their nets, and hauled her right up onto the decks. She was obviously from a different class than mine, though. They say she was a small thing, and bald, with spines that ran in a row down the back of her head. She hissed and made the spines stand up whenever anyone came close. Mostly, though, she cried, and so piteously that the fishermen threw her back into the sea. It’s bad luck to kill a mermaid, you know.”
“So I’d heard. And bad luck to see one. Or good, depending on to whom you speak.”
“Which do you think it is for me, Mr. Trewella?” Foweather asked, in the voice of a little boy in search of reassurance.
“I think it’s—” He cut himself off, suddenly noticing the motionless figure sitting upon the rock amidst the bracken. She was unnervingly still, facing in their direction with a gaze hidden by black veiling, as mysterious and eerie as some dark figure from the depths of Cornwall’s past.
Konstanze, of course.
He had to hand it to her: the girl had an instinct for being at the worst—or best, depending upon your view of it—place at the worst time.
A moment later Foweather saw her, too. “I say, who’s that?” he asked. “Doesn’t look like a local girl, does she? Unless it’s one of the Failes women.” Even Foweather could recognize such a distinctly different style of dress from that to be found in the village.
“No, she’s not a Failes,” Tom said, angry to see her there. There was no time to indulge the feeling, though. He thought quickly, trying to find a way to turn the situation to his advantage. “I can only guess at who she might be,” he said, trying to inject a bit of dire warning into his voice.
“Hmm, yes?”
“Mr. Foweather, I think it would be best if you went back into the church. You’ll be safe there,” Tom said urgently.
“Safe from what?”
Tom jerked his head in the direction of the motionless figure, as if afraid she would know he spoke about her. “From her. She’s been drawn here by the singing.”
Foweather blinked at the motionless figure, then blinked at Tom as the gears of his brain got into motion. “By God!” he exclaimed, and stepped backward and then forward again, then turned to Tom, clamping his hand down on his shoulder. “We should warn the others. She might be after any one of them, with the way they sing.”
“It’s you I am concerned about,” Tom said with as much seriousness as he could muster. “It’s you she is watching even as we speak.”
Foweather’s eyes widened, and he cast a frantic look back at the figure. Konstanze stood up and took a step, and that was all Foweather needed. He dashed back into the church and sent up a cry that stopped the choir mid-note. “The mermaid, she’s out there!” Tom heard through the door before it swung shut under its own weight.
He gave Konstanze a furious look and made an exaggerated “shoo” gesture with both his hands. She apparently needed no second reminder and, picking up her skirts, ran the few steps through the bracken to the path and quickly disappeared behind the curve of the hill. She was just out of sight when the entire choir poured out the door behind him.
“Where is she?” Clemmens demanded. He was a fisherman, with a boat often turned to other catches than pilchards.
“Did you see her?” Wiggett the baker demanded.
There were fifteen men in the choir, and all were scattering about the churchyard, seeking some sign of the mermaid. Tom and Matt had told them all it was a trick, yet at this moment they seemed to have forgotten that fact, their faces as eager as Foweather’s was scared. The Preventive sitter was peering out from behind the protection of the heavy door.
“She went down the rocks, there,” Tom said, pointing to the rocky drop-off to the water. Surely they didn’t all believe she was real?
Half the choir dashed over to see. “I don’t see her!” someone called back. “There’s no sign of her at all. Are you sure this is the way she went?”
“She moved so quickly,” Tom said helplessly, taken aback by their sincerity.
“She must have made it to the water,” Foweather said, inching his way out of the safety of the church. “We won’t catch up to her now.”
“I thought that would have been the last thing you’d have wanted,” Tom said, turning to him.
“I’d be safe in this crowd.”
“Would you? Ulysses’ men had to tie him to the mast of his ship and stop their own ears with wax to make it past the sirens.” He said it without conviction, but Foweather was beyond needing help to believe.
“I’m not saying I’d face her alone! By God, I’ll not be spending my life in a mermaid’s cave if I can help it. You’ve got to help me, Mr. Trewella. There must be some way to divert her interest.”
“I don’t know the ways of mermaids. I don’t know how to help you.”
“Think on it, man! I should not like to see what would happen if I came upon her while at sea! She might bring the entire crew down to the depths with her.”
Tom shook his head sadly, trying to maintain his role. “They are dangerous creatures, it’s true. I’ll see if there’s anything I can learn that might help you. In the meantime, I think you would be wise to stay clear of the water. If you can see the water, then likely she can see you.”
Foweather’s lips pursed and released like those of a fish, his eyes blue and bulbous. “But my work. The smuggling must be stopped. I cannot remain inland.”
“Then take care, sir, and beware the song
of the mermaid luring you to your doom.”
Foweather pulled out a kerchief and patted his perspiring forehead. “Good advice. I shall heed it well.”
“Good man,” Tom said, and slapped him on the back. “Go to the Fishing Moon and get yourself a drink. You need to settle your nerves.” He wanted Foweather out of his sight so he could stop feeling guilty for duping him.
Foweather nodded, and with a last wary look toward the cliff scampered off toward town.
When he had gone Matt was the first of the group to ask, “What was that all about?”
Tom put his palm to his forehead and ran his hand back through his hair, releasing a sigh. “Our mermaid was apparently drawn by the singing of the choir. She was out here listening when Foweather and I came out, sitting on that rock,” he said, pointing for everyone’s benefit. “She just sat and stared, and Foweather took fright.”
“With a little prompting, I’m sure,” Matt said.
“She was really here?” Clemmens asked.
“She’s not a true mermaid, you dolt,” Dick Popple said.
“I know,” Clemmens said. “But I haven’t seen her with my own two eyes, and neither have you.”
“She sounds a beauty, from Foweather’s account,” Wiggett put in. “I’d like to see her myself, especially if she’s got titties like he said.” He held his hands in front of his puffed-out chest in the form of two breasts, and sashayed in front of the others.
“Stop it!” Tom ordered. “You are none of you to speak of Miss Penrose in such a manner, nor am I to hear that any of you have gone snooping ’round the cottage. Miss Penrose is a lady prepared to render us a great service, and you will treat her with all due respect.”
“Didn’t mean to tread on your toes there,” Popple said. “We didn’t know as it was like that between you.”
The choir let out a collective “ooh,” and more than one elbow was nudged into a side.
“It is not ‘like that’ between us,” Tom said sourly. “This plan hangs by a thread as it is. If any of you accidentally let on that the mermaid is anything but real, it is liable to fall apart.”
“Are you certain she isn’t real?” Clemmens asked.
Tom kept himself from rolling his eyes, if just barely. The sarcasm, however, he could not keep out of his voice. “Why, you’re right. She may be off eating seaweed somewhere at this very moment. How could I be so foolish?”
“There’s no call to be getting snippy,” Clemmens said. “I was just asking.”
“Bernice’s sister’s husband’s cousin saw a mermaid once,” Popple put in. “I hear she had a sort of grayish tail, spotted like a mackerel. She cut a hole in his nets and let the fish out.”
“I wonder how mermaids have sex?” Wiggett asked of no one in particular. “Like dolphins? Come to think of it, I don’t know how dolphins do it, either.”
“Do dolphins have dicks?” Clemmens asked.
“Does Foweather have one?” Popple asked. “That’s the true mystery.”
“And if he came upon an unsuspecting dolphin, would he try to use it?” Matt asked, to a great outburst of laughter. Long minutes of ribald speculation and descriptions of Foweather, dolphins, and mermaids in outrageous combinations closely followed. Tom pulled a grinning Matt aside.
“I’ll leave them to you. I’m going to go have a talk with our maiden of the sea.”
“Beware the German dragon. I’d ask to meet the girl myself, except it would mean facing her.”
“Maybe Hilde’s what you’ve been looking for all these years, and you just didn’t know it.”
“God save me.”
Matt herded the group back inside the church, and Tom set off in the direction Konstanze had taken. He was unsurprised to find the bracken valley deserted in the fading light—if she had kept up her pace, Konstanze should be halfway home by now. And she should run, if she knew what was best for her. Although the incident had worked out to his advantage, he was decidedly displeased that she had ventured so far from her cottage.
He kicked a stone as he went down the path through the quiet valley, diverting himself from his annoyance with the idle pastime of a boy.
A movement from the corner of his eye slowed his step, and the stone rolled to a stop. Fronds of bracken were swaying as if disturbed by some creature beneath their cover, and the disturbance was coming toward him. He stepped back, alarm tingling all over his body, his mind running through a quick list of possible creatures in the bracken, none of them fitting this low, rapid motion.
A goat burst out of the ferns, bleated at him, then turned and trotted away down the path. He let out a breath and dropped his shoulders at his own foolishness. He was as bad as the choir, believing in monsters when he should know better.
“Mr. Trewella!” a voice whispered.
He jerked around, eyes wide.
“Is it safe to come out?”
Oh, Lord. Konstanze. “What are you still doing here?” he whispered toward her voice. “And where the hell are you?”
There was another rustling of ferns and then her veiled head appeared above the green. “I was afraid someone might try to follow me, so I hid.”
“It wouldn’t have been an issue if you’d stayed at home,” he said, then realized it was pointless to keep whispering, and raised his voice to its normal volume. “Come out of there, will you?”
She waded her way to him through the ferns. “I heard all the shouting. What happened?”
He explained the scene to her briefly, leaving out all reference to mermaid breasts and dolphin sexual apparatus. “You could easily have ruined everything.”
She looked down, her face invisible beneath hat brim and veil. “I suppose you want me to apologize.”
“Don’t you think it appropriate?” he asked, incredulous.
“I should think that my hiding in ferns with a bunch of goats would be an obvious enough acceptance on my part of my error. I see no reason to belabor the issue,” she said, raising her head. He could just make out the shadows where her eyes were, and sensed that they were glaring at him with defiance.
“I would still like to hear you say you were wrong,” he said. Really, the woman was unbelievable.
“That is one of the greatest pleasures known to man, it is true, to hear another admit their error. I must, however, be getting home. Hilde will be worried.”
He felt his eyebrows rise up his forehead. She wasn’t going to apologize? She wasn’t going to beg his forgiveness? His lips parted in amazement as she started walking away from him, her short legs moving with surprising speed. “I hadn’t figured you for such a proud, stubborn little thing,” he said, catching up to her and finding himself caught between amusement and annoyance at her behavior.
“Mr. Trewella, I feel I have shown a distressing lack of either pride or backbone during our acquaintance. I am certain you must have formed a most inaccurate picture of my character.”
“How so?” he asked. He was quite certain his picture was accurate in the extreme.
She waved one hand lightly through the air. “Despite appearances to the contrary, I like to think of myself as a reserved and cautious person, and one who prefers calm to drama. And I have, until recently, been quite circumspect in my behavior. The present situation is highly unusual, and I do not like to think that your opinion of me is based upon it.”
He tried to take her seriously, but it was hard. “I have always been of the opinion that one’s true character is most likely to emerge when one encounters unexpected circumstances.”
“I am not the type of woman who roams about unclothed and takes part in illegal plots.”
“Apparently you are.” He tried not to laugh.
She clenched her fists, shaking them at her sides and giving a little grunt of frustration. “If you had seen me a month ago you would never have said so.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps not. Does it matter?”
She was silent for several steps, then: “No. I don’t suppose it does.”<
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“I much prefer your present self to whatever silent creature you may have been before.”
“You do?” she asked, looking up at him.
“You wouldn’t have been much use to me the other way, now, would you?” he said, deliberately misunderstanding her desire for flattery. It wouldn’t do for her to know that he was beginning to enjoy her company very much indeed. “Foweather would still be combing the coastline looking for contraband, instead of studying mermaid benches and worrying about whether he’ll be safe from you when he goes to sleep on his boat tonight.”
“I see.”
“Mrs. Bugg—”
“Please don’t call me that,” she interrupted, her voice going cold. “Call me Miss Penrose, or if that seems too false for you, then even Konstanze is better.”
“Konstanze.” He tried it out on his tongue, giving the name three syllables as she did, the accent on the second. “How did a woman with Cornish roots end up with such a name?”
A tilt of hat and veil betrayed her glance at him. “Do you truly wish to know?”
He shrugged. The name didn’t matter to him, but he was curious as to what she would tell him. Konstanze might be many things, but so far she had never been boring.
“My mother was singing the role of Konstanze, in Wolfgang Mozart’s Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail— that’s The Abduction from the Seraglio in English— when I was conceived. It was her first major role, and being cast as Konstanze was doubly exciting, as she was the first Englishwoman anyone had ever known to sing at the Kamtnertortheater in Vienna.”
“What is a seraglio?” He almost didn’t ask, embarrassed to display his ignorance.
“A harem,” she said, and he thought he heard a smile in her voice. “It’s quite the risqué opera. Konstanze is captured by a pasha who desires her, but she yearns for her lover. The lover plots to rescue her, but they are caught in their escape attempt by the pasha, who is understandably upset and orders the lover put to death.”
“Does this have a happy ending?”
“Naturally. The pasha has a sudden change of heart and releases them both so they can go off together and live happily ever after. Much joyous singing ensues.”