How I Came to Haunt My Parents

by Natalee Caple

  The fourth seamaid was timid, or else she cared less for seeing buildings and people; she remained where she surfaced, in the midst of the sea, but she said it was quite as beautiful there as nearer the land. She could see for so many miles around her, and the sky above was belled and blue and rife with stars. She saw ships, but at such a great distance that they looked like seagulls. She played with the sporting dolphins in the waves, and she caught the fin of a humpback whale and rode with her for hours. The pod of whales spouted water until it seemed as if a hundred fountains were playing in every direction.

  The fifth seamaid rose in winter; so when her turn came, she saw what the others had not seen the first time they went up. The sea looked quite green and flat, and plates of ice floated around the mountainous icebergs, each one large and lofty like a coral reef turned vertical. They were of the most singular shapes, and glittered in the daylight. Seals lay upon their bases and gave birth to young in a bloody writhe that stained the snow. The little seals were furry and white and loving and they squeezed against their mothers who held them against their flanks and fed them milk from their bodies. The seamaid seated herself upon one of the largest floating flats of ice, shivering as she let the wind play with her long hair until it froze. She remarked to her sisters that all the ships sailed by rapidly, and steered as far away as they could from the icebergs, as if they were afraid of them. The largest ships enclosed their sailors completely as they bulled through the ice with a great cracking sound.

  Towards evening, as the sun went down, clouds roiled in the sky, thunder broke the silence and lightning illuminated the world with a red light. But she, too young to hide from danger, sat calmly on the floating iceberg, watching the lightning, as it darted forked flashes and spun sheets of light across the water’s surface.

  For most of the seamaids the visit to the surface was a satisfying rite of passage upon which they would elaborate for many years.

  Often, in the evening hours, a small school of five or so would twine their arms round each other, and rise to the surface, in a row. They enjoyed the sounds that their voices made in the air and together they made music that echoed across the dark waves. They had more beautiful voices than any being, human or otherwise. Their songs were sweeter than that of the lark, whippoorwill, or nightingale, softer than the hum of a bumblebee’s wings, warmer than a cat’s purr, holier than whale-song. At times, before the approach of a storm, when they expected a ship would be lost, they swam before the vessel, and sang sweetly to the sailors of the delights to be found in the depths of the sea, begging them not to fear if they sank to the bottom. But for the sailors these things could never be beautiful, never be seen; for if the ship sank, the men were drowned, and their dead bodies were carried in the distraught arms of the seamaids and laid to rest among the flowering anemones.

  One day a seamaid rose to the surface and did not return. Weeks passed and then months and finally it became clear that she was never to be recovered. From then on the grandmothers and aunties became superstitious and invented rituals and preparations for each seamaid before they would allow her to leave. The loss of one seamaid struck each remaining soul as deeply as if she were the lover, daughter, sister, mother, wife, and auntie of them all. The lives of seamaids were so deeply intertwined that each one reflected back to the others every aspect of love and so too, with this loss, every aspect of grief.

  At last the little seamaid was ready to rise to the surface. Her grandmother and aunties surrounded her and wreathed white lilies in her hair; every flower leaf was half a pearl. They ordered the oysters to clamp themselves to her tail and to protect her and advise her on her journey.

  “But they hurt me so,” said the little seamaid.

  “We cannot bear to lose you,” they said sternly. "You must think of others and so care better for yourself."

  Knowing the same deep grief as her elders, the littlest seamaid acquiesced and even allowed a small hermit crab to grip her earlobe and a school of minnows to surround her shoulders and waist. Oh, how gladly she would have shaken off all this companionship and rushed to the surface to devour adventure! But she was a good seamaid, as good as they all were, and so when her elders had weighed her down with every protection they could think of she said, “Farewell,” and rose as lightly as an air bubble to the surface of the water.

  The sun had just set as she raised her head above the waves; the clouds were tinted with crimson and gold, and through the glimmering twilight beamed the evening star in all its beauty. The sea was calm, and the air mild and fresh. A large ship, with three masts, lay becalmed on the water, with only one sail set. Not a breeze stiffed, and the young sailors sat idle on deck or amongst the rigging, smoking cigarettes and drinking from flasks. There was a great constant rumble of music and song onboard, and, as darkness came on, a hundred colored lanterns were lighted around the railing of the ship. The little seamaid swam close to the cabin windows, and now and then, as the waves lifted her up, she could look in through clear glass windowpanes and see a number of well-dressed people within. To her, the women seemed beloved and much in need of protection because they were weighed down with heavy necklaces, earrings, tiaras and dresses with bustles; long satin gloves covered their arms. The men were strangely identical in black tuxedos and close cropped haircuts slicked back by black combs that were hidden discreetly in inner pockets and taken out only when the bearer had the moment to rearrange himself unobserved by looking at his reflection in one of many shining surfaces.

  Among all of these strange creatures was a young man dressed in a gold suit that set off his long black hair and pale skin. He was, thought the little seamaid the most beautiful of all. He had large black eyes, as flat and indifferent as the eyes of her precious statue. She gathered from the songs that he was sixteen years of age, and his birthday was being kept with much rejoicing. At one point the boy made his way to a large black object and sat down in front of the object and played the most remarkable music the seamaid had ever heard. The quick bright sound of notes rolling over each other made her gasp with pleasure. Her world was full of Aeolian notes and she had never heard a stringed instrument. She swam around and around the ship watching the sailors dancing on deck. She marveled at their legs. And then she looked through a cabin window again and saw a ballerina spinning and spinning and spinning, with her arms held out; this looked to the seamaid like pure joy. When the boy finally exited the cabin, a hundred rockets rose in the air, making the sky as bright as day. The little seamaid was so startled by the explosions that she dived underwater; when she again stretched out her head, it appeared as if all the stars were falling around her. Great suns spurted fire about, splendid fireflies flew into the blue air, and everything was reflected in the clear, calm sea beneath. The ship itself was so brightly illuminated that all the people, and even the smallest bit of rigging, could be distinctly and plainly seen. And how noble the beautiful boy looked, as he kissed the cheeks and pressed the hands of all present and smiled at them, while the music resounded across the night.

  Hours passed and the ship grew dark, floating in silence again on the sea. But the little seamaid could not take her eyes from it. Towards morning a moaning, grumbling sound could be heard beneath the waves: still the little seamaid remained by the cabin window, rocking up and down on the water. The waves rose higher and she had to retreat or be thrown against the side of the ship again and again as the water grew violent. A dreadful storm was approaching; once more the sails were reefed, and the great ship pursued her flying course over the raging sea. The waves rose higher than the mast. The ship was thrown about with great force. At length the ship groaned and creaked; the thick planks gave way under the lashing of the sea as it broke over the deck; the mainmast snapped; the ship lay over on her side; the water rushed in.

  The little seamaid now saw that the people were in danger; the faces of the few who clutched at life rafts were ashen as they struggled to avoid the beams and planks of t
he wreck, which lay scattered on the water. At one moment it was so pitch dark that she could not see a single object, but a flash of lightning revealed the whole scene. She could see everyone who had been onboard except for the beautiful boy; when the ship broke apart, she glimpsed him as he sank into the deep waves. She was glad, for she thought he would now be with her; then she remembered that land beings could not live in the water and that when he drifted down to her home he would be quite dead. No, she thought, he must not die. So she swam desperately, as quickly as she could among the beams and planks and objects that strewed the surface of the sea, forgetting that they could crush her. Then she dived deeply into the dark, straining her eyes, until at length she managed to reach the beautiful boy. He fell through the water very slowly. His limbs were failing him, his eyes were closed, and he appeared breathless. She grabbed him and pulled him to the surface and held his head above the water. She held him against her body and let the waves bob and subside, pushing their two bodies along.

  “It will be all right,” she whispered in his ear. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  In the morning the storm was over and there was no sign of the ship or any of the other passengers as far as the little seamaid could see, which was to the horizon in every direction. The beautiful boy slept on. His hair floated against the seamaid’s cheeks the smell of him was warm and sweet. She held him tight and kissed his ears and whispered reassurances. The sun rose up red and glowing from the water, and its beams brought back some color to the boy’s cheeks, but his eyes remained closed. The seamaid began to cry. She turned him and allowed him to float as if he were standing, facing her. She held him up with her arms around his waist and kissed his high, smooth forehead, and stroked back his wet hair. He seemed to her so like the marble statue in her little garden. Upright against her it was as if they could dance together, although he could not stay in the ocean and she could not walk on the land. She kissed him again, and wished that he might live.

  Presently they floated in sight of land. In the distance she saw the great shoulders of mountains. Near the coast the thick forests spread. And close to the shore was a large stone building surrounded by orange trees. The sea here formed a little bay, in which the water was quite still, but very deep. So she swam with the beautiful boy to the beach, which was covered with fine, white sand, and there she laid him in the warm sunshine, taking care to raise his head higher than his body and to build a pillow out of sand to hold it there. From the large stone building the sound of bells peeled suddenly and a flock of young girls rushed into the garden. The little seamaid skipped quickly out of sight and swam to some nearby high rocks. She watched to see what would become of the beautiful boy.

  A young girl approached the spot where he lay. She looked frightened at first, not knowing whether she regarded a lost soul or a saved one. Then she turned and ran to fetch some friends to help her. A small crowd quickly gathered around the beautiful boy and the seamaid saw that he opened his eyes and coughed up water and came to life again. The crowd murmured with pleasure and smiled upon the young girl and the beautiful boy. Without ever looking towards the seamaid the beautiful boy left the beach and she knew that he did not know she had saved him. This made her very unhappy and when he was led away into the great building, she dived down and returned to the library where she spent hours by the rosebush, watching the silhouettes of land beings embrace and dance, come together and separate.

  She wept all those hours and more. She had always been more silent and thoughtful than her sisters, but now she retreated into herself so that it seemed as if she were asleep more often than awake. Her sisters asked her what she had seen during her first visit to the surface of the water. But she refused to speak of her journey. Over and over again she rose to the place where she had first seen the beautiful boy inside his doomed vessel. Many an evening and morning did she return to the place where she had left him. But she never saw him and each time she returned home more sorrowful than before. Her only comfort was to sit by the statue in her little garden and fling her arms around the silent replica of her obsession. But she gave up tending her flowers, and her garden grew wild, covering all her other treasures and obscuring the paths that led back to the library. The garden became gloomy, disturbing. But still it was the only place where she felt any better.

  At length she could bear it no longer, and she told one of her sisters all about it. Then the others heard the secret, and very soon it became known to two seamaids, then another who happened to know who the boy was. She had also seen the festival onboard the ship, and she told them where the beautiful boy came from, and where his house stood.

  “Come, little sister,” said the other seamaids. They entwined their arms and rose up in a long row to the surface of the water, emerging close by the spot where they knew the beautiful boy’s home stood. It was a house the size of a great reef, built of bright yellow shining stone, flanked by shining windows and spun about with long flights of marble steps, one of which reached down to the sea. The front door would admit an elephant and the roof sported a dome that opened so that one could view the sky at night without leaving the interior of the building. Pillars that seemed like thick bars supported the front of the house. And between the pillars that surrounded the whole building stood lifelike statues of land people in various states of undress. Through the clear crystal of the enormous windows could be seen rooms that were swathed with costly silk curtains, hanging tapestries and oil paintings of men on horses engaged in battle. In the center of the largest saloon a fountain threw sparkling jets of water high up into the glass cupola of the ceiling. The sun shone down upon the water and upon the plants growing round the basin of the fountain. Everywhere there were severed flowers in vases. The little seamaid understood nothing of what she saw, except that this was where the beautiful boy lived.

  Now that she had found his home she spent most of her time swimming in and out of the narrow channel under the marble balcony, which threw a broad shadow on the water. At times she watched the beautiful boy, who thought himself quite alone standing over her in the bright moonlight. She remembered his head resting on her bosom, his cool lips beneath her hearty kiss, his hair flowing into her eyes. But as she watched him being romantic and melancholy, sighing on his own and talking to himself, she was certain that he knew nothing of what they had shared and that he did not dream of her. She watched him read and play his odd little instrument, humming along to the music he plucked from its strings. She watched him until she became fond of land beings. She began to fantasize about walking up the steps from the sea to his bedroom and laying her head on the pillow beside his and kissing him until he awoke and returned her kisses.

  She imagined traveling with him to see the land and what it held and who its creatures were. When she looked at him there was so much that she wished to know. Finally, when the itch of her longing became overwhelming she applied to her grandmothers and aunties, who knew all about that upper world.

  “Oh dear child, you must stop looking at him. Do not think of that world as better than your own. We are happier and better off to stay away from them, those human beings.” The grandmothers and aunties replied to the seamaid’s prying questions about the upper world.

  But the little seamaid persisted. She had gone so far in her imaginings that she now felt she must enter the other world and discover its workings, that she must be joined with the beautiful boy and be like him.

  “He wouldn’t love you,” said all the other seamaids. “He would see your tail and think you were some exotic pet. He would keep you in an aquarium, a vase for living beings, and you would waste away and die because you need to move miles in a day. You were not meant to float in one place and stare at a human.”

  The little seamaid sighed and stared down at her tail, which shimmered green and violet as it flowed beneath her waist.

  “He would never put me in an aquarium,” she said. “He would love me. He would marry me. He would make
me his equal.”

  “His equal,” scoffed the older seamaids. “This marriage you speak of, this is what they do to make each other stay one way, as only men and only women, for all their days. You would never get to be a man with him or he a woman with you. You would be forever trapped in dresses and knitting and piano lessons. You would split in half to have his babies — only one at a time, imagine! And he would never bring you on his journeys, but would only bring you back pins to poke through your clothing as remembrances of things he had seen. Let us be happy away from him,” said the seamaids, “and dart and spring about during the three hundred years that we have to live. We will school about the ocean and be lovely together.”

  But the little seamaid remained unconvinced and her doubt set her apart from the other seamaids and left her feeling quite alone, quite alien from her sisters.

  A few nights a month the seamaids held a ball. It is one of those splendid sights, which we can never see on land. The ballroom was an open space where the sand was combed flat. Hundreds of colossal shells, some of a deep red, others of a grass green, some of a luminous blue-white stood on each side in rows. The animals in the shells applauded by opening and closing the shells, releasing bubbles like strands of pearls. Innumerable fishes swam in sweet formation around the waving anemones. The seamaids danced to the music of their own sweet singing. On this night the little seamaid sang more sweetly than them all. The whole community applauded her with hands and tails; for a moment her heart felt quite gay. But she soon thought again of the world above her.