Morgan reappeared through a parting wave of patrons, ushering his companion towards a seat at the table. A skinny man whose cap seemed balanced on a bald head, his clothes somewhat askew as if he had been tussling with other patrons.
"Linus, this is the journalist from the mainland," shouted Morgan. "The one I was telling you about. Come to ask you about the merfolk in the Bay." With a large wink in Landen's direction as he spoke.
Linus sat up straighter in his chair. "Happy to tell," he said to Landen. Beside him, Neville hid an eye roll as he drew a cigar case from his coat pocket.
The man's story was rambling, told with as much detail as possible. It was not as entertaining as Morgan's story for the children in the coffee shop, but it was more specific. For instance, Linus could recall important dates, also the names of other ships and fishermen who had been present in the water around the same time. He could remember how many people in the village typically noticed the mermaid on the rock at any given time–and was a firm believer it was always the same figure.
"Never a change?" asked Landen. He found it hard to believe that anyone had seen this figure close enough to be sure. Even Linus's closest encounter took place a mile away while in choppy waters.
"No one could be sure of that," scoffed Neville. An hour later, he looked somewhat the worse for wear after two cigars and two more pints–very much the way Landen suspected himself to look. His whiskey had never arrived, however, and his smoke was consumed secondhand from the various clouds floating throughout the pub.
In the crowds, he spotted Farcus in the same pullover and shirt, a pair of thick glasses dangling from a cord around his neck. The owner of the Codswallow was playing a pipe alongside the rest of the musicians, his heavy shoes beating time against the board floors. Landen realized that he was still searching for Finn in this crowd, wishing that she had joined them at the table instead of wandering off with the woman in the floral dress.
When he checked his watch, it was four-thirty in the morning. His bones felt weary, half-longing for the guest bed at the Mermaid's Arms and the lulling sound of the sea and traffic. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbled for the digital recorder's button, turning it off.
"I should go," he said to Morgan. Then repeated this more loudly when the fisherman didn't hear him, engaged in conversation with their table's neighbors.
"What's that?" said Morgan. "Go? Why, lad, the evening's not half spent–'tis a Saturday..."
"Need some sleep," said Landen. "I have to finish my notes." He rose, unable to escape the hand extended by Neville.
"A pleasure to have met you," said Neville. "If you're in the mood for some nautical poetry, feel free to drop by my bungalow before you part ways with our fair island." With a polite but weary smile, he stubbed out his cigar.
Landen half-stumbled in the direction of the door. A few dancers were still reeling about to the music, although the crowd had dwindled to the most dedicated of revelers. Landen shoved open the door and slipped outside.
The distance to the inn seemed astronomical, despite the lack of drink to impede him. Cool air swept across Landen's face like a sheet of water. He stepped towards the hotel, then wavered. His feet turned in the direction of the shore in the distance, the sound of the sea washing against the rocks.
*****
In the darkness outside the pub, a radio crackled to life. "Phillip, ye be there?" Morgan's voice was infused with static over its waves. The man leaning in the shadows pressed the talk button.
"Go ahead," he said, in chipper tones which were forced into a hush.
"He be headin' your way. Just left the table."
"Ay–he's on his way out," said Phillip, in reply to Morgan's message. "I'll be passin' the word along. Night, then." He released the button, switching the radio's channels as he watched Landen disappear beyond the lights of main street.
*****
Landen wasn't sure why he turned in the direction of the beach instead of his room at the inn. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or the soothing sound of the waves in place of the jarring racket of the pub. His shoes sank into the sand as he climbed down the embankment towards the water.
The waves were washing along the shore, barely visible in the transition from moonlight to sunrise. The light was cold, faint, and white; as if a heavy cloud obscured the dawn. The water was black, the foam washing against Finn's rock in the distance, the stone circle of the mermaid island.
There, on the rock, was the form of a woman. A pale form facing the sunrise, two fins visible just above the water. As the first rays of sunlight appeared, he saw the glint of iridescent sheen above them, as if the scales of a fish reflected the light.
The figure turned towards him; he saw a greyish cast to the skin, dark hair streaming down its shoulders in slick layers. A feeling of fear and shock assailed Landen; he was frozen in place, his tongue plastered against the roof of his mouth. His heart seemed to have stopped for the moment.
It must be an illusion. That was the thought in his mind as he slowly sank to his knees on the beach, staring at the figure he knew was gazing at him from the rock. Before his eyes, it turned and slipped into the water, completely vanishing from sight. In the distance, he saw a head bob above the water before disappearing below the surface again.
*****
Finn prodded Landen gently in the side. When there was no response, she pushed his shoulder again, more firmly this time. His only response was a faint moan.
At six o' clock in the morning, she found him curled on the sand, facing the beach. A layer of sand had drifted over his trousers and shoes, the wind ruffling his hair. When he opened his eyes, he gazed up at her with a hazy expression. No doubt taking in her figure bending over his own, a beach robe wrapped around her bathing suit.
"Where am I?" he murmured. She tucked a strand of hair back from the breeze and smiled.
"On the beach," she answered. "A pint at the pub?"
He groaned. "No," he answered. "No pint." He crawled to his feet as she slid an arm beneath his shoulders.
"Let me help," she said, gently. "There's coffee in my kitchen." He staggered obediently towards her house as she steered him in the direction of her door. She was surprised by the feel of his body pressed against her side, the muscles taut beneath his shirt.
Her flip-flops splashed sand like water across the beach as she tread the sand. One hand closed over her knob, pushing the door open as she drew him inside.
He sank down in the nearest chair, head on his hands in a position of exhaustion. He didn't look up as she filled the coffee mug on her counter; her movement was automatic, her fingers remembering the way he liked his coffee from before.
"Do you know what I saw?" he whispered. "I saw ... there was something out there this morning."
Her movement betrayed no surprise as she placed the cup before him. "What?" she asked.
"It," he answered. "The thing that everyone else saw. Out there on the rocks."
As he spoke, she lifted a wet mop from behind the door, running it over the damp spots and pools of water upon the floor. Her robe had fallen open, the bathing suit beneath dry despite the wetness of her long hair. He seemed struck by her casual attitude after a moment, raising his gaze to watch her.
"That doesn't surprise you," he said. "Does it?"
She paused. "No," she answered. She brushed aside her wet hair, then sat down in the second chair. "Does it bother you that you saw it?" she asked.
Landen groaned in response. "I don't know." He laughed, his fingers slowly moving the coffee cup towards him. "It's just a trick of the mind. Or a prank. I don't know which, but ... it wasn't real."
She was quiet. "Then you think someone is setting you up," she said.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what I think." With another faint laugh, he lifted the cup of coffee. "Maybe Jenny will give me the answers."
"Jenny?" Finn frowned.
"Some woman the local author told me about. Neville Ashford, the historian. He sa
id if I wanted the real version of the story, I should see her." He lowered the cup of coffee after taking a long sip. "What do you think? I'm sure you must know who she is."
"I know her," said Finn. "I'm sure she could tell you something. If she wanted to." Finn's voice was low, her tone slightly soured.
She rose from her chair and poured herself a cup of coffee. Landen was gazing dully at the half-open door to the next room. A pile of wet garments resembling sacking draped over a basket, the rumpled sheets trailing from the bed.
"When do you see her?" Finn asked.
"See who?" said Landen. He turned towards her. "Jenny? Sometime this morning. So I can finish my article and go home."
She stood with the cup in her hands, studying its contents. "Don't go," she said. The words had escaped her almost without her realizing it; with no chance of explaining them or prefacing them with something more concrete than this request.
He stared. "Why not?" he asked.
"Because they're only leading you on. The people at the pub." She toyed with the handle of her mug. "Don't listen to everything they say."
"What are you saying?" he asked.
She was quiet for a moment. No doubt her reaction was confusing him. In a moment he would ask her more questions. Or perhaps he would realize on his own why she was behaving this way.
"I'll come with you," she said.
*****
Jenny's house was more like a cottage than the shanty Finn occupied along the shore. A sloping tile roof, a meandering fence which curved off to no purpose. No view of the sea except one so distant that it was merely a blue band on the horizon.
Finn rapped twice on the door, then gazed expectantly at the low curtained window. It flickered slightly; a moment later, the window opened.
"Visitor for you, Jenny," said Finn. Behind her, Landen shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the digital recorder tucked therein.
The woman seated at the window surveyed Landen with a look of distrust. Her eyes were pale blue, thick white hair knotted high behind her neck. Trails of beads descended in necklaces dangling past the collar of her flowing black blouse, a matching skirt of patterned cotton beneath. Her hand clung to the open pane, one cigarette between her fingers.
"Who is it?" she asked, a trail of smoke appearing from between her lips with these words.
"Someone from a magazine who wants to ask you some questions," answered Finn. "About the mermaid." Her voice was stiff; but Jenny seemed not to notice or care.
"He can come in," she answered, after a moment. The window closed as Finn turned the knob. Glancing at Landen, she spoke in a low voice. "Don't say anything about it," she said. "Her disability. Unless she brings it up." With that, she pushed open the door and led him into a darkened entryway.
The atmosphere of the cottage was dank and gloomy; its walls showed signs of water stains and surface cracks. Old horsehair furniture, faded wallpaper peeling from the two sides of what appeared to be a sitting parlor. There was a squeaking sound as Jenny moved away from the window. A wheelchair rolled across the floor, pausing as its occupant lifted a lap robe which had fallen to the floor.
"From the mainland?" she said, surveying Landen. "No islanders work for any publisher's rags, except for maybe that folklorist who's been here for ages." The cigarette was still between her fingers as she rolled to the threshold of the parlor rug, turning to face her guests. Automatically, Landen sank down on the nearest chair to be eye level with his hostess. Behind him, Finn lingered in the doorway, a sullen expression on her face.
"I'm from The Unexplained America," said Landen, beginning his spiel again. But Jenny didn't seem interested in hearing the rest as she stubbed her cigarette in a nearby ash tray.
"Where'd you hear about the mermaid?" she asked. The question caught him by surprise.
"The–mermaid," he repeated, slowly. "Well, the same way everyone else does. The popular folk tale, tourists who claim to have taken a photo..." He glanced in Finn's direction, feeling confused. Perhaps this was why she counseled against meeting Jenny–a woman who assumed the tale was completely unknown.
"Not that mermaid," said Jenny. "Don't tell me you dragged yourself up here for that moldy old folk tale. I thought you–" she paused, her eyes flickering towards Finn. "I thought she brought you here for the real bit. Or did she bring you here at all?"
She was still looking at Finn, who was avoiding her stare in favor of the somber print framed on the neighboring wall. Landen could feel the tension between them, as if gauging each others' intentions.
"She don't say," observed Jenny. "So I suppose I'll tell you anyway." She drew a fresh cigarette from the box in her pocket's skirts. Her fingers flicked a lighter's wheel.
"I was the mermaid," she said, exhaling a long puff of smoke. "One of many, that is. But I was nineteen thirty-six's model. That's how long ago it was."
Landen blinked. For a moment, he wished he had brought his pencil and notebook–something tangible and concrete he could re-read in order to be certain he understood.
"Then the mermaid on the shore was your hoax?" he asked. "The sightings in the nineteen thirties until–?" All the pieces seemed to make sense, a couple of youthful pranksters planting the story in the minds of modern descendents who already knew the legend by reputation. Perhaps the same example was being set today by someone. Judging from his experience this morning on the beach, that is.
"No," she answered. "Just nineteen thirty-six. That was because I got hired at the carnival. I dressed up in my tail and grass skirts, had a photo taken–sent it to the circus manager. Who hired me for a season." She took a long puff from the cigarette.
"Did you perform as a mermaid?" Landen sensed that this part of the story would have to be addressed before he could ask other questions. Such as the names of other pranksters who might have aided her.
"Told him I was a good diver," she answered. With a faint laugh, she added, "They billed me as the "Sensational Diving Mermaid". You saw the poster in the museum, I'm sure." Her eye flickered to meet his gaze with this remark. "Two tours of the U.S. mainland before it went wrong."
"You had an accident." He stated this softly. Suddenly aware of the meaning behind Finn's words before they entered, the rolling chair that transported Jenny from room to room.
"The diving board broke. I turned in the air and came down all wrong. The tail didn't give me any room to move in that fall. So I ended up here again–broke and broken after a short taste of glory." Her voice was full of bitterness; the cigarette between her fingers slackened momentarily as she remembered the past.
Landen shifted his weight. "Who was the mermaid after you?" he asked. "On Fair Island. Were there other pranksters? Did they tell anyone about it?"
She seemed not to hear him for a moment, then stirred from her memory. "I don't know who was after me," she answered. "When I left the island, I didn't care anymore. The next girl would be the same as the next and so on. You know," she said, softly, "the only reason I ever agreed in the first place was so I could get out of here. I thought of the one angle no one else did–the carnival side of the experience."
The next girl .. I agreed in the first place. The casual statements Jenny made were tumbling around in his brain like assorted puzzle pieces searching to fit together with the others he already possessed. He took a deep breath, uncertain what question to ask first.
"Who asked you to be the mermaid?"
"My mother," she said. "Who else?" Her grin twisted to one side as she flicked the ash from the cigarette.
"Your mother," he repeated. "For what–for the story? To keep it alive, I assume?"
"That's the whole point," she said. "The whole point of all of it. It seems silly today, I suppose. Technology and all that. But there's a sense of fierce interest still in the mermaid. As if she were something real that has to be kept in a shrine."
Finn spoke up, interrupting Jenny's story. "I'm surprised you didn't sell your story to the papers," she said. "While you were on the
mainland. A bit of sensationalism for a price."
Jenny gave her a narrow glance. "Every girl from the island still has a little pride when she leaves," she answered. "I wasn't burning all my bridges, lassie. Well enough it was, since I got caught in its net again." Her fingers stubbed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray.
"Do you know who the modern-day mermaid is?" Landen inquired. It was a long shot, but it was possible that more than one citizen knew the identity of the current prankster.
"No," she answered, sullenly. "That's the point, isn't it?" Something in her manner suggested she was tired of talking to him. He could see her eyes half-shuttered as they gazed past him, at a tattered carnival poster framed on the wall behind him.
He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said. "For your story." He held out his hand as he rose, but she waved it away.
"Close the door tight on your way out," she said. "Thing gets stuck and drafts come in awful from the sea." Finn was already in the passageway, as if seeking escape from the cottage.
Outside, Landen clicked off his tape recorder, glancing at Finn as she pulled Jenny's door fast behind them.
"That was quite a story," he said. "No wonder Neville told me to see her. And I'm guessing that the so-called Society of the Mermaid's Daughters has a few members fond of playing pranks–maybe even planning them on their own..." He noticed Finn wasn't responding to his enthusiasm.
"You think so?" she said. Her voice had a hollow quality to it, as if her mind was elsewhere.
They moved away from Jenny's house, the village road more like a narrow path at this point which could divert easily in the direction of Finn's house on the beach, the lighthouse cliff in the distance.
"I think I know so," Landen answered. "Come on, Finn–isn't it obvious? Jenny's story, her mother making the request. It's a hoax on and off through the ages...no wonder half the town thinks they've seen merpeople in the water." His pace was slowing as his mind worked, although his animation failed to rouse Finn until now.
Finn's Rock Page 6