Finn's Rock

by Briggs, Laura

  "You need to see something," she said. She took hold of his sleeve, pulling him along behind her as she spoke.

  Her grip surprisingly strong for delicate hands; Landen increased his pace to keep up with her as she drew him towards a path traveling away from the village, towards a scrubby inlet of trees. The lighthouse moved like a compass point to the left, the beaches of Finn's residence vanishing from view.

  "What do I need to see?" he asked, half-smiling. Twigs and dried brush crunched beneath his shoes as they meandered through a beaten path overgrown by branches and weeds through disuse. Ahead was a shack–or a barn–its stone sides betraying a history as long ago as the lighthouse, perhaps.

  "This," she answered. The building was not currently being used for any purpose of fishing or farming, Landen judged, since the weeds were high and no equipment outside. A heavy padlock was fastened on the doors, the shutters facing the distant sea closed and boarded over.

  Finn dug through her coat pocket and removed a ring of house keys. With an incredulous expression on his face, Landen watched her fumble past the first few modern ones to an older padlock key. She shoved it into the lock and turned it; the padlock rasped, then broke free of its chain. She shoved open the doors, letting a shaft of light into the open space.

  "You want the truth," she said. "Then this is it."

  *****

  It was not a place visited often by anyone. This much was evident in the heavy layer of dust over the objects, the grime and cobwebs clinging visible to the surface, along the edges of pictures frames and steamer trunks lining the walls.

  But it was the objects themselves that mattered. Landen crossed the threshold, expecting to see calendar pages clipped from farmer's almanacs, local newspaper articles, other innocuous memorabilia mixed in with broken and rusty farming tools and fishing gear. But the sunlight streaming through the open doors revealed a perfect symmetry, as if the objects had been displayed with care.

  Framed photographs, yes. But not of fishermen and farmers, but mermaids. Row after row, from tintypes to washed-out shots from a mere decade or so ago. Serious faces, unsmiling countenances, cheery grins with a dash of sultriness in the pose. Shells in hair, fish scales twining up above covered breasts, seaweed necklaces strung with pearls and sea glass.

  Landen said nothing at first. Instinctively, his finger wiped away the grime at the bottom of the closest frame. Revealing the date "1918" written below the image of a dark-haired mermaid who gazed seriously at the lens. Her tail was studded with sand-encrusted shells like gemstones.

  "She was the first," said Finn. "The first one photographed. There were two others before her. Before there were photographs here, there were only tintypes." Above were two small images of mermaids like curio objects posed against plain backdrops.

  "Jenny is here–" She crossed the dusty floor and touched a frame hung low on the wall. In the picture, a girl cast a rougish glance at the camera, a pair of shiny fins swept to one side in an alluring pose.

  Landen traversed the room slowly, gazing into the faces of the mermaids posed in time. The glass of each picture was covered with a film of dust, cobwebs tracing across a color photo of a red-haired mermaid posed on the offshore rock.

  "That one is my mother," said Finn. "Her mother is in the photo two above Jenny's." Landen's fingers still touched the frame, as if assuring himself it was real.

  "Your mother," he repeated. The photograph seemed blurry and distant, the face partly turning away from the camera towards the sea breeze ruffling the mermaid's grass-woven halter top.

  "What is this?" he asked, softly.

  "This is where we remember them," she answered. "All the mermaids of Fair Island. All the ones since the sailor's story. When they started keeping it alive fifty years later."

  She lifted the lid of one of the trunks, sending a spray of cobwebs into the air. The odor of mothballs and lavender escaped, yellowed preservative paper was swept aside by her hand to reveal a waterproof canvas beneath, its surface stitched with metallic threads. Beads worked fancifully over an opening at the top; a series of small buttons descending until they vanished, the tapered garment ending with two transparent fins of sheer gauze and wire. The fabric was stained; the fins eaten with holes that left the midsection of each one in tatters.

  "This one was Levette Hayes, 1971," said Finn, turning the waistband to reveal the words inscribed there by pen. "Maureen McCormack, 1921." A showy costume of mother-of-pearl discs and broken green netting stained with rust. "Most are here, but some ... some were kept by their owners." She closed the trunk lid, as if hasty to shut the items out of her sight.

  "How did they decide this?" he asked. "How did they ... is this just a rite of passage or something? Or is it ..." He didn't finish, because the answer was there before him, in between two cardboard sepia mermaids. A framed photo of solemn women in sweeping skirts, the hats of the Victorian era brimming with feathers and trim. Assembled around a painted sign etched with scrolls, elegant font bearing the inscription "The Society of the Mermaid's Daughters". The date etched below: 1910.

  "They draw the name," said Finn, softly. "They ask if she is willing. And so long as she can swim to the rock, she is the mermaid until she passes it along. No more than one, no one choosing except those who have gone before." Her tone was strained, as if the words were being forced out of her, now that the moment was here. Now that the doors were unlocked, a reluctance seeped into her veins, perhaps.

  "The society kept this a secret all these years?" he said. "They ... they staged all those sightings. They made a whole town believe that this was some sort of–eternal myth."

  There was an edge of admiration in his voice, although it seemed impossible for anyone to successfully accomplish such a hoax. Yet, here was everything to prove it: the photographs and the costumes, the story of the mermaid who swam away from the island only to be returned to it.

  "They didn't keep anything secret," said Finn. "Don't you understand?" She was standing in the doorway when he turned around, her figure framed in its light. He could see her eyes, the blue depths drowning in unhappiness before she turned to go.

  He followed her, catching up with her just outside the doorway. "Understand what?" he said, his hand on her arm. "About the society? The story?"

  "That everyone knows," she answered. "Everyone. There's no secret. There's no pranks or conspiracy." She gazed at him, her expression only softening as comprehension began to appear on his own.

  "Why do you think everyone was so eager to help you?" she asked. "Why would half the town tell you their stories and steer you in the direction of believing it was just another mystery–prank or phenomenon, who's to say?"

  "The mermaid out on the rock," he said. He did not need an answer, at least not a verbal one. The answer was visible in Finn's eyes before she looked away.

  "Why?" He turned her to face him as she swung the door to the barn closed, fingers fumbling with the padlock. "If everybody knows this is a hoax, then why keep it up? For the tourists?"

  He felt the urge to laugh, even in the midst of his confusion. Yet the look in her eyes hurt him in some inexplicable way. As if it represented the town's secret society, the hidden museum–and all of its citizens who believed their secret was threatened by someone they planned to expose to the same kind of tricks as all the other visitors. Fearing the shame of the mermaid exposed as a sham, a charlatan, a cheap carnival trick.

  "Because it's the mystery that matters," she said. "Even if you know something can't be real, you can wish it were. It's like holding a bit of the unexplained in your hand, knowing there's more than just what we see."

  She bit her lip, her cheeks crimson as she looked away. "I can't explain it," she said, after a moment. "All I can say is, it doesn't matter about the tourists and the scoffers. It matters to us. We do it for us–not for them."

  The lock snapped into place beneath her fingers, padlocking the barn closed again. "Write what you want," she said. "Go ahead and tell everyone.
They'll turn this stuff over to the museum and want the island to put on shows and have a proper schedule for seeing a mermaid on the rocks. And there'll be some pleased with the money, but the rest–the rest will be sorry that it's cheapened."

  "Don't," he said, gently. "Don't think I'm trying to hurt you–or the island..." He searched for the right words, the phrases unwilling to assemble themselves in his mind.

  What he had seen was astonishing–incredible. People would be fascinated by the truth, not upset that it was all staged. Everyone knew it was staged, deep in their hearts; even she had admitted that much.

  "I hope you'll at least be fair to this version of the story," she said, with a trace of coldness in her voice. Before he could reply, she brushed past him, moving swiftly towards the path home. He intended to follow, but the more steps he took towards her, the faster her own grew.

  "Please wait," he called. All he received was a brief glance over her shoulder as she disappeared through the branches again.

  *****

  There is something magical about the story of the mermaid which Fair Island Holds in esteem–but it isn't the kind of mythical magic I usually find when visiting a place known for strange experiences.

  The Fair Island mermaid's story is old, almost as old as the wreck of the Lacordia, if you believe the tall tales told by the island's inhabitants. But those tales are not always the same, just as the sightings of the mermaid are always hazy and distant, described as an unchanging figure seated upon a rock age after age. Long after science would reasonably expect a single sea creature to still be alive and youthful, of course.

  Is there a reason why we continue to believe this story? Several people would claim the stories are real simply because they exist; others simply want to believe. But either way, the mermaid's legend has become an excuse for the tourist trade and the tiny museum that features castoff antiques and distant memorabilia from its history.

  After years of exploring the unexplained across America, nothing can surprise me–except possibly what I discovered truly inhabited this island. A story, a myth, like no other.

  When I came here, I expected...

  Landen's fingers paused. He felt anger and fatigue; but not the sense of satisfaction he expected from writing these words. He had been waiting a long time to write them about something, somewhere. The rumors and tall tales Landen had chased on behalf of the journal had always escaped the factual side of his journalism. And now, when he had his editor's blessing, he had the opportunity to shake off the romantic side of the myth in favor of the cold, hard truth.

  What he had expected was another dead end, a figment of imagination. What he had discovered was an elaborate plot to keep a myth alive, a secret society which linked generations of islanders and bound them to their folklore. It was the kind of story someone in his position seldom stumbled upon. The sort that generated fascination from its readers, most likely tourist dollars for the location exposed.

  It was right to put that story on paper–and yet, wrong to the very people it would help in ways they had not yet imagined. For some reason, he was hesitating over this even as he teetered on the edge of success.

  But why here? Why now? Fair Island as the object of his freedom was not what he imagined, but better than his skeptical mind could ever have dreamed. In a few hours' worth of writing, he could remold his conspiracy theory chaser into a journalist who found the heart of human destiny in these strange events.

  Time was running out; he had a deadline to fulfill and a column to fax to his editor. When everything was finished, he would be free to go home and ride the success of this story wherever it would take him. Running his fingers over his face, he closed his eyes against the sound of the sea in the distance and the thoughts in his mind.

  *****

  ... I expected to share something complete in this article. The story of Fair Island is unforgettable; not only to the islanders, but the visitors who believe in the story. A mermaid seated upon rocks, supposedly luring a ship to its doom; a figure that supposedly still taunts visitors on the island's shores today.

  Many ponder the truth of it–taking the traditional blurry photos of the figure on the rocks and telling the story to everyone they see afterwards. But while I was there, I didn't have the fortune these people had. Of believing it, that is.

  A wise person once told me the story isn't about the mysterious figure on the rocks, but what she represents. The mystery of what we can never understand, of what remains beyond human comprehension. Not just in the history of this island, but everywhere. Even in places where mermaids don't exist in myth or reality.

  The page which had been left in the hotel fax machine's scanner continued another paragraph or two; but Rory, the desk manager at the Mermaid's Arms stopped reading at this point. Folding it up, he took his coffee break early and struck off in the direction of the docks, where he cast a glance around for any sign of the Malloy fishing boat.

  He tapped on the shipping office's window. "Hello!" he called. "Any sign of Morgan today?"

  The window slid back, a man in a sailor's cap nodded through the opening. "Up at the coffee shop, having a cup," he said, nodding in the direction of the Codswallow.

  "Thanks," answered Rory. Who took off in that direction with the slip of paper in his hand.

  *****

  "Why did he do it?" Finn leaned against the side of the cabin, staring at the crumpled fax sheet in her hands. "It doesn't mention anything here about–about the things he found out."

  "Maybe he was tired of disappointing his readers," said Morgan. "There's some who likes a bit of the unknown. When every UFO's a painted balloon, there's bound to be some who wants for once to think it's green men from Mars and such." He gazed out at the waters surrounding them, the white speck in the distance–the ferry carrying passengers to the mainland.

  She folded the page and stuffed it in her pocket. "I didn't think..." she began, "I assumed he–since the truth was so much more than he first thought–" There was no way to express the thoughts that were taking form in her mind. She wanted a reasonable solution to the conflict of this scenario. A journalist who uncovered a story far better than a threadbare myth, passing on the chance to share it with his readers. Without any loyalty to the people who had kept it secret, why wouldn't he seize the opportunity? It seemed inexplicable; unless there was a common thread in this scenario which she was unwilling to admit.

  With an uncomfortable flush, she turned towards the cabin to fire the motor and move further out to sea. In the glass of the door, she could see the reflection of the ferry boat. Now more than a speck; a boat pulling in closer, driving towards them as if a dart sailing across the water.

  "Trouble?" she said, turning towards the water again. Morgan was watching it approach with a frown of dismay on his face, his fingers lifting the pipe from between his lips.

  "Trouble with the steering," he ventured, withdrawing a little in concern as the boat began to turn.

  "Maybe we should go," said Finn, a slight panic in her words. "Move on before we're in their path–" As she moved to duck into the cabin, Morgan laid a hand on her arm.

  "Stay," he said. "Wait a bit." Something in his voice made her pause, as if he sensed something which was neither an emergency nor an accident. He continued gazing at the ferry, Finn beside him, as the boat neared.

  A slow and graceful curve brought the ferry alongside the fishing boat, a distance between them which could be traversed by a plank if there was one handy. The passengers behind the rails were chatting animatedly–especially the tourists–as they gazed at the fishing boat alongside. Among them was Landen. Leaning against the rails, his coat flying open beneath the force of the salt breeze.

  Even from this distance, his smile was visible: a faint, hesitant one. "Ahoy," he called.

  "Ahoy, there," answered Morgan. "What be the problem?" Although this was a question for the ferry operator, it was Landen to whom he spoke, his eye trained thoughtfully on the journalist as if they were
conversing from two separate tables again in the Codswallow.

  "I'd like to come aboard," said Landen. "If that's possible. If that's–" Here, he glanced at Finn, "–all right with you."

  "Come aboard," she repeated, but not in the form of a question. The ferry maneuvered closer to the fishing boat's side. The operator rolled a ladder over the edge; to Finn's surprise, Landen swung his bag up on his shoulder and climbed down the side, angling towards their boat.

  When he grew close enough, Morgan held out a hand. "Grab hold," he called. As his fingers closed around Landen's arms, the journalist half-jumped from the side onto the deck, stumbling forward before he regained steady footing again.

  When he glanced up again, his eyes was directed at Finn. She could read an apology in their depths, a sense of shyness, and something else. His eyes were looking into hers with an emotion stronger than his personal reserve at this moment, a longing that made her hands feel weak as she held herself steady with the cabin's side.

  "Good morning," he said, although his eyes slipped away from hers as if expecting chastisement. "I didn't want to go until I spoke to you. I started to leave, but–but I wanted–"

  "You didn't tell them," she said. Not waiting for the rest of his speech. "In your article, there was nothing about us. The society, the island's secret."

  He shook his head. "I had time to think about what you said," he answered. "You were right. The myth wasn't mine to change. It belongs to somebody else–they shouldn't tell the rest of the story until they're ready." His voice was soft, a stronger emotion surging beneath.