by Jim Hanas
Seamaids stay deep below the surface until they reach an age and size when they are less vulnerable to gulls and fishing lines and lightning storms and the churning blades of ships. They live in groups that join and break off from the larger school to explore and play. In one of these little groups there are six equally beautiful seamaids whose bright colors and sweet movements are delightful. All day long they play in the library, swimming in and out of chambers, eating tiny flowers, and chasing each other. The seamaids are swift and light, darting about as sparrows do in the air outside our houses. These seamaids tempt fish to eat out of their hands, and stroke the fish and tickle their bellies until their little tails wiggle and wiggle against soft palms.
Surrounding the library there is a garden that stretches for acres, in which grow swaying grasses and bright red and dark blue flowers, and blossoms like flames of fire and globes like brilliant stars; the fruit glitters, and the leaves and stems of every plant dance continually with eddies and furls of water. Over everything in the garden lies a peculiar blue radiance, through which light from the blue sky above the water showers the dark depths of the sea. In calm weather the paradigm of the sun can be seen, looking like the glimmering pupil of a cat’s eye.
Each of the seamaids has a quiet space in the garden where she may cultivate whatever she pleases. Many of the seamaids prefer to let their plots grow free and simply delight in twisting the marvelous creations that grow around their wrists and tails for decoration. Some go to their plots to rest, cushioned and peaceful in the arms of plants. A very few arrange their flowerbeds according to some form. One makes a bed into the form of a whale; another thinks it better to make hers like the figure of a little seamaid; and one makes abstract patterns that mimic the churlish waves on the surface of the ocean. One little seamaid is a collector of things fallen from the wrecks of vessels. On her plot are stacks of china plates and silverware, boxes of jewelry, handbags and suitcases, the little bones of lost pets in shiny cages, broken violins and oboes, statues and statuettes and watercolor paintings washed clean. The seamaids often use these items for play and she enjoys distributing them. But of all these sources for make-believe, she cares most for the statue of a land boy.
He is blacker than the sand, carved out of stone. His curls fall around his shoulders and his eyes are smooth and blank. He wears a complicated suit and holds a sword at his side. She plants the statue in the center of her bed and surrounds it with anemones, which grow splendidly. The little seamaid invites all the seamaids to imagine a different life for the land boy. Some cast him as a hero and some as a villain. Each imagining contains information gleaned over many generations about the distant relations that live on the land and their bizarre culture. Nothing gives the little seamaid so much pleasure as to hear about the world above the sea. She makes her old grandmothers and aunties tell her all they know of the ships and of the towns, of the shells they call houses, and the animals that work. To her it seems most wondrous to hear about this world above and everything that is in it. She struggles to grasp the harshness of the seasons and the distances between landmasses that can only be crossed aboard objects. Music is a concept that makes her brain ache. Because their stories have such a powerful effect upon the little seamaid, the other seamaids begin to exaggerate and expound upon spaces and happenings they could never have seen. The land people, they say, eat each other in the winter and are regurgitated as children again when the ice melts. They only make love with their siblings and never with all the other marvels of their species. Their children are helpless at birth and have to feed off the bodies of their mothers. They worship a creature (or in some cases creatures) that they cannot see or hear or touch. They use boxes with wheels to moves their bodies because their legs do not flow through the air as smoothly as a tail flows in water.
“When you are just a bit bigger,” the grandmothers and aunties promise, “you can swim to the surface and sit on the rocks in the moonlight, while the great ships are sailing by, and then you will see the forests and towns for yourself.”
MANY NIGHTS THE LITTLE SEAMAID looked up through the dark blue water, and watched the shadows of fish as they splashed about with their fins and tails. She saw the faint shimmer of stars move, glowing and spraying light for a few feet below the surface before being swallowed by the dark. At times she saw a whale swim overhead or a ship full of human beings, none of whom ever imagined that a seamaid stood beneath them, holding out her white hands towards the keel of their ship.
Indeed it was difficult to wait to see the world. The seamaids sent each other up with a mixture of apprehension, excitement and dreaminess. Each seamaid returned with a different story. Because of the depth of their kingdom there were many different points at which they could break through to the air and open their wide eyes. One of the group could hardly speak she was so moved at her return. She said that the stars and the moonlight were unbearably lovely in the soft wet air. The loveliest thing, she said, was to lie in the moonlight, on an island, in the quiet sea, near the coast, and to gaze at lights twinkling where people lived. Because she could not go near to those wonderful lights, she longed for them as if each one were another heartbeat in her pale chest.
Another seamaid rose to the surface as the sun was setting, and this, she said, was frightening. The whole sky looked like gold, while violet and rose-colored clouds, which she could not describe, floated over her; and, still more rapidly than the clouds, flew a large flock of wild swans towards the setting sun, looking like a long white veil across the sea. She swam towards the sun, thinking it a being; it sunk into the waves, and when she swam down it was gone.
The third seamaid was bolder, and she swam up a broad river that emptied itself into the sea. On the banks she saw hills covered with green vines and flowers that opened and closed with the day, and castles surrounded by stone walls to keep out the poor people from amid the powerful trees of the forest; she heard larks and pigeons and all sorts of birds singing, and the rays of the sun were so powerful that her eyes ached, and she was obliged often to dive under the water to cool her burning face. She took a great risk swimming into a narrow creek where she found a troop of little human children, quite naked, sporting about in the water. They kicked and splashed and laughed and turned as they stood upright on the earth, moving as if they never imagined any current pulling on their little limbs. She wanted to play with them, but when she flipped her tail and called to them they screamed and fled in a great fright; and then a little black animal came to the water; it was a dog but she did not know that, for she had never before seen one. This animal barked and snapped the air and growled at her so terribly that she became terrified and fled back to the open sea. But, she said, narrating to her sisters, she would never forget the beautiful forest, the solidness of trees, and the pretty little children who could walk on land or swim in the water, although they had no tails.
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 the 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.