The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  With a sigh, Gretel decided she might as well experience what little the empty island had to offer and partake of the sea-bathing. She turned and opened the door on the seaward side. She shuffled out and sat on the top step. To either side, panels protruded so that she could not see left or right, and no one could see the area of water into which the steps would lower her. The view directly out across the ocean was quite striking. The Arabella could be made out anchored at some distance, but other than that there was only an expanse of shimmering teal blue water, fading into pale blue sky at the horizon. Sunlight danced and sparkled on the gently ruffled surface. Somewhere high above, gulls called, their cries drifting away in a manner that was both plaintive and faintly soothing. Soft waves lapped at the bottom stair of Gretel’s conveyance. She reached down and dipped a toe into the water. For all the heat of the day, it was shockingly cold. This was a disappointment, as Gretel always preferred her baths as hot as possible. However, she was so overheated by now that the coolness, and the refreshment it promised, was in fact quite appealing. Cautiously, she lowered herself down until she was seated on the bottommost step. She gasped as the water washed over her body, but held her nerve and her position, sighing as the invigorating salt water flowed over her. She settled so that she was submerged up to her waist, which felt both daring and yet reasonably safe. She had never learned to swim, and now was not the time to try. There was no necessity, she decided, to cast herself free of the safety of the bathing machine; here on the step, semi-immersed, she could surely enjoy all the benefits the sea had to offer without imperiling herself. She wriggled forward a little, so that she could comfortably lean back against the higher steps. Her eyes closed, her face shaded by the overhang of the roof, she felt blissfully relaxed.

  In such a state she was able to consider the facts in a fresh light. Frenchie was still missing, his disappearance unexplained. Hoffman was hiding something. In this quiet moment, Gretel brought to mind the curious rhyme the sea sprite had given her as a puzzle. She had half hoped to encounter the little creature again. It seemed to her it was well placed to witness the goings-on aboard ship; perhaps it could shed some light on the case. Aside from this probability, something recent seemed to connect to it to other salient facts, though Gretel could not quite fathom how. She turned the words over in her mind, muttering them as she did so.

  “‘Look once, look twice, look again at the tooth”—indeed, I should not like to look too closely at the sprite’s own teeth. But it could not have been referring to itself, surely? No, another tooth, another mouth. “Ah-ha! I have it!” she cried, opening her eyes and sitting up a little. That smile, she had known there was something familiar about it—the crooked teeth. Captain Tobias Ziegler he might be now, but that man was and always would be none other than the Snaggle-Toothed Pirate! So famous that his likeness had been rendered in a thousand pamphlets and notices. How could it have taken her so long to see it? Granted, it had been a few years since his exploits were last reported, but even so, anyone in the southern half of Germany would have heard of him. The Mediterranean had been his favorite hunting ground, so that interest in his daring deeds was stronger there than in the north. Gretel reasoned that this could be the reason none of her fellow passengers had apparently recognized him. And the Arabella’s former purpose was to sail the high seas in search of ships to plunder. That explained the nature of most of the crew. But not all of them. Not Hoffman. What was it the captain said? The reason he hired him . . . Gretel searched her mind for it. There was something he had brought with him that Ziegler could not do without. What, though? In an attempt to jog her memory, Gretel recited aloud the sea sprite’s little rhyme.

  “‘First the coat, then the badge . . . . dum de dum de something-or-other . . . for the truth.’ The coat? His pirate’s booty taken from a conquered adversary, perhaps. The badge? A badge of honor? Of captaincy? That would fit. Hoffman is a professional sailor of some reputation. A legitimate reputation. Something a pirate would need to make the transformation from buccaneer to master of a cruise ship, one might imagine.”

  Pleased with her own insight, Gretel closed her eyes and settled into the water once again. She stifled a yawn. Several interrupted nights and patchy access to meals had taken their toll. Why should she not enjoy a little relaxation? As her body half floated, lifted and lowered by the ebb and flow of the waves, her mind too floated, further and further, until all thoughts became blurred and sounds muted, and sleep claimed her.

  On waking, she had difficulty making sense of her situation. Her head felt hot, but the rest of her felt nothing at all. She was benumbed. Had she become a bodiless head somehow? What had happened to her, and where on God’s earth was she? She attempted to sit up, but her limbs were reluctant to cooperate in their heavy, lifeless state. As she blinked sleep from her eyes, she recalled that she had fallen into slumber while sitting upon the steps of her bathing machine. How long ago must that have been? She was indeed, still on the steps, a point brought home to her with cruel insistence by the one sensation of which she was aware—that of the wooden steps digging into her back. The level of the water had risen so that she was now submerged up to her neck. Fighting mounting panic, she attempted to haul herself up the steps. Her costume had doubled in weight, now that it was saturated, and her chilled arms and legs moved only sluggishly and clumsily despite what she considered Herculean effort. She gasped in horror as she caught sight of her puffy, wrinkled fingers and palms. Once she had dragged herself out of the water and into the bathing machine proper, she could see that her feet were similarly transformed.

  “How utterly revolting!” she told herself, her voice echoing flatly around the cramped space. She squinted out of the rear window. The sun had dropped to the inland horizon; the light was flat and dull. All the other bathing carriages had been returned to their original positions at the top of the beach, well above the waterline. There was not a living soul to be seen. No Hoffman. No Birgit et al. Not even the chunky cob and its master. No one. She had been abandoned. All of a sudden, the surf surged forward and upward. Gretel cried out as an unnervingly strong wave rushed into the wooden hut. As there was no way for it to get out, the level rose with alarming speed, so that even standing up she was doused to her bosom. As the wave receded, she cursed at the realization that all her clothes were now soaked, as the shelf on which she had so carefully placed them had been covered by the brief inundation. In any case, there was too much water and too little room for maneuver to allow her to change back into her petticoats and day dress. The awful truth presented itself to her, ugly side up. The tide was coming in. The level of the water inside the bathing machine was rising. If it was not to be all up for Gretel (yes, that Gretel) of Gesternstadt, she had to get out. Soon. And the only way out was down the steps and into the sea. It was hard to judge precisely how deep the water was that now surrounded the little wheeled hut, but going on the height of the floor, the size of the wheels, and the amount of water currently inside, the conclusion she came to was that she would be out of her depth. Which would mean swimming. Except that she could not.

  How had she come to be in this predicament? It made no sense. All the other bathing machines were empty. The group from the Arabella gone. What would have made them leave her behind? The neat line the wooden carriages now presented did not suggest any haste or emergency. Why, then, had they not woken her and taken her with them?

  Gretel had no answers for these questions. The only thing she was certain of was that Hoffman lay behind her situation. She had always suspected the man had something to hide. At last she had the motive that had driven him to play escort for the excursion. He had wanted to be rid of her. Her questions had evidently spooked him. He must have planned to maroon her in this way, and had clearly fabricated some story that convinced the rest of the party that she was no longer in her bathing machine when they left.

  Fury began to form a cold, hard knot in Gretel’s stomach. It was kept company by the colder, harder pain of indige
stion, which reminded her that she had had nothing to eat or drink for several hours. With these twin goads lending her courage, she started her descent of the steps. She would not just sit about to meet a soggy end. She would walk on the seabed if necessary, scramble and claw among the seaweed and shells, hitch a ride on a passing turtle if she had to, but one way or another she would get out of her humiliating situation, save her own water-wrinkled skin, and return to the Arabella to deal with the murderous quartermaster.

  There was a different coldness to the water now. Gone was the refreshing quality that had been so pleasant. Instead the water felt as if it might chill her to the very bone, or even stop her heart. Every fiber of her being cried out for her to stop, go back, stay out of those dark depths. But she knew she had no choice; she must go on. On tiptoe upon the bottom step the water was up to her chins. She leaned against the side panel, planning to use it to pull herself around and up the other side. For a moment she hesitated, her nerve threatening to fail her. She thought of Hans. If she didn’t make it back, would he be fated to stay forever aboard the Arabella, working his endless passage as ship’s cook, with only the mer-hund to call friend? What would become of her dear home, left to house nothing but cobwebs and dust? Would Ferdinand mourn her passing, or would he simply give one of his maddeningly handsome, rueful smiles, and go on with his life without her?

  “Not if I can help it!” she roared, taking a huge breath, and plunging into the water. Beneath the surface all was silence, save for the pounding of her own heartbeat against her eardrums. When she stepped off the last stair and her feet met the sandy seabed, the water covered her entirely. It was too dark and swirly to see anything helpful, so Gretel closed her eyes and groped her way along, scratching at the wet wood of the side panels, taking enormous, slow, bouncing strides. It was more than a little terrifying having to force herself to go farther into the sea, but there was no option. She had to get free of the bathing carriage before she could head for the shore again. She could only hope that she had sufficient breath and strength and time to make the journey, for she knew she would not be able to propel herself to the surface from such a depth. She held on to her rage at Hoffman to drive her forward.

  At one point something slimy and sinuous slithered around her ankle and then was gone. She told herself it was much too cold for snakes, and pressed on. She became aware of pressure building up inside her, and of a faintness that must come from using up most of the workable air in her lungs. She must not give way to panic. At last her fingers curled around the edge of the panel. She dragged herself around it, galvanized by the thought of how near freedom was. The tide must have been beginning to turn, for it was harder to make progress in the direction of land now. She clawed and scrabbled, and kicked at the melting sand beneath her feet, and at last she felt her head break through the surface. She gasped, exhaling spent breath and gulping air too soon, so that she took in an equal quantity of water. Coughing and spluttering, thrashing without thought or restraint, she flung herself through the breaking waves and onto the beach. With her last scrap of strength she crawled out of the water, coughing up brine, before collapsing exhausted onto her back. She lay where she fell, eyes shut, entirely done in, but aware of the mounting elation that follows the experience of surviving a brush with death.

  “A pleasant day for a swim, fraulein.”

  The voice was unmistakable. Gretel ground her teeth, just the teeniest, weeniest bit. It wasn’t that she was sorry he was there. She was glad. It wasn’t that she did not want to see him. She did. It wasn’t even that, had he arrived but a few minutes earlier he could have spared her the trouble of her waterlogged walk and helped her effect a less terrifying and considerably drier escape. She was safe, after all. No real harm done. No, none of those factors was the cause of her clenched jaw, deepening frown, and building urge to scream. What it was was that yet again the one man in the whole of Germany (including but not confined to territories off its shores) to whom she dearly wished to present herself in the best and most flattering of lights was witness to her at her absolute worst. On this occasion, she was sporting a garment so vile in its fabric, so unforgiving in its cut, and so revealing in its shape, it was as if it had been designed specifically to highlight every flaw she possessed. Highlight, expose, draw attention to, and generally flaunt. Her sodden hair clung to her head like so much seaweed. Her face had been alternately scorched, poached, and sand-scrubbed to a shining redness she suspected might be visible for several miles in any direction. She had not the aid of perfume nor powder, but instead the aroma of shellfish, and a dusting of sand.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Good afternoon to you, General von Ferdinand,” she said. “A pleasant day to be out riding, too,” she added, taking in the magnificent horse he was mounted on. She had never seen such a beautiful animal. It was ebony black, with a proud bearing and arched neck. Its mane was long and flowing, with an attractive wave to it.

  “Isn’t he splendid? He is a Frisian, lent to me for the day. I shan’t want to return him to his owner,” he said, patting the horse’s velvety neck.

  Gretel knew things had reached a Bad State of Affairs when she was being outshone by a horse. Even if it was a particularly fabulous one. The stallion lowered its head to sniff her curiously. With as much dignity as she could muster, Gretel scrambled to her feet.

  “It appears I have been left behind,” she told Ferdinand.

  “An astonishing oversight on someone’s part.”

  “I think not.”

  “You suspect a deliberate act?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  Ferdinand nodded slowly, taking in the perilous position of the bathing machine and the sorry condition of its recent occupant. “It would seem that, once again, Fraulein Gretel, your talent for identifying a villain has led you into danger.”

  “Happily, my talent for survival is also well developed. However, I find myself ill-clad, ill-shod, and ill-disposed to effect my return to the Arabella. Might I prevail upon you to assist me?”

  “It would be my honor,” he said, slipping down from the horse. He undid his burgundy cape with the gold silk lining and wrapped it around Gretel’s chilly shoulders before assisting her ascent into the saddle. He sprang up to sit behind her, taking the reins in one hand, his other arm holding her tightly to him.

  It was not the most comfortable of perches, and Gretel was painfully aware of how ghastly her hair looked and how stout her legs appeared where they protruded from beneath the cape, but she would not, at that moment, as they galloped across the sands with Ferdinand clasping her close, and the fine horse carrying them away to safety, have wished herself anywhere else on earth.

  Some time later, safely back aboard the ship, her hair dried and tamed, her clothes changed, herself restored to some manner of normality, Gretel shared a glass of wine on deck with Ferdinand. Her arrival had caused confusion. She had been greeted by her fellow salt-water bathers with a disconcerting lack of concern. Questioning revealed that they had understood her to have left her bathing machine moments after they had disappeared into their own, having decided against using it. Herr Hoffman had informed them that she had instead chosen to explore the island, no doubt looking for evidence of mermaids, or clues as to Frenchie’s whereabouts. Indeed, they had waited some time at the tender for her to appear at the agreed hour, and some had grown quite infuriated that she had not kept the rendezvous. When Dr. Becker reached them, they felt certain that he must have seen her while searching for seabirds, but he claimed not to have. It was then that Herr Hoffman decided they could wait no longer or they might miss the tide. He had assured them a smaller rowing boat would be sent back with able men to search for her as soon as was possible.

  The quartermaster had shown an impressive nimbleness of mind. Gretel surmised he must have had approximately half an hour from the time he identified her in the tender Ferdinand used to ferry her to the Arabella to the moment she was brought aboard and stood toe-to-toe wit
h him. Calculating that he would have needed a full two minutes to recover from the shock of seeing her alive, followed by another eight of barely suppressed panic wherein he quite possibly believed he was on the point of being exposed as a would-be assassin, that left him no more than twenty minutes to invent a plausible excuse for his actions. He had convincingly feigned both delight and surprise at seeing her, which, given his habitually immobile features, was in itself quite an achievement. He had insisted he was on the point of sending a boat and swift oarsmen back to the island to look for her in the interior, prepared to rouse a search party from the village if necessary. When asked why he had thought she had left the bathing machine, he had maintained that one of the crew who had helped row the tender had been informed by the other crewmember also on the excursion who had been told this was so by the ostler with the draft horse. Since he spoke no German, and they spoke no Danish, confusion and misunderstanding had ensued.

  Someone had suggested it was odd that the bathing carriage had been left in the sea rather than returned to dry land. To this, the quartermaster had responded that it was not his job to oversee the repositioning of an empty hut. His responsibility had been to return the passengers to the Arabella while the tide was favorable.