The creature made somersaults and turned about in various directions. Some men waded into the water to seize her, but she moved beyond their reach. Some boys threw stones at her, one of which struck her in the back. A few days afterwards, this strange creature was found dead at Cuile, Nunton, nearly two miles away.
The upper portion of the creature was about the size of a well-fed child of three or four years of age, with an abnormally developed breast. The hair was long, dark, and glossy, while the skin was white, soft, and tender. The lower part of the body was like a salmon, but without scales. Crowds of people, some from long distances, came to see this strange animal, and all were unanimous in the opinion that they had gazed on the mermaid at last.
Mr. Duncan Shaw, factor for Clanranald, baron-bailie and sheriff of the district, ordered a coffin and shroud to be made for the mermaid. This was done, and the body was buried in the presence of many people, a short distance above the shore where it was found. There are persons still living who saw and touched this curious creature, and who give graphic descriptions of its appearance.
A SEAL WOMAN OR MAIDEN OF THE SEA FROM IRELAND
This tale is set in a specific location, names a human protagonist, and connects to local history, so it is no surprise that folklorists have classified it not as a folktale, but as a legend—a migratory one that has been circulating in Iceland, the Scottish Highlands, the Orkney and Shetland Islands, Sweden, Denmark, and especially Ireland, where it is very popular.1 The tale is also reminiscent of folktales about the swan maiden, another animal bride with whom the seal woman shares the ability to shape-shift; in both cases, a man domesticates them by thwarting their ability to move across species, but eventually they escape.
While the version included here identifies the “supernatural” wife as a seal woman, in Ireland she is most often referred to as maighdean mhara (“maiden of the sea”), or mermaid. This maiden is presented from the start as possessing special powers, but she is in no position to pose conditions for her marriage with Tom Moore: he has her hood, and this makes her his captive.2 Like the mermaid of Kessock, this seal woman is a good wife and mother. When she retrieves her hood, however, the sea calls her back, in the form of her brother’s loud seal roar. In some versions, she drowns her husband and children in order to take them with her; in this version, she leaves behind a well-kept house and kisses her children good-bye.
The message of this interspecies encounter seems to be that marrying an outsider can work, but only temporarily. However, the children and their descendants maintain a connection to their mother, which is either marked on the body—webbed fingers and toes—or, in other versions, signaled by special swimming or fishing abilities. These markers also function as a warning to fishermen not to hunt seals.
Tom Moore and the Seal Woman1
In the village of Kilshanig, two miles north-east of Castlegregory, there lived at one time a fine, brave young man named Tom Moore, a good dancer and singer. ’Tis often he was heard singing among the cliffs and in the fields of a night.
Tom’s father and mother died and he was alone in the house and in need of a wife. One morning early, when he was at work near the strand, he saw the finest woman ever seen in that part of the kingdom, sitting on a rock, fast asleep. The tide was gone from the rocks then, and Tom was curious to know who was she or what brought her, so he walked toward the rock.
“Wake up!” cried Tom to the woman; “if the tide comes ’twill drown you.”
She raised her head and only laughed. Tom left her there, but as he was going he turned every minute to look at the woman. When he came back he caught the spade, but couldn’t work; he had to look at the beautiful woman on the rock. At last the tide swept over the rock. He threw the spade down and away to the strand with him, but she slipped into the sea and he saw no more of her that time.
Tom spent the day cursing himself for not taking the woman from the rock when it was God that sent her to him. He couldn’t work out the day. He went home.
Tom could not sleep a wink all that night. He was up early next morning and went to the rock. The woman was there. He called to her.
No answer. He went up to the rock. “You may as well come home with me now,” said Tom. Not a word from the woman. Tom took the hood from her head and said, “I’ll have this!”
The moment he did that she cried: “Give back my hood, Tom Moore!”
“Indeed I will not, for ’twas God sent you to me, and now that you have speech I’m well satisfied!” And taking her by the arm he led her to the house. The woman cooked breakfast, and they sat down together to eat it.
“Now,” said Tom, “in the name of God you and I’ll go to the priest and get married, for the neighbours around here are very watchful; they’d be talking.” So after breakfast they went to the priest, and Tom asked him to marry them.
“Where did you get the wife?” asked the priest.
Tom told the whole story. When the priest saw Tom was so anxious to marry he charged £5, and Tom paid the money. He took the wife home with him, and she was good a woman as ever went into a man’s house. She lived with Tom seven years, and had three sons and two daughters.
One day Tom was ploughing, and some part of the plough rigging broke. He thought there were bolts on the loft at home, so he climbed up to get them. He threw down bags and ropes while he was looking for the bolts, and what should he throw down but the hood which he took from the wife seven years before. She saw it the moment it fell, picked it up, and hid it. At that time people heard a great seal roaring out in the sea.
“Ah,” said Tom’s wife, “that’s my brother looking for me.”
Some men who were hunting killed three seals that day. All the women of the village ran down to the strand to look at the seals, and Tom’s wife with others. She began to moan, and going up to the dead seals she spoke some words to each and then cried out, “Oh, the murder!”
When they saw her crying the men said: “We’ll have nothing more to do with these seals.” So they dug a great hole, and the three seals were put into it and covered. But some thought in the night: “’Tis a great shame to bury those seals, after all the trouble in taking them.” Those men went with shovels and dug up the earth, but found no trace of the seals.
All this time the big seal in the sea was roaring. Next day when Tom was at work his wife swept the house, put everything in order, washed the children and combed their hair; then, taking them one by one, she kissed each. She went next to the rock, and, putting the hood on her head, gave a plunge. That moment the big seal rose and roared so that people ten miles away could hear him.
Tom’s wife went away with the seal swimming in the sea. All the five children that she left had webs between their fingers and toes, half-way to the tips.
The descendants of Tom Moore and the seal woman are living near Castlegregory to this day, and the webs are not gone yet from between their fingers and toes, though decreasing with each generation.
DANGEROUS MERMAIDS IN TWO CHILD BALLADS
Francis James Child (1825–1896) published The English and Scottish Popular Ballads from 1882 to 1898. As narrative poems that are often episodic and filled with repetition or refrains, ballads move across media and cultures, straddling orality and print as well as folklore and literature. In these two popular ballads, “Clark Colven” and “The Mermaid,”1 we encounter the mermaid as a femme fatale who brings doom to men. This is not surprising in a ballad, a poetic form that often features themes of loss and violent death, and that in its repetitive structure often figures the lure of adventure as bewitchment.
These ballads, which continue to circulate in contemporary folk performances and recordings, epitomize the association of mermaids with sex and death; however, they also raise questions of the men’s accountability, bearing in mind that in early modern England “mermaid” meant “prostitute.” In the case of “Clark Colven,” the man is warned to stay fait
hful, but he is inconstant, betraying his land wife and the mermaid both.2 In contrast, in “The Mermaid,” the men are simply unfortunate. Just seeing the beauty at sea who holds a comb and mirror in her hand is enough to signal to the sailors that their ship will sink and they won’t return to their families. Several versions of this ballad begin with the captain and sailors setting sail on a Friday, which is already bad luck in many belief traditions.
Clark Colven, Child 42A1
Clark Colven and his gay ladie,
As they walked to yon garden green,
A belt about her middle gimp,
Which cost Clark Colven crowns fifteen:
‘O hearken weel now, my good lord,
O hearken weel to what I say;
When ye gang to the wall o Stream,
O gang nae neer the well-fared may.’
‘O haud your tongue, my gay ladie,
Tak nae sic care o me;
For I nae saw a fair woman
I like so well as thee.’
He mounted on his berry-brown steed,
And merry, merry rade he on,
Till he came to the wall o Stream,
And there he saw the mermaiden.
‘Ye wash, ye wash, ye bonny may,
And ay’s ye wash your sark o silk:’
‘It’s a’ for you, ye gentle knight,
My skin is whiter than the milk.’
He’s taen her by the milk-white hand,
He’s taen her by the sleeve sae green,
And he’s forgotten his gay ladie,
And away with the fair maiden.
* * *
* * * * *
‘Ohon, alas!’ says Clark Colven,
‘And aye sae sair’s I mean my head!’
And merrily leugh the mermaiden,
‘O win on till you be dead.
‘But out ye tak your little pen-knife,
And frae my sark ye shear a gare;
Row that about your lovely head,
And the pain ye’ll never feel nae mair.’
Out he has taen his little pen-knife,
And frae her sark he’s shorn a gare,
Rowed that about his lovely head,
But the pain increased mair and mair.
‘Ohon, alas!’ says Clark Colven,
‘An aye sae sair’s I mean my head!’
And merrily laughd the mermaiden,
‘It will ay be war till ye be dead.’
Then out he drew his trusty blade,
And thought wi it to be her dead,
But she’s become a fish again,
And merrily sprang into the fleed.
He’s mounted on his berry-brown steed,
And dowy, dowy rade he home,
And heavily, heavily lighted down
When to his ladie’s bower-door he came.
‘Oh, mither, mither, mak my bed,
And, gentle ladie, lay me down;
Oh, brither, brither, unbend my bow,
’T will never be bent by me again.’
His mither she has made his bed,
His gentle ladie laid him down,
His brither he has unbent his bow,
’T was never bent by him again.
The Mermaid, Child 289B1
One Friday morn when we set sail,
Not very far from land,
We there did espy a fair pretty maid
With a comb and a glass in her hand, her
hand, her hand,
With a comb and a glass in her hand.
While the raging seas did roar,
And the stormy winds did blow,
While we jolly sailor-boys were up into
the top,
And the land-lubbers lying down below,
below, below,
And the land-lubbers lying down below.
Then up starts the captain of our gallant ship,
And a brave young man was he:
‘I’ve a wife and a child in fair Bristol town,
But a widow I fear she will be.’
For the raging seas, etc.
Then up starts the mate of our gallant ship,
And a bold young man was he:
‘Oh! I have a wife in fair Portsmouth town,
But a widow I fear she will be.’
For the raging seas, etc.
Then up starts the cook of our gallant ship,
And a gruff old soul was he:
‘Oh! I have a wife in fair Plymouth town,
But a widow I fear she will be.’
And then up spoke the little cabin-boy,
And a pretty little boy was he;
‘Oh! I am more grievd for my daddy and my mammy
Than you for your wives all three.’
Then three times round went our gallant ship,
And three times round went she;
For the want of a life-boat they all went down,
And she sank to the bottom of the sea.
A BAVARIAN FRESHWATER MERMAN
This tale, taken from Franz Xaver von Schönwerth’s (1810–1886) archive of Bavarian stories, has the markings of legend. No location is specified for the village and lake in which the story takes place, but the final line inserts the story’s events in history by offering them as an explanation for the present state of things in the area.1
The lake’s water seems to have magical qualities at first, attracting young women to it with the promise of beauty enhancement. But this works only for the local maidens who are already beautiful and who, unbeknownst to all, have established ties with the lake’s powerful merman. We are not told of these ties, or their possible kinship, only of its consequences. The bridegrooms in Schönwerth’s legend discover their brides’ “fish scales” on the wedding night, and the social verdict is death by fire. The “gatelike” quality of the merman’s jaw in the story turns the title’s image of captivity into the possibility of renewed life in the lake’s waters for the young women who already have fish scales. But the all-human girls’ verdict is unequivocal: no makeover is worth becoming merfolk.
In the Jaws of the Merman1
There was once a village near a large body of water, and many beautiful girls lived there. The more often they swam in the lake, the more lovely they became. Everyone adored them. Girls living in other places heard about them. They came in from many different regions to swim there. But since many were ugly and couldn’t stay underwater as long as the girls in the village, they did not become prettier. In fact, many of them drowned.
Girls stopped traveling there, but suitors from all four points of the compass came courting. All the girls in the village were married on one day. The morning after, there was an enormous uproar. Everyone was running, and the grooms had grabbed their wives by the hair and were pushing and shoving them to the point of exhaustion, and then they raced away.
It turned out that there was something not quite right with the girls—they had fish scales. A judge appeared on the scene with his officials, took a look at the brides, and ordered all of them to be burned at the stake at once. As the flames were licking the stake, tall waves rose up and washed into the village, and a huge head emerged from the waters. It spewed water like a whale and put out the fire. The brides all walked across an arc of water as if it were a bridge leading from the woodpile back to the water and then into the gatelike jaws of the merman. Since that time girls no longer swim in that lake.
A FRESHWATER MERMAID IN GRIMMS’ FAIRY TALES
German philologists and librarians Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm are best known for their collection Children’s and Household Tales, often retitled Grimms’ Fairy Tales, of which they publ
ished seven different editions during their lifetimes. While merfolk do not appear in these stories, water sprites or nixies do appear in two, “The Water Nixie” and “The Nixie in the Pond.”1
In the first tale, which we have not included, the nixie captures two children, a brother and sister who fell into the water while playing near a well, and puts them to work. In the second, the nixie promises a miller renewed prosperity in exchange for “what has just been born” in his house, which turns out to be the man’s son. In both tales, humans experience only temporary captivity. The children in “The Water Nixie” simply run away, taking advantage of the nixie’s absence—she goes to church! They escape in a typical “magical flight” sequence, in which the little girl throws her brush, comb, and mirror behind her, and they transform into mountains that slow the nixie’s pursuit and eventually enable the children’s escape. In “The Nixie in the Pond,” the miller’s son is captured as an already married adult, and his loving wife is the one to save him, with the help of an old woman’s gifts to lure the nixie. The man literally flies or jumps eagerly to rejoin the human world and marriage, but the husband and wife undergo further trials before their final happy reunion, thematizing perhaps how difficult it is to overcome the problem of his other life underwater. Memory and music, often associated with water beings, play a role in reuniting them.
The Nixie in the Pond1
Once upon a time there was a miller who led a pleasant life with his wife. They had money and property, and their prosperity increased from year to year. Calamity, however, can strike overnight. Just as their wealth had increased rapidly, it also began to decrease each year until the miller could hardly call the mill that he inhabited his own. His problems weighed heavily on him, and when he lay down in bed after working all day, he could not rest. Instead he tossed and turned and worried himself sick. One morning he got up before daybreak, went outside into the open air, and hoped that this would ease his heart. As he walked over the dam of the mill the first rays of the sun burst forth, and he heard a rushing sound in the pond. When he turned around, he caught sight of a beautiful woman, who was rising slowly out of the water. Her long hair, which she clasped by her tender hands over her shoulders, flowed down both sides and covered her white body. He realized that this was the nixie of the millpond and became so frightened that he did not know whether to go or stay. But the nixie raised her soft voice, called him by his name, and asked him why he was so sad. At first the miller was distrustful, but when he heard her speak in such a friendly way, he summoned his courage and told her that he had formerly lived in happiness and wealth but was now so poor that he did not know what to do.
The Penguin Book of Mermaids Page 6