Gift of the Sea

For Lucy Hounsom
Who shares my love of fairy tales

She had no name, for sound doesn’t carry underwater. The merpeople spoke through gesture and expression. Beneath the waves, she was a touch to the shoulder with three fingers. On the shore, she didn’t know what she was called for none of the others ventured up here to speak her. But she loved to sit and feel the air crinkle her skin. Her hair, instead of billowing out behind her, hung heavy from her head, tugging at her scalp. It felt solid.

She sat teasing out the tangles with the comb of her clan. She loved to feel it go from wet and clumped together, to dry and blowing in the breeze. The air was so much lighter against her skin than the deep, green waters.

She placed the comb next to her, closed her eyes and lay back on the rock. Sound carried clear and sharp to her, almost painfully so after the muffled nature of the deep. She smiled, relaxed, and imagined what it would be like if she could feel this same heat beneath the water.

The surf crashing over her legs woke her. She sat up, startled and stared. Not fins. Legs. She reached for her comb, already knowing that it wouldn’t be there, but reaching for it anyway in the hope that it might. Her fingers touched bare rock.

A man was sitting on the sand beside her. His hair was red and curly, his jaw strong. He was not unhandsome, but the sight of him struck cold fear into her heart nonetheless.

The man examined the comb he held in his hand. ‘This is a pretty little thing.’ He raised his eyes to look at her. ‘And so are you. What’s your name?’ She stared at him, not wanting him to tell him; names had power. He shrugged. ‘I’ll call you Merouda, for you’re surely a gift from the sea. Come home with me. You can be my wife.’ He grinned. ‘All my neighbours will be so jealous I netted myself such a beauty.’

Merouda stood up; she had no choice. The man held her comb, so he had her obedience. She cursed her luck - not only at being discovered, but by being discovered by one with second sight who could see her. Anyone else would have passed her by without noticing in ignorance.

He led her up the cliff path and beyond the small fishing village that lay at the top. She followed him through some meadows and, despite her disgust at this twist of fate, she found herself laughing to see all the flowers straining towards the sun and bobbing their heads in the breeze.

She found him watching her, his face glowing to see her delight. ‘I will not be a cruel husband,’ he said gently, stroking her hand. ‘I will try to please you.’

As they walked, he talked. She learned his name was Jory, that he was a farmer. Whenever he could, he would go fishing. He rarely caught anything but nevertheless he enjoyed the peace of the sea, away from the bleating of sheep.

Jory made her wait outside his little cottage while he went in, and only later did she realise that he had gone to hide the comb. When he led her inside, she found his home was not unpleasant. It was light and airy, for which she was grateful in this summer heat. He served her lamb stew and bread for dinner. It sat heavily in her stomach which was more used to kelp.

After dinner he asked, ‘So, what would please you?’ She mimed combing her hair. He laughed and wagged his finger. ‘Oh no. You’ll not be getting that back, my girl. How about this instead?’ He pulled out a fiddle and started to play. Merouda watched, entranced, as the bow slid over the strings. The sound was like nothing she’d ever heard. She clapped and laughed, and he seemed pleased by her own pleasure.

Eventually, they went to bed and, although he curled up beside her, he did not try to touch or embrace her. This pleased her more than anything else that day.

The next morning, as he started to rise, she caught his arm and said, ‘Today you may regret your actions.’

‘So you can talk!’ he cried triumphantly. But no matter how much he pressed her for the rest of the day, she did not utter a word. Only the next morning did she say to him once again, ‘Today you may regret your actions.’

Time passed, and Merouda learned many things, such as how to cook, to clean, to spin, and even to take care of newborn lambs. The pleasantly airy house became bitingly cold in winter, but she learned how to knit large blankets.

Despite his act of theft which had bound them together, Jory was not unkind to her. He did not force himself on her that first night, or for many nights afterwards. He waited until she let him stroke his fingers higher up her thigh. She enjoyed the new sensations this body brought her, but only if she closed her eyes and imagined that everything was happening in the cool quiet of the sea.

Every morning, she would speak those same six words to him: ‘Today you may regret your actions.’ At first he shook his head at her, then he ignored her until he barely heard her at all, for it had become such a part of his routine. And each day, she searched his small house for the hidden comb, but she never found it.

In time, she bore him children: a boy named Kit, and twin girls, named Rosemary and Violet for her favourite flowers. Merouda doted on all of them, but while the girls retained their innocence, their brother became sullen and argumentative. Father and son would fight like cat and dog, neither of them winning and each of them coming away with their soul a little more tarnished than before.

Jory’s flocks flourished and he was able to take on more shepherds to help him. He liked the way the helpers all gazed in wonder when his sea-wife brought him bread and ale. She looked at none of them and had eyes only for him.

One summer’s morning, Jory woke and decided he would indulge in a day of fishing. He rose and his wife said, ‘Today you will regret your actions.’ He paid her no mind, barely hearing what she said.

The sea was a beautiful turquoise as he set out in his boat. He cast his line and laid back, relishing the sun on his face. He was just dozing off when his boat rocked violently. Alarmed, he sat up, but the sea was calm and flat. The boat rocked again and he gripped onto the sides, suddenly afraid. Then the boat was lifted right out of the sea. Jory was tipped into the dark water, his scream coming out as frantic bubbles as strong hands gripped him around the waist.

When they had eaten their lunch, Merouda told her children to put on their shoes; they were going to meet their father. Her daughters obeyed, her son too but with a glaring look at his mother. Merouda went to the wall and slid away a loose stone. She reached inside and pulled out a glittering comb. A shudder of pleasure ran through her.

She led her children down to the seashore. Kit’s eyes widened as they saw a slumped form, bright red blood colouring the sand. ‘Father!’ he cried out, running ahead.

Merouda approached and looked down at the shivering Jory, who lay with his head cradled in Kit’s lap. Softly, almost sadly, she said, ‘I gave you the opportunity each morning to repent your actions. I told you that you may be sorry, if you wished, but you never to be. Today, I told you that your reckoning was coming, that you would be sorry, and now you are.’

Jory opened his mouth but only pink seawater flooded out. His body spasmed, his face screwing up in pain, then he lay still. Only Kit shed tears for his father; his mother stood silent and his sisters were already staring at the ocean, where a group of half-submerged figures were visible in the distance.

‘It is time to go,’ the mermaid said gently. ‘Are you coming, Kit?’ He looked up, confused and she pointed to the sea. One of the distant figures waved.

‘You’re just going to leave him? After he looked after you so well?’ His face twisted up, tasting the bitter lie of his words but not taking them back.

‘We will be waiting, if you change your mind,’ she said gently. Then she led her daughters into the sparkling sea which rushed up to welcome them.

Gift of the Sea

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