The Writer and the Mermaid

8/7/2019 The Writer and the Mermaid

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Chapter 1

One day the most beautiful of all the mermaids saw a man

walking alone on a white beach. Something gave her the

impression that that the man was very sad, and so she

became curious and swam closer. The mermaids, of

course, never went close to the beaches. They stayed

away from any place where humans could see them,

knowing full well that the humans were the greatest

enemies of the sea creatures.

However, this day the beautiful mermaid broke her own

rule and ventured outside the place of safety that she

knew so well. She thought that she would do it carefully so

as not to be noticed, but what she did not know was that

there were strong and dangerous currents close to the

beach where the man was walking.

In a moment she was swept away by a power of the sea

that she had never encountered and that she was not

ready for. She struggled with all her might but could not

get out of the current, and within seconds she became

one with the great and mighty waves, tossed to and fro

like a bobbing cork. The last thing she remembered was

being lifted up by a gigantic breaker and seeing the dark

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jagged rocks waiting below - like the hungry fangs of the

great sharks…

She first became aware of the blackness, and then of the

pain. She had never felt so broken in her life. The only

comfort seemed to come from her hair. The rest of her

body was screaming, screaming, screaming. But not her

hair. Her hair felt strangely alive - as though the great God

of the sea and land was breathing on every lock and curl.

It was a feeling that she had never felt before. It was a

feeling that she wanted to hold on to for the rest of herlife. She wanted to capture it, to make it hers, to never

ever let it go. And so, with the last of her strength, she

lifted her right hand and reached for her hair.

As she touched it she touched the life that she was

feeling. It was there, and it seemed to make her brokenhand come alive. In fact, the glow spread from her hand

through her arm and into her whole body. It was no longer

just her hair. It was her entire being that came alive. It

gave her the strength to open her eyes, and as she did so

she looked into the face of the man that had been walking

on the beach.

Her first thought was a strange one. She felt no fear or

bewilderment. Rather, she found herself wondering why

the sadness that had hung over him had disappeared.

There were tears in his eyes, but they were tears of

wonder and compassion, not of crying. He had found her,

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she realised. And he had sat with her, stroking her hair,

hoping that she would wake up.

What was it that she felt? What was this emotion? Was

this the love that she had heard of? If it was, then it was

mightier than what she could ever have imagined. She

knew that some of her own had been lost in the name of

this love. Some were captured by seamen and never seen

again. Others, like her, had wandered from their own

dwelling place and never returned. It was always said that

love did it. That love was a form of human magic. Thatlove, like some evil charm, would captivate and enthral in

the beginning but destroy in the end. That love would

deceive you into thinking that you had crossed over to the

other side, but that it would ultimately make you a

prisoner in a world that you were never created for.

She knew all of this, but in that moment she did not care.

She was under love’s spell. She had drunk the poison and

she wanted more. She wanted to feel not only the

stranger’s hand in her hair. She wanted him to touch her

face, her hands, her arms. She wanted him to embrace

her and hold her. And she wanted to do the same inreturn.

The roaring seas behind her now seemed distant and cold.

She did not want to go back there. She wanted the

stranger to pick her up and take her to his home. She

wanted to become one with him. And she knew what thatmeant. She would have to become like him so that she

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could receive his love and give him hers. She wanted to

tell him this but did not know how. Yet she sensed that he

somehow knew what she was thinking, that he was

reading her mind. Perhaps that is part of the magic, she

thought. It was a thought that calmed her. She tightened

her grip on his hand and closed her eyes, and the

darkness returned.

Chapter 2The stranger did take her to his house. Of course she was

unaware of that. She was much more hurt than what she

had realised, and so she spent many days drifting in and

out of consciousness. The stranger was always there.

Sometimes she was aware of him, other times not. In

those days she never had the same vivid experience of

him that she had had on the jagged rocks. But she

somehow knew that that did not matter. It was meant to

be and it would be again.

She was taught that love is a destroyer and a killer. One

dark night she woke up with those words in her mind. It

was the first moment of complete clarity since her fateful

accident, and in that moment she realised that the words

were true. Love does destroy and kill, she thought, but

that is only half of the story. It also creates. The death is

necessary for the new life. How can you love one thing

unless you have stopped loving something else? And so

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she realised that the fear of love only applies to those who

are left behind. They are the ones who experience the

death and separation. The one who loves does not

experience it, for in the act of loving a new life is formed.

That is why I am dead to my old life and alive to the new,

she thought.

From that point on her recovery was fast. She recovered

as a human, of course. Since the night that she woke up

she knew that that would happen. She had been warned

that love could make you lose your body, but she wasnever told that you would be given a new body in the

process. And so her dream of loving the stranger fully was

no longer just a dream. It became a very real possibility.

He knew what had happened to her, but he never talked

about it. Not because he found it strange, but because he

loved and respected her. He knew where she had comefrom and he felt no need to ever refer to that again. She

was the most glorious creature he had ever come across

and he wanted her as much as she wanted him. When she

was ready to become his wife, he asked her to marry him.

She happily obliged, of course, and so they were married

on a small island just off the coast where she had seenhim the first time.

Chapter 3

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I wish I could say that they lived happily ever after, but

then I would not be telling the whole story. Oh, they were

happy. In fact, they were more happy than anyone I have

ever known in my life. It is just that they were not happy

all of the time.

You see, there is something about the sea that is very

different to the rest of the world. The sea, unlike the earth,

is not stable. It has tides and storms and much of it is dark

and unknown. What the people of the land do not know is

that the sea creatures can only survive by adaptingthemselves to the moods of their world. It is as though

they become one with the spirit of the sea. For instance,

the creatures of the deepest darkness let go off their

sight, for it serves no purpose there. In the same way the

rest of the creatures of the ocean constantly adapt

themselves to its changing moods. This they do byreading the signs, and signs there are many. The sea, in

spite of its volatility, allows itself to be largely predictable

for its inhabitants.

It was a dark and stormy night when it happened the first

time. The man was awoken by a loud clap of thunder andinstinctively reached out for the hand of his new bride. His

wooden house was built against a hill overlooking the

beach where he had picked up her broken body, and so it

was particularly exposed to the sounds of the sea and the

sky. He wished to comfort her, but when he reached to her

side of the bed she was not there.

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The house was not big, and it did not take him long to

establish that she had left. He grabbed his raincoat and

ran out of the house into the drizzle that he knew would

soon become a downpour. He shouted for her, sliding

down the muddy path leading down to the beach, falling

over rocks and bushes. She was nowhere to be found. The

howling winds grew stronger, the sea began to roar and

the raindrops became a blizzard. All night the man

searched for his beloved, but found nothing. It was only

when the morning broke that he noticed her limp body on

the rocks. He ran to her shouting, screaming, praying. Shelooked like she did when he found her the first time.

Broken, bruised, damaged. There was one difference,

though. She was a woman, not a washed up sea-creature.

She was not supposed to be here. It was wrong, wrong,

wrong.

He took her home and cared for her, exactly as he did the

first time. And, like the first time, she recovered. She did

not tell him what had happened and he respected her

enough not to force her. And so peace and happiness

returned to the little house on the hill. Nights were spent

in front of the fireplace. They drank wine, read poetry andloved one another. Truly, they were as happy as any

couple could be.

Until the next storm. When the man woke up he

instinctively knew she would be gone, and she was. This

time he knew where to go. He rushed down to the rocksand was just in time to see her walking into the roaring

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waves. He shouted and screamed, but she did not hear

him. Or perhaps she preferred not to hear him. She simply

kept on walking, like someone in a trance. He ran as fast

as was humanly possible but could not make it to her in

time. As his feet touched the water he saw her disappear

under the waves in front of him. Seconds later he was

there, grasping and feeling under the water, hoping to be

the rescuer once again. This time, however, he also

became a victim of the ocean’s rage. The next morning

there was not one limp body on the rocks, but two. The

both of them had gotten hurt. Badly.

This time the recovery took longer, for the man was too

weak to give his wife the same attention that he had given

her before. But over time they both recovered, and

happiness returned to the little house. There was

something different, though. The man, who had neverbefore been afraid of storms, now dreaded the thought of

another storm. He wanted to pray that it would never rain

again, that the wind would never blow again, but he knew

that such a prayer would be foolish. And so he waited…

The next storm was as fierce as he expected. This timethe man did not sleep. He sat awake all night and was

ready when his wife got up. She did not respond when he

spoke to her. When he tried to restrain her with force a

struggle ensued that carried on all the way down the

mountain. She somehow seemed stronger and more

determined than he had ever seen her, and he quicklyrealised that he did not have the power to stop her. The

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waves took them again, and again they were spewed out

on the rocks. This time the man managed to retain his

consciousness throughout the whole episode, and so

neither him nor his wife got as badly hurt as the previous

time.

The days after the episode were quite days, and it took a

while before the incident was forgotten and the fire was lit

again. Happiness returned soon afterwards, and when it

did it was in such a way that the man felt it had all been a

bad dream and that it would never happen again. But itdid. Again and again. Sometimes he would carry her to the

house, wet and cold. Other times their broken bodies were

found on the rocks by passers-by.

Chapter 4

The man was a writer, and so he had little contact with the

outside world. He preferred the safe seclusion of his

existence and had never allowed anyone in his house

except his beautiful bride. Every six months he would

travel to the city to take a manuscript to his publisher, and

this was the only time that he had any semblance of a

social life. He would stay there for a few days to discuss

the publication and, if necessary, edit the manuscript. At

night he would go for walks and find a restaurant or pub

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where he would eat, have a glass of wine and perhaps talk

to a stranger or two.

It was on such a night that the man met the old fisherman.

He was in his late sixties and had piercing blue eyes, a

leathery skin and grey beard, with the ocean written all

over him. They started talking at the bar, liked each other

immediately and decided to have a meal and share a

bottle of wine. Halfway through their conversation the old

skipper said: “I see the sea in your eyes, but it is covered

in pain. Is there something you want to tell me?” The manhad no inclination to talk about his personal life, but he

thought that the question was perhaps a sign that he

should do so. And so he spent the next hour relating the

story of his bride’s strange behaviour. Of course he did not

say where she had come from, thinking that such

information would be both irrelevant and embarrassing.

He did not need to, for the fisherman was a wise man who

knew the sea. “You married a mermaid”, he said, “and you

know it. What you do not know is that the mermaids are

the sea’s most sensitive creatures. They cannot tolerate

anything that resembles chaos, such as loud noises,abrupt changes or any form of uncertainty. And so they

are the master readers of the sea’s signs. They are the

first to recognise any threat, the first to know when and

where a wind will blow and the first to know where a storm

is developing. Whenever they sense this they gather

themselves together and dive to one of their deep anddark hiding places. There are many of these places in the

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sea and no one except the mermaids knows where they

are or how to get to them. This instinct is so deeply

ingrained in the mermaids that even those who cross over

to our side retain it. When they see the signs, it takes over

and they want to take the dive. However, they no longer

have the ability to do so.”

The man was stunned. “Is there anything I can do?” he

asked. The fisherman’s eyes became sad. He sat quietly,

like someone who had lost a son a very long time ago and,

in the dust of the attic, stumbled unexpectedly on an oldtoy the two of them used to play with. And then he spoke,

gently, yet with authority: “You find them all over the

world. The houses with the graves. They are always close

to the sea and they stand alone, a testimony to the way in

which their former owners chose to live their lives. That is,

until love opened the doors of their abodes.”

He was quite again, and the writer thought that he saw

the glimmer of a tear in the eyes of the fisherman. The

fisherman closed his eyes and for a moment gave the

impression that he was going to pray. But then he

continued: “The very love that opened these doors, andthe doors of their hearts, is the love that led to their

deaths. You see, they all did what you did. They all

thought that they could conquer the spirit of the sea that

was in their beloved. But over the months and the years

the sea took its toll. And so, one by one they were led to

their final journey from which they never returned.”

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The pain was now unmistakeable in the fisherman’s eyes.

“I saw it, one morning - a battered woman making her way

up to a cottage, with the dead body of her husband on the

rocks. Somehow the mermaids always survive, but their

husbands don’t. And so these houses are eternal

testimonies to both the power and destruction of love.”

He paused, and then continued: “The mermaids, of

course, never stay on in the empty houses. They bury

their beloved and then they, too, make a final journey. But

they don’t wash up on the rocks. They simply walk backinto the sea and are never seen or heard of again. It is as

if they find the strength that had evaded them on all those

stormy nights. And so they conquer the waves and return

to where they came from. Nobody knows where they go,

whether they return to their former state or are simply

swallowed by the darkness.”

The writer was shocked: “What a sad, horrible story!!” he

replied. “The woman carrying her dead husband’s body

back to the house. Not to mention the poor mermaid who

ventured from the safety of the sea, who found her legs

because of the love she found, who believed the promiseof the human man! Surely this cannot be!”

The old skipper looked intently at the writer. “You did not

know, and you are excused. But now you know, and you

are not excused. Use your knowledge wisely.”

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The wine was finished, and so was the conversation. It was

obvious to both men. They got up, embraced, and without

a word went their own separate ways.

Chapter 5

The writer made his way back home a few days later. This

time, however, he did so without the sense of dread that

had become his constant companion on the journeys back

from the city. He did not fear the next storm. In fact, he

could not wait for it, for he knew what to do.

It was a mere week later when the winds came and the

thunder erupted. The man got up immediately, as was his

habit, but this time he did not leave the house with his

bride. Once she had departed he closed the door behind

her, said a quite prayer and poured himself a glass of

wine. And then he waited. It was not easy, but he kept

repeating the words of the old skipper in his mind:

Somehow the mermaids always survive… somehow the

mermaids always survive…somehow…

The storm lasted until the early hours of the morning.

When the downpour became a drizzle, and the winds a

breeze, the writer put on his raincoat and rushed out. He

found it strangely exhilarating to run down the mountain

without a struggle. Within moments he made it to the

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rocks, picked up the limp body of his bride and carried her

home, effortlessly. “As he made his way up the mountain

he kissed her hair, and with the taste of the sea in his

mouth he whispered to her: “It’s okay, my love. I can take

care of you. I am fine.” And so he was reminded of the

very first time that he had carried her up the winding path

that led to his house.

It did not take long to put her to bed, to bind up her

wounds and to administer medicine. The man could

concentrate all his efforts on her, for he was not hurt. Infact, he never once thought about himself as he nursed

her back to health. This was a strange but wonderful

experience, and it was made more wonderful by the fact

that she recovered remarkably fast.

The storms still came, with all their power and ferocity,and the man could not help but marvel at their

indifference to the new pattern that was now developing

in the little house. “They are so unconcerned”, he thought,

“and that is why we should never try and influence them.

That is why we should find some other way to outsmart

them.”

Outsmart them he did. One early morning after a

particularly stormy night, as the writer carried his bride

back to the house, kissing her hair and whispering words

of love in her ears, she responded. It was a faint response,

but the words were unmistakeable: “Thank you.” This had

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never happened before, and the man’s eyes were filled

with tears of joy at the sound of those words.

The next time it happened again, and the words were

clearer than before. And so, a few months and many

storms later, it happened one morning that she was

conscious as he picked her up on those jagged rocks. They

talked all the way up the winding path, and for the first

time the writer suspected that she knew what had

happened to her.

Yet, as always, the incident was never mentioned again.

Chapter 6

My story has a happy ending. In fact, it is happier than any

one of the many stories that I have written. I am not

writing from the grave, as you are aware. I am very much

alive, and when I look out my window I do not see a

tombstone but a small boy walking with his mother on a

white beach. There are rocks to the one side of the beach,

but we never go there. In fact, I haven’t been there in

years. The last time I went down there I did not find what I

was looking for, so I never went back. She was not there.

It is as simple as that. No one was there.

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I remember that morning as though it was yesterday. The

storm was the worst we had had in years. The waiting that

night was very painful, for it was a long wait. When I

finally ran down the mountain I did so frantically, for I felt

that something was different. For the first time in months I

had to remind myself of the skipper’s words:

“Somehow…”

The refrain repeated itself in my head until I made it to the

rocks. But she was not there. The jagged rocks looked

empty, as though their victim had been snatched fromthem. I searched, prayed and yelled, but there was no

one. “Perhaps the skipper was wrong”, I thought. “Perhaps

no mermaid bride has ever lived as long as this one, taken

so much punishment, been exposed to the elements so

much. Perhaps…”

Yet there was a miraculous calmness in the ocean breeze

that I could not explain. And so I walked back up the

winding path, not knowing what to think. That’s when I

saw her. She sat under a tree, as beautiful and peaceful as

I had ever seen her. Her gaze was directed at the ocean.

She knew that I had run past her on the way down, butshe did not stop me. I had to see for myself, I realised.

“Come here”, she said, and held out her hand. “Come sit

close to me.” I did so, not sure what to expect. “I woke

up”, she continued. “I woke up on the way down, before I

got to the water. And so I could stop myself.” She turned

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and looked at me. “This time we are both fine. Isn’t that

wonderful?”

Wonderful it was. More wonderful than I ever thought it

would be. We walked up that path, hand in hand, and we

knew that we would never have to do so again after a

storm. When the next storm came the door of the house

on the hill remained closed. Inside was a fire, an open

bottle of wine and two people holding on to one another

under every blanket they could find in their house.

And just in case you wondered: The answer is yes. The boy

on the beach – he was born nine months later.

The End

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The Writer and the Mermaid