Minotaurs, labyrinths and demon lovers.
Horns
Edward first noticed his feet sitting in the bath. He was enjoying the warmth of the water enveloping him. He rarely took a bath - he rarely had the time - usually he made do with
a quick shower in the morning. But tonight he needed to relax, he wanted to be caressed, embraced by warmth, and there was no-one to do this now Emma had left; only the water. He was leaning back, his head propped on the hard edge of the bath - if he wanted to make this a regular thing, he should buy a pillow, one of those special bolsters that fixed on to the tub. He stretched out his legs and rested his right foot on the mixer tap. It was then he first noticed.
He sat up abruptly and stared at his foot. Surely it hadn’t always looked like that? He couldn’t say for certain, unlike Emma, he didn’t spend hours polishing and painting his toe-nails. He never looked at his feet, come to think of it; even when pulling on his socks in the morning, he was already looking at the clock or at his shoes to make sure they were clean, there was never time for anything else. But he felt certain his feet hadn't looked like this before. Thick curly hair sprouted between his toes, which were long and curved, the nails pointed. Then he saw that the thick hair was also growing from his soles; he couldn’t understand how he hadn’t felt it when standing or walking.
He got out of the bath, no longer enjoying the water. He was tired; his feet just looked strange because of the unusual light in the bathroom at this hour of the night. Everything would seem quite normal in the morning. But when he awoke his feet were still the same, the toes long and curved, the curly hair sprouting thickly.
He hadn’t the time to worry about them - he crammed them into a pair of socks and then into his shoes. They did feel uncomfortable, he noticed, but it was bearable and at least they looked quite normal. He must make an appointment with a chiropodist, and maybe order some wide-fitting shoes in a larger size. Although he hated to admit it, his changing feet were probably just a sign of middle-age, he would think no more about them.
Middle age! His heart sank; but he was still young for a Government Minister, he reassured himself, and if anything he was even more good-looking now that his hair was greying slightly, and his face had developed a craggy look that suited him. Women certainly found him attractive, he was never short of girlfriends even though they didn’t last long. He had stayed with Emma for quite a while, mainly because the PM had told him it was bad for his image being single. Now he regretted it - Emma was too intelligent and too hard, she was too ambitious, and she knew far too much about him. What would happen if she went to the press? What would he say then to the PM?
It was a busy day – all his days were busy– and he pushed his worries to the back of his mind. He had to give a vital speech in the House, then field the usual questions and arguments. He had no time to worry about Emma, let alone about anything so banal and frivolous as his feet.
He didn’t have time to think about his feet again for a couple of days, then he had to visit his constituency which always meant a hell of a day, for constituents, as he often reflected, seemed to have little regard for the human needs of their MP. During the afternoon an old age pensioner flung a rotten egg at him from the top of a bus. He couldn't even sue the bastard, he thought bitterly, it would be suicidal to his career. He had to vent his anger by telling himself that sort of person, too old to work, too feckless to provide for themselves, should be humanely put down rather than allowed to scrounge off the state in their old
age.
Back in the London office, his PA, Mel, fetched him shampoo and a clean towel to wash the egg out of his hair. It was when he ran his comb through his thick locks that he noticed for the first time two small mossy lumps: perhaps the old bugger really had bruised him, he thought, but it seemed strange it hadn't hurt more, and even stranger that there should be two such even bruises. At least they didn't show; he combed his hair thickly over the top of them and thought no more about it.
He had a restless night. He kept dreaming and it was always the same: he was trapped in a strange primeval place, possibly a marsh or fen, running from some faceless horror so vast and powerful it was devouring the whole world. Edward’s feet kept slipping in the foul-smelling mud and he was afraid he would fall and be sucked into the swampy ground. Finally, just before the alarm clock went off, the thing was upon him; he turned to see a monstrous horned creature with an expression so malevolent, he awoke shaking.
He staggered into the bathroom and stared at his reflection, his face looked ghastly in the dawn light. The lumps on his head were bigger, over three inches high, poking up through his hair and there was nothing he could do to hide them. It struck him that they looked unmistakably like horns and a shot of pure terror ran through him.
When he was dressed, he hunted out a rather dashing trilby hat that he hadn't worn since his Oxford days. He thought miserably that those had been the best days of his life - not an idea he’d ever had before. The hat covered the bumps on his head completely, but he wouldn’t be able to wear the hat indoors, something really must be done. He considered getting Mel to phone his doctor and make an appointment; it was one of the advantages of being a Government Minister that you could see your doctor whenever you wanted. After all, two lumps on his head, it could be cancer; he couldn't take any risks. Then he dismissed the idea; when you're in the public eye, you can't trust anyone. What if his GP was tempted to go to the press? Instead, he phoned someone totally trustworthy; his old friend James, now a consultant at Guy’s. He and James had been at Eton and then at Oxford together, they had been very close indeed at one time and they remained good friends. James would take a look at him.
But when he got through to James, he said,“No can do, old man, I’m off to a conference in Geneva this evening, and I have a completely full schedule today.”
“Can’t you squeeze me in just for half an hour before you leave?”
James must have heard the panic in his voice, “What’s up? Is it really urgent?”
“Yes, I think it might be cancer,” to his horror, his voice broke and he could hear himself begin to sob.
“Look,” said James, “why don’t you fly out with me and spend the night in Geneva? I can have a look at whatever’s bothering you and then we can have a good time together; a really wild night like we used to in the old days. You could fly back early in the morning. What about it? I’m sure it would do you good to have a break.”
Edward considered this, the offer was very tempting and it was true that it wouldn’t hurt if he took a night off for once.
In his hotel suite, James looked perplexed when he examined the lumps, “I’m not sure what they are,” he admitted.
“Can you get rid of them?” Edward asked, a rising tide of anxiety swelling up into his chest from his admirably flat belly. He was proud of the good shape he’d maintained over the years, so unusual for a man in his position.
“Not just immediately, no,” James replied.
“James, they show – I live in the spotlight! It looks for all the world as if I’m growing horns! Something has to be done.”
“Now try not to panic, old man, I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
“Can’t you file them down?” Edward pleaded.
“Well, we could have a try. To be honest, I can’t say – I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
James stared down at Edward’s head, presented to him so trustingly. The desire to touch, to fondle those strange furry lumps, so hard but so soft, overwhelmed him. He stretched out a finger and stroked them nervously. The feel of them was exquisite - pleasure thrilled through him, tingling like an electric current.
“Let me just examine them again,” he said.
“Any ideas?” Edward pressed, trying not to sound impatient.
“I can’t say I have. I could refer you to a neurologist, if you want.”
Edward frowned, “You’ll have to make sure he’s discreet.”
“That goes without saying. All medical treatment is confidential.”
“Not if the press offer enough!”
“You’re growing paranoid, my old son,” James said, “You’d better watch that! In fact, is there anything on your mind? Any chance these bumps might be induced by stress? I could refer you to a psychiatrist. Or a therapist. It might help.”
Edward was insulted, “No way! There’s nothing wrong with my mind. I just know politicians can’t trust anyone. Or very few people," he added, seeing James’ hurt expression, “Why do you think I’ve come to you?”
“Well, I can phone my registrar in the morning and tell him to refer you for an ultra-sound - and an MRI scan too, if you want.”
“I suppose so,” said Edward ungraciously, “But I mean . . . horns, James. Horns for God’s sake! What am I going to do? If this gets out, my career’s finished. Can you imagine? A Prime Minister with horns?”
“I don’t know; the Horned God of ancient myth was a frightening figure, and fear brings power, just bear that in mind.”
“It also brings ridicule – I’m a freak!”
“Make use of it. That’s the best advice I can give you – make good use of it.”
Edward shook his head.
“Have you noticed any sign of wings?” James asked him.
"Wings?”
“Yes, just think of the political capital you could make from being an Archangel! Any sign of lumps in the shoulder area?”
Edward’s heart began to pound and he broke into a heavy sweat; it ran down his back, prickled under his arms, soaked his hair above his forehead. He began to tremble, his whole body vibrating as if it were being shaken apart and forced into some new incomprehensible form. His lungs heaved as he struggled uselessly for air.
“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.
James massaged his back soothingly, “You're just having a panic attack,” he said,“hold on, it'll pass,” then, as Edward calmed, he added with a laugh, “Oh and by the way, don’t worry, there are no wings - I’d feel them if there were! Come on now, let's go out and get plastered. We’ll have several good relaxing drinks and a decent meal; then you'll feel better.”
Once they were lounging in a comfortable restaurant, pleasantly mellow from copious amounts of good food and wine, Edward did feel better; he almost felt like he had in their old student days. James had always been able to cheer him up, he thought affectionately.
But in the night he fell again into a terrible dream, a nightmare in which he was running across a vast, desolate plain, pursued by a horned man, the horned god; a creature so old and evil it existed before the beginning of the world, even before the start of the universe; long before the birth of feeble humanity.
He woke with a scream. James took him in his arms and Edward clung to him gratefully.
James ran his hands caressingly over his friend, murmuring comfort. At the base of the spine, just at the point where the back meets the curve of the buttocks he paused as, filled with a rising excitement, he came upon an unmistakable bump - a hard, slightly pointed lump.
Edward was still trembling, “What’s happening to me, James?” he sobbed, “For God’s sake, what’s happening to me?”
“You’re going to be fine,” James reassured him, “everything will be all right,” then he allowed himself once more the thrill of stroking the hard point sprouting at the tail end of Edward’s spine.
Voices from the deep: Mermaids
Extract from The Dowager's Dream (a novel in progress).
From Chapter 1. Mermaid on Ice:
The mermaid was gone from the icehouse and the Dowager declared the tenants had all been lying or else their minds had been touched by the cold and too much whisky. Being their only gentle-born witness, I was summoned to the Bighouse to defend their tale. My father was angry, he wanted me to lie to the Dowager - not that he’d have said so, indeed, as a Minister of the Kirk - but he ordered me to confess it was all fancy and nonsense. This I could not do for he’d taught me to tell the truth.
When I stood before Her Ladyship and swore I’d seen the mermaid cut from the ice with my own eyes, she glared at me with chilling rage. Then her expression grew hard and bright, “This girl will do just as well,” she announced, “When the Laird arrives, find a platter large enough to hold her and make a fish tail to cover her legs. She can be the centrepiece on my son’s table.”
Her steward was horrified, “But, remember you, Ma’am, she’s daughter to the Minister,” he protested, “a respectable lass. We cannee expect her to . . .” he lowered his voice, “to bare her bosom in company. Before the Laird and his gentlemen guests.”
“Oh, tush,” retorted the Dowager, “cover her bosom up with fish scales and seaweed, she’ll look decent enough - for a girl who sees mermaids.”
There was no arguing with the dame. The common people call her moonstruck and say she’s mad as a blue hare. It’s certainly true she is strange but whether she was already so when her son banished her to this lonely place or whether the dark winter days, the bitter cold, and the isolation have eaten at my Lady’s wits like moths at a blanket, I cannot say. I’ve heard tell she was gay and high-spirited in her youth - a magnificent horsewoman, she followed the hounds as boldly as any man. Hunting on horseback is impossible up here on the north coast, the country is mostly peat bogs and such roads as exist are narrow and treacherous.
Rumour has it, my Lady orders her servants to put a saddle upon the largest towel horse in the laundry. She clambers aboard with her horn and her riding crop, hallooing while the footmen push her around that vast, echoing, tiled chamber. If this gossip be true, I would love to see the sight myself.
It was the Dowager’s husband who had the icehouse built, to the astonishment of all hereabouts. It looks like a small round tower set into the cliff with its head in the Bighouse garden and its feet almost touching the burn at high tide, a narrow door at its foot. Inside there are steps spiralling up, leading to a dark, chill room deep within the hill and every winter when the burn freezes over the estate tenants are employed at chipping slivers of ice for storing. The ice keeps like magic in this dank cavern all through the winter and the spring - even until our Laird comes for the shooting in the late summer months. There’s another door in the Bighouse grounds so the servants can collect ice to chill the Laird’s wine and the sweet fools and flummeries made in the kitchen to please his guests.
Yes, it’s surely a great wonder, this icehouse, and it was in the icehouse they put the mermaid.
See her I did, I tell you truly. It was in January, the first sunny morning after a week of freezing storms, and I was walking with Kirsty, our maidservant, along the burn down to the shore to watch the cutting of the ice.
The Bighouse Burn flows through a flat, sandy meadow, making a wide loop about the hill on which the Bighouse sits, separating the mansion from the dunes and the bay. In winter, the burn’s a swiftly-flowing river by the time it reaches the beach and it forms a deep pool where it flows into the sea. At high tide the waves sweep into this pool, mixing both salt water and fresh into a turbulent whirl of angry foam.
Most often the snows pass over us here on the coast, falling in heavy drifts inland, but at least once every winter we get a freezing storm and the Bighouse Burn is turned to solid ice. This winter has been a hard one and we suffered blizzards for days, so on that first clear morning the Dowager gave the order for the ice to be cut. All the local working people gathered on the shore, carrying axes, picks, and shovels. The ford across the burn was frozen and they hammered nails into their boots to give them footing. The men broke up the ice while the women and the bairns collected the pieces in creels, carrying them through the narrow door in the hill. It was a vivid scene and one I always enjoyed, for it made a welcome change to my dull winter routine. The cold was bitter, the children’s hands were red and raw and their noses ran continuously. I didn’t fancy eating those flummeries and fools of my Laird’s, kept chill on the frozen snot of the village brats.
As we approached the burn, we heard the men shouting in startled excitement, their voices loud in the sharp, still air. They were collected about the pool where the burn joined the sea, and they called so urgently we made our way across the snow-frosted dunes towards them. When we reached the pool, they fell back to let us pass, as if afraid.
I stared down, frozen in shocked amazement, for there deep in the water I could see a mermaid. The ice was inches thick above her, yet her form was clearly visible as I peered through the translucent, frosty surface. She was lying with her green hair cast about her like seaweed, and one pale arm thrown up as if to shield her face. Her thick fish tail was curved beneath her, the fins splayed out like a phosphorescent fan. She must have been washed in by the storm at high tide, and then been caught by the creeping ice as the freshwater of the burn froze above her, the chill fingers of the river holding her in a bitter embrace, trapping her before the tide turned and she could escape.
I could tell she was not warm-blooded as we were but cold-blooded like the fish, for her skin was as white as alabaster in the frozen water, not red and purple as ours would be. I wondered whether, like a fish, she was in a state of suspended animation. My father is an educated man and he takes a great interest in the new science of biology, he explained to me how reptiles and fish can survive in extreme cold, when we would believe it impossible, by slowing their blood to a thick, barely susceptible flow.
That was what I hoped for the mermaid – that she was still alive, waiting for the thaw. But I knew she might be an air-breathing creature, like the dolphins and the seals, in which case she must have suffocated. I prayed not - I longed for her to be alive, though I knew not why.
Kirsty was also gazing transfixed at the monster and now she began to wail. To see a mermaid always meant disaster, she cried, it would bring a death to us, for sure. I laughed at her gently, trying to shame her out of her superstitious dread, but nothing could shake her fixed belief that the sea-maid meant doom.
The Dowager, watching from her battlemented windows, had seen the excitement and sent word to discover the cause. I was agog to know whether Her Ladyship would come down herself to gaze on the wonder, but it seemed the cold defeated her. Having put her nose out of doors and had it pinched by the frost, she decided to return to her drawingroom fire.
Instead, she sent orders that the mermaid was to be carefully chipped from the pool, without damaging her in the least; my Lady thought she would make an excellent centrepiece for the Laird’s dinner table at Candlemass, for it was his custom to come here with a party of friends for the feast - an old tradition at the Bighouse. The creature was to be placed frozen in the icehouse upon the packed ice, which would surely keep her fresh until the Laird’s coming.
Kirsty looked even more alarmed, “Do you think they will eat her, Miss Mary?” she asked me.
I considered this idea with horror, it was true that roast mermaid would make a novel dish for the Laird’s guests - but surely she would not keep fresh enough for that, even in the icehouse. I said as much to Kirsty who looked relieved.
“I can see they might eat the creature’s tail,” she confessed, “but not her upper parts. They are so human-like. I know she has no immortal soul like us, but even so, she is too near woman-looking. Think you no, Miss Mary?”
I shuddered, feeling in my heart she was right - it seemed nothing short of cannibalism to eat the mermaid, “They talk as if the Dowager means her for a decoration, nothing more,” I said to comfort us both.
The men set to work, breaking up the hard ice above the creature. Then smaller hammers and chisels were brought out and they began tapping with delicate care to free her frozen body from the pool.
“You’re cold, Miss,” Kirsty said, “we’d best go home now.”
I could see she wanted to get well away from the monster.
“No,” I replied, “you may go on, if you wish, but I shall stay awhile.”
I stood in the biting air, watching as the men chipped the mermaid out of the solid ice, her body gleaming in the pale sunlight. Once they had her free, they cheered and lifted her up above their heads in triumph, then bore her away to the icehouse door to lay her upon the shards hidden deep within.
That night I was sleepless, thinking of the mermaid lying there. What if she woke up to find herself alone in that dank, dark cellar? No water, no ocean near her. Nothing but sharp ice beneath her soft, smooth back and her glittering tail. I couldn’t bear to think of it – I knew I had to get her out. In spite of the Dowager, no matter what the Laird might say, I had to set her free. Alive or dead, I did not want her in that cold, bleak place.
I went to my window, the stars were burning fiercely in the clear sky. I pulled on my warmest clothes and crept down the manse staircase.
Extract from The Burnings (a novel).
Elizabeth MacKay:
In the year of 1809, at the very beginning of that year on a cold January morning, I saw a mermaid. If people don’t believe me, why should I care? I know what is true.
The sea rolls in, grey save for the white-topped waves. So grey the horizon is almost lost in the heavy grey sky. Strathy Point and Dunnet Head are invisible, wrapped in a grey mist.
The seashore has always been part of my life. Although most windows in the Manse face south, away from the sea and the bitter north winds, two of the rooms at the back face sea-wards and I chose my bedroom from among these, wanting a view of the seashore. Almost every day of my life that I can remember I have walked on the shore for a good half-hour or more, I know it by heart in all seasons and all weathers.
I saw her first on the twelfth day of January, and it was as cold as January can be here. Bitter cold but dry and bright with that crisp, sharp, hurting but splendid light of the winter sun as it nears the noon hour. Charity and I ventured outside, wanting air and exercise, wearing bonnets that covered our ears and well-wrapped in shawls, comforters, and cloaks.
I remember that day in winter as though it were yesterday. Charity and I were young - about fourteen and fifteen years old. Our lessons and household tasks done and we both free at last to go down to the sea.
We ran down the Manse garden, Charity recklessly leaping over the back wall, much to Alice's horror, and then we hurried along the narrow path that leads across the pastureland and through the sand-dunes to the shore. The dunes are large and round and beneath them lies the old town of Reay. And beneath that, I've heard it said, older settlements still - many of the local people have claimed to see strange figures on the beach at dusk.
On that day, so long ago, Charity and I climbed up the dunes, pausing on one the village people claim was a faerie hill before it was buried in the sand. We stood on its top, shivering a little for the cold and looking down upon the shore and the glittering water. The sand-dunes surround the bay in a great semi-circle and I remember thinking they looked like strange, soft, shaggy beasts with their long, marram grass coats trembling in the sweeping wind.
Charity and I looked at each other, buffeted by the sharp air, and we laughed with sudden joy. Then down Charity leapt and ran with arms spread wide towards the sea, dancing wildly through the Sandside Burn, regardless of wet boots and gown. I came behind, as always being more slow and careful.
The sea was so clear, a brilliant turquoise in colour, with every stone and rock standing out, red and brown and cobalt blue beneath the sea as far as the edge of the bay. Beyond, in deeper water, the sea was navy, flecked with white. Looking behind me, the hills beyond Sandside House were grey and brown.
I turned and followed Charity who had run off across the firm damp sand. I walked more slowly, pausing where the Reay Burn rippled over its bed of pebbles and sea-shells down the beach, leaving a herringbone patterning on the sand. The pebbles were mainly orange, red, brown and black, but some were blue and grey. They shone like precious stones in the water, but I was old enough to know that if I picked them up and put them in my pocket, they would be dull and drab when I took them out again at home.
The tide turned and the incoming waves met the water of the burn with a flurry, like two birds fluttering at one another, and the collision turned the water gold in colour. As I walked through after my cousin, the sand, stirred by the water's movement, looked like the velvety fur of a deer's coat beneath my feet.
We turned back towards Sandside, walking briskly to keep from being chilled, and made our way along the line of the sea. It was then my attention was attracted by three of the local working people - two of the maids from Bighouse and a village lad, little Donnie MacKay. They were on a rock at some distance and they all waved urgently and pointed at something in the water.
Donnie shouted to us, “Miss Lizzie, Miss Charity, come quick now do. Look you here, Miss Lizzie! Look!”
He was jumping up and down in his excitement and the two servant girls cried out to me just as eagerly, they seemed both terrified and astonished. I made my way towards them and on drawing near, I saw a face like a woman’s which appeared floating on the waves. In amazement, I called Charity to join me and approached as near as I could across the rocks. At first nothing but the face was visible - indeed, we only ever saw the face, throat, and arms of the creature, all our attempts to make out the appearance and position of the body proving useless. The tide was in now and the sea ran very high, as the waves advanced the Mermaid gently sank under them and afterwards reappeared.
I will do my best to give you a thorough description of her as I saw her that morning – as good and clear and rational an account as I later wrote down for the Dowager, Mrs James.
Her - if, indeed, I can talk of the creature as her, but it's the only word that feels correct, so . . . . her small, white face was plump and round, with a small nose and large mouth. Her eyes were also small and of a light grey colour. Her face looked short in length with a straight jaw-bone. Her head was exceedingly round in shape, and her hair was thick and long and of a green oily cast, looking like some kind of thick seaweed. This long hair seemed troublesome to her for the waves kept lifting it and throwing it down over her cheeks. It seemed to annoy her and, as the waves retreated, with both hands she frequently threw back her hair and then rubbed her throat as if to remove any soiling and oiliness caused to it by contact with the long, thick locks. Her throat was slender, smooth and white, and her arms, too, were very slender and also long, as were her hands and fingers - the latter were not webbed but looked human. I didn't think to observe whether the arms had elbows, but from the manner with which she used those limbs, I must conclude they did. Although her mouth was sometimes open I also didn't attend to that, so cannot say whether she had teeth, or ever showed a tongue like ours. I saw nothing like hairs or scales on any part of her, in fact the smoothness of her skin particularly caught my attention.
She often raised one arm over her head as if to frighten a large sea-bird that hovered above and which seemed to cause her much distress. When that had no effect upon the bird, she sometimes turned quite round several times successively as if to confuse it. At a little distance we observed a seal but she paid it no regard and the seal seemed equally untroubled by her. At times she laid her right hand under her cheek, and in this position would float for many minutes.
We all stood on the rocks and watched her for about an hour in the clear bright sunshine, so absorbed in the astonishing sight that the cold was forgotten and unnoticed. During this hour she was only a few yards distant from me, for early on in my observation of her she had moved nearer to me and further from the rock occupied by Donnie and the servant girls, seeming annoyed by Donnie's cries although in all other ways she seemed unaware - or totally uninterested - in any of us.
She was entirely herself; oblivious of us earth-bound human creatures that she unwittingly held so fascinated and in thrall. Her alien being, completely self-sufficient and independent of all things human - all beliefs, all knowledge, all manners, civilisation, progress, religion: all we believe to be right and cling to in our human frailties - was wrapped in itself; in an existence we know nothing of and can’t comprehend.
But sometimes I feel sure there was just one moment when she did look at me - our eyes met and held just for one brief unbelievable moment, and I'm sure I saw a recognition in her eyes. An awareness, a recognition, a knowledge, of me. Of me. . . .
But it may be I imagined this and it was not so at all - I only know the memory of her gaze, be it real or fancied, remains burned in my mind and I long above all things to see her again. I pray every night upon my knees to be delivered of this fierce, so-powerful desire, but Almighty God has not yet heard, or thought fit to answer, my desperate appeal.
Elizabeth MacKay:
In the year of 1809, at the very beginning of that year on a cold January morning, I saw a mermaid. If people don’t believe me, why should I care? I know what is true.
The sea rolls in, grey save for the white-topped waves. So grey the horizon is almost lost in the heavy grey sky. Strathy Point and Dunnet Head are invisible, wrapped in a grey mist.
The seashore has always been part of my life. Although most windows in the Manse face south, away from the sea and the bitter north winds, two of the rooms at the back face sea-wards and I chose my bedroom from among these, wanting a view of the seashore. Almost every day of my life that I can remember I have walked on the shore for a good half-hour or more, I know it by heart in all seasons and all weathers.
I saw her first on the twelfth day of January, and it was as cold as January can be here. Bitter cold but dry and bright with that crisp, sharp, hurting but splendid light of the winter sun as it nears the noon hour. Charity and I ventured outside, wanting air and exercise, wearing bonnets that covered our ears and well-wrapped in shawls, comforters, and cloaks.
I remember that day in winter as though it were yesterday. Charity and I were young - about fourteen and fifteen years old. Our lessons and household tasks done and we both free at last to go down to the sea.
We ran down the Manse garden, Charity recklessly leaping over the back wall, much to Alice's horror, and then we hurried along the narrow path that leads across the pastureland and through the sand-dunes to the shore. The dunes are large and round and beneath them lies the old town of Reay. And beneath that, I've heard it said, older settlements still - many of the local people have claimed to see strange figures on the beach at dusk.
On that day, so long ago, Charity and I climbed up the dunes, pausing on one the village people claim was a faerie hill before it was buried in the sand. We stood on its top, shivering a little for the cold and looking down upon the shore and the glittering water. The sand-dunes surround the bay in a great semi-circle and I remember thinking they looked like strange, soft, shaggy beasts with their long, marram grass coats trembling in the sweeping wind.
Charity and I looked at each other, buffeted by the sharp air, and we laughed with sudden joy. Then down Charity leapt and ran with arms spread wide towards the sea, dancing wildly through the Sandside Burn, regardless of wet boots and gown. I came behind, as always being more slow and careful.
The sea was so clear, a brilliant turquoise in colour, with every stone and rock standing out, red and brown and cobalt blue beneath the sea as far as the edge of the bay. Beyond, in deeper water, the sea was navy, flecked with white. Looking behind me, the hills beyond Sandside House were grey and brown.
I turned and followed Charity who had run off across the firm damp sand. I walked more slowly, pausing where the Reay Burn rippled over its bed of pebbles and sea-shells down the beach, leaving a herringbone patterning on the sand. The pebbles were mainly orange, red, brown and black, but some were blue and grey. They shone like precious stones in the water, but I was old enough to know that if I picked them up and put them in my pocket, they would be dull and drab when I took them out again at home.
The tide turned and the incoming waves met the water of the burn with a flurry, like two birds fluttering at one another, and the collision turned the water gold in colour. As I walked through after my cousin, the sand, stirred by the water's movement, looked like the velvety fur of a deer's coat beneath my feet.
We turned back towards Sandside, walking briskly to keep from being chilled, and made our way along the line of the sea. It was then my attention was attracted by three of the local working people - two of the maids from Bighouse and a village lad, little Donnie MacKay. They were on a rock at some distance and they all waved urgently and pointed at something in the water.
Donnie shouted to us, “Miss Lizzie, Miss Charity, come quick now do. Look you here, Miss Lizzie! Look!”
He was jumping up and down in his excitement and the two servant girls cried out to me just as eagerly, they seemed both terrified and astonished. I made my way towards them and on drawing near, I saw a face like a woman’s which appeared floating on the waves. In amazement, I called Charity to join me and approached as near as I could across the rocks. At first nothing but the face was visible - indeed, we only ever saw the face, throat, and arms of the creature, all our attempts to make out the appearance and position of the body proving useless. The tide was in now and the sea ran very high, as the waves advanced the Mermaid gently sank under them and afterwards reappeared.
I will do my best to give you a thorough description of her as I saw her that morning – as good and clear and rational an account as I later wrote down for the Dowager, Mrs James.
Her - if, indeed, I can talk of the creature as her, but it's the only word that feels correct, so . . . . her small, white face was plump and round, with a small nose and large mouth. Her eyes were also small and of a light grey colour. Her face looked short in length with a straight jaw-bone. Her head was exceedingly round in shape, and her hair was thick and long and of a green oily cast, looking like some kind of thick seaweed. This long hair seemed troublesome to her for the waves kept lifting it and throwing it down over her cheeks. It seemed to annoy her and, as the waves retreated, with both hands she frequently threw back her hair and then rubbed her throat as if to remove any soiling and oiliness caused to it by contact with the long, thick locks. Her throat was slender, smooth and white, and her arms, too, were very slender and also long, as were her hands and fingers - the latter were not webbed but looked human. I didn't think to observe whether the arms had elbows, but from the manner with which she used those limbs, I must conclude they did. Although her mouth was sometimes open I also didn't attend to that, so cannot say whether she had teeth, or ever showed a tongue like ours. I saw nothing like hairs or scales on any part of her, in fact the smoothness of her skin particularly caught my attention.
She often raised one arm over her head as if to frighten a large sea-bird that hovered above and which seemed to cause her much distress. When that had no effect upon the bird, she sometimes turned quite round several times successively as if to confuse it. At a little distance we observed a seal but she paid it no regard and the seal seemed equally untroubled by her. At times she laid her right hand under her cheek, and in this position would float for many minutes.
We all stood on the rocks and watched her for about an hour in the clear bright sunshine, so absorbed in the astonishing sight that the cold was forgotten and unnoticed. During this hour she was only a few yards distant from me, for early on in my observation of her she had moved nearer to me and further from the rock occupied by Donnie and the servant girls, seeming annoyed by Donnie's cries although in all other ways she seemed unaware - or totally uninterested - in any of us.
She was entirely herself; oblivious of us earth-bound human creatures that she unwittingly held so fascinated and in thrall. Her alien being, completely self-sufficient and independent of all things human - all beliefs, all knowledge, all manners, civilisation, progress, religion: all we believe to be right and cling to in our human frailties - was wrapped in itself; in an existence we know nothing of and can’t comprehend.
But sometimes I feel sure there was just one moment when she did look at me - our eyes met and held just for one brief unbelievable moment, and I'm sure I saw a recognition in her eyes. An awareness, a recognition, a knowledge, of me. Of me. . . .
But it may be I imagined this and it was not so at all - I only know the memory of her gaze, be it real or fancied, remains burned in my mind and I long above all things to see her again. I pray every night upon my knees to be delivered of this fierce, so-powerful desire, but Almighty God has not yet heard, or thought fit to answer, my desperate appeal.