False Mermaid

Nora climbed down to the beach and kept walking, not stopping to remove shoes or clothes, but striding straight out into waves until she was up to her hips, and within ten yards of the seal. It swam closer, only an arm’s length now, its whiskered face raised out of the water. She could see how the features on one side of its face were scarred from some ancient injury. The same face as in the portrait, she was sure of it. How could that be? She reached out a hand to touch its fur, and the creature allowed her. It felt sleek, warm beneath the wetness. She remembered the words of the charm:

A part of thee on ocean-whales,
A part of thee on meadow-beasts,
A part of thee on fenny swamps,
A part of thee on cotton-grass moors,
A part of thee on the great surging sea—
She herself has best means to carry
The great surging sea.

The seal regarded her for a few seconds with an air of infinite compassion, before opening its mouth to offer a single rounded vowel of a bark. Was it a greeting or a valediction? As if in answer, the animal twisted away with a flourish of its tail, and sank once more into the sea. Nora took a deep breath, and plunged straight down. She felt compelled to follow. What was it Tríona had seen that day she had been rescued from drowning?

Nora swam forward, eyes wide open, when all at once someone or something caught her by the waist and lifted her clear of the water. Setting her upright in the shallows, Cormac took her face between his hands. “I can’t let you do it, Nora—”

All at once it occurred to her what he must have imagined, following her, watching her walk out into the sea. “Oh, Cormac, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Weren’t you?”

“No—I don’t know what I was doing. But it wasn’t that, truly—I swear.”

“You walked straight into the water, with all your clothes on—”

She looked him up and down. “So did you.”

“But I was only going after you—” He stopped and sighed, resting his forehead against hers. “Why are we doing this to ourselves? You’ve been running from me for nearly two years, Nora. Why do you keep running?”

“I don’t know, Cormac. I can’t—”

“Can’t what? Do you really believe Tríona would want you to suffer as you have? I know you could go on punishing yourself forever—but when will it ever be enough? You wanted to know the name of the tune I sent—I’ll tell you. It’s ‘My Love Is in America.’ Do you understand? Can you not see that I love you? Stop running, Nora. Stay with me. Be with me.”

She looked into his eyes, and felt deep within them—and deep within herself—an immense, eternal pulse, calling up the words of that ancient, mysterious charm: She herself has best means to carry. When she offered Cormac her answer, it did not come in words.

As daylight broke over the headland, the mist slowly disappeared, and the surf began to churn around them with the incoming tide. The rising sun threw golden shafts on gulls and choughs as they took wing, and on the wet, curious faces of three young seals cavorting in the waves beyond the harbor rocks. High above the headland, almost out of sight, a lone sea eagle soared aloft.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS