Finn's Rock Read online

  “Come on, then,” he said, tossing a crumpled napkin beside the plate. “I’ll show you to him.” He tucked a handful of bills beneath his plate, winking in Lorrie’s direction as she refilled a child’s juice cup. Landen followed his example–minus the wink–before collecting his recorder and notes.

  Outside the coffee shop, the air was cool and tinged with salt when Landen inhaled deeply. He strode along behind Mr. Malloy, whose steps ambled confidently in the direction of the docks. Past the sleepy newspaper office decorated with the figurehead beside its sign, a marine supply store sporting rubber boots and raincoats. The damp pavement became the well-worn boards of the docks after a little further walking, Morgan leading him towards the wooden building marked by the old mermaid sign.

  The visitor center on the docks was a small, square building across from the shipping office. Emerging from the doors of the marine office were two fishermen, laughing as they called goodbye to someone inside. No one was visible at all in front of the visitor’s center.

  “Farcus usually doesn’t have anyone drop in ‘til the first ferry,” commented Morgan. “He’ll be surprised to see you about now.” A dry chuckle followed these words as he rapped on the door.

  It opened, revealing a thin figure sporting a day’s worth of stubble, a frayed flannel shirt and crewneck sweater that reminded Landen of some of the fishermen along the docks yesterday.

  “Morning, Farcus,” said Morgan. “This is Mr. Grantham–the writer, come to do a story about the merfolk sightings along the shore. Thought he’d want to talk to you, so I brought him along.”

  Farcus surveyed Landen with interest, then opened the door wider. “Come in,” he said. “Not officially open for the morning, so excuse the mess.” The mess appeared to be the contents of a shoebox scattered across the counter, bits of shell and fossil.

  The rest of the room consisted of racks of brochures on the surrounding New England attractions and a series of amateur printed ones for the attractions of Fair Island. A few shelves of books on mermaids, both fiction and nonfiction, some appearing to be issued by small presses. Loads of mermaid knickknacks stowed on shelves, from crude pottery to hand-painted postcards and carved wooden trinkets. Apparently, the visitor’s center doubled as a gift shop for tourists and mermaid hunters.

  “This stuff’s not what you’re interested in,” said Farcus, as if reading his mind. “You want the real stories, not what some craftsman dreams up in his garage.” As he spoke, he turned the knob to another room.

  “This is my private zone,” he explained, ushering Landen inside. “Where I keep track of all the sightings and stories recorded to date.”

  “All of them?” said Landen. “That must be quite a list.” From the books he read, he was under the impression that several hundred had probably been documented over the years from both visitors and natives of the island. He watched as Farcus unpinned the sheet protecting a vast corkboard on the wall.

  It was a bizarre tribute to the world of mermaid lore: blurry photographs, written accounts on post-it notes and scraps of paper, all pinned to a map of the island. Thumbtacks marked the location of sightings, most converging along the beach where Finn Malloy had shown him the site of the wreck off the rocks, although several more were scattered around the island’s perimeter. Landen noticed the handwriting differed on several papers pinned there, as if the witnesses wrote the accounts themselves.

  “Farcus interviews ‘em himself,” said Malloy. “Whenever he can, that is.” He was leaning in the doorway, his glance periodically roving to the boxes of additional souvenirs waiting for display.

  “Mostly tourists these days,” said Farcus. “But there was a time when a lot of the people around here were the first sighters. The old folks who still remembered stories about people spotting mermaids from more than just fishing boats. Clipper ships and merchants and all that.” He unclipped and reclipped a series of photos, rearranging the board as he spoke.

  “Here’s one that might interest you,” he said. “This one. Supposed account of the original mermaid sighting.” He removed a yellow-stained piece of paper from the corner, its blue ink watery beneath a surface stain.

  “You mean the story from the wreck of the Lacordia?” asked Landen, genuinely surprised. Behind him, Morgan released a slight snort.

  “The shipwreck?” repeated Farcus. He snorted also–this one, a snort of derision. “That’s what everybody thinks. An old yarn that’s gotten tired, but everybody peddles it around like it’s the truth.” A private eye roll accompanied this remark, a derisive tone of voice.

  “So you’ve heard a different version?” said Landen, casting a glance over his shoulder at Morgan, who shrugged. “How come you didn’t mention this earlier?”

  “Ah, Farcus’s version is–” Morgan began, but his friend interrupted.

  “You can read it yourself,” said Farcus. “I heard this version from a man who was a hundred and three–his grandfather was a sailor. Not on the famous wreck, but a merchant boat that sailed somewhere in the Indies. Anyway, he was the one who first saw a mermaid. Early 1800’s, around the same time as the shipwreck.”

  Landen scanned the lines on the yellowed sheet, catching a glimpse of familiar words and phrases. A corner of the sheet had a library stamp from the 1970’s.

  “I’ve got all kinds of stories–the teenager’s boat party in the sixties, the tourists who sneaked up to the old lighthouse and saw one of the ceremonial gatherings–”

  “Ceremonial gatherings?” echoed Landen. He was beginning to wonder about Farcus again as he watched him straightening the pins of his commemorative wall.

  “–but if you’re wanting to talk to one of the ancients who claims to know it all,” Farcus said with a sneer, “then the person to see is–”

  “Ahoy, Farcus,” Morgan interrupted. “Don’t get carried away with the lad. He’s a newbie to our shores and our sayings, as it goes.” A gentle warning in genial tones, Landen assumed. Farcus paused, his attention shifted momentarily from the board. He offered Morgan a sheepish grin.

  Landen smiled. “I, uh, thank you for the glimpse into mermaid culture,” he said. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get a copy of this.” He held up the yellow paper.

  “Sure,” said Farcus. “Got a copy machine right over here.” He punched the button on a white copier and stuck the sheet of paper beneath its lid. Landen watched as a black and white copy emerged in the tray a moment later.

  “This board beats the one at the coffee shop,” Farcus continued. “You see it? Just a bunch of tourist crap and storybook stuff. None of the reality ever ends up there.”

  Landen vaguely recalled a wall near the back of the shop where a series of pictures and postcards were pinned. In response, he nodded politely as Farcus handed him the copy. He tucked it into his pocket and glanced at Morgan, who was now absorbed with pouring a cup of coffee from a pot in the main room.

  “Do you have any files I could see?” asked Landen. “Maybe some longer written accounts?”

  Farcus smiled. “Have I ever.” As he pulled a file drawer out, rows and rows of manila folders stuffed with notebooks.

  *****

  In a village of Norwegian families and Irish immigrants sprinkled along the shore, the sea was life. Stories of selkies and half-fish-half-man creatures were as common as shells on the shore, the superstitions ingrained within the culture as old as the island itself, possibly. A checkered history of pirates and shipwrecks became sailors and merchants; became fishermen and sad souls in the modern era, awaiting a future as uncertain as the catch hauled up in the nets from the water’s depths.

  Stories about forked lightening predicting sailor’s doom, the sea claiming the dead as its spoils, webbed fingers and toes a sign of descent from merfolk–even if these stories had not been believed in a hundred years or more, they were still alive beneath the surface of reality. Even for Finn Malloy.

  Her mother had been a marine radio operator; her father, a lighthouse keeper
turned fisherman when the price of lobster rose. The child Finn had been rocked by the waves in the fishing boat’s cabin as her family drew in nets of fish, inspected lines tossed out from a dingy in the early morning hours. She may never have known her ancestors of the three-rigged mast and whaling boats, but she knew the mournful songs of the sailor’s life from concerts outside the pub or firelight dances. Songs of a hundred years of sea-tossed ships and lovers parted by waves, of drink turned sour from a long voyage and fish turned to spoil beneath a sunny deck.

  Her house resembled an overturned boat sheltering the ground from rain: grey lumber and sloping roof, the windows overlooking the water but a stone’s throw in the distance, it seemed. The sand beneath her feet held sharp rocks; the salt dried upon her long hair like crystals reflecting the light when she rose from the waves.

  Faster, stronger; her arms curved from the water, carving the waves into a channel which propelled her forward. The roar of the sea pressing upon her ears; the cry of all the dead below, she had heard it described by a maritime storyteller. Cold water around her, the waves stronger than her muscles as she pushed onwards in swift and even strokes.

  Her hand touched stone, fingers gripping the nooks and crannies. With effort, she hoisted herself from the water, gasping for breath as she rose to the surface. She drew herself against the rock, the water pulling at her, alternately crushing her against the surface, then tearing at her to draw her away to sea again.

  She turned towards the shore, gazing at her own lights visible in the growing dusk. A hundred bright specks in the darkness, like gold stars flickering low on the horizon; the lights of the village beyond. One cheek against the stone, her hair tangled with the weeds washed upon the rocks.

  Tonight she thought less about her own windows alight and more of the ones she knew belonged to the inn across the way. The journalist whom she ferried out to Finn’s Rock today–his lights would be among them, perhaps.

  If he could see her now, what would he think? If he glanced out his window towards the shore, the movement in the dark of the sea which possessed the imagination of anyone.

  As if he were watching–as if she believed he stood at the window overlooking the sea–she drew herself high against the stone and made herself visible beneath the rising moon.

  *****

  Landen touched the surface of the glass case as if the contents beneath could be felt by his fingers. A child jostled him as it slipped past, more eager for a sight of the wizened, shrunken figure on prominent display than a series of old paper slips sporting woodcuts.

  There were no guided tours at the Fair Island Museum, as Landen discovered. A series of dilapidated cases featured dried flowers from the island’s shores, interesting shells, antique anchors and trinkets washed ashore from sunken ships. Each visitor–most of whom were tourists or schoolchildren–was given a printed guide to the contents, with numbers corresponding to the cases. The self-guided maps were kept in a basket affixed to an authentic ship’s figurehead stationed by the door, a much-battered depiction of Nemo.

  The story of the mermaid’s legend was depicted on a wooden plaque on one wall; in the case below, a mermaid cameo carved from a local shell was tucked beside a miniature model of the Lacordia. Landen noticed the museum chose to go with the conventional story of the first mermaid sighting and not the alternate version mentioned by Farcus.

  A figure of a mermaid carved from wood by a sailor was on the shelf above, its features painted–poorly–at a later date, Landen guessed. A bright green fish tale, long auburn hair which reminded him of Finn Malloy, the girl who offered him a boat ride yesterday. Despite the figure being considerably more ample than the slim sailor girl’s, something about the features of its face reminded him of her. The dots of bright blue paint for the eyes, the shape of the nose and mouth.

  Most of his fellow visitors were crowded around a case holding the main attraction, its wall space flanked by old circus posters and New England carnival banners from the 1800s. A genuine mummified mermaid, supposedly sold or abandoned here by a bankrupt performance manager who couldn’t skip town quickly enough after defaulting upon his local credit.

  Squeezing between the curious children and tourists, Landen caught a glimpse of a brown, papery figure lying on a sheet of preservative paper. Yellowed strands of hair like straw were affixed to a narrow skull, folded arms pressed above the tapered fish tail with transparent fins.

  He had read somewhere once that mummified mermaids were cobbled together by charlatans using monkey skeletons and dried cod. It seemed to be true, he decided, with a little horse hair added for effect. He moved away, the circle of onlookers quickly closing the gap once he was gone.

  The next display contained a series of photographs taken of a whaling expedition in the early 1900s, a grim display that Landen offered only a cursory glance. Above, a grimy window of square panes overlooked the sea shore, a lichen-covered stone planted in the sand by man instead of nature, the side facing the museum carved with a mermaid rendered featureless by time and weather. Just beyond it, a man seated on a pile of rotten planks, wrinkled hands busy untangling an old fishing net.

  Why he felt interested in this sight, he couldn’t say. Something drew him in the scene with more attention than the displays around him. He withdrew from the window and moved aside for the next visitor.

  A few minutes later, he was strolling along the beach in the direction of the figure concentrating on his work. A pipe between two lips spouted curls of smoke into the breeze; a pair of fingers in fishing gloves turned a knot between them as delicately as a tangle of silken threads.

  “Good afternoon,” said Landen. Nodding in the direction of the man, who raised his face in response to the greeting.

  “Good day,” he answered. Glancing towards the sea he said, “Wind’s comin’ in strong.”

  Landen cleared his throat, squatting down in the sand as if studying shells. “You live here all your life?” he asked. “On Fair Island?”

  “Yup,” the man answered. “You a visitor from the mainland, I take it.”

  “Landen Grantham. I’m with The Unexplained America, a national journal on unusual phenomena. I’m interested in knowing more about this place’s unexplained events– namely, the mermaid sightings that make your island so famous.” He delivered the spiel with as much grace as he could muster, his eye flickering all the while towards the fisherman’s expression, gauging his chances of a positive answer.

  “Here to debunk the story, are ye?” the fisherman inquired. He gave Landen a thoughtful look.

  “Just to study all the angles,” Landen answered.

  The man considered this a moment. “Angus Pertree,” he answered. “Been here all my life. Don’t know if the story’s true. But I seen the same things other folks seen.”

  “Such as?” As Landen asked, he pressed the digital recorder’s button inside his pocket rather than fish out his notebook and pad.

  “The shape swimmin’ the water w’ no proper legs where they should be. The lights bobbin’ on the water when no man’s about. The sound of people where there oughtn’t be people.”

  “That wouldn’t be the–the ceremony I’ve heard mentioned?” ventured Landen. “Something about the lights, the fires for a gathering on the shore.” He remembered Farcus’s rambling narrative on mermaids had included this strange reference.

  “The ceremonies,” said the man, his weathered face brightening with good humor. “I’ve heard o’ them. Most has–t’is supposed to be the gathering of the sea folk. Bewitched by the moon or some such thing. Come ashore to light fires and sing and such.”

  Landen laughed before he could stifle the action. “So what’s the story behind it?” he asked. “Is it based on a local legend, the story of the lights?” He wanted to ask if anyone had ever ventured onto the shore and found, let’s say, an illegal campfire. Or maybe a group of kids fooling around with flashlights.

  “Part o’ the selkie lore,” Angus answered. “The stories from
the old country, about them comin’ ashore to dance when the tide comes in. ‘Course, it’s been spun and stretched since then to the merfolk sittin’ on the rocks and such.” He stuck his pipe between his lips again, puffing a few clouds of smoke skyward.

  “They say,” he said, “the folks that tell such tales, that is–that a fisherman was lured over the rocks once by the sight of the fires. Went across the sands behind the big stones to watch, then crept over the edge when he saw what he thought t’was a maiden there. Two days later, they found him wanderin’ up the banks of the sea. Not a memory of where he’d been since he crawled towards the fire.”

  Most likely holed up somewhere with a bottle of liquor. Aloud, Landen asked, “And do you believe that there’s something unusual in the sea? Something out there that isn‘t known to humans?”

  The fisherman withdrew his pipe again. “I think there’s many a thing we don’t know,” he answered. He spread the net out, revealing a series of patched sections, small squares formed by the woven ropes.

  Landen studied the view of the scenery, the old lighthouse in the distance on the hillside.

  “Does anyone ever go up there?” he asked, indicating the lighthouse. “Do mermaid spotters use the tower, for instance?” It would make an interesting bit of color for the story if it were so.

  “All boarded up,” Angus answered. “Steps are rotten by now, I’ll wager. Hasn’t been in use since the turn o’ the century. Twentieth century, that is.” He rose and stretched, bundling his net up. “But if t’were possible, there’d be quite a sight from the top.” With a thoughtful glance in the direction of the lighthouse ruins angled on the cliff above.

  “If ye go out at night in the fog,” he said, “there’s a better chance of seein’ whatever’s out there. ‘Tis something about the fog that gives it less fear. More cover. Although, ‘tis been seen on many a clear night, too.” With this thought, he touched the brim of his cap in farewell, then walked away in the direction of a ramshackle fishing hut and overturned rowboat.