Finn's Rock Read online

  "Hello," she said. For a moment, his tongue did not find a reply.

  "Hi," he managed, finally. "So are we–"

  "Of course," she said. "Let me get the lantern." With this statement, she disappeared behind the door, then emerged with an oil lamp, the smell of smoke from a freshly-struck match lingering in the air.

  "This way," she said, slipping past him and closing the door behind her with one fluid motion. Her boots scattered sand in a path leading away from the village harbor, towards the lighthouse cliff.

  "Are we watching from...up there?" His glance indicated the lighthouse above them.

  Finn laughed. "No," she answered. "We have to go further down the beach. There's an inlet a quarter of a mile or so from here. There's a bright moon tonight; they'll be about."

  She was silent as they walked, her steps confident as they moved in the direction of this unspoken rendezvous. He could see her shape in the moonlight, a willowy form moving with graceful purpose.

  He wanted to ask her about this mystery; about what exactly they were planning to witness. Mermaids singing, seafolk dancing around a fire–a ludicrous notion, even to the most diehard of mermaid fans, he suspected. Were there lights bobbing on the water from kid's toys floating out to sea? A moonlight sheen on some buoys marking fishing zones? There must be a rational explanation which Finn Malloy knew of even at this moment.

  "You could give me a hint," he said. "Of what this event really is." His shoes made contact with the stone surface along the cliffside, slowing his progress as he followed her.

  "No hints," she answered. Her steps slowed to wait for him, the lantern held out to shine a pathway through the stones. When he caught up with her again, he could see the stretch of sandy shore ahead, the stone edge of a small cliff. She approached it, bending low along the strips and patches of grass dotting the edge. Setting the lantern aside, she lowered its flame.

  "There," she whispered. Following her example, Landen crouched beside her.

  "Where?" he whispered. Below was a beach devoid of life, except for a large campfire aflame on a pile of driftwood, blazing high as if to signal something offshore. A fishing shack tilted away in the distant dark as if afraid of the light.

  "Watch," she whispered. And so he did. For the first time, he was aware of sounds from below. Scuffling, a murmur of voices. A squeaking, as if wood being forced back.

  A moment later, the door swung open and a series of pale figures rushed forth. A stream of hair and wild grasses, the glitter of mica and beads, the sheen of gauze like serpentine skirts, racing forth from the dark interior.

  A few figures appeared to have nothing at all as they cast aside wraps and leaped into the water. Pale figures bobbing in the waves, the sound of feminine voices carried on the breeze. Wild laughter and high, frenzied tones, the shadows of figures cast weirdly in the firelight on the beach.

  "What the–" Landen began. On the sand, the remaining figures swayed around the fire, twisting and writhing in a strange dance. He heard words which sounded foreign, exotic–a low hum, the vibration of singing. It had an otherworldly sound which made his skin crawl.

  "Who are they?" he said. "You don't–that is–these women are...?"

  "The Society of the Mermaid's Daughters," answered Finn, in a whisper that contained both seriousness and humor in its softness. "It's the island woman's version of the polar bear plunge." The firelight flickered over the swaying figures, revealing countenances with advanced years beneath the garish makeup and wild hair.

  The thin figure closest to the fire resembled Lorrie from the coffee shop, her reddish hair snarled wildly beneath ropes of shells wound around her forehead. The thought of the demure waitress from the Codswallow as the savage figure below was incongruous–a loud, snorting laugh escaped Landen in response to it before Finn clapped a hand over his mouth.

  "Shhhh," she whispered. "This is a secret society, remember? No one's supposed to be here except for the members." She met his eyes with a firm stare he could sense more than see, even in the brightest patch of moonlight.

  "I'm sorry," he answered, in an apologetic whisper as she withdrew her hand. "I'll keep it quiet from now on." The warmth of her fingers, the pressure where her skin had touched his, was surprising and enticing all at once. He was half-sorry that she let go of him, his hand inching towards her in the dark as if to touch her fingers, before his sensible side withdrew from the movement.

  Below, the firelight cast shadows on the strange costumes of the Mermaid's Daughters: strings of pebbles and shells wound like coronets and trailing necklaces, bare feet beneath gauze wraps and sea-grass tops. Someone tossed a handful of something into the fire, the flames rising in spurts of blue and pink a moment later, painting them in an otherwordly light.

  Finn edged away from the scene slowly. "Don't take a photo," she warned him, in a loud whisper. He drew back from the edge, stumbling to his feet now that he was safely out of sight for the women below.

  "I had no intention of doing that," he whispered back. "You said it was a secret society, didn't you?" They moved away from the view of the beach, the sounds of the strange song below. Finn was retracing the path towards the lighthouse cliff again, glancing back to make certain he was keeping up.

  "So do they gather there often?" he asked, daring to raise his voice a little more as they walked. "The ... mermaid sisterhood of sorts?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. "And if it's such a secret ceremony, how do you know about it?"

  "My mother once belonged to it," she answered. Glancing over her shoulder as she spoke.

  He had not given thought to the absence of her parents, despite her youth. He had not imagined their lives in this place at all, but now his head was filled with a vivid image of an older version of Finn swaying before a red fire in a dress of broken shells and sea glass.

  "I take it half the village knows," he said. "But on a 'don't tell' basis. So why did you show me?"

  She slowed for a moment, then paused altogether. Above them, the lighthouse was visible again, its base a vast black tower in the moonlight.

  "I thought maybe it would satisfy you to solve one mystery," she answered. "That way, if you don't see a mermaid, you've seen at least one strange event you can mention in your story."

  "But not at the expense of the mermaid society, I assume." He drew closer to her in the darkness, the glowing lantern and a few steps the only thing separating them.

  "Some people would say it's silly," she said. "Keeping up an old superstition. But to them, it has a lot of meaning." There was something in her voice that made him think she was talking of something beyond the society of women dancing below.

  "What does it mean?" he asked. "The daughters of the mermaids. Is it all because of the story? How do you become a member–because I take it you're not one."

  He half-expected her not to answer; part of the code of the island or something. The lantern cast a halo about her feet, an eerie glow upon her face and shoulders above. She looked away, glancing in the direction of the invisible sea.

  "Not yet," she answered. "There's sort of an age threshold for membership. I don't qualify yet."

  He thought he could see traces of amusement and sorrow mingling upon her face, even in the darkness. He could imagine her blue eyes filled with mysteries he could not unravel in a few moments on a cliff, a stone's throw from the island's secret ceremony. He found something alluring in the thought of Finn's future among these women, even though the light of day would reveal ludicrous costumes and the ashes of a fire made by human hands. The thought of her joining these ordinary women finding a youth in middle age, leaping into the cold, foamy sea with only thin fabric and sea grass between herself and the tide ... he turned his gaze towards the ground, although he knew the flush on his cheeks was invisible.

  "How long was your mother a member?" he asked.

  "Until she died," Finn answered. "They died two years apart, separate health problems. My parents, that is."

  It was the most perso
nal thing she had mentioned since he met her. Until now, they had talked of mermaids and the island's folklore, of the sea and its history. They had talked of the strange hobby of a group of total strangers while crouched like spies on a cliff. But he had never asked her what her life was like in this place or the reason why she remained here.

  "I suppose you'll go on fishing, living in the cottage, have a drink at the pub now and then ... and join the Society of the Mermaid's Daughters in twenty years or so?" he said. "I'll have to come back and interview the society personally someday. One of the island's phenomenon in a follow-up piece."

  "I'll be here," she answered.

  He reached across, his fingers hesitating before they touched her hair. Carefully lifting a strand aside as the breeze fanned it in her face.

  "No chance that you'd ever leave?" he asked. "This is one of those places where people stay forever, isn't it?" He intended to move his hand, before she got the wrong impression about his touch. The impression he had meant to make was unclear in his mind, as if the impulse had a life of its own.

  "You can't understand," she answered, with a faint laugh. "It only seems special if you're here. That's how it is to the people who work and fish here. We have our own ways, our own ideas. It'd be hard to give them up for something else."

  The seriousness in her voice was unmistakable, even with the attempt at lighthearted tones.

  "I might understand better than you think," he said. "The unexplained is my field of specialty. Not limited to mermaid cults and ghost ships, either." This last part he added in a teasing voice.

  "Not many people can come to a place like this and be happy," she answered. "A hard life, 'tis the sea–that's what people here say every day of their lives. It makes loving it hard sometimes."

  His fingers drew away from her face, gently. She lifted her hand and touched them as they moved; he felt the warmth of her fingers, soft tips and roughened calluses, small bones curving around his own in a delicate hold. Leaning down, he touched her lips, a soft kiss on the verge of dissolving if she pulled away. Instead, she leaned forward, deepening the touch as her lips parted.

  She pulled away after a moment, as if realizing what this moment might mean to both of them. Had it been the brightness of day and not moonlight surrounding them, he was certain he would see a blush on her cheek at this moment. As for his own, he suspected it would be the same. His heart was hammering as he gazed at her, aware that her eyes were avoiding his own with their seaward gaze again; the direction of the cliff, the vast darkness on the other side that swept towards the horizon in unseen waves.

  He wanted to say something else, but he was not certain what words he would choose. For a moment, Finn's world seemed to slide into place. A steady existence in which reality and the unexplained lived in harmony with each other, beauty and labor were one and the same. It was brutal and beckoning all at once.

  Perhaps it was only because he compared it with his own life. A threadbare social existence, a series of forgotten dreams, a life spent chasing mysteries that no one really wanted to solve.

  "Finn," he said, softly. As she turned to face him, he heard a strange sound carried on the breeze. A wild trilling sound unlike the babbled song of the mermaid sisterhood. A sound of pipes and a low pulsing beat which sent shivers across his spine.

  "What is that?" he said. Finn laughed.

  "The music from across the way," she said. "The pub. The locals go there for a drink at night, sometimes there's a bit of a band if no games are being watched."

  She held out her hand. "Would you like to go?" she asked.

  He remembered the invitation from Morgan Malloy and the locals at the Codswallow. The chance to meet the other "eyewitnesses" to the mermaid's appearance. His story should take precedence over this moment, the adventure of prowling over dark cliffs in the night with the girl across from him.

  "Sure," he answered. Taking her hand and keeping up with her pace as they ran across the beach towards the village road.

  *****

  The music from the Pig and Whistle pub throbbed from the open windows like a warm flood, the bright interior revealing the shapes of humans moving to and fro. Bobbing as if in a dance, carrying trays of brimming drinks to thirsty patrons. A contrast to the relative quiet of the town, the last few lights winking in the distance like rivals to the stars if they had been visible, the only signs of life a handful of businesses and the Mermaid's Arms in the distance. The pub's atmosphere was hardly the quiet evening that Angus and Morgan had painted earlier this morning.

  Landen didn't have time to protest, however; the door was swung open by Finn, a series of loud and cheery greetings from the patrons pressed closest to the entrance. A stranger in a work shirt clapped his hand on Landen's shoulder; a woman in a floral dress was shouting to Finn above the fray.

  "I thought evenings were quieter around here," he said loudly, his focus on the stranger next to him, although he intended for Finn to answer.

  "Who said it was quiet 'round here?" the man answered, with a loud guffaw. Finn was fast-disappearing in the crowded room, carried away by a tide of moving bodies.

  "There ye be!" Morgan Malloy was beside him now. "What did I say now? There's half the populace here and more'n one of 'em has seen something strange on the waters, I'll wager." He steered Landen through the dancers towards the back of the pub, where the lights were dimmer and more serious patrons could be seen sitting with their drinks.

  In a chair shoved near the window, Landen was equally divided between the view of moonlit street outside and the man across from him. Tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, a white turtleneck showing signs of fading and wear. This patron of the pub smoked a cigar instead of the usual cigarettes or pipe, a long expensive taper resting in the full ash tray nearby.

  "Mr. Grantham?" The man held his hand out. "Neville. Neville Ashford." Landen grasped the fingers in a handshake, aware of slightly moist palm and flesh equally devoid of calluses as his own.

  "This 'ere's the local writer I was tellin' you about," said Morgan, drawing up his own chair to the table. "Came here to collect stories–what was it? Three years ago?" His fingers struck a match to the bowl of a pipe, sending the first signs of smoke from tobacco packed within.

  "Five," answered Neville, his accent suggesting Boston upper crust. "Once I started–well, there it was. I ended up renting the old Lancashire place. Know it?" he inquired of Landen.

  Landen shook his head. "I'm not familiar with the local geography," he answered. "I'm just here for a story. An overview on the mermaid for The Unexplained America."

  "Heard as much," Neville nodded. "I've been waiting to talk to you, actually." He leaned forward, arms resting on the table as he assumed confidential tones. "I consider myself something of a town historian. Rather an expert on the sailor lore, the mermaid myth and such. Call it the intricacies of the folklore, if you will." He laughed dryly.

  Landen forced himself to smile. "I'll be happy to hear some of them," he said, pressing the button of his digital recorder, although he had his doubts about the usability of this material. "Especially if you can point me in the direction of anyone with an interesting story of sighting the mermaid."

  "Pint, love?" A smiling waitress offered Landen a glass from the tray resting on her hip, dark liquid swimming without bubbles or foam.

  "Nay, not that," said Morgan, good-naturedly intervening before Landen could reach for one. "Too strong for an outsider," he explained, with a wink. "One needs a stomach of steel and a good bit of practice before taking Wally's black ale by the draught."

  "A simple whiskey, then," said Landen, glancing hopefully at the waitress. She smiled as if she understood, then moved along to the next table.

  "You should talk to Duncan. Owns the marine supply shop just down the street and is quite a storyteller when it come to the mermaid," said Neville. "He was the first one to ever tell me the story in person–got it all wrong, of course, but it was a charmed version, nevertheless."

/>   "Some say it isn't related to the wreck of the Lacordia at all," ventured Landen, for the third time since hearing Farcus's story.

  "Oh, it's not," Neville assured him, even as Morgan piped up.

  "There be doubts both ways," said Morgan. "See, the sailor in question–he was on board the Lacordia before he signed onto the West Winds. When he told the tale exactly, nobody knows. But he did survive the shipwreck–just a cabin lad of thirteen or so who was hauled into a boat by rescuers."

  Neville shook his head. "The first mermaid story was before the Lacordia sank," he said. "Mermaid lore guarantees that sailors were telling the story from the moment they entered these waters. Half the island was Celts and the–" His words were drowned out by a frenzied reel from the dance floor. Landen thought he caught a glimpse of Finn's dark hair in the midst of the whirling dancers, a quickened beat in his chest in response.

  "Linus McGrew has seen it with the best eye of anyone here," argued Morgan. "And he heard the story from his own great-grandfather, who heard it from one o' the first tellers. Now where's he got to? He'd be about here somewhere..." He glanced around the room, then slipped between two patrons crowded close to the next table.

  The waitress moved towards their table, with Landen casting a relieved eye at her tray before she disappeared somewhere in the crush. Across from him, Neville polished off a half-full pint.

  "Linus isn't half the storyteller that Duncan is–for those interested in the mythical side of the tale," said Neville. "Of course, those more inclined to the real story would talk to someone like Jenny, but that's not often anymore."

  "Jenny," repeated Landen. The name was vaguely familiar, as if someone had mentioned it before. "Who is she? Another mermaid spotter?"

  "Spotter?" said Neville, with a hawkish laugh. "Not hardly. She's practically the story in itself. I'd have a word with her if I were you. I'm surprised no one mentioned it before. She hardly sees visitors these days, though. And it's not in keeping with the popular version of the story to talk to Jenny, now is it?"