Mermaids at Sunrise

He had always wanted a son.

He was the greatest fisherman of our small village, and he wanted a boy to act as his heir. Yet all he got was a disappointment.

I was a greater fisher than any of the boys my age, yet that didn’t matter. It wasn’t about ability. It was about tradition. It was about ancient ways held tight in the fists of men unable to renounce their positions. I was expected to act as a woman, yet these archaic expectations of what a woman should be did not fit my own point of view.

“Father, may I come out on the boat today?”

There was no reply. He would continue to bark orders at the young men, boys who did not share his blood, while I was left ignored. I would watch them sail away, before returning home to hide from the eyes of those that would cast judgement upon me.

“You should focus less on fishing, and more on the duties of a woman,” my father would say at night when there was no one around. This was the only time he would talk to me. “You do not just a disservice to yourself, but also to your family name. There are many good men in the village, strong men that would protect you, and you would be lucky to have any of them. If not for the fact you are my daughter, you would not be attractive as a bride. You cut your hair short, swear like a sailor, and dress like an urchin boy. I don’t know where I went wrong with you.”

Everyone, not only my father, felt disgust at the way I looked, the way I spoke, the way I dressed. My words and actions were not becoming of a woman, they would say. They would clutch rosary beads as they passed me and mutter prayers or obscenities under their breath. Some would even spit at me. My father would do nothing in response. He would walk so far ahead on the rare days we would leave the house together, that I wasn’t sure if he even saw the abuse directed towards me. To him, I was a disgrace.

When I turned eighteen it was decided that I should be given a role within our village if I was so adamant that I was not to marry. Lighthouse keeper made the most sense. Though still part of our village, it was a thirty-minute walk up a steep hillside. This meant I was far enough away that no one would have to deal with my existence. Once a week would I return, collecting enough food and provisions to last me yet another seven days in isolation. Aside from the meagre rations provided, I had a large metal tub to bathe in. This I would fill with the icy seawater I would collect in a bucket from the shore. I would sleep during the day, and work throughout the night. I became a ghost to the village below. A horror story told to keep the next generation of little girls in line.

Yet, I continued to fish. Each morning as the sun rose, I would head down to the shore. I would sit atop the rocks that lead down to the water, and cast my rod as high and far as my strength would allow. Some of what I caught I would eat, but the main purpose was for my own enjoyment. Most fish I would release moments after bringing them into my grip. My life had become nothing but tedium, the duties of lighthouse keeper minimal and dull. The thrill of the catch was the only thing that made me feel alive. The village had done everything to push me away. Yet, each time I cast my line and I saw the small glint of the hook against the sunrise, I would feel a connection to something ancient. As if I was a part of something nameless from deep within our culture and history. My father had been adamant that I never follow in his footsteps, but it was him who had once gifted me this rod.

Had it been weeks, months, or even a year? The days began to blur into one another so I couldn’t be sure. However long it had been, one morning as the sunrise burned my bleary retinas, I walked down to the shore and began to fish as usual. Within a short time, my line snagged. The pull was intense, far stronger than anything I had tried to reel in before. What was strange was that whatever I’d caught didn’t seem to ease off the pressure on the line. A fish would tire at times, even a strong one, but this felt like nothing but dead weight. I worried the line would snap against the force, but slowly and surely the weight pulled closer.

As my eyes began to focus on the shadow approaching the surface of the water, I noticed the figure looked human. The chances were that whoever this person was would be dead, fallen from the side of a boat and drowned days before. If they were alive, they were most likely from my village, so wouldn’t give me the time of the day even if I had saved their life. Yet, after so much isolation, the small hope that there would be someone to talk to who hadn’t already judged me flooded my imagination. I reeled them in until I was certain they were nestled on the rocks, unable to be pulled back by the gentle ebbing tide, and began to head down to the water’s edge.

As I clambered further down, the smell of the salt water became intense. Yet, even with that scent stinging my nostrils, a more pungent aroma overpowered that of the ocean. It had a faint fishiness, yet even more sour, with hints of the sulphur that comes with rotten eggs. As I moved closer to the figure, the smell became stronger. By the time I was down by their side, it was almost overwhelming and I struggled to not gag and vomit.

The body was feminine. What I believed to be her legs were encased in a long skin-tight skirt made from emerald scales that danced in the morning sunlight. What I believed to be her feet were still submerged in the water, out of my vision. From her waist to her neck was completely bare, her skin a dark olive hue. Yet it was hard to be unnerved by her bare chest when all my attention was drawn to her head. Encasing her entire skull was what appeared to be a metal mask. It was tight around her neck, digging deep into her flesh and leaving a red raw wound flecked with blood. The hook of my line had caught on the rim around her neck. I unhooked it with caution before inspecting the mask further.

The mask had no features, no distinguishing marks outside of the occasional scratch or dent. There seemed to be no air-holes, no opening around the nose or mouth. The only part not completely interred in this metal cage were her eyes, yet these too were not spared punishment. Similar to the constriction around her neck, the circular eyes holes of the mask dug deep into her flesh. This left her eyes protruding, popping out of the holes as if she was in a state of constant shock. What was even more horrifying, was that the metal dug in so deep, there was no opportunity for her to blink. Her eyes were permanently wrenched open by the mask. I looked deep into her eyes, coloured the same deep emerald as what I believed to be her skirt. The glossy sheen over them made me realise she was still unconscious.

I began to drag her body up the shore. As I first pulled her completely out of the ocean, I noticed that what I thought were her legs in a tight emerald skirt was in fact a tail. While this terrified me, I was still overcome with an urgency to help this woman. With the utmost care, so that her body was not hurt as I dragged her across the rocks, I managed to manoeuvre her closer towards the lighthouse. Rather than drag her all the way up the stairs, I decided a better idea would be to carry the large metal tub I used for bathing down to her. I placed her in it and, after several trips back and forth from the lighthouse to the water’s edge, I managed to fill the tub with seawater.

Then, I waited.

I knew it was rude to do so, but I couldn’t help but stare. I’d heard stories of such creatures from drunken fishermen. They would tell tall tales of beautiful fish-women appearing at their boat side during late night fishing trips. Until now, I’d never believed them. My father would dismiss them as fanciful stories. He found them insulting, adding to stereotypes of fishermen driven by superstition rather than skill.

Yet, here lay in front of me, was one such creature.

I yawned, sleep wanting to take me, but I fought against it. If she were to come around anytime soon, I wanted to be sure I was awake when it happened.

Eventually, she stirred. Subtly at first, mere twitches of her fingers. Soon her head turned and her bulging eyes focussed on me to acknowledge she was now alert. It was impossible to tell, but I thought I caught a glint of gratitude in her eyes. I didn’t know how else to communicate with her, so I found a pencil and paper and handed them to her. I voiced my words with a slow purpose, hoping she would understand.

“MY... NAME... IS... LUCRETIA.”

She scribbled on the pad in response and turned it to me. Littering the page were strange symbols that I knew could not belong to any known language. Over the following weeks, I neglected my duties as lighthouse keeper. I did only the bare minimum to not attract attention from the village. All my time I focussed on teaching this fantastic creature the alphabet, and a rudimentary understanding of how to write words.

“MY... NAME... IS... LUCRETIA. WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”

She hesitated. I wasn’t sure if she was contemplating a response, or simply did not understand. Emotion and the subtle cues of facial expression were impossible as long as that metal cage covered her face. The first night after I brought her into the lighthouse, I’d tried to pry it open with a metal tool I’d found. She’d thrashed with such ferocity at my actions that it was clear that trying to remove it was causing far too much pain. Even throughout her thrashings, she made no noise. I worried that, being unable to remove the metal mask that covered her face, she would starve. Yet, as long I remembered to fill the tub with fresh seawater daily, and poured small cups of that salt water onto her eyes at regular intervals, she always seemed satiated. After a long pause, she began to write her response to my question.

After she’d finished her scribbling, she turned the page to me. While she was comfortable writing the alphabet, this was the first time she had written anything more.

“YOU LUCRETIA. MY CETO. LUCRETIA CETO FRIEND.”

I smiled.

“Your name is Ceto?”

She nodded with enthusiasm. A mannerism she must have picked up from me, as I’d never seen her respond in such a way before. She scribbled once again.

“LUCRETIA BEAUTY.”

I blushed. I was almost certain this was the first compliment I’d ever received.

“Thank you, Ceto.”

After a month had passed and we’d grown even closer, I decided to ask her a question that I’d been avoiding for fear it would cause her distress. But I felt I needed to know the answer.

“Ceto... why do have that mask covering your face?”

Again, it was impossible to tell, but I thought I saw a sadness fall across her eyes.

She turned the page of the notepad and began to scrawl once again. It only took a few seconds, then she turned the page towards me. Filling the page in huge block letters was a single word.

BRIDE.

As I said the word aloud, I felt the ground shake. The old rusted metal of the lighthouse groaned against the pressure.

Ceto began to scrawl again.

HE WILL COME. SUNRISE.

I stayed up all night with Ceto. We didn’t communicate much, but I felt I could sense her fear. I wasn’t sure how she would react, but I pulled my stool close to her and held out my hand. She seemed unsure of what it meant, but she interlaced her fingers with mine. I felt her squeeze tight as the first light of dawn began to break. She released my grip, took her pad, and wrote once again.

HE IS HERE. FOR ME. BRIDE.

As if driven by some unconscious knowledge, I walked from the lighthouse and out onto the shore. An enormous creature on the horizon blocked out most of the sunrise. Only small rays of golden hope managed to bend around the herculean blackness that was rising from the ocean. It was hard to see what this giant monstrosity was, its features darkened by the eclipse it had created, but it seemed to resemble a giant toad. It was covered in warty growths that pulsated with such intensity I expected them to burst. It opened its huge gaping maw. Yet, instead of the void I expected to see, encircled by a set of countless razor-sharp teeth was a single giant eye. The iris was coloured emerald, though its hue was much darker than that of Ceto’s eyes, and it glowed against the shadowy backdrop of its monstrous body. Protruding from its bulbous torso were multiple tentacles, each filled with their own warty growths. These tentacles flicked and struck out into the air, causing sounds to boom out across the ocean like ungodly cracked whips.

Then, without words and directly into my mind by some telepathic force, this huge beast spoke to me.

“RETURN MY BRIDE TO ME.”

I didn’t respond, but the creature sensed my hesitation.

“IF YOU DO NOT RETURN WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY MINE, I WILL DESTROY YOUR VILLAGE. I WILL KILL THOSE THAT HAVE RAISED YOU, AND WIPE EVERY PERSON YOU HAVE EVER KNOWN FROM EXISTENCE.”

I thought about Ceto, and I thought about the people in my village. Then, I made my decision.

As I turned to run, I trod on my fishing rod, discarded when I’d first brought Ceto to the shore. The weight of my step caused the wood the break, snapping it in two.

I ran back to the lighthouse and heard the crashing of huge tidal waves behind me. I knew the beast was enraged and moving closer by the second. I doubted that I would make it, but in that moment, it seemed worth it to try.

I kicked open the lighthouse door and moved immediately to Ceto. I scooped her up into my arms and, with all my strength, carried her out of the door. I could not run, but I did my best to walk with as much speed as possible. Away from whatever monstrosity was trying to claim my friend as its bride, away from my village, away from the lighthouse. I had no idea where I would go, or what I would do when I got there. How could I ever explain Ceto to anyone, and would she survive so far from the ocean? All these questions ruptured within my mind. But I could not thwart the overwhelming urgency of protecting my new friend and escaping the horror behind me.

I tried my best not to turn around, to turn my back on it all forever, but I couldn’t help myself.

I took one final glance and watched as one of its gigantic tentacles crashed down onto my village.