Legenda Maris Page 15

  There was a great yelling and praying. From the depths of the ship the pair of horses neighed, and above, dogs barked. But in the ship’s seams the rats looked philosophically about, for they always knew things might end in tears, and tonight it would be the tears of the sea.

  None saw, or if they did they paid no heed, to the slight young girl with her hair blown from its pins, standing on the upper deck, and staring over at the churning waves.

  Then the ship split from one end of herself to the other, and everything spilled out into the sea.

  That moment, the girl jumped over the side. And if any had spied her, they would have seen she was naked as a knife, but for her ruby rings and the rope of pearls, and her long brown hair.

  Cuzarion—and he was a prince—had a great many accomplishments. He had matchlessly waltzed in glittering ballrooms, and faultlessly fought on foot and on horseback; he could play the piano better than most. But swim he could not.

  So now, as the cold black water closed over him, he thought with wrathful despair of all he would miss, and gave himself up to darkness.

  But in the dark, just as the last light in his brain was going out, he felt a cool warmth pressed all the length of his body, and through the shadow saw a naked woman held him, while her hair swirled round them through the currents like a huge flag. She pressed her lips to his, but all he could taste was salt. Then she blew into his mouth.

  “Why have I not died?’’ Cuzarion presently asked the deeps of the icy sea. But then he thought that probably he had, and just did not know it yet.

  Up above, on the surface of the water, which was as tumultuous as the lower reaches were almost still, a curious thing happened.

  Among the floating spars and smashed rails, which were all that was left of the ship, amid the turmoil of night and waves, the storm, having successfully broken something, was ebbing away to sleep, but the elements remained all disturbed and out of kilter. Now a lantern bobbed by, still burning in the murk, and you might see two pale horses swimming, led by long brown reins, and it was a girl leading them on, and hair that made the reins. And then several dogs went by, balanced companionable on a piece of stiff sail, and towed along. And an owl perched on a shattered mast, to which twenty men were also clinging, lifting its wings above the brine.

  Later, when they had come to shore—and not one of them was lost, although, to be exact, they thought that one of them of them had been—they told this strangest tale. Of a woman in the sea who drew them up from the ocean and hung them out like her washing on the bars and stays and wreckage of the ship. Who bound them there with wet wippy weed from the under-shores of the sea, and pressed, with small slender hands as strong as steel, the water from their lungs, then dragged them in, by a net of weed—and some said of brown hair—to the shores of the land.

  There then, in the last of the awful night, men stood by the driftwood fires they had made, wringing out their washing-wet clothes and fear-sodden souls, while the horses stamped and the dogs ran about and the owl dried its feathers. Then rescuers came, with torches and brandy, from the nearby town.

  “It is a miracle—is every man here?”

  “Every man and every beast. Look, even the bloody rats are saved and brought ashore!”

  “No, no,” cried one of the servants, “we have lost our prince.”

  “They have lost their prince.”

  “And her, we’ve lost the young lady—” cried another. But when he said this, the rest shushed him.

  “She was no girl or maid or lady.”

  “What then? What?”

  “The sea she was.”

  He woke on a far coast like none he had ever seen, though, being well-read, he had read of such a place, now and then.

  Palms like green spiders on stilts swept the sand with their legs. The water was a blue turquoise. Above rose wooded hills, from which blew the scent of orange groves, and the dim ringing of the bells of a monastery on a high rock.

  Nearby sat a girl in a satin dress and a rope of pearls, toasting fish over a small fire.

  “We’re ship-wrecked, then,” said the prince. “Only you and I. The other poor devils have all gone down. But I grieve too for my horses and dogs, and the owl. Although perhaps the owl at least may reach land.”

  “Grieve for none,” said the girl, “all have reached the shore, though another shore than this.”

  “Indeed,” said Cuzarion. But a memory was coming back to him, like a remembered dream. “I think you saved me,” said he.

  “So I did. I saved each and all.”

  “That is most praise-worthy and talented of you,” said Cuzarion, raising his brows. “How, pray, did you do it?”

  Then the girl brought him some fish, and he ate this hungrily, and then drank from the bottle of wine she had also set by, which was very nicely aged.

  “Did people bring these provisions out of pity for us? And these clothes—this fine shirt and breeches I have on, which are never mine—and your dress, since—I hope you’ll forgive me—you seemed without one earlier.”

  The girl smiled, not looking at him. She put back her mass of hair with one hand.

  “I brought the fish and the wine, and the clothes too from chests, out of the deeps of the sea.”

  “Did you now,” said Cuzarion.

  “Up from the deeps, out of which I brought you all. It is work I set myself to do.”

  Cuzarion made no comment. But then he said . “It’s a noble thing to be so busy, and at your young age too.”

  “How old do you make me out to be?” said she, tossing her head a little.

  “Oh, a great age—eighteen or so.”

  “One hundred and eight is nearer the mark.”

  “Ah.”

  Then she laughed. “You think I lie, of course. But I tell you true. My name is Elaidh. My mother was a mermaid, and she got me by a human man, and left me in his care, the way the mermaids do, for all that race are female. Then when I was thirteen years old, my mother wanted me, to transform me to her kind, with a long silver tail and hair green as grass. But I loved my da, and so I stayed with him. I thought I should only be a woman, but it seems I have great powers from my mother, though she was cruel, as mermaids are. I am long-lived, and the ocean is familiar to me. I can breathe in water easy as air, and I can give my gift to humankind for a little while, when I blow in their mouths. Also, I can tell the ships that may go down. I walk about the quays, and suss them out. Then I go sailing on them, and when they sink, save everyone I can. With your ship I had great luck, and saved every living thing.”

  “I must thank you, then,” said Cuzarion, attempting to laugh, but seeming uneasy. He added, “Do your pearls and rubies come from the sea, too?”

  “Oh yes. There are great hoards of jewels and other riches that lie there, mermaid-trove, that I steal from them. My da and I were rich, while he yet lived.”

  “Yet a pity,” said Cuzarion, looking under his lids at her, “that you only blew the breath of life into my mouth. All this while I’d been thinking it was a kiss.”

  Then she sat back and looked quietly at him.

  “Oh, do you see me now?” she asked.

  Cuzarion, though a prince, had the grace to blush. But then, he was young as a child beside her.

  Some while they were on that coast.

  Elaidh taught Cuzarion to swim, and sometimes she would whisper the magic air into his mouth so he might swim under the sea, but not very far down. Even so, he saw wonderful sights there. Peculiar creatures that moved about below the rocks, and mysterious plants and corals, and fish of rainbow colours.

  By day, he and she would swim then, or walk about the country. Going inland, they went by mustard fields and fields of lavender, and on the hills the bees rose in clouds, just as the fish rose in the sea at their passing. Now and then they met with people, who spoke a language Cuzarion, for all his education, did not know. But Elaidh knew it. She told him frankly she knew by now most of the languages of the earth, for she had
journeyed nearly everywhere. “There’s no land,” said she, “the water cannot take me.”

  In a village under the monastery rock, they went into a cool blue church whose walls were figured with saints. And Cuzarion was amazed Elaidh could do this, and more amazed when she bowed to the cross, for he had heard mermaids, and their kin, could not have one single thing to do with God.

  As time went on, Cuzarion began to think less and less of who he was, who he had been, his other life. He thought more and more of Elaidh. And as he thought more of her, he saw her more and more clearly. At first she seemed plain, but very graceful. Then she seemed lovely, and then beautiful. At last she seemed the only living thing, so that if a bird exquisitely sang, somehow it was Elaidh, and when it flew, it was Elaidh. And the dawn was Elaidh, and the evening star, and the moon.

  “I should like to stay with you,” said Cuzarion, “for ever.”

  “That is hardly possible,” said Elaidh.

  “Because you will never die, and I shall?”

  “One day I shall die.”

  She led him into the wood at dusk. The grass was thick with clovers and warm still from the sun. They became lovers with finesse, and ease, for each had been a lover before.

  And at first Cuzarion was most happy. But then, he was less happy. He became content, then static, then restless. And Elaidh became again only beautiful.

  “Elaidh, I must get home. How long have I been away?”

  “One month,” said she.

  “So long—it seems only a day or so—”

  But she knew he lied.

  “You’ll understand my difficulty,” said Prince Cuzarion. “My father is old and gives over much of the running of things to me. Besides—I was to marry.”

  “She’ll be that impatient.” said Elaidh. From her face you could tell little, only perhaps that she had spoken in this way before, once, twice.

  “Yes, she’s a royal girl, and she will be very angry.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Oh—some royal name Sapphyra, that’s her name.”

  “Will you not give her up,” said Elaidh, “for me?” But she spoke in a light and mocking manner, and Cuzarion smiled.

  “Would that I could,” he said. “Kingdoms depend on it.”

  “Go up to the monastery, “ said Elaidh. “Say the sea cast you here, but now you’d be going home. The priests are wealthy and wise and will find you a ship.”

  “Come with me, Elaidh.”

  “I? Come with you where, and to what?”

  “In my own country—maybe we can make an arrangement, you and I. It’s not unknown. I must marry the princess, but even so, there will be times when I can get free of her.”

  “No, then. I will not be going with you for that.”

  Cuzarion was sorry. He felt badly about himself. And so he walked off through the fields of mustard and lavender and mint, and among the olive groves where, as the soft wind blew, every leaf flashed, like the silver tails of a thousand fish.

  When he came back near evening, Elaidh was not there. He searched a long while, even standing at the edge of the dark blue sea, calling her. But she was gone. She was gone for good. After a day or so, he walked up to the monastery where the priests were gracious to him, for he was a prince, charming, and well-read.

  The ocean is not made of tears, though one might think it. No, it is the other way about, for the water of the sea is in us, in our blood, and when we cry, we cry the sea’s own salt water.

  The princess whose name was Sapphyra, had herself done some crying, but that was now over. She had a fair face of sharp features, and raven-black hair.

  “How good it is, to see her cheerful again,” said her maids. “A year ago, when she thought him dead, she grieved so.” They did not add that while she grieved, she had pinched and slapped them every day.

  Now the princess, and her three highest attendants, were gathering flowers, in the palace’s wild gardens that ran to the shore. In one more day, Sapphyra would be married to the Prince Cuzarion, and the garlands—which others would weave from the flowers—were for her wedding: A quaint custom.

  “Who is that?” said the First Attendant, straightening up with her armful of lilies.

  “Some great lady,” said the Second Attendant, “standing by to watch.”

  “She’s only a girl, she is,” said the Third Attendant.

  Then Sapphyra turned and looked.

  There the woman stood, under a tamarisk tree. In the sunlight, she shone like a church window. Her gown was silver, there were diamonds in her hair, and on her fingers three red ruby rings of incalculable price.

  “Good day, madam,” said Sapphyra, feeling quite undressed in her embroidered morning-wear.

  The woman nodded. “You are the Princess Sapphyra?”

  “I have that joy.”

  “Long then, may you be joyful,” said the woman.

  “But let me ask,” said the princess, frowning somewhat, “your own name, and your purpose.”

  “My name is Elaidh, and my mother was a mermaid. I am here to offer you my wedding-gift.”

  A great silence had fallen in the wild gardens. Even the daylight nightingale had left off her song.

  “A gift? Why should I deserve one from you?”

  “Ah,” said Elaidh, sadly, “you must take my word for that.”

  The three Attendants were in a fuss.

  They bustled about, and everywhere flowers fell from their hands and out of their gilded baskets. But Sapphyra said, “If I should accept your gift, how am I to receive it?”

  “You must come down to the shore,” said Elaidh.

  The Attendants did not wish to. But Sapphyra took hold of them and shook them.

  “Do you know nothing? The mermaid-kind are wealthy beyond all thought. And see—the gems all over her—why, even her two shoes are studded with pearls.”

  “And why should she need shoes,” said the Third Attendant pertly, “if her mother was a fish?”

  But Elaidh was walking slowly away by now, and Sapphyra soon followed. The Attendants unhappily went after.

  The sea came gently to the gardens, it was there an ocean of low tides.

  But Elaidh stood, with her pearl shoes in the water. “Now, princess Sapphyra, you must be brave, and trust me. For I’m set to show you an astonishment of this world, which is a treasure-hoard of the mermaids. But to see it, you must come down with me, under the waves.”

  At this, all three Attendants began to scream, but such silly little screams, like operatic mice.

  Besides, Sapphyra turned and slapped them. One! Two! Three! After which there was only snivelling.

  “They must come down too,” said Sapphyra, spitefully.

  “Very well,” said Elaidh.

  So she stepped up to each of the women, and kissed her on the lips, and as she did so, into each of their mouths she blew her pure salt breath.

  This dazed them a touch. So, when she walked out into the sea, they went after her, lifting their skirts foolishly, to keep them dry, until the water closed over their heads.

  Down and down sank the princess and her maids, after the swift form of Elaidh—who seemed to fly through the water.

  The light left the sea. It grew dark and then black. But everywhere in the black it was lit up by gleaming objects, some of which were stones, or plants, and some of which were glowing fish with eyes like candle-flames.

  Huge rock-faces rose about them, and from the ledges of these, bloated shapes sometimes launched themselves, and flapped off like crows. Then they came into an orchard of corals, which were all in razor blossom.

  Now and then Elaidh spoke to Sapphyra and her ladies, and through the sorcery of her breath, or her mind, they heard her, although they themselves could not utter at all.

  “There is a giant octopus,” said Elaidh. “Never fear him, he knows not to be discourteous to me.” Or, “Look there, the wreck of an antique galleon.” The octopus was a cause of discomfort to the princess a
nd her ladies, though he did no more than blink his eye at them. The galleon filled them with terror, for the bones of men lay over its decks, and even the figurehead had become a skeleton.

  But then Elaidh led them through a forest of tall seaweeds, everyone of which was like a long, six-fingered hand. And then they passed through a tunnel of the rock, and coming out, they were in a vast cavern, elsewhere open only at its top. But somehow, through this opening, miles up, the sunlight entered, and came down and illuminated the space, and the floor of fine, moon-white sand.

  Sapphyra and her ladies stopped, balanced in the sea, and staring.

  “Here,” said Elaidh, “as I promised you, is a treasure of the mermaid-kind.”

  On every side went up heaps and actual towers of riches, such as would surpass the trophy chambers of an emperor. There were caskets and chests of golden coins and silver, and cascades of pearls, emeralds and diamonds. There were statues of solid gold with eyes of opal, and unusual artefacts of gold, one of which was a model of a golden palace, very intricate, and large enough a child could have played in it. It had windows of carnelian, amethyst and chrysoprase, and roofs of polished ivory.

  The ladies seemed to forget their terror. They floated to and fro, handling things and exclaiming silently, so crystal bubbles blew out of their mouths like words.

  “You may take anything you can carry,” said Elaidh.

  At this, Sapphyra strove to pick up the gold palace, but Elaidh came to her and pressed her arm. “For you, princess, there is another treasure.”

  Then Elaidh drew Sapphyra aside into a second cave. And here Sapphyra lost all her composure. For from the floor to the ceiling, the cave was piled with jewels of a shining, heavenly blueness, some set in gold and some strung in ropes, some burnished, and some cut so they had become like stars of the northern pole. And some were larger than a man’s hand. They were sapphires.

  “For your name,” said Elaidh. “Take whatever you want.”