And so she rises

TW: alcohol abuse, assault, sexual assault.

The dark waves rush forward, desperate to break themselves. Beads of shingle and salt feed into skin, raw and coarse from handling ropes rough. Backwash trickles home, coming to rocks inhabited by lighthouses sentenced to solitude, finding its way to the depths of darkness below. The night has been long, and so she rises.

***

The intermittent cackle and shrieking of gulls broke through James Ardley’s night of sleep. The sun had not yet risen, and a deep darkness filled the room. A dry stench of alcohol loomed as James sat up. He had slept in his oilskin and waders that squeaked with sweat. He realised his breath was heavy - some kind of nightmare had plagued his sleep. Rubbing his eyes, James swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head was heavy from the previous night, but he knew that he had no choice other than to head down to Black Rock harbour.

The Lamorna Merryn was James Ardley’s fishing boat and livelihood. He had learnt to tie knots from his father’s hands as his mother sent them both out to sea, adrift with the cold winter mornings and slimy fish. There was never a parting gift; not even so much as a hot flask of tea, so James’ father turned to whiskey to warm his bones.

Last night there had been a storm that writhed and swept across Black Rock, drowning its victims in rain and sorrow. Climbing up onto his boat, he found the deck awash with the sea’s choked-up remnants. The winter morning had not allowed the sun to emerge and so James was forced to flick the old torch on. The beam wandered across the wooden panels, revealing stranded seaweed, broken driftwood and a large hole in the deck that was allowing water to leak in slowly. The nets were filled with jagged holes that needed patching up. James would have to wait until dawn to begin the repairs. He skirted around the seaweed to avoid slipping as the tinny clanging of metal echoed out into the dark. The sea was silently weeping, as it always does after the chaos of a storm. A hard day’s work lay ahead.

With the weakening sun’s haziness hidden by fog, James pulled out his father’s old flask and took a long, drawn-out swig. The whiskey burned as it went down his throat, smoky hot with a lingering taste of burnt cinnamon. The light of other torches gradually appeared as the other fishermen began their days begrudgingly with cold hands that faced repairs from the storm. The sea favoured no-one. It did not care for these men who had only fishing to keep the village and its inhabitants afloat. Without it, they would all begin to rot.

Two boats over, Walter Musselwhite threw a harsh glare at James as he started to repair the deck. His wife Evelyn was the landlady of the tavern, at which James was a regular.

“Something’s a matter, aye Walter?” James’ voice drifted across the harbour.

“You know what’s a’ matter. Keep out the tavern and away from Evelyn, you ‘ear?” James grunted at this and turned away, unbothered by Walter and his empty threats. He had barely spoken to Evelyn last night at the tavern from what he could remember. He did not care for women or their attentions.

Over in the distance, the small grey seal colony that inhabited Godrevy Lighthouse’s island were huddled together, building a rounded barricade against the foamed waves which coiled as duos towards a rushing demise. The blurred grey shapes were rolling around, fins wind- borne to the breeze. Most fishermen said that the souls of those who die at the hands of the sea become seals, allies of the water, flotsam and jetsam of its sea creatures.

Even as a child, James had never believed these legends that the villagers spoke of. Of course, he knew of the Black Rock shipwreck, caused by a terrible storm that went on for days.

The boat had washed up on the stark rocks of Godrevy Lighthouse, just off the coast of Black Rock. There were never any survivors found. Some said that mermaids sang them to their death, taking them for unwilling lovers beneath the waves. James occasionally got close to the wreck on his morning shifts but knew better than to be caught adrift in the currents that dragged you to certain death on their rocks.

The sun began to steadily appear at the sea’s horizon, a glowing ember reflecting on the slick foxy ocean. Finally having access to non-artificial light, James discarded the torch and finished the final parts of the repairs. Gruff voices chanted sea shanties, calling out to the tide. The morning modros air was quiet as Lamorna left the harbourside and gently trickled out to sea.

James was not the best fisherman – hell, he couldn’t even swim. He got on just fine from what he knew and that was good enough. The nets could be repaired at sea, and as soon as open water was in sight, James began his work. It was a fiddly job and not one made for large, coarse hands. After throwing the nets onto the deck in frustration, he pulled his worn cigar pipe and a box of matches from his pocket, igniting its several days old contents. A puff of smoke emerged, stirring into the salty breeze. The faint hum of the boat’s engine and the trawling nets dragging alongside the boat echoed out to sea. He headed East, towards the growing sun and its children of yellow rays. The lighthouse grew closer with its faded white paint, emitting the sun’s reflection from the glass panels at its peak. Its tiny sporadically placed windows were bare and unlit. James wondered what made them choose a life that was destined for weeks or months on end of solitude and loneliness.

He switched off the engine around 300 metres from the island. He could hear the waves gently lapping against the side of the boat as it gently rocked back and forth with the current. James cast out the bait and nets that hadn’t been damaged and sank into his old chair that stood on the deck. A gull screeched overhead, and James felt the wind created by its flapping wings caress his face. He closed his eyes and let the waves gently lull him to sleep.

James awoke to a large splash that made the boat tip towards the starboard side. He jumped up out of his chair. Something large had been under the boat, large enough to even capsize it, James was sure. He could see the circular ripples left behind as they gently dispersed, counteracting the chaos that he had just missed. He suspected a large fish, so he checked the nets, eager to see what kind of money he was going to bring in today. The nets were empty, besides a few small cod, so whatever had been under the boat hadn’t gotten itself caught. James shrugged and took a swig from his flask. Whatever it was, it wasn’t in his catch and so it wasn’t his concern. A large swooshing sound broke the silence as something slowly emerged from the water behind him. As he turned, he stumbled back slightly at the sight he was met with.

The torso of a woman was visible above the water’s surface, and she was staring directly at James. She did not look like a normal human being. Her waist-length hair was a dark green tangle of slimy seaweed and algae, and she had skin that was pale, translucent from the salt water, but wrinkled, as if she had stayed under the waves for too long. Her shoulders were broad and strong, like she could carry the weight of the sea on them, and her breasts were exposed, with tiny starfish and mussels latching onto her areola. Her stomach was delicate and flat, but James noticed a few shiny fish scales on her hips that glimmered in the light. She had large gills on her neck that flared as she took a breath. Her eyes were a piercing, lustrous green that was the same shade as her hair, a compliment to her deep blue lips.

It could have been a dream. James had drunk too much cheap whiskey, was seeing things. This is what happened to those wrapped in the ocean’s twisted ways – they started to lose their minds. She was still, like she had frozen, and the water was calm like nothing had happened. James could not make his mouth move, nor force any words to emerge out of it. He did not know how much time passed with the two of them staring at each other before he cleared his throat and attempted to speak.

***

“Who- what are ya’?” he stuttered. He was afraid that she could see his heart pounding in his chest, and he was certain she would have taken it to eat if she could.

She blinked at him slowly and opened her mouth to reply, but a loud screeching shrill perforated the air. James stumbled back and covered his ears as she clamped her clammy, webbed fingers over her mouth. She had eyes like his mother. In a second, she was gone.

James did not know how long he sat on the deck, holding his flask close to his chest, his love in liquid form. A dark, overwhelming urgency rose up inside his chest – he had to get back to shore. Dragging the nets up, he realised the bait had been torn away and his nets had been emptied. She had been fed.

The boat spluttered its way back to the harbour. He stumbled over the hull and his legs gave way as he landed on the jetty. There were no other boats around, just fisherman’s kisses that littered the sandy wood James’ cheek was resting on. He pulled himself up, moored Lamorna and swallowed the last of his whiskey. A gluttonous seagull was devouring the remains of a skeletal mackerel, entrails gutted and prepared for the feast. What had been a weak winter morning sun gave way to a dark cloud that shrouded the shore in a deep fog.

Perched on top of the hill in the distance was the Cuttlefish Tavern. James’ saviour was in sight as he staggered his way through the streets of Black Rock. The tavern lamp loomed, like a lighthouse beacon of salvation. The door swung open to reveal the familiar setting of James’ hours spent clutching a whiskey bottle. The tavern was small, with lots of well-worn chairs and tables that had dark ring-marks set into the wood. An old brown couch with patchwork repairs sat next to the fireplace which was always filled with wavelets of flames. The low light made the shadows of those drinking away their sorrows sway against the brown, orange peel textured walls. The bar ran along the other side of the room, with shuttered windows opposite that looked down onto Black Rock and out onto the shore below, with Godrevy Lighthouse a pinpoint in the distance. James went straight to the bar and was greeted at once with a glass of whiskey.

“Better ‘ave the bottle,” he clamoured to Evelyn, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She was fairly thin, with sea withered skin and hazel eyes. Her black hair was always piled up on her head in a messy knot that a sparrow could have easily taken up home in. She always wore a large men’s shirt and had a thick, high-pitched Cornish drawl that could be recognised by anyone in the village. As she pushed the whiskey bottle across the bar, James handed her a few notes and did not bother to collect his change. He collapsed into his regular chair, next to the window on the far side. It had shaped to his body after years of patience, an embrace that he had never felt elsewhere.

Cora Livingstone was sat at the table opposite, staring out of the dingy window. She had known James’ mother well. There were large crystal rings on every one of her fingers and she wore a dark blue knitted shawl over her frail shoulders. Her face was wrinkled, and her skin hung off of her bones, sagged and pale. Thin grey hair framed her face, wild and unkempt. No one knew how old she actually was, only that she had been in Black Rock for as long as anyone could remember. Some said her husband had died in the shipwreck off of Godrevy Island, and it was his death that had disintegrated her mind. She spent her days shuffling around the village, offering fortunes to the villagers who often hurried in the other direction. Despite her terrible eyesight, she knew it was James as he sat down facing her table.

“Ah, James. I know you haven’t come for a fortune now, have you love?” Her voice travelled across the tables.

“Not t’day Cora,” James answered. “I- uh, I’m busy,” he said, gesturing to the bottle in front of him. Cora smiled an all-knowing smile, unnerving James slightly.

“The sea got to ya, eh? Happens to the best of ‘em. Come now, tell the wise one all about ‘eet.” She motioned to the chair opposite. James sighed and sat down. Cora already knew everything he had to say without James having opened his mouth. It was just her bewitching way.

“The finfolk are not t’ be messed with. Their tails can be human legs, their fins disappear on land. The darkness will come for us all,” she croaked, her eyes glassing over. James had never seen her this dazed before. A cold, heavy wind battered the side of the tavern, making the rusty old sign outside creak as it swung back and forth. The light flickered.

“Not ta’ worry,” she smiled, suddenly herself again.
James was stunned. “B-but- how did you-”
“How’s ya’ mother?” James sighed. He had answered this same question from Cora an

immeasurable number of times before.
“She’s dead, Cora. Remember?”
“Ah, yea’. She’s cold now.”
A loud voice echoed through the tavern.
“Thought I told ya’ not to come back ‘ere,” Walter asserted, turning regular

conversations to whispers. James did not retaliate, but instead turned his attention to the bottom of his bottle.

“Oy, ya deaf or summin’?” James turned in his chair towards the tavern front door. Walter stared hard at James. Evelyn was behind the bar, polishing glasses and looking at the floor. “You’ve ‘ad me over for the last time, James.” Cora was staring out of the window again, her face so close against it was almost pressed to the dirty pane. He sighed and stood up, chair scraping against the old wooden floor.

“Walter, I-”

“You got ten seconds to be outta that door, you ‘ear?” All the regulars went silent. The roar and crash of waves could be heard, calling out into the dark. Somewhere, a gull shrieked out, under attack.

James sighed, nodding to Cora before taking his bottle and shuffling towards the door. Cora smiled out to sea, learning all its secrets that had been jettisoned in the spindrift. When James came to the door and Walter’s blockade of his exit, he extended a peace offering in the form of a handshake. A moment passed, and then James saw a blur as a fist came into contact with his right cheekbone. He felt a dull sting, warm blood trickling down his cheek.

“Don’t come back,” Walter threatened as he moved past James, spitting at his feet.

As the door opened, the fresh, cold air hit James in the face, the second punch that evening. The salt stung the open gash on his face, and he smeared the blood away with his sleeve. As he stumbled home down the hill, he could hear echoes of the sea shanties being sung in the tavern behind him as they drifted down the hill and out to sea where they belonged. The old brown front door creaked inwards, followed by the sound of James’ heavy, clumsy footsteps. The sea shanties did not follow, and the house erupted into silence.

Whalebone Cottage was where Marina and Henry Ardley’s first and only child, James, was born. Now belonging to him, the cottage was the closest to the village tavern and had seen better days. The exterior white paint had turned a faded grey and was peeling in every place, with the old sash windows defeated and worn down by the wind’s constant and harrowing tune over the years. There had never been any heating and James was used to the coldness of the sea, so it didn’t really matter that the cottage was always near freezing temperatures, even in the summer months, owing to the cracked kitchen window that let in the whistling wind. Although it was well into October now and the frost was on its way in, James still did not bother to light the fire most nights.

Inside, there wasn’t much to look at. James had very few possessions to call his own and the place looked almost as if no-one lived there. The only tell-tale signs of his existence were the fireplace, scattered with freshly cut logs to be burned, and some empty whiskey bottles of varying quality laying around. In the corner stood an old, frayed navy armchair that was once where James’ father sat, sturdy and threadbare on the arms from shuffling and rested limbs. A tall roughly made bookcase loomed over the room, mostly filled with old, well-thumbed Agatha Christie and Daphne Du Maurier paperbacks, as well as a few fisherman’s manuals that James hadn’t bothered with for a long time. His grandmother’s conch shell sat on the top shelf, a family treasure. James remembered the times when he was young as his grandmother held the shell to his ear, whispering assuredly that if he listened hard enough, he could hear the Black Rock mermaids singing sweetly to him. His mother did not care to sing to him, and James had pressed the shell to his ear as a child in the hopes of hearing a voice from the sea instead.

Leaving the fire unlit, James staggered upstairs, the wooden staircase groaning at the clumsy weight. The bedroom was just as bare, with only the essentials; a wooden bed, a bedside table with only a lamp and cigar laying on top, a chest of drawers and some threadbare curtains that shook with the wind’s force. He collapsed onto the bed and let his eyes close just as the rain began to patter gently on his window, craving to be let in.

***

James awoke the next morning with his cheek bruised and tender. He had a faint recollection of a dream from last night’s restless sleep. A woman emerging from the water, half sea creature, half human, singing gently in his ear as he caressed her, their bodies finding one another under the waves. Her tail wound around his legs, slippery and cold as they reached the ocean floor, laying on a bed of sea sponges, coral and sand. The whiskey bottle beside his bed was empty, lying next to his grandmother’s conch shell, which he did not recall taking from the bookshelf. He touched the bruise and winced, remembering his mother’s hands. Now he understood what Cora meant in the tavern. His mother was cold now; she had been before she was buried.

James pulled on his waders and lit his pipe after filling it with fresh tobacco from his drawer. The curtains were closed, letting in a small slither of hazy morning light. There was a small square mirror atop of the chest of drawers, coated in a thick layer of dust. James propped it against the windowsill as another cloud of smoke escaped his mouth, blowing away the dirt. His own, wearied face became clear in front of him. His beard was beginning to grow grey in patches, his hair already long gone from its old brown tones. The troubles at sea and endless whiskey had not been kind to his brow, wrinkled with deep lines written into his skin. The gash on his cheekbone was slowly beginning its healing process, a purple stain dipped with crusted blood.

Placing the shell in his pocket with the tobacco, James dragged his feet down the stairs and slammed the front door behind him. The Lamorna was waiting on the harbour. Most of the other boats had already gone out for the day, hoping to make up for yesterday’s poor catch after the storm’s disarray. He did not bait the nets. He was not going out to fish.

The boat’s engine ticked over and shuddered to a halt in the same place that yesterday’s encounter took place. He had to be sure it wasn’t a dream or the alcohol in his bloodstream that had created the illusion of her. He focused on the seals in the distance, their beady little eyes holding the haunted souls of those lost to the sea. The ocean held Lamorna between its waves, rocking her side to side in the gusty wind. James was about to have another mouthful of whiskey when there was a sudden splash behind him. He slowly turned to face her yet once again.

He noticed this time that she had a thin, hard face with jutting cheekbones; still somehow, she held an air of grace. All at once she leapt up and out of the water, exposing her bare belly and chest to the sky above. Her hair was wild and bristled as it blew out behind her, and there was a large dorsal fin in the middle of her back, coated in winkles, hermits and cockle shells, as if she was a permanent surface of life for the ocean’s smaller creatures. But James’ attention was caught by something that made him see he was right – she was not a human being. There was an enormous aqua blue fish tail where her legs should have been, full of bright, gleaming scales. With every movement, it refracted the sun’s light effortlessly, almost blinding James as she plunged into the depths below.

Reeling from the shock of what had just unfolded before him, she suddenly appeared again. The creature moved closer to the Lamorna as James stumbled back. He had not realised that he had dropped his flask, and its sticky contents were slowly spilling onto the deck. James cursed and slowly bent to pick it up, not wanting to startle her. She continued to stare intently as he moved, like he was a foreign object she could not comprehend. The boat lurched as she swam closer, her webbed fingers gripping the port side. James slowly sat down on the deck, abandoning his whiskey. The mermaid did not take her eyes off of James. He moved inches closer in until he was almost leaning over the edge. She lifted her hand from the boat and placed a single long and slimy finger on James’ cheek. Stroking his wound gently, he winced at the salt fresh pain she was giving him. The sea fell silent. All the gulls were gone, and the fish sunk to the pilly. She let her hand fall as James reached into his pocket and pulled out his grandmother’s shell. Her eyes widened as he held it out to her – an offering to the goddess in exchange for mercy. She took the shell and inspected its exterior, a smile crossing her face. She gestured for James to take the shell and put it to his own ear. In a second, she dived under the water and James hung over the edge of the boat, searching for her. He touched the water where she just had been. A chain of ripples erupted from his fingers.

A honeyed, smooth voice in a language he did not understand began to flow from the shell’s opening and into James’ ear, sinking into his bones. Each beloved note soothed his heavy head and warmed his chest. She was a flower, giving love through her fragrance. James was for once not longing for whiskey but for her sweet nectar. The music ended as she reappeared in front of him.

“Was- was that your voice? Your singin’?” James asked. She seemed to understand him and nodded her head. Her eyes were warm in a way his mother’s never had been.

James wanted to know her name and so scrawled the alphabet on a piece of paper. He asked her to point to the letters in her name. Seeing her confusion, James spelt out his own name, letter by letter.

“Um, see- J-A-M-E-S. James,” he said, pointing a finger into his chest. She hoisted herself onto the Lamorna’s side edge, sending droplets of salt water flying onto the paper that left the ink bleeding and damp as it smudged. She spelled out her name with her own fingers – Mereidia. James told her it was a beautiful name, one of the seas. She did not let go of his grandmother’s conch shell, clutching it to her chest. Her delicate face was rosy and pink in the winter’s bitter cold.

James told her he must return ashore just as the sun was offering its last chances at winter daylight. He vowed to return the next day, and the day after that. Unable to decipher if she understood, he turned back to shore as her head dipped below the surface.

***

He began to teach Mereidia words every day, things that she would recognise. Each morning at sunrise, they met by the island. She climbed onto the boat, her tailfin trailing the shallows, drawing patterns and tracing letters.

“S-H-E-L-L. Shell, see?” he spelt out, gesturing to his grandmother’s shell. She nodded and opened her mouth but only gasps of air and strangled gargles emerged. He gave a small smile and nodded encouragingly. “S-E-A. Sea,” he said. They had been doing this for weeks. She understood the language but could not speak it. Only her mother tongue, the song of sea, left her lips.

“J-Jam-es,” Mereidia croaked. James’ head shot up. He stared at her, wondering if he had just dreamt her saying his own name.

“J- James,” she repeated, her voice becoming clearer.
“Again,” he said, coaxing his name out of her mouth.
“James.” Mereidia smiled in disbelief. He ran his rough hands over her cheek, his thumb

brushing her blue bottom lip. Her skin had dried out from the cold air but still felt soft to James’ worn hands. Mereidia did not react to his touch; she looked far behind James, towards Black Rock and its speckled boats along the shore. A boat engine broke the quiet and Mereidia dived off of the Lamorna and hid under its body. James turned to see the Endellion, Walter’s boat, heading closer to the island. A figure was at the head, preparing the nets for bait. He diverted at the last second, heading to the North side of the island. James let out a sigh of relief he didn’t realise he had been holding in. When the engine sound died away, Mereidia reappeared, her skin refreshed and dampened. Her face was painted with a picture of fear.

“I’ll be back t’morrow,” James reassured. “Stay low ‘til then, ey’?” He started the engine and turned Lamorna around towards Black Rock just as she started to swim towards the island, her fin breaking the water’s smooth terrain.

***

The close call with Walter was almost too much for James to bear. He hadn’t even comprehended what would happen if Black Rock found out that mermaids were not just legends. Flashes of Mereidia with a fish hook lodged in her throat, bleeding and cut as she called out the only word she knew – ‘James’ – filled his body with shaking fear. Mereidia strung up by her wrists, a juicy catch in the fishmonger’s, ready for purchase. Pre-prepared cut, guts taken out, deboned and filleted. The mermaid sold off to a lab or a museum, for tourists to come and take a look at the ‘Black Rock mermaid’ for a price. Her seaweed hair crusted dry, green eyes rolled back, skin removed for research, scales scraped off for a closer look under the microscope. God’s wonder, a scientific abomination, nature’s mistake. He shuddered and shook away the thoughts. The paranoia became etched into his skin, a scar of fear and distrust that would not budge. Finishing off his flask of whiskey, he swore to himself that he would not let harm come to her. He would protect her from the evil of this town.

***

The night was dead and cold. James gasped as he awoke for a nightmare. His clothes and sheets were drenched with sweat. Mereidia had been next to him in bed, but when she rolled over, she was dead, a corpse of pale and rotten fish flesh. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Taking the bottle of whiskey off of the nightstand, he finished off its contents, letting it fall to the floor, his head in his hands. He had to talk to her, to tell her that there was nothing else to do other than to bring her to shore, to have her as his own. He would not allow her to be captured as a mermaid and the only way to protect her was to keep her as a human in Whalebone Cottage, away from the villagers and their cursed ways. He ran downstairs and straight out of the door, carrying only a fresh bottle of whiskey.

The second he stepped outside James suddenly became aware of the weather. There was a raging storm, rain that lashed against his face and howled into the night. Thunder clapped above and startled James as he ran down to the harbour. The sea was just as unforgiving; tall and mighty waves crashed down, throwing themselves onto the harbour, dousing the boats in floods. A bolt of lightning every so often crackled on exit and lit the way for James. He reached Lamorna and began to untie the mooring. In his disorientated and hurried state, he did not notice Cora standing at the edge of the jetty in her shawl. She was looking upwards, eyes closed and face to the rain. James tried to shout to her, but his voice was a futile contender to the chaos. He started up his boat and headed towards the island. Cora smiled and waved, her eyes glistening.

Mereidia was there when James arrived. She knew how to negotiate the waves at the hands of a storm and simply hovered next to James’ boat. He motioned for her to climb aboard, and she obliged, sliding onto the deck with ease. Her wet green hair had been whipped about by the hard gales and was more windswept that ever. She opened her mouth to talk and though James couldn’t hear her over the sea’s deafening rage, he could read her lips perfectly:

“James.”

He had to shout to make himself heard as they huddled in the corner of the deck, pointlessly trying to shelter away from the heaving rain. The boat rocked violently, verging on almost tipping over and again. James gripped the sides until his knuckles were white.

“Listen, Mereidia, I need to take ya’ home with me. It’s not safe anymore. I’m scared I-” he stopped short, not wanting to frighten her. “I’m worried about the storm,” he shouted.

Mereidia shook her head hard. She repeated his name over and over so that ‘James’ started to blend in with the noise above. The boat hit a wave which collided with the deck, drenching them in sea water. James, choking and gasping, clung on.

“Mereidia, ya don’t understand, we ‘ave to go. I’m startin’ up the boat,” James bellowed as he got up. Mereidia gripped his arm, pulling him down next to her. She shook her head again.

“For Christ’s sake, why aren’t ya’ listening to me?” He cried out. Mereidia’s expression was one of fear. James had never shouted at her before. He released the boat edge to take several glugs of whiskey. He threw the bottle and crashed open on the deck, splintering into glass shards. The sweet whiskey mixed with salt water as the concoction sloshed back and forth with the roaring tide.

James grabbed Mereidia’s wrist and attempted to pull her upwards and away from the stern. Mereidia tried to prise James’ hand off of her wrist with no success. James turned to her and shouted something indistinguishable, but by then her hand had already come into contact with James’ cheek. Just as lightning struck, he pulled Mereidia towards him, his face battered and soaked by the rain. Drops of water fell from his eyelashes onto his now red cheek, a place familiar to his mother’s hand. The winds hollered as the boat pushed its own way to the island.

A shard of glass was in James’ hand. Mereidia was on the ground below him with a cut drawn across her face, blood trickling green and dark. His oilskins were lost to sea. Mereidia shook with fear as his body loomed over her. Scales were scratched away and carved at as he entered her, hair pulled out in clumps of mottled seaweed. The sea creatures fused to her back made friction burns on her skin. She mouthed the word “James” over and over again, willing him to hear her. Only one other word left her mouth, new and born of fear – “no”. Above, the storm broke.

***

The dark cloud stayed over Black Rock for weeks. Lamorna was almost beyond repair, falling apart at the harbour. James drank whiskey in the pitch black and remained unbathed. When the moon rose, he did not dare to sleep. A cold hand waited for him each night and he knew its grip would come.

***

It had now been 273 hours since James had seen her, and precisely 273 seconds since he’d had his last gulp of whiskey. Several empty bottles from days past lay on the kitchen table. James rotated the bottom of the glass, gripping it by the rim as he watched the brown liquid fold in on itself. His eyes burned from lack of sleep and his head dampened by fog. The glass tumbled, released from his sloppy control and dropped to the floor, smashing into shards. James was unstartled by the echoing sound. The cold, heartless wind battered his window that was already falling apart and creaked with rage in retaliation. A sharp whistling emerged from the small hole in the window-pane and evaporated slowly. James knew there was another storm brewing, though there was little he could do now but wait for it to come.

***

By the time the next storm arrived, he was ready. The tide rolled in, ready for his arrival. He wandered into the waves that froze his bones and left his hands numb. James stumbled and fell forwards, his feet no longer able to reach the sea bed. He belonged to the ocean now. As he drifted into the darkness, her eyes shone out in the fading black, now cold like his mother’s.