Seabound – Introduction & Chapter I

Edvard Munch – The Mermaid (1896)


“Thus, from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely, the production of the higher animals, directly follows. There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.”

Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species




Eliza Coldwell lived in isolation and so the tragic circumstances of her fate were only discovered when a mail carrier, troubled by an increasing number of unretrieved parcels, reported his concerns to the local sheriff. Investigators found no signs of life within Coldwell’s manor and continued their search among the thorny overgrowth of the backyard. There they followed a trail of bent and broken brambles leading to the edge of a coastal cliff from which Ms. Coldwell’s wheelchair still dangled.


Had she survived the shattering rocks, there was simply no escape from the undertow. As the sea was content to keep its secrets, her remains were never recovered. The coroner would ultimately decide the nature of her demise in absentia, concluding that her disappearance and presumed death was the result of suicide.


When word of her death reached the town, few showed even the slightest indication of shock. She was regarded as cold, distant, and even strange. It was known that she remained unwed by choice, having attracted many suitors in her youth only to spurn them all. Her asocial lifestyle garnered wanton speculation with rumors ranging from the mundane to grossly outlandish.


Gossiping fishwives spun scandalous tales of sex and murder; their envy preventing even the consideration of a reasonable explanation. They convinced themselves that her manor was once a high class brothel from which men never returned. The fate of these men was debatable but the two most popular theories claimed they were robbed and thrown from the cliffs or pressed into the service of less reputable sea captains.


To several generations of children, she was the sea witch who cursed trespassers and transformed them into minnows. It was her property that they would dare each other to enter. Though all returned unscathed, they remained convinced, even into adulthood, that they had barely escaped with their lives.


There were no signs of foul play within Ms. Coldwell’s abode; nothing had been stolen and everything was intact, but the contents of her manor told the story of a life unknown to the public. Like a private museum, the parlor was fully furnished with glass curio cabinets displaying the taxidermied remains of unidentified aquatic species, as well as primitive artifacts carved from red coral, whale ivory, and igneous rock. The library was host to a vast collection of maritime themed tomes, exploring subjects ranging from contemporary scientific treatises on ocean biota to old myths, legends, and assorted esoterica.


Given the former splendor of her estate, Ms. Coldwell’s bedchamber was unusually austere. Though spacious, it contained only a bed, a dresser, a writing desk and a chair. There, resting upon that desk, barely visible against the age-worn mahogany, was a solitary journal.


Part I: The Girl


I was known as Eliza. It is a dead name; one discarded the moment I shed myself of this shadow. I leave it here, alongside the husk of my former life. Woe betide any who immortalize it in requiem or stone.


l am forever bound to her; forever bound to her and those deep dark waters. I squandered decades in search of answers but now see how the way had always been open to me. When most speak of the call of the sea, they speak metaphorically. For me, the call manifested as a song born from lips of flesh and blood; a song that first came to me when I was young.


These words will no doubt be used as evidence of my madness. It does not matter; none of this matters – and only the mad would ever believe me. I have no kith or kin among humanity – no earthbound soul to which I owe any explanation.


And yet here I find myself, a slave to this compulsion.


Am I collecting my thoughts before the final plunge? Or is this a letter addressed to my former self? All that I know is that these thoughts must be transcribed immediately, for neither ink nor paper await me where I intend to go.


The seed of my metamorphosis was planted in the Summer of 1867.  Though our primary residence was in the city, we summered at an attractive Jacobean three-story on the coast, which as an adult I would claim as my permanent estate. It is the only place to which I associate any happy memory and where the most formative influences on my life would occur. The other seasons brought only tribulations and despair but these were the halcyon summers where I could, for a time, escape from misery. The manor had been built atop a towering drumlin and cast a long, oppressive shadow over the lowland hamlet. The villagers below regarded my family with a curious mixture of fear and reverence – opinions natural to a society obsessed with social hierarchy, where greetings rife with honorifics were followed by grumbled profanities out of earshot.


My father owned a shipping company and would be absent throughout much of my childhood. I believe he cared for me, in his own way, though it was a tenderness not shown until already too late. The same could not be said of mother, who displayed a consistent and cruel indifference to my existence. Wanting nothing to do with me, she relinquished all parental duties to the servants.


What I desired most was love but that was something my parents could not – or would not – provide. Numerous miscarriages preceded my birth but it was obvious that what they truly wished for was a son. Though I was essentially a tomboy, my character and interests did nothing to satisfy their yearning for a male heir. The effect proved quite the opposite, as they ardently sought to subdue my hoydenish nature.


There were signs of things to come. The denizens of that seaside hamlet, already a superstitious folk, exhibited certain singular behaviors. Loose rocks had been rearranged to form primitive altars where offerings of scrimshaw, meat, and even jewelry had been placed, despite the abject poverty of the community. Strange fetishes of wood and bone decorated the coastline, silent harbingers of her arrival.


My family and I observed these oddities from our carriage while passing through the village en route to the manor. Mother muttered something disparaging but father assured that the bizarre displays represented some manner of festivity – perhaps a holiday unique to the region. If this was a holiday then its celebrants wore an inappropriately grim facade. We summered here for as long as I could remember, arriving the same time in late June every year, but never before had I encountered something of this nature.


It is somewhat amusing how certain aspects of these rituals remain in practice to this very day, though I do believe I am the last to truly understand the meaning behind them.


There were six of us in total, though the manor was fully capable of housing a platoon. The household included mother and father; the housemaid, the cook, father’s valet, and myself. My family also employed an elderly groundskeeper but he resided in a shack closer to the water and intentionally hidden from the view of the manor. It could at times feel empty, even outright abandoned, depending on which section you resided.


I would spend my days exploring the coast, maintaining a wary distance from the locals. I did not care for the way they looked at me; it was disdain for the privileges I enjoyed, all by virtue of who birthed me. Perhaps they would have regarded me differently, had they known how much I hated it. Not that I was ever so naive as to envy their lot in life, for though the town is still impoverished, it simply cannot compare to the level of destitution at that time.


At dusk I liked to ascend to the widow’s walk and watch the stars; they were so much clearer here than in the smog-choked city. One night, a week before that fateful day, I witnessed a band of locals loading a large sack into a skiff. I quickly turned father’s spyglass upon the furtive group who surely believed themselves unseen. As they rowed out to sea, I could not help but notice how the bag seemed to writhe. The three would return, lit by the light of a lone lantern, with one carrying the now empty sack over their shoulder. I would ultimately observe this covert exercise repeated an additional four times throughout the Summer. During each instance, something stirred beneath the burlap.


My life would change one tempestuous night in early July. Sleep had come easy that night thanks to the sedating patter of rain against the windows. The rain presaged a powerful tempest and I was later roused from bed by a blast of thunder that shook the very foundation of our manor. Unable to return to sleep, I simply listened to the storm and began to notice something strange – an inexplicable sound that had no place in nature’s cacophony. I focused my attention on the quiet interludes between each roaring cannonade. Therein I encountered harmony – a song, beautiful and inhuman, that came from outside.


Opaque clouds obscured the moon and stars, yet something glimmered across the glass of the seaside window. The light was soft, at first almost unnoticeable, and resembled the living fluorescence of lightning bugs and foxfire. I pulled myself out of bed and crept through empty hallways, my steps careful and deliberate, so as to not alert the household. Following a shortcut through the kitchen, I arrived at the southern terrace overlooking the water.


I chased the melody, running barefoot through the wet grass and towards the headland. The horizon opened wide as I neared the cliff, revealing milky blue-green lights dotted across the ocean’s dark expanse. The song, now a chorus, overwhelmed and extinguished whatever apprehensions I should have felt. There I watched the waves roll in and out, the strange lights unmoved by the ocean’s churning.


Then, devoid of thought or hesitation, I dove into the water.


The sea was black, cold, and seemingly infinite. Though cognizant of my environment, I had been rendered senseless and made no effort to breach the surface. As the darkness pulled me under, I remained oblivious to my own drowning and slowly succumbed to a death-like sleep.


I lingered in a state of unconsciousness; I cannot say for how long but I remember waking with a spastic jerk. Rolling to my side, I coughed and heaved until every last drop of seawater had been purged from my body. Choking, gasping, I struggled for air and blindly reached for some surface to clutch and regain my composure. Too dark to see, I was forced to depend on my other senses. I heard nothing; neither wind nor rain nor thunder reached this place. The damp air reeked of the tides; it tasted stale, recycled. I lifted myself to my feet and began to walk – rather, stumble – across the barnacle encrusted floor, leaning against the rightward wall and waving blindly ahead with my left hand.


Despite her neglect, I did what any child would do, and called out for my mother, driven by an instinct I could not possibly understand. When my voice echoed back, I began to piece together the truth. I knew not how but it was evident that I was trapped within one of the many sea caves that dotted the lower cliffs. Escape was conceivable and emboldened my steps. That fleeting hope died the moment I felt the undeniable sensation of flesh on flesh.


A scream had barely escaped my lips when I found myself muzzled by a wet, almost slimy hand. Never before had I known such fear, such sheer, bloody panic. I kicked and screamed and thrashed about to no avail. My captor was undeterred and responded by singing softly into my ear, lulling me into a state of limp surrender. As my head rolled back, I was met by a pair of yellow eyes, which gazed deep into my own, gleaming with intelligence and literal fluorescence, before blinking through two distinct sets of eyelids.


I wrestled with the unnatural calm and soon slipped free of my captor’s grasp. In desperation I crawled into the darkness, only to find my egress denied by solid rock in every direction. Trembling in terror and with my back against a cavern wall, I slowly turned to face my pursuer and was granted my first full and unobstructed view of the creature.


What I next describe, I do with the benefit of intimate knowledge, for at the time of our first encounter, it is likely that many of the following details eluded me.


The creature was not as large as I had initially anticipated and only eclipsed my petite frame by virtue of its serpentine lower-half. Long, supple arms hung listlessly to its sides, ending in wide palmed hands with spindly fingers attached together by a thin membrane and tipped with bony claws. A pair of whip-like appendages extended from the waist down, appearing similar (if somewhat thinner) to its sinuous tail, but displaying the prehensility of tentacles.


An osseous crest spread from its brow to the top of its skull, where it separated into six sharp points. From the back of its head hung a Medusan mane of bioluminescent tendrils, which coiled and writhed as if by their own volition. The cavern was now bathed in a pale, spectral glow and I came to the forlorn realization that this monstrous, possibly hostile entity was also my only source of light. It continued to stare in my direction, its gray lips parting to reveal a gaping maw lined with three rows of shark-like teeth.


Strangely, it was not its monstrous aspect that was most astounding – at least not when compared to just how human it appeared, for the creature bore a visage of youthful femininity.


These traits were undeniable; my captor was a girl, like myself but from a world completely alien to the one I thought I knew. She reminded me of the merrow – the sea-folk of Celtic legend. Among my family’s servants was an elderly Irishwoman, the widow Mrs. Kelly, who, acting as a surrogate to my mother, regaled me with tales of these fantastic creatures at bedtime. Even as a child, I never imagined them to be more than fairy-tales and make-believe. It was, in retrospect, a trifling resemblance, but “merrow” would remain my preferred nomenclature for the species. Sirens and finfolk, naga and lamia, and a full bestiary of others; every culture with an affinity for the sea had tales of mythic species bearing these singular traits and the very reason as to why was right before me.


Through the sidewinding slither of her serpentine body, the merrow came nearer. I was paralyzed, too uncertain of her intentions to act. At various times she would retreat, disappearing as she dimmed her light bearing flesh. After several minutes playing this “game”, the merrow wrapped herself around me and opened her mouth, increasingly wider, until the jaws parted far beyond its lips and eventually separated from ear to ear. Slowly, deliberately, she engulfed my entire head within her gaping maw. I remained perfectly still; too consumed with horror to scream, I merely whimpered. The ordeal lasted only a few seconds before she pulled away and returned her mouth to its original size and shape.


It made no sense to me at the time but I would later understand the meaning: “I could devour you but I choose not to.” I occasionally wonder if the human smile originated to express a similar intent, or lack thereof.


Like an excited child on her first playdate, she took my hand into hers and dragged me off. At first I stumbled, for though her light allowed me to see her, I was otherwise blind to my surroundings. She had the strength to take me by force but instead showed patience, perhaps even empathy, and slowed pace in response to my struggles.


The merrow brought me before a briny pool and slithered into the water. She waited half submerged and watched me expectantly. My mind was racing, leaving me dizzy and dumb. It was a potential death trap and I knew that once I entered there would be no possibility of escape. As I untangled my thoughts, it occurred to me that the merrow had many opportunities to kill me yet never made an attempt; if killing me was her intent, she would have already done so.


Accepting my choice, I climbed down into the water. The merrow looked at me and smiled, and I smiled back; unable to contain my anxiety, I fell into a fit of nervous laughter. My noises seemed to delight the merrow, who gaily slapped the surface of the water. I pointed to myself and told her my name, distinctly enunciating each syllable. She tilted her head, seemingly perplexed, but revealed an understanding of my aim with her following actions.


The merrow lay both of her hands upon her chest, closed her eyes, and sang the aria of her true name. The harmony called forth visions; nay, whole experiences – all closer to real than any dream. I imagined myself floating through the murky shallows of mangrove and among coral gardens in unknown tropics. I tasted blood in the water, as ancient reptilian instincts awakened, if but only for a moment.


It is a name beyond the human tongue; a name no system of writing could ever capture. I would, in later years, endeavor to transcribe her song, only to create something so shameful, so utterly profane, that I had no choice but to consign it to the flames.


I would instead call her Muirgein, meaning “sea-born”. It was the Christened name bestowed by St. Comgall to the legendary mermaid Lí Ban as part of her baptism. Though it ended with the mermaid’s death and ascension to heaven, it was her aquatic adaptation and angelic voice that stuck with me most over the years.


A flawed, all too human name for such a magnificent being. It would have to suffice, for even lingering on the memory of her true name excites my mind with the anguished longing of a dipsomaniac for the bottle. I sweat and shiver even now, failing to hold it back. If you heard what I have heard, knew what I knew, you would do the same.


I let go of the edge and drifted towards Muirgein and into the pool’s center. I remember the curious way in which her gray lips curled – almost mischievous. She would again take my hand, drawing me so close that I could make out the pulsating flutter of her gills below the water, before pulling me under. I do not know why, perhaps it was the influence of her voice, but I made no resistance and heedlessly capitulated to her whims.


Muirgein was, in what should come as no surprise, a phenomenal swimmer. I had not yet even begun to struggle for air when we breached the surface. The sky was a welcome sight, tumultuous as its darkened clouds were. What I now knew to be the light of her kin still filled the sea. She took me to the shore, where we would spend the rest of the night at play.


The language barrier, as well as the barriers of culture and species, were only minor obstacles to our amusement. We swam, gathered shells and driftwood, built palaces from stone and sand. At dawn we parted; I waved goodbye and she mimicked my actions, though I cannot know whether or not she understood. I rushed home, quickly bathed and dried myself, and returned to bed. Exhausted, I feigned illness in order to catch up on sleep.


Muirgein abhorred the daylight, a trait emblematic of her species, and so we came together exclusively under the cover of dark. Mother and father would remain ignorant to my nightly departures. The storm had passed and the moon was waning gibbous, leaving me less reliant on my companion’s nocturnal vision.


One particular night stands out among my memories. I had led Muirgein, who swam in the water parallel to me, along a lowland peninsula and to the old lighthouse. It was hardly Pharos of Alexandria but it was one of the few man-made structures to ever really call to me and I wished to share it with her. Once we arrived at our destination, she climbed up the rocks to join me, employing all five of her appendages with hypnotic grace.


The lighthouse was different from how I remembered it. Windows had been boarded and wooden stakes formed a palisade around the base of the tower. Though clearly raised for defensive purposes, my young mind failed to connect the enclosure to the arrival of the merrow. Inside the lighthouse, a man recited a litany of prayers.


That was when I heard a mournful dirge from across the bay, drawing my attention back to the sea. The song belonged, not to the merrow but rather their quarry. A great whale had been lured into shallow water, stranding and bloodying itself upon a reef. Pelagic hunters swarmed the trapped leviathan and though the finer details were beyond my sight, predator and prey alike glistened crimson beneath the moonlight. I have heard that whales are notoriously difficult to finish off; knowing this, the beast’s lament was mercifully short. The merrow were, if anything, efficient killers.


This wild hunt was horrifying but it was even more fascinating to behold. Though I pitied the beast, I could not avert my gaze. I had to see this – I had to understand – that there was no evil, no cruelty in the hunt; that this was the way of all living things.


I learned this lesson well.


Alas, these nights of joy and adventure could not last. Though I dreaded my family’s return to the city, it would be the merrow who were first to leave. I waited by the shore, gazing at a sea of stars, but Muirgein never came. One by one, the lights disappeared and I was left alone to wonder if it had all been a dream.


I waited years for her return and my patience was rewarded upon the sixth.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s