|
|
The village of Zennor
lies upon the windward coast of Cornwall. The houses cling to the
hillside as if hung there by the wind. Waves still lick the ledges
in the coves, and a few fishermen still set out to sea in their boats.
In times past, the sea was both the beginning and the end for the
folk of Zennor. It gave them fish for food and fish for sale, and
made a wavy road to row from town to town. Hours were reckoned not
by clocks but by the ebb and flow of the tide, and months and years
ticked off by the herring runs. The sea took from them, too, and
often wild, sudden storms would rise. Then fish and fisherman alike
would be lost to an angry sea.
At the end of a good day, when the sea was calm and each boat had
returned with its share of fish safely stowed in the hold, the people
of Zennor would go up the path to the old church and give thanks.
They would pray for a fine catch on the morrow, too. The choir would
sing, and after the closing hymn the families would go.
Now, in the choir that sang at Evensong there was a most handsome
lad named Mathew Trewella. Not only was Mathew handsome to the eyes,
his singing was sweet to the ears as well. His voice pealed out
louder than the church bells, and each note rang clear and true.
It was always Mathew who sang the closing hymn.
Early one evening, when all the fishing boats bobbed at anchor,
and all the fisher families were in church and all the birds at nest,
and even the waves rested themselves and came quietly to shore,
something moved softly in the twilight. The waves parted without a
sound, and, from deep beneath them, some creature rose and climbed
out onto a rock, there in the cove of Zennor. It was both a sea
creature and a she-creature. For, though it seemed to be a girl,
where the girl's legs should have been was the long and silver-shiny
tail of a fish. It was a mermaid, one of the daughters of Llyr, king
of the ocean, and her name was Morveren.
Morveren sat upon the rock and looked at herself in the quiet
water, and then combed all the little crabs and seashells from her
long, long hair. As she combed, she listened to the murmur of the
waves and wind. And borne on the wind was Mathew's singing.
"What breeze is there that blows such a song?" wondered Morveren.
But then the wind died, and Mathew's song with it. The sun
disappeared, and Morveren slipped back beneath the water to her
home.
The next evening she came again. But not to the rock. This time
she swam closer to shore, the better to hear. And once more Mathew's
voice carried out to sea, and Morveren listened.
"What bird sings so sweet?" she asked, and she looked all about.
But darkness had come, and her eyes saw only shadows.
The next day Morveren came even earlier, and boldly. She floated
right up by the fishermen's boats. And when she heard Mathew's voice,
she called, "What reed is there that pipes such music?"
There was no answer save the swishing of the water round the
skiffs.
Morveren would and must know more about the singing. So she
pulled herself up on the shore itself. From there she could see the
church and hear the music pouring from its open doors. Nothing would
do then but she must peek in and learn for herself who sang so
sweetly.
Still, she did not go at once. For, looking behind her, she saw
that the tide had begun to ebb and the water pull back from the shore.
And she knew that she must go back, too, or be left stranded on the
sand like a fish out of water.
So she dived down beneath the waves, down to the dark sea cave
where she lived with her father the king. And there she told Llyr
what she had heard.
Llyr was so old he appeared to be carved of driftwood, and his
hair floated out tangled and green, like seaweed. At Morveren's words,
he shook that massive head from side to side.
"To hear is enough, my child. To see is too much."
"I must go, Father," she pleaded, "for the music is magic."
"Nay," he answered. "The music is man-made, and it comes from a
man's mouth. We people of the sea do not walk on the land of men."
A tear, larger than an ocean pearl, fell from Morveren's eye.
"Then surely I may die from the wanting down here."
Llyr sighed, and his sigh was like the rumbling of giant waves
upon the rocks; for a mermaid to cry was a thing unheard of and it
troubled the old sea king greatly.
"Go, then," he said at last, "but go with care. Cover your tail
with a dress, such as their women wear. Go quietly, and make sure
that none shall see you. And return by high tide, or you may not
return at all."
"I shall take care, Father!" cried Morveren, excited. "No one
shall snare me like a herring!"
Llyr gave her a beautiful dress crusted with pearls and sea jade
and coral and other ocean jewels. It covered her tail, and she
covered her shining hair with a net, and so disguised she set out
for the church and the land of men.
Slippery scales and fish's tail are not made for walking, and it
was difficult for Morveren to get up the path to the church. Nor was
she used to the dress of an earth woman dragging behind. But get
there she did, pulling herself forward by grasping on the trees,
until she was at the very door of the church. She was just in time
for the closing hymn. Some folks were looking down at their hymnbooks
and some up at the choir, so, since none had eyes in the backs of
their heads, they did not see Morveren. But she saw them, and Mathew
as well. He was as handsome as an angel, and when he sang it was
like a harp from heaven -- although Morveren, of course, being a
mermaid, knew nothing of either.
So each night thereafter, Morveren would dress and come up to the
church, to look and to listen, staying but a few minutes and always
leaving before the last note faded and in time to catch the swell of
high tide. And night by night, month by month, Mathew grew taller and
his voice grew deeper and stronger (though Morveren neither grew
nor changed, for that is the way of mermaids). And so it went for
most of a year, until the evening when Morveren lingered longer than
usual. She had heard Mathew sing one verse, and then another, and
begin a third. Each refrain was lovelier than the one before, and
Morveren caught her breath in a sigh.
It was just a little sigh, softer than the whisper of a wave.
But it was enough for Mathew to hear, and he looked to the back of
the church and saw the mermaid. Morveren's eyes were shining, and
the net had slipped from her head and her hair was wet and gleaming,
too. Mathew stopped his singing. He was struck silent by the look of
her -- and by his love for her. For these things will happen.
Morveren was frightened. Mathew had seen her, and her father had
warned that none must look at her. Besides, the church was warm and
dry, and merpeople must be cool and wet. Morveren felt herself
shriveling, and turned in haste from the door.
"Stop!" cried Mathew boldly. "Wait!" And he ran down the aisle of
the church and out the door after her.
Then all the people turned, startled, and their hymn-books fell
from their laps.
Morveren tripped, tangled in her dress, and would have fallen had
not Mathew reached her side and caught her.
"Stay!" he begged. "Whoever ye be, do not leave!"
Tears, real tears, as salty as the sea itself, rolled down
Morveren's cheeks.
"I cannot stay. I am a sea creature, and must go back where I
belong."
Mathew stared at her and saw the tip of her fish tail poking out
from beneath the dress. But that mattered not at all to him.
"Then I will go with ye. For with ye is where I belong."
He picked Morveren up, and she threw her arms about his neck.
He hurried down the path with her, toward the ocean's edge.
And all the people from the church saw this.
"Mathew, stop!" they shouted. "Hold back!"
"No! No, Mathew!" cried that boy's mother.
But Mathew was bewitched with love for the mermaid, and ran the
faster with her toward the sea.
Then the fishermen of Zennor gave chase, and all others, too, even
Mathew's mother. But Mathew was quick and strong and outdistanced
them. And Morveren was quick and clever. She tore the pearls and
coral from her dress and flung them on the path. The fishermen were
greedy, even as men are now, and stopped in their chase to pick up
the gems. Only Mathew's mother still ran after them.
The tide was going out. Great rocks thrust up from the dark water.
Already it was too shallow for Morveren to swim. But Mathew plunged
ahead into the water, stumbling in to his knees. Quickly his mother
caught hold of his fisherman's jersey. Still Mathew pushed on, until
the sea rose to his waist, and then his shoulders. Then the waters
closed over Morveren and Mathew, and his mother was left with only a
bit of yarn in her hand, like a fishing line with nothing on it.
Never again were Mathew and Morveren seen by the people of Zennor.
They had gone to live in the land of Llyr, in golden sand castles
built far below the waters in a blue-green world.
But the people of Zennor heard Mathew. For he sang to Morveren
both day and night, love songs and lullabies. Nor did he sing for
her ears only. Mathew learned songs that told of the sea as well.
His voice rose up soft and high if the day was to be fair, deep and
low if Llyr was going to make the waters boil. From his songs, the
fishermen of Zennor knew when it was safe to put to sea, and when it
was wise to anchor snug at home.
There are some still who find meanings in the voices of the waves
and understand the whispers of the winds. These are the ones who say
Mathew sings yet, to them that will listen.