The Writer & the Mermaid

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The

Writerand the

Mermaid

Chapter 1 1

Vladimir



One day the most beautiful of all the mermaids saw a man walking alone

on a white beach. Something inside of her told her that the man was very

sad, and so she became curious and swam closer. The mermaids, of

course, never went close to the beaches. They stayed away from any

place where humans could see them, knowing full well that the humans

were the greatest enemies of the sea creatures.

However, this day the beautiful mermaid broke her own rule and ventured

outside the place of safety that she knew so well. She thought that shewould do it carefully so as not to be noticed, but what she did not know

was that there were strong and dangerous currents close to the beach

where the man was walking.

In a moment she was swept away by a power of the sea that she had never

encountered and that she was not ready for. She struggled with all her might but could not get out of the current, and within seconds she became

one with the great and mighty waves, tossed to and fro like a bobbing

cork. The last thing she remembered was being lifted up by a gigantic

breaker and seeing the dark jagged rocks waiting below - like the hungry

fangs of the great sharks…

She first became aware of the blackness, and then of the pain. She had

never felt so broken in her life. The only comfort seemed to come from

her hair. The rest of her body was screaming, screaming, screaming. But

not her hair. Her hair felt strangely alive - as though the great God of the

sea and land was breathing on every lock and curl. It was a feeling that

she had never felt before. It was a feeling that she wanted to hold on to

for the rest of her life. She wanted to capture it, to make it hers, to never

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ever let it go. And so, with the last of her strength, she lifted her right

hand and reached for her hair.

As she touched it she touched the life that she was feeling. It was there,

and it seemed to make her broken hand come alive. In fact, the glow

spread from her hand through her arm and into her whole body. It was no

longer just her hair. It was her entire being that came alive. It gave her the

strength to open her eyes, and as she did so she looked into the face of the

man that had been walking on the beach.

Her first thought was a strange one. She felt no fear or bewilderment.

Rather, she found herself wondering why the sadness that had hung over

him had disappeared. There were tears in his eyes, but they were tears of

wonder and compassion, not of crying. He had found her, she realised.

And he had sat with her, stroking her hair, hoping that she would wake

up.

What was it that she felt? What was this emotion? Was this the love that

she had heard of? If it was, then it was mightier than what she could ever

have imagined. She knew that some of her own had been lost in the name

of this love. Some were captured by seamen and never seen again.

Others, like her, had wandered from their own dwelling place and never returned. It was always said that love did it. That love was a form of

human magic. That love, like some evil charm, would captivate and

enthral in the beginning but destroy in the end. That love would deceive

you into thinking that you had crossed over to the other side, but that it

would ultimately make you a prisoner in a world that you were never

created for.

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She knew all of this, but in that moment she did not care. She was under

love’s spell. She had drunk the poison and she wanted more. She wanted

to feel not only the stranger’s hand in her hair. She wanted him to touch

her face, her hands, her arms. She wanted him to embrace her and hold

her. And she wanted to do the same in return.

The roaring seas behind her now seemed distant and cold. She did not

want to go back there. She wanted the stranger to pick her up and take her

to his home. She wanted to become one with him. And she knew what

that meant. She would have to become like him so that she could receivehis love and give him hers. She wanted to tell him this but did not know

how. Yet she sensed that he somehow knew what she was thinking, that

he was reading her mind. Perhaps that is part of the magic, she thought. It

was a thought that calmed her. She tightened her grip on his hand and

closed her eyes, and the darkness returned.

Chapter 24



The stranger did take her to his house. Of course she was unaware of that.

She was much more hurt than what she had realised, and so she spent

many days drifting in and out of consciousness. The stranger was always

there. Sometimes she was aware of him, other times not. In those days

she never had the same vivid experience of him that she had had on the

jagged rocks. But she somehow knew that that did not matter. It was

meant to be and it would be again.

She was taught that love is a destroyer and a killer. One dark night she

woke up with those words in her mind. It was the first moment of complete clarity since her fateful accident, and in that moment she

realised that the words were true. Love does destroy and kill, she thought,

but that is only half of the story. It also creates. The death is necessary for

the new life. How can you love one thing unless you have stopped loving

something else? And so she realised that the fear of love only applies to

those who are left behind. They are the ones who experience the deathand separation. The one who loves does not experience it, for in the act of

loving a new life is formed. That is why I am dead to my old life and

alive to the new, she thought.

From that point on her recovery was fast. She recovered as a human, of

course. Since the night that she woke up she knew that that wouldhappen. She had been warned that love could make you lose your body,

but she was never told that you would be given a new body in the

process. And so her dream of loving the stranger fully was no longer just

a dream. It became a very real possibility. He knew what had happened to

her, but he never talked about it. Not because he found it strange, but

because he loved and respected her. He knew where she had come from

and he felt no need to ever refer to that again. She was the most glorious

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creature he had ever come across and he wanted her as much as she

wanted him. When she was ready to become his wife, he asked her to

marry him. She happily obliged, of course, and so they were married on a

small island just off the coast where she had seen him the first time.

Chapter 3

6



I would love to say that they lived happily ever after, but then I would not

be telling the whole story. Oh, they were happy. In fact, they were more

happy than anyone I have ever known in my life. It is just that they were

not happy all of the time.

You see, there is something about the sea that is very different to the rest

of the world. The sea, unlike the earth, is not stable. It has tides and

storms and much of it is dark and unknown. What the people of the land

do not know is that the sea creatures can only survive by adapting

themselves to the moods of their world. It is as though they become onewith the spirit of the sea. For instance, the creatures of the deepest

darkness let go off their sight, for it serves no purpose there. In the same

way the rest of the creatures of the ocean constantly adapt themselves to

its changing moods. This they do by reading the signs, and signs there are

many. The sea, in spite of its volatility, allows itself to be largely

predictable for its inhabitants.

It was a dark and stormy night when it happened the first time. The man

was awoken by a loud clap of thunder and instinctively reached out for

the hand of his new bride. His wooden house was built against a hill

overlooking the beach where he had picked up her broken body, and so it

was particularly exposed to the sounds of the sea and the sky. He wishedto comfort her, but when he reached to her side of the bed she was not

there.

The house was not big, and it did not take him long to establish that she

had left. He grabbed his raincoat and ran out of the house into the drizzle

that he knew would soon become a downpour. He shouted for her, sliding

down the muddy path leading down to the beach, falling over rocks and

7



bushes. She was nowhere to be found. The howling winds grew stronger,

the sea began to roar and the raindrops became a blizzard. All night the

man searched for his beloved, but found nothing. It was only when the

morning broke that he noticed her limp body on the rocks. He ran to her

shouting, screaming, praying. She looked like she did when he found her

the first time. Broken, bruised, damaged. There was one difference,

though. She was a woman, not a washed up sea-creature. She was not

supposed to be here. It was wrong, wrong, wrong.

He took her home and cared for her, exactly as he did the first time. And,like the first time, she recovered. She did not tell him what had happened

and he respected her enough not to force her. And so peace and happiness

returned to the little house on the hill. Nights were spent in front of the

fireplace. They drank wine, read poetry and made love. Truly, they were

as happy as any couple could be.

Until the next storm. When the man woke up he instinctively knew she

would be gone, and she was. This time he knew where to go. He rushed

down to the rocks and was just in time to see her walking into the roaring

waves. He shouted and screamed, but she did not hear him. Or perhaps

she preferred not to hear him. She simply kept on walking, like someone

in a trance. He ran as fast as was humanly possible but could not make itto her in time. As his feet touched the water he saw her disappear under

the waves in front of him. Seconds later he was there, grasping and

feeling under the water, hoping to be the rescuer once again. This time,

however, he also became a victim of the ocean’s rage. The next morning

there was not one limp body on the rocks, but two. The both of them had

gotten hurt. Badly.

8



This time the recovery took longer, for the man was too weak to give his

wife the same attention that he had given her before. But over time they

both recovered, and happiness returned to the little house. There was

something different, though. The man, who had never before been afraid

of storms, now dreaded the thought of another storm. He wanted to pray

that it would never rain again, that the wind would never blow again, but

he knew that such a prayer would be foolish. And so he waited…

The next storm was as fierce as he expected. This time the man did not

sleep. He sat awake all night and was ready when his wife got up. She didnot respond when he spoke to her. When he tried to restrain her with

force a struggle ensued that carried on all the way down the mountain.

She somehow seemed stronger and more determined than he had ever

seen her, and he quickly realised that he did not have the power to stop

her. The waves took them again, and again they were spewed out on the

rocks. This time the man managed to retain his consciousness throughoutthe whole episode, perhaps because he was ready and knew what to

expect, and so neither him nor his wife got as badly hurt as the previous

time.

The days after the episode were quite days, and it took a while before the

incident was forgotten and the fire was lit again. Happiness returned soonafterwards, and when it did it was in such a way that the man felt it had

all been a bad dream and that it would never happen again. But it did.

Again and again. Sometimes he would carry her to the house, wet and

cold. Other times their broken bodies were found on the rocks by passers-

by.

9



Chapter 4

10



The man was a writer, and so he had little contact with the outside world.

He preferred the safe seclusion of his existence and had never allowed

anyone in his house except his beautiful bride. Every six months he

would travel to the city to take a manuscript to his publisher, and this was

the only time that he had any semblance of a social life. He would stay

there for a few days to discuss the publication and, if necessary, edit the

manuscript. At night he would go for walks and find a restaurant or pub

where he would eat, have a glass of wine and perhaps talk to a stranger or

two.

It was on such a night that the man met the old fisherman. He was in his

late sixties and had piercing blue eyes, a leathery skin and grey beard,

with the ocean written all over him. They started talking at the bar, liked

each other immediately and decided to have a meal and share a bottle of

wine. Halfway through their conversation the old skipper said: “I see the

sea in your eyes, but it is covered in pain. Is there something you want totell me?” The man had no inclination to talk about his personal life, but

he thought that the question was perhaps a sign that he should do so. And

so he spent the next hour relating the story of his bride’s strange

behaviour. Of course he did not say where she had come from, thinking

that such information would be both irrelevant and embarrassing.

He did not need to, for the fisherman was a wise man who knew the sea.

“You married a mermaid”, he said, “and you know it. What you do not

know is that the mermaids are the sea’s most sensitive creatures. They

cannot tolerate anything that resembles chaos, such as loud noises, abrupt

changes or any form of uncertainty. And so they are the master readers of

the sea’s signs. They are the first to recognise any threat, the first to know

when and where a wind will blow and the first to know where a storm is

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developing. Whenever they sense this they gather themselves together

and dive to one of their deep and dark hiding places. There are many of

these places in the sea and no one except the mermaids knows where they

are or how to get to them. This instinct is so deeply ingrained in the

mermaids that even those who cross over to our side retain it. When they

see the signs, it takes over and they want to take the dive. However, they

no longer have the ability to do so.”

The man was stunned. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked. The

fisherman’s eyes became sad. He sat quietly, like someone who had lost ason a very long time ago and, in the dust of the attic, stumbled

unexpectedly on an old toy the two of them used to play with. And then

he spoke, gently, yet with authority: “You find them all over the world.

The houses with the graves. They are always close to the sea and they

stand alone, a testimony to the way in which their former owners chose to

live their lives. That is, until love opened the doors of their abodes.”

He was quite again, and the writer thought that he saw the glimmer of a

tear in the eyes of the fisherman. The fisherman closed his eyes and for a

moment gave the impression that he was going to pray. But then he

continued: “The very love that opened these doors, and the doors of their

hearts, is the love that led to their deaths. You see, they all did what youdid. They all thought that they could conquer the spirit of the sea that was

in their beloved. But over the months and the years the sea took its toll.

And so, one by one they were led to their final journey from which they

never returned.”

The pain was now unmistakeable in the fisherman’s eyes. “I saw it, one

morning - a battered woman making her way up to a cottage, with the

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dead body of her husband on the rocks. Somehow the mermaids always

survive, but their husbands don’t. And so these houses are eternal

testimonies to both the power and destruction of love.”

He paused, and then continued: “The mermaids, of course, never stay on

in the empty houses. They bury their beloved and then they, too, make a

final journey. But they don’t wash up on the rocks. They simply walk

back into the sea and are never seen or heard of again. It is as if they find

the strength that had evaded them on all those stormy nights. And so they

conquer the waves and return to where they came from. Nobody knowswhere they go, whether they return to their former state or are simply

swallowed by the darkness.”

The writer was shocked: “What a sad, horrible story!!” he replied. “The

woman carrying her dead husband’s body back to the house. Not to

mention the poor mermaid who ventured from the safety of the sea, whofound her legs because of the love she found, who believed the promise

of the human man! Surely this cannot be!”

The old skipper looked intently at the writer. “You did not know, and you

are excused. But now you know, and you are not excused. Use your

knowledge wisely.”

The wine was finished, and so was the conversation. It was obvious to

both men. They got up, embraced, and without a word went their own

separate ways.

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Chapter 5The writer made his way back home a few days later. This time, however,

he did so without the sense of dread that had become his constant

companion on the journeys back from the city. He did not fear the nextstorm. In fact, he could not wait for it, for he knew what to do.

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It was a mere week later when the winds came and the thunder erupted.

The man got up immediately, as was his habit, but this time he did not

leave the house with his bride. Once she had departed he closed the door

behind her, said a quite prayer and poured himself a glass of wine. And

then he waited. It was not easy, but he kept repeating the words of the old

skipper in his mind: Somehow the mermaids always survive… somehow

the mermaids always survive…somehow…

The storm lasted until the early hours of the morning. When thedownpour became a drizzle, and the winds a breeze, the writer put on his

raincoat and rushed out. He found it strangely exhilarating to run down

the mountain without a struggle. Within moments he made it to the rocks,

picked up the limp body of his bride and carried her home, effortlessly.

“As he made his way up the mountain he kissed her hair, and with the

taste of the sea in his mouth he whispered to her: “It’s okay, my love. Ican take care of you. I am fine.” And so he was reminded of the very first

time that he had carried her up the winding path that led to his house.

It did not take long to put her to bed, to bind up her wounds and to

administer medicine. The man could concentrate all his efforts on her, for

he was not hurt. In fact, he never once thought about himself as he nursedher back to health. This was a strange but wonderful experience, and it

was made more wonderful by the fact that she recovered remarkably fast.

The storms still came, with all their power and ferocity, and the man

could not help but marvel at their indifference to the new pattern that was

now developing in the little house. “They are so unconcerned”, he

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thought, “and that is why we should never try and influence them. That is

why we should find some other way to outsmart them.”

Outsmart them he did. One early morning after a particularly stormy

night, as the writer carried his bride back to the house, kissing her hair

and whispering words of love in her ears, she responded. It was a faint

response, but the words were unmistakeable: “Thank you.” This had

never happened before, and the man’s eyes were filled with tears of joy at

the sound of those words.

The next time it happened again, and the words were clearer than before.

And so, a few months and many storms later, it happened one morning

that she was conscious as he picked her up on those jagged rocks. They

talked all the way up the winding path, and for the first time the writer

suspected that she knew what had happened to her.

Yet, as always, the incident was never mentioned again.

Chapter 6My story has a happy ending. In fact, it is happier than any one of the

many stories that I have written. I am not writing from the grave, as youare aware. I am very much alive, and when I look out my window I do

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not see a tombstone but a small boy walking with his mother on a white

beach. There are rocks to the one side of the beach, but we never go there.

In fact, I haven’t been there in years. The last time I went down there I

did not find what I was looking for, so I never went back. She was not

there. It is as simple as that. No one was there.

I remember that morning as though it was yesterday. The storm was the

worst we had had in years. The waiting that night was very painful, for it

was a long wait. When I finally ran down the mountain I did so

frantically, for I felt that something was different. For the first time inmonths I had to remind myself of the skipper’s words: “Somehow…”

The refrain repeated itself in my head until I made it to the rocks. But she

was not there. The jagged rocks looked empty, as though their victim had

been snatched from them. I searched, prayed and yelled, but there was no

one. “Perhaps the skipper was wrong”, I thought. “Perhaps no mermaid bride has ever lived as long as this one, taken so much punishment, been

exposed to the elements so much. Perhaps…”

Yet there was a miraculous calmness in the ocean breeze that I could not

explain. And so I walked back up the winding path, not knowing what to

think. That’s when I saw her. She sat under a tree, as beautiful and peaceful as I had ever seen her. Her gaze was directed at the ocean. She

knew that I had run past her on the way down, but she did not stop me. I

had to see for myself, I realised.

“Come here”, she said, and held out her hand. “Come sit close to me.” I

did so, not sure what to expect. “I woke up”, she continued. “I woke up

on the way down, before I got to the water. And so I could stop myself.”

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She turned and looked at me. “This time we are both fine. Isn’t that

wonderful?”

Wonderful it was. More wonderful than I ever thought it would be. We

walked up that path, hand in hand, and we knew that we would never

have to do so again after a storm. When the next storm came the door of

the house on the hill remained closed. Inside was a fire, an open bottle of

wine and two people holding on to one another under every blanket they

could find in their house.

And just in case you wondered: The answer is yes. The boy on the beach

– he was born nine months later.

The End

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The Writer & the Mermaid

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