The Gift of the Mergi

A handful of pearls. That was all Nerissa had. Oh, she’d grown up in Poseidon’s Grotto, with abalone combs and aquamarine and moonstone gems, but when she’d left the great ocean to marry a land-walker, she’d forfeit her jewels and pirate’s treasure hoards and kept only the handful of her nameday pearls.

And it was nearly Christmas.

The nets

It had been a fair price to pay. Many people believed that mermaids had to give up their voices to walk on land, but that was only true in fairy tales. In the actual world of the sea, merfolk could transform from fins to feet and back at will, but they had to dip their toes in the water at least once a week.

This was no trouble for Nerissa since her land-walker husband worked on the sea. Her Stavros was a fisherman with strong arms and a kind smile, eyes the color of the perfect wave, and dimples you could fill with a tide pool. He was also the owner of a wooden boat – the Sea Witch – inherited from his father’s father’s father, and the original glass floats that helped him find his nets once they were cast. The floats were very old and very valuable, for such things were no longer made, and only the oldest fisherfamilies still used them. They were also beautiful, as iridescent as opals and as delicate as bubbles if not handled carefully.

Nerissa loved helping on the boat. She and Stavros sang sea shanties, and she helped re-weave the nets when they frayed and ensured no sea creatures were accidentally ensnared. Stavros would cast the nets and drag in the catch, laying it in layers of ice. Whenever one of the other fishermen needed an extra hand, Stavros was the first to offer aid, and whenever anyone fell from a boat, Nerissa would be there to swim them to safety.

But every minute Stavros gave to others was time he wasn’t fishing. Then, too, the water had been overwarm this last season, and the catch had been smaller than usual, and Nerissa wanted so much to help her husband succeed… she knew that if she visited her many-times grand-mermother Amphitrite, the old woman would be able to help.

Decision made, Nerissa gathered her precious pearls and ran down to the beach. The water was cold on her bare legs, but once she’d shifted back to her birth-form, the chill didn’t bother her. She descended to the sandy bottom of the sea then swam out beyond the buoys that marked the channel, to where the water was deep blue, and the kelp forests surrounded the grottos where the finfolk lived.

Amphitrite welcomed her with open arms, chiding her for going so long between visits. “Stay for the solstice celebration, child,” the old merwoman said. “And take home a gift from me. Your father would not see you go without. He loves you, though he shows it poorly.”

Stavros, Nerissa knew, would be spending the evening at the Fisherman’s Roost, sharing drinks and stories with his friends. He never drank to get drunk, but just as she had her friends in the water, he needed to maintain his friendships on land. “I’ll stay,” agreed. “But I need your help.”

With luminescent tears pooling in her eyes, then dripping down her face, the younger mermaid told the older one about her two-footed husband, and his total acceptance of her needs. “He works so hard to take care of the Sea Witch, and to take care of me and….” Nerissa paused, placing her hand just below the point where skin turned into scales. “We are to have a child a few moons after the turning of the year..”

“And you want to share the grace of Glaucos with him,” the old merwoman said. “What gift would you bestow upon your human lover, child?”

“I wish to give him one of Glaucos’s nets,” Nerissa answered. “I would offer my voice, if it were a fair bargain.”

“The sea would prefer your voice remain where you can use it to sing songs and speak words of curse or comfort,” Amphitrite answered. “What else can you share?”

“I would offer my hair, if it were a fair bargain.”

“Your beautiful blue hair does far more good on your head, then lost to the waves, my dear,” the many-times great-grandmermother said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Then, I would offer my nameday pearls,” Nerissa said, “if it were a fair bargain.”

“Your nameday pearls carry the magic of your mother’s love, child. It is a fair bargain, and I will give you Glaucos’s nets, that your lover…”

“ – husband—”

“…husband, then, may never have a catch that isn’t bountiful.”

The bargain maid, Nerissa enjoyed the music and dancing of the merfolk, and the parade of phosphorescence that brought in the solstice and the change of seasons. When she left, two young mermen escorted her back to the Sea Witch, leaving the nets in a pile on the deck.

On Christmas morning, Stavros watched Nerissa frolic in the waves for an hour, joining her at the end, then lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to their cottage on the cliff. He had fashioned a Christmas tree from pieces of driftwood draped with pine boughs and decorated it with lights and seashells and fishing lures. At the top, one of his old foul-weather hats gleamed yellow and bright.

And under the tree were two packages. A large lumpy one, wrapped in sailcloth, and a wee box with a blue-green ribbon that almost matched Nerissa’s hair.

“Stavros, this is lovely!,” Nerissa said.

“I wanted our tree to reflect us,” he said. “Shall we brew a pot of strong tea and sip it while we open our presents?”

Nerissa made the tea, and Stavros sliced some ginger cake, and they sipped and nibbled and talked about her solstice celebration and his evening with his friends, and then they turned toward the gifts, one for each of them.

Nerissa opened the box first, and when she saw what was nestled within, she began to cry great salty tears.

“What’s wrong, lass. Do you not like it?” Stavros asked. “I know it’s plain, but I thought you could string your pearls on it. You never wear them.”

“It’s beautiful,” Nerissa said, lifting the fine gold chain and letting it hang from her long fingers. “But I’ll have to string it with shells for now, because I traded my pearls to acquire your gift. Open it, please?”

Stavros did as he was bidden, and untied the sailcloth bundle to find new fishnets that gleamed almost as golden as the chain his wife was clutching and radiating a sort of power he couldn’t identify. “These are brand new,” he said.

“They are imbued with the grace of Glaucos,” Nerissa explained. “He’s the protector of fishermen and will guarantee a bountiful catch with every use.”

“It’s a generous gift, my love, but…”

“But what?”

“I sold my floats to buy your chain,” Stavros said. “I have cork floats, but I don’t think they’re buoyant enough to support this net.”

For a long moment, both were silent. Then Nerissa spoke. “It would appear the Mergi are smiling upon us this year.”

“The… Mergi?”

“Yes. In your land-walker tradition you have stories of the magi – the wise men who brought gifts to the holy child when he was born. In the Ways of the Water, we have the Mergi – wise ones who guide our hands and hearts away from selfishness and greed. In our efforts to give to each other unselfishly, we gave up our greatest treasures, and for that, the Mergi smile.

In fairy tales, there is always a happy ending, but Nerissa and Stavros live in the real world. Still, they were respected and loved by their separate communities. When the couple arrived at the harbormaster’s cottage for the annual holiday toast, each of Stavros’s friends brought a single glass float to give to him. Combined, they were just enough to support the new net.

Days later, at the first tide of the new year, Nerissa and Stavros returned to the Sea Witch and found a cradle waiting there, piled high with sweet saltgrass. Nestled in the center was a small chest, and inside that was a single pearl, a fistful of pirate’s gold, and a note from Amphitrite to “bring your daughter to meet me, when she is born.”

Nerissa and Stavros lived, and fished, for many decades, and every year on their daughter’s nameday, they would bring their daughter Pearl to visit Poseidon’s Grotto and hear stories from her many-times great-grandmermother.

With apologies to O. Henry and Hans Christian Andersen

A Visit From Sandy Klaws

Sandy Klaws

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and down in the deep,
Not a creature was stirring, nor making a peep.
The seashells were hung by the coral with care,
In hopes that Old Sandy Klaws soon would be there.

The merkids were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of shipwrecks sailed through their heads.
And Neptune with his trident, and I with my tail,
Had just settled down to a seaweed-filled tale.

When atop the sea, there arose such a clatter,
I surfaced to see just what was the matter.
Up, up  to the shore, I swam like a flash,
Slicing through waves with nary a splash.

Moonlight reflecting on the smooth as glass sea,
Seemed as bright as the midday sun  – well, to me.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a pontoon sleigh, pulled by eight dolphins, dear.

Though the  crustacean driver never would pause,
I knew in a moment, it was Sandy Klaws.
More rapid than makos his porpoises came,
and he clicked and whistled and called out their names.

“Now Splashy, now Coral, now Finny and Bubbles,
On Glisten, on Ripple, on Shimmer and Troubles!
To the top of the waves, to the top of the wall,
Now swim ahead, swim ahead, swim ahead all!”

As phosphoresence that in the  ship’s wake glows,
to the crest of the wave, the dolphins, they rose.
Then down to the sea caves those silver forms dove,
with the boat full of toys and of course Mr Klows – er – Klaws

And then with a splish-splash I heard in my cove,
the frolicking sound of the dolphins he drove.
As I floated toward them without making a sound,
down the waterspout Sandy Klaws came with a bound.

He was dressed all in kelp from his head to his shell,
with barnacle decorations shining as well.
A bundle of toys he held in his pincher,
and he looked like an orca contemplating dinner.

His eyestalks rotated, his feet –  how they skittered!
His mouth parts and beard were all dusted with glitter.
His first legs were holding on tight to a bow,
and his whole carapace did certainly glow.

He couldn’t have smiled (crabs don’t have teeth),
but his bubbles encircled him just like a wreath.
He had a broad shell, and a hard belly plate,
and his color was pink from the shrimp he ate.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old crab
And I laughed as I offered a plated sand dab.
But he ducked his eyes and waved me away,
and I realized he was keeping his pinchers at bay.

He spoke not word, but emptied his bag,
leaving something for every mermaid and sea hag.
Then snapping his claw like a bone castanet,
he rode the up waterspout, fast as a jet.

He scuttled to his sleigh, to his team clicked and whistled,
and away they all swam like a Landwalker’s missile.
Still, I heard him exclaim as his bubble trail died…
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a Good Tide!

Tlanchana

la_tlanchana_by_andro_san12_df23o87-414w-2xThe Mother of Water has many moods and many forms.

When she is sad or angry, her tears fill the basin of the lake near our home, and the power of her emotion fuels wicked storms. The fishermen and sailors beg her for mercy, but she is the snake mother then, and she whips her tail in agitation. The men know to remain ashore and use the time to sit near the fire repairing their nets or stitching new sails.

They tell stories of my mother’s worst tantrums, but their voices are full of respect in equal measures as the fear.

“I remember,” the oldest man says, “that when conquerors tried to cross the lake and take our village, the Water-Mother used her snake tail to whip their weapons from their hands and push their ships back with her well-placed waves.”

When my mother is feeling happy, the skies reflect the bright blue of her eyes, and the waters in the lake are calm. She takes a fish-tail then, swimming alongside the fishing boats and guiding them toward the best catch.

She likes to play with the children on these days, and while I was not the first or the last to wrap my young arms around her neck and let her carry me over and under the surface, coming up for air always at the exact right moment, I am the one who is never afraid.

“The Water-Mother is our protector,” the other mothers tell their children. “And it is an honor to be invited to swim with her.”

Sometimes, though, the Mother of Water must take human form, trading tail for legs, and walking on the land. She did this once to find a mate, and that’s how I was made, but she also comes to shore whenever one of the elders passes out of this life.

In those times her tears are salty, and she cries them over the graves of those who have left. She wraps her silky hair around herself like a cloak and keeps vigil over the bones of the dead.

The old grannies cook for her at those times and leave pots of food and jugs of water to sustain her while she sits in silence. She might sit for two nights or five, or even seven, but when she leaves, it always seems she takes our collective grief away with her.

“Death is part of life,” she reminds us, as she returns to the lake.

Unlike the other girls in our village, the Mother of Water is also my mother of blood. When I am older, she tells me in her voice that ripples like a stream, I will learn to shift my form, to take on the snake tail when I must be fierce and the fish tail when I am being playful, and legs when I am ready for love.

Sometimes she visits in her human form, just to spend time with us.

“Did you love my father?” I ask her.

“I did,” she says. “I do,” she adds.

And she walks on legs into the candlelit depths of our house and shares her joy with the man who raises me. When she departs after those times, her eyes are dry, but my father’s face is wet with tears, and so is mine.

The Mother of Water has many moods and many forms, but in every one, she protects those of us she calls her own.

Art credit: Andro-san12