by Caitlyn Dominique Tanchoco

The sea is as near as we come to another world. – Anne Stevenson

The first time she learns of love, she is just a little squirt. It is dark in the grotto where her family lives. She and her siblings usually stay in the safety of their home while their father goes to the surface to call forth the water from the sky. This time though, her father is home, and the skies are bright and clear. The light from the surface shines from an angle that reaches the mouth of the cave. She finds herself captivated by the rare glow of the riverbed. Arbitrary patterns of shadows cast through the waves, kaleidoscopic hues shining on scattered pebbles and revealing a soft lustre that reminds her of iolites.

Allured by the glimmer of stone, she slowly drifts towards the opening of the grotto. By the time she is close enough, the boundary of their home is a little ways behind her. As the light reflects on the scattered items, she discovers that one of the stones that she saw isn’t a stone at all. She reaches down into the cluster of dark rocks and retrieves a small pendant attached to a chain.

The material is reminiscent of the rings and flat circles that humans sometimes toss into the river, but this one has raised motifs that press against her fingertips, and engraved lines of shapes that she vaguely recognizes as human script.

‘L’amour de Lanthier’

She never found the need to decipher human script, and so she cannot understand the engraving on the metal. But on the other side of the pendant, protected by a thin piece of glass, is the image of a human family. The one with the long hair is holding a smaller, chubby human in her hands, while the one with the beard looks down at both of them with an expression that she cannot explain. Staring at the image on the pendant, she wonders why her chest begins to ache.

The second time she learns of love, she also learns of tragedy. At twenty summers, she has grown into a beguiling maiden. Her scales glint with the same sheen as the iolites she so loves. Sharp amber eyes pierce through the turbid water, swirling with the storm that she has inherited from her father. The pendant that she had found years ago is twisted into her hair, a gleam of gold within the swish of raven strands.

She is not the fastest out of all her siblings, nor is she the most adventurous. She cannot summon more than a drizzle on the surface, and she can barely swim against the river’s current. However, unbeknownst to them, she is the one who has travelled the farthest from the grotto.

Half a day’s away, where the river meanders and diverges, is a human village built upon the bank. Her father taught her, once, that when he pulls water from the white masses in the sky, he does so to enrich the homes of the humans, who cannot create their own. She remembers thinking it odd that such creatures can create so many strange and wonderful things, and yet cannot create water. It seems so silly, even now.

It is the turn of a new moon. Ribbons of living light paint the waves orange in the absence of the watchful moon. The village is silent for tonight, its inhabitants sound asleep in the warmth of their homes. She idles in the murky shallows of the bank, curiously prodding and brushing against the land-dry foliage. The flora on land is so fantastically different from the ones that border her home. Some are rough, some are feathery, and some are small clusters of leaves and long winding vines, and colourful blossoms that smile and greet her with a sweet misty breeze. As she snaps the stem of a drooping, yellow flower, she allows herself to fantasize for a moment that these blooms may survive in the depths of the river with her.

“Sirène…”

Startled, she quickly pushes herself off the bank and ducks back into the river. Her sudden movement disturbs the calm water, exposing her still to whatever it is that saw her. Through the rush of water in her ears, the sound of a voice rings from above and cuts through the cacophony of her panic.

“Wait! I did not mean to scare you! Please come back, sirène!”

A second passes. Two seconds. And she peeks her head above the surface of the water. There is a human stooping on the edge of the shore. In the dark of night, she can only see shadow, a silhouette of billowing hair in the wind. The figure perks at the sight of her, leaning on its hands and peering down at her.

“Hello,” it greets tentatively. When she does not answer, it speaks again. “Don’t be scared. I will not hurt you. I just want to meet you.”

She stares at the human for a few minutes more. She had never been so close to a creature of land. Somehow, it makes her more curious about the gold trinket braided into her hair. The growing silence is broken by a dull rumbling in the distance and the splashing of water as she turns and dives back into the river.

She returns the next night, just after the sun fled and the waves were dyed orange again. She makes her customary lap around the bank, before returning to the shallows where the human had found her the night before. Caution finds her advancing from below, remaining in the safety of the water for as long as possible. Tonight, the living light reaches this side of the bank, albeit softer and dimmer than the harsh glare bordering the village.

Once again, she peeks from just under the surface. The hazy orange light, contrary to her assumption, is not a reflection of the source from the distant waves. It is a smaller, flickering wisp, contained in a perforated vessel made of brass. On the mossy land, carrying the vessel, is the human. Now in the light of the wisp, its features are clear to see.

It is a girl. A small sprite, perhaps only longer than her tail by a span. Rivulets of goldenrod hair frame a round visage, swaying in the warm, humid breeze. Staring solemnly into the waves, she is pinned by a pair of the deepest eyes, murkier than the depths of the river and more vibrant than the bluest of iolites.

The human girl jerks into movement at the glimpse of glimmer in the water. She places the brass vessel on the ground and leans on her hands, mimicking their encounter the night before.

“I see you there,” she whispers, the sound almost too light to travel underwater. “I’m sorry for scaring you last night. I was just surprised.” There is a pause. She bends lower, her body perched precariously on the edge of the bank. Her eyes are open wide as can be, trying to make out the figure in the water. “My name is Harriet. I usually only come here once a week, but I was curious about you. May I see you? I promise I will not do anything.”

A breathless eternity goes by. The waters are calm, with nary a ripple of life underneath. Hope begins to waver as time stretches uneventfully. The girl, Harriet, sighs in disappointment, tilting backwards to sit down. The fabric covering her body rides up with the motion, revealing her under shape.

A large splash from the river gives Harriet a fright, making her quickly crawl backwards. From the towering sprays, a creature emerges and collapses onto the ground. Harriet gasps at the sight of scales, shimmering with an otherworldly iridescence in the light of the lantern. Blue and amber lock in shared awe.

“C’est magnifique…” she gasps, marvelling at the sight, at the existence of a woman of myth. A beautiful sirène who lives in the Thames River! Unbelievable enough that such a creature is even real, but to find one so close to her home? Oh, surely, this must be a dream!

Harriet feels something wet wrap around her ankle. She hacks at the cold touch, nearly falling on her back in surprise. The sirène has wrapped her hand around her foot; her fingers are webbed, she notices absently, roaming curiously on the skin of her leg. At first, she does not know why the sirène is doing such a thing, but as she watches luminescent eyes dart between her legs and the sirène’s own tail, she understands the sirène’s curiosity.

“Those are my legs,” she says, causing the aquatic woman to look up at her. “Humans use them to walk on land.”

The sirène shifts her head from side to side, turning Harriet’s foot this way and that. Long sodden hair swings at her back, momentarily distracting the girl with the almost hypnotic movement. With a cough, Harriet quickly snaps herself out of the trance and speaks again.

“Can… can you understand me?”

The woman looks back to her face and bobs her head awkwardly. She’s nodding, Harriet thinks in excitement.

“Are you able to speak?”

She stills at the question. Amber eyes dilate and contract as she opens her mouth. Disturbingly enough, her jaw unhinges, revealing two sets of sharp teeth. A terrible croaking noise emanates from within her ribbed throat. Immediately, she closes her mouth again and her head begins to sway side to side once more. She does not do much more, releasing her grip on the human limb.

Harriet shivers with unease at the display. Perhaps that’s a no. Still, she smiles at the restless sirène, endeared at the surprisingly human mannerisms she is displaying. Webbed fingers tap an arbitrary rhythm on the wet soil. The tail fin slowly gravitates back towards the river, creating small waves in the water. The whole time, not once does she look anywhere else but at her. It seems that they are equally curious about each other.

The girl shifts around, adjusting her legs. How strange it is to have two lower appendages instead of one! They are tucked underneath each other. It is such a strange experience, to have another creature be so interested in her as a being. “Do you have a name?” Harriet asks her with her mouth stretched to her cheeks.

A name, she knows, is a word assigned to a fellow as a point of identity, like how Harriet is called Harriet. She never really thought about being distinguished from her siblings. They are all so radically different as individuals that there has been no point. And so she moves her head from side to side in a gesture, she learned, means no.

Harriet’s lips stretch downwards towards her chin. “That’s a shame,” she mumbles. Her hands wander around the moss-covered bank, brushing against damp leaves and drooping flowers. As she runs a finger along the petal of a particularly shrivelled flower, her expression suddenly becomes bright. Harriet turns to face her, the corners of her mouth pointing upwards again. “I know! I can give you a name. Something pretty that I can call you by. What do you say?”

She perks up at the offer. Something pretty to call her? She does certainly treasure beautiful things. From the lustrous iolites that wash into the river, to the golden pendant hidden in her hair, to the vibrant flora that thrive on land. And perhaps, even this charming slip of a human girl. Twisting her face to mimic Harriet’s expression, she bobs her head in easy agreement.

A strange airy gurgle comes from the girl’s throat. She carefully unearths one of the healthy blooms from the soil, then holds it just under the mermaid’s nose. “Then, you will be Fleur. Because you are as beautiful as the flowers.”

As Fleur gently takes the bloom from Harriet’s hand, her chest aches just as it did summers ago.

And so, the two girls meet at the riverbank each night. They bring small trinkets and knickknacks to their secret rendezvous, teaching and learning about one another. One night, Harriet shows Fleur how to make a circlet of vines and flowers. In return, Fleur condenses the air around them and pulls the droplets of water suspended in the humidity. The night after that, Harriet presents Fleur with a cotton ribbon that she coated in wax to make it resistant to unravelling underwater. Fleur carefully unravels the chain in her hair and gives Harriet the pendant in return.

The mermaid quickly grows concerned when her friend coughs in surprise and begins to laugh. Harriet holds a hand to her chest as she tries to contain her amusement. “Did you just happen to find this?”

When Fleur nods, she grins and flips the pendant to the side with the script.

‘L’amour de Lanthier’

“This,” she caresses the metal, “is my family’s name. I had accidentally thrown this into the river as a child.” She giggles again, terribly delighted at the coincidence. “It’s funny that you are the one to find it. Maybe this is a sign that we were always meant to meet each other.”

It is a nice sentiment. Fleur has come to care deeply about Harriet, and she is happy that she seems to care about her just as much. As the human continues to fill the silence with lively chatter and raspy laughter, she allows herself to fantasize of a world where they may share their days in contented frivolity.

One day, Fleur’s siblings had all departed from the grotto to search for food, and so she was left to defend their home until they returned. Unfortunately, this particular hunt was nigh unsuccessful, taking longer than warranted to find prey large enough to sate them for the next fortnight. Only when the sky dimmed, was she able to steal away to the village.

But now, in the shallows of their secret haven, Fleur is alone, surrounded only by damp moss, withering flowers, and lapping water. She wallows in the sounds of the night, in the rustle of the lives on land, in the rolling of the waves around her. She is not here. She is not coming. Fleur waits and still, Harriet does not come.

Not after an hour. Not after two.

Not as the living lights by the village are smothered by waking humans.

When the first rays of sun warm her scales, she sinks back into the river. It grows agitated at her restlessness, the dull crashing of waves barely audible in the ambience of the rousing village. With one final look into the undergrowth, she pushes away from the bank and begins to swim back home. Perhaps Harriet thought I wasn’t coming.

Fleur sets off again while the sun is still in its apex. The river is troubled this time, becoming more unrelenting in its course the farther she travels. By the time the village is in sight, the living lights are only just being kindled. Quickly, she makes her lap around the bank, then settles underneath the shallows to rest.

She waits for Harriet. Her tail splashes idly, impatiently. Deft fingers brush and untangle the winding vines that reach towards her. She carefully prunes the wilting blooms closest to her. She gathers the humid air into her cupped hands and carefully drips condensation over the flowers. However, the droplets only weigh heavily on the petals, causing the buds to bend and bow towards the soil. Fleur is discomfited by the sight.

Harriet does not come.

On the third night, Fleur arrives, accompanied by a darkening sky. As she nears the bank from underneath, the clear waters become murkier. The strange impurity obstructs her senses, and for a fleeting moment, anger ignites in her chest that this pollution is tainting her—their haven.

She surfaces under the hanging underbrush. Two humans stand at the edge of the land. Amber eyes sharpen at the sight of them, darting across the features, familiar as they are, of the strangers. One has golden curls cascading down its back, cloaked in flowing layers of dark fabric that slowly dampens in the lapping waves. The other wears a darker, glossier fabric shaped onto its body, the material pinned around all of its limbs in stiff lines. In its arms is a vessel, larger than the one holding the wisp of light, and etched with scrolling patterns and shapes.

Is this Harriet? She has grown so tall in such a short time. Her hair has grown so long, so pale in the meagre light of the slender moon. Who is that with her? Her mate? And so soon after they had met! Are human lives so fleeting that they age so much in the blink of an eye? Fleur’s curiosity begs for answers.

Fleur watches the woman bend down and drop something into the soil. The other, possibly a man places a hand on her shoulder. Fleur can only just hear their voices from where she is hiding.

“Are you sure about this, darling?” he says softly. “It has only just returned to us. You do not want to keep it?”

The woman exhales shakily, reaching up and enveloping the hand on her shoulder with her own. “You should have seen her, Joseph, the biggest smile on her face whenever she came back home. She said she had found a treasure here, on this riverbank. It is only right that our treasure rests here.”

Shining drops of water leak from her eyes. Fleur stills at the sight of it. The woman is crying. “I miss her,” she sobs as she latches onto the man’s arm. He does not reply as he embraces her, shedding his own tears.

They stay like this for a long while. So long, that Fleur starts to itch and fidget with impatience. Finally, as the river roils and rumbles to her whims, the pair straightens and treks back to the village, taking the container with them.

Fleur quickly swims to where the woman had buried something in the ground. Her claws dig into the wet soil, and with a violent tug, unearths the abandoned object.

The gold pendant. ‘L’amour de Lanthier’ The sky breaks open. Harriet will not come.

July of 1883 had been warm and bountiful. The village by the Thames River bustled with its lively inhabitants, working and playing and living peacefully. For a week after the new moon, the skies remained clear, and the people thanked the Lord for such lovely weather until heavy clouds descended, darker than ever seen before.

The people slumbered in their homes, unaware of the storm brought upon their village. They were asleep when the river came alive and devoured them. Through the mass destruction, no one heard the resounding wails of a love, lost to tragedy.

Her goodbye went unheard.