Robert Rankin - Retromancer

‘You have a most exotic accent,’ I said, for she did. ‘Is it Eastern European?’

‘Nowhere of consequence,’ she replied, daintily diddling digits in her lap. ‘I am the nursemaid of an old and distinguished lady. I was brought up in a small village, but later found work in the capital. My employer and I have been aboard this liner since the outbreak of the war.’

‘That is a long time,’ I said. ‘But there are certainly worse jobs to be had. And far worse places to have them.’

‘Few lives can be worse than mine,’ she said, in a whispered voice. But did not want to elaborate.

‘It would be lovely,’ she said, ‘if you and I were to take a little stroll upon the promenade deck. The full moon is out tonight and the sea looks so beautiful.’

‘I really should return to my friend,’ I said. ‘Although your offer is certainly tempting.’

‘There is no telling where a little stroll might lead to.’ The beautiful young woman smiled at me.

Which left all sorts of potential erotic possibilities hanging in the air. As it were.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘As you said, I am sure he is in good hands. What possible harm could a short stroll do? Although I do have to say that it probably will have to be a very short one, as I have rather too freely indulged in my dinner.’

‘We can stroll slowly,’ said the marvellous being and she rose elegantly to her feet and put out her arm to me. And I rose and took it and, smiling quite smugly, escorted her off to the deck.

The moon looked so achingly beautiful, the sea like a mirror reflecting its glory, the ship seemed to glide as on ice and the weather was warm. No more perfect night than this could I possibly imagine and I sought to add it to my store of remembered moments. In the hope that one day, many years from now, when I was old and wretched and done for, I would be able to look back with clarity and say, ‘That was a moment.’

‘You seem thoughtful,’ said the lovely girl. ‘Are you a poet, perhaps, or a concert pianist, or maybe an artist?’

‘I am none of those things,’ I replied. ‘I am like you, in employ to another. Although he is a great man.’

And we strolled a little further and I pulled a little on her arm and sought to draw her closer to my side. Because she did seem to be keeping herself somewhat at arm’s length and I was now really keen to perhaps have a little snog with her and see where it led to.

But this nameless beauty maintained her distance, which I had to put down not to my lack of grace and manly charm, but more to the cologne I had doused myself with. Which, rather than dissipating as one might naturally have expected it to do, seemed, if anything, even more pungent than ever.

‘Do you know what?’ I said. ‘I am thinking that I might repair to my accommodation, change my clothes and have a quick though extremely thorough shower. I would not be more than ten minutes at most – would you wait for me here?’

‘Please don’t leave me,’ said the exquisite young woman. And tears welled in her wonderful eyes and her wonderful mouth grew crinkly.

‘Oh sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I said. ‘I will do as you ask. It is just that I know how I smell.’

‘We could talk, couldn’t we?’ she said. ‘Sit here, perhaps?’ And she gestured to a pair of steamer chairs that faced out towards the moon and the magical sea.

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I would like that very much.’

So down we sat and gazed at the moon, though I gazed mostly at her.

‘Please tell me your name,’ I said. ‘I will bet that it is a romantic name, as might befit a faerie queen.’

‘My name is Esmerelle,’ said Esmerelle.

‘And that is a beautiful name.’ I reached out now to touch her hand, but this she pulled away.

‘Might I tell you a story?’ she asked. ‘Of my homeland.’

‘Might it lead to anything, how might I put this delicately, interesting? ’ I enquired.

‘Oh yes, I can most certainly promise you that.’

‘Does it involve pirates?’ I asked, for I still harboured a great affection for pirates.

‘No pirates,’ she said. ‘But there is a monster involved.’

‘That is fair enough then,’ I said. ‘A monster and pirates might be asking a lot.’

‘Would you like me to begin now?’ asked my fabulous companion with but a hint of annoyance in her voice.

‘Yes please,’ I said. ‘Carry on.’ And I settled back in the moonlight and listened to the tale.

‘More than a century ago in my village, there lived twin sisters. Young and gay and beautiful were they and as the village prospered, for the land was rich and lush, these sisters were carefree and joyous. But then one day a showman’s waggon was driven into the village. A curious hunchbacked fellow in multicoloured garments drove this waggon and with him a dwarf of terrible aspect. Many of the villagers were afeared at the arrival of these unsavoury characters, but the twin sisters, who knew only happiness and frivolity, dallied near the waggon when it stopped for the watering of its horses and that its driver and diminutive companion might take a jug of mead at the alehouse. And while the horses and the travellers drank, the two sisters sneaked around to the rear of the waggon, which was as a gypsies’ waggon with bowed canvas all about and a tiny door to the back. And they peeped in at a tiny window in this tiny door and there saw something wonderful within.’

‘Was it a monkey?’ I asked. For in my way I did like monkeys almost as much as I liked pirates. I was, in fact, very taken with Fangio’s monkey Clarence. ‘A golden monkey, perhaps?’

But Esmerelle shook her beautiful head, raven-haired tresses and all. ‘Are you a complete stone-bonker?’ she asked.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But I have always dreamed of seeing a golden monkey. Please carry on. I should not have butted in.’

‘It was a golden mermaid,’ said Esmerelle.

‘How close was that?’ I asked.

And Esmerelle sighed, which made me feel very guilty about behaving in such a foolish manner.

‘I am so very sorry,’ I said. ‘Please carry on with your tale, I promise not to make any more stupid remarks.’

Esmerelle’s eyes sparkled with reflected moonlight and she continued with her tale.

‘Golden, she was, and alive. This was no showman’s gaff. No stuffed chimera of ape and fish, but a living, breathing mermaid, who sat in a gilded cage. The two sisters were entranced by this mythical being made flesh. And they felt that they must free it from its prison and release it back into the sea. And so they entered the showman’s waggon and were never seen again.’ And Esmerelle sighed gently and diddled her fingers on the arms of her steamer chair.

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘That is not much of an end to the story. Surely there is more to it than that.’

‘There is more,’ said Esmerelle, ‘but you might not wish to hear it.’

‘You said there was a monster involved,’ I replied. ‘Get to that bit at least.’

‘So be it. The two sisters tried to free the golden mermaid, but they could not open the cage. And then suddenly they heard the door of the waggon lock upon them and the waggoner whipped up the horses and drove away from the village. Although the sisters cried out for help, their cries went unheard and the waggon drove on and on for several days. Soon the sisters were starving and driven half-mad by this hunger. And they could hardly cry out any more because they were growing so weak. There was no food at all in that locked wagon and so, upon the third day of their awful confinement, they made a terrible decision. That if they were to survive they must eat the golden mermaid.’

I almost said, ‘Alive?’ but held my tongue.

‘They stabbed it,’ said Esmerelle. ‘The golden mermaid still flourished, you see, as if it had never the need for food. And they had begun to hate it and to envy it for watching their torment whilst remaining beautiful and unmoved. Oh yes, they really hated that mermaid. And so they killed it. They stabbed it through the bars of the cage and chopped it into pieces right there. And then they thrust those pieces into their mouths and never had they known such pleasure. That anything could taste so sweet.