Poul Anderson - The Merman's Children

“Are, are, aren’t you afraid? You’ll nevermore be Tauno.”

He raised himself to his full height; his shadow fell huge. “I am Tauno Kraken’s-bane,” rang from him. “Should I fear to take unto me my bride?” She sat mute, until he touched her and murmured:

“The hour is late. Let’s to bed, shall we? Though this night, at least—after what’s passed between,us—I’m weary to the marrow. Let’s just sleep. You understand, don’t you Ingeborg? You’ve always understood.”

The second room was where she slept.

Having stolen from him after he was evenly breathing, she kindled a splint at the banked fife and used that to relight a taper. This she carried back. It gave her enough ocher dusk to see him by. .

He wanted no blankets, but lay on his right side on the pallet, unclad. Over the length of him, the great thews molded darknesses which stirred as his rib cage rose and fell. A lock of hair had tumbled across his brow, another curled beneath the jawline. A blind calm was on his face;. In the crook of an arm nestled her cat, purring.

Herself naked-she felt the rushes beneath her feet, heard them rustle, caught in her nostrils a phantom of bruised sweetness-she went carefully to the bedside. She had taken the crucifix off the wall. From that peg hung the talisman.

(“Doff it,” she had urged. “This once, that you may rest untroubled in your true dreams.”)

(“She would be lonely.”)

(“I see on you the marks of nature’s revenge. Would Nada not want you healed of them?”)

She had better not look at him for more than a few pulsebeats. He might awaken. She took the sigil by its thong and slipped back out again, closing the door behind her. Thereafter she could stand freely and by the light of the candle in her left hand behold the thing she bore in her right.

All else receded. The weight was small and was as heavy as the world. The dull ivory became a whole sky whose hollowness roofed her in, through which the dark-headed bird winged in eclipse of a moon; she was the earth below, she was the sea. It closed her off from every sound, it made a hush that snowed down through her, drenched her in its coolness until nothing was in Creation but one enormous hearkening, which was herself.

When silence had been completed, she could hear in her spirit, like a dying echo:—Who are you? What would you?

—I am Ingeborg, your sister, who also loves him.

She put the candle in a holder and brought the thong across her head, brushing her tresses aside, until the piece of bone lay on her bosom. She parted her breasts that it might fall next her heart. Her fingers she clasped above.

Clear within her, a song of longing: -Ingeborg. Yes. You have had what I never may. I’m glad to know you. He keeps remembeflng you. (Surprise) What, you weren’t aware? Well, he does.

(Later)—He is yours, however, Nada.

-He shouldn’t be. If I’d foreseen, I’d have fled him. . . I hope...But now I can’t.

—Of course you can’t.

(Later, tirnidly)—Ingeborg?

-Yes?

—I’m frightened, Ingeborg. Not for me, really not. For him. You know what he wants to do.

-Aye. Why do you suppose I’m talking with you?

-But- You? (Aghast) No! I mustn’t!

-Why not?

—I’m damned.

-Well?

-Not you too. I couldn’t.

-Not even if this is my dearest wish? asked Ingeborg into the weeping.

-It can’t be. You’ve Heaven before you.

-What’s that to me without him?

-We know not what’ll become of us . . . you-me. . . on the Last Day.

Ingeborg lifted her head. Candle-glow went fiery across her.

-Do you care?

—I should. For you.

-Nada, come to me. (With the strength of aliveness) We will be the bride of Tauno Kraken’s-bane.

There was a moment, though, when Ingeborg went on her knees. The rushes had slipped aside and she felt the cold clay underneath. “Mary,” she whispered, “I’m sorry if I’ve made you cry.”

She walked from the sleeping hamlet, down to the strand. While the Danish nights had grown short, they were still dark. Eastward, thunderclouds had gone to loose their anger elsewhere, and a ghost of dawn was paling the stars. Throughout the rest of the sky they gleamed in their thousandfolds around the Milky Way. Beneath that crystal black which held them, the Kattegat glimmered quicksilver.

She waded out. With no wind behind it, the surf had grown slight, and she was soon in water that merely clucked around her. Neither chill nor the numberlessly lumpy shingle hurt. Instead, they were like promises of a salt streaming that waited farther on. When the seatop kissed her nipples, she went below.

She could not breathe the depths as a mermaid did, and that was a loss, but she did not need to, either, She swam, she flowed, she gave back to the water the infinite endearments it sent gliding everywhere across her. She needed no more luminance than was down here to see how long brown vines with fluttering leaves sought upward from rocks whereto they were anchored, how fish darted like argent meteors, how shoals gave way to deeps and endless mystery. She could hear tides as they rolled around the world in the lunar wake, she could hear dolphins pass news onward from a coast of coral, across immensities she could hear the music of great whales. Beyond, she traced gleams, melodies, magics out of the realms that remained Faerie.

She remembered being Ingeborg and she remembered being Nada, but now she was both and she was neither. What swam was a creature of the halfworld, who could love and laugh and strive and sorrow, could do much that is forever denied to the children of Adam, but could no more know God than can an albatross or the wind whereon it soars. Made free, made whole, she felt ever more keenly how joyful she was. Let her doom take her when the Noms chose. This hour was hers. Soon, ere folk awakened, she would go back and rouse Tauno.

For his guest Herr Carolus Brede, Niels Jonsen bought a yacht, small enough to single-hand but well enough built for the high seas. Her lading became tools, weapons, rope, cloth, and much else in the way of gear and stores. Rumor went that he planned to open clandestine trade with the Wends, under the nose of Hansa. But when he was ready, he simply dispatched three men and an extra pair of horses to Hornbaek. He and Carolus took the boat north, not south, up the Sound and west along the Zealand coast; and Fro Dagmar came too, though she was with child.

They passed the settlement. Off an unpeopled stretch marked by a tall fir, they dropped anchor and waited. Fishing craft were in view, from which night would veil them.

It came late, for this was the Eve of St. Hans, when the sun is not long nor far below Danish horizons. The sky was violet, so bright that few stars glimmered and they small and secret. Water sheened like burnished silver, changeably etched by cool air that carried fragrances of growth from the land. One could count the trees yonder, or read the palm of one’s beloved. On distant hilltops, baleflres glowed red; youths and maidens were dancing around them.

Clink, clink, said ripples against strakes. Bird calls sounded afar. Surf made a murmur. Little else broke the hush.

Then a swimmer surfaced and hailed softly in a foreign language. Tauno replied likewise. She drew nigh; he leaned over and helped her aboard. Drops gleamed downward off her nakedness.

They say there that the body of Ingeborg had become more fully rounded than erstwhile, for its muscles gave it the motion of a cat. Sunlight had laved it everywhere. Weather had turned brown braids to deep amber. These things hardly mattered beside the strangeness which radiated from her. The very countenance of Ingeborg had subtly changed, become somehow fluid, both shy and bold, heedless and wise, looking forth upon the world as a lioness might, yet with something of otter, seal, and wide-ranging tern in that gaze,