Гарднер Дозуа - Mermaids!

"Frank, I don't know. It gets me just to see the place."

He fingered his glass,"Is it money you need then?"

"No." I thumped the dead right arm on the table. "I've a government-guaranteed lifetime income right here. Not a high return on the initial investment... but I don't need much."

"What are you doing with yourself now?"

"This and that."

"What's 'this and that'? I mean work for God's sake."

"Nothing much. Bumming around..."

Frank touched my arm. "You've got to do something with your life, boy. You can't go on moping about."

"I thought about writing. But I don't know if I have anything to say."

"God save us! Writing!" He slammed the glass on the table. "Just what the world needs... another scribbler. It's not the drink that's the curse of the Irish ... it's literacy." He jerked his head toward the bar where a young man in steel-rimmed glasses was pulling stout. "Ten pounds to a pence he's got an unfinished novel under the pumps ... or chisels Gaelic verse in the Ogham..."

"Frank, if I wanted a sermon, I'd ask Father Fitz."

He drained his Paddy. "Ah, well, boy, I know. I get carried away." He fingered the worn coin on his vest. "We need men of business. Men who can make things go, not superstitious dreamers or mystical poets."

He shoved his glass toward me. "One more then." His voice was tired.

I couldn't handle any more whiskey. So I sat there playing with a half-pint of stout. Frank's face was flushed.

"Now I've an idea. There's an American firm I'm representing. They need a bright young man like you. You're American and you'll know their ways. You could live here and keep Cnoc Grianan ... And you've the right contacts."

"Meaning you."

"Meaning me." He smiled.

"And what does this famous company do?"

"Computer softwares."

I had a sudden vision of giant disposable diapers filled with electronic turds. The room was hot. I knew Frank meant well, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings, but I needed to get out of there.

"Frank, I don't know ... I can't think anymore ... for the last few years my head has been totally fucked..."

He flinched at the crudity and glanced quickly over his shoulder to be sure Sister Mary Monica wasn't standing there, ruler at the ready.

"Michael, I'm not pressing. It's only that I want to see you make something of your life."

"I was making something of my life. Now I don't know ... maybe I don't really care." The stout tasted like a wet ashtray.

"When must you go back to the States?"

"Tomorrow. Next week. Doesn't make a helluva lot of difference."

Frank took out a black leather appointment book. He studied it for a moment.

"Michael. I'll ask a favor. I've got a new Seamaster up at Carrick. I need it run down to Athlone. There's no hurry. You could be a week about it. Rest yourself. Do a bit of coarse fishing. Think about your life." He hesitated, looking at my right arm, "Could you ..."

"Could I single-hand it, you mean?" I laughed. "How big is it?"

"I wouldn't be having the Queen Mary , would I? It's a thirty-footer. Center cockpit."

"No problem."

"You'll do it then?" He finished his drink. "That's a great favor. I've not the time these days to bring it down myself."

"Why is it up there?"

"Getting a new top and windscreen. I lent it to a client. One of the Germans. The great clod took it under the Rooskey bridge with the top up. The boat went through, but a great part of it stayed behind."

"Did he pay for it?"

"Pay for it? Three hundred pounds' damage, and I got a bloody verziehung from him. So I put an extra five hundred on his bill for 'services rendered.'" He winked, "Fortunate it was that my insurance made up the deficit." We both laughed.

"Okay, why not." I stood up, "I'll get my gear together and you can pick me up in the morning."

"That's grand. I'll drive you to Carrick and then I'm back to Dublin. Call me from Athlone and I'll pick you up there."

I found the boat at the fuel dock. Manannan McLir—Athlone in gold Gaelic script on the transom. Jimmy Dwyer, an ancient red-haired leprechaun was pumping diesel into her. He turned as I came up the dock and waved his pipe in salute. A billow of smoke issued from his mouth as a quart of fuel sloshed over his shoes.

"Michael, man, good to see you again." He looked up at the black thunderheads coming in from the north. The cold March wind raised chop on the river. "Soft day isn't it now?"

It was a new, well-fitted boat. I ducked into the forward cabin. Frank had called ahead, and the food locker and calor refrigerator were stocked. On the galley table were a case of Guinness, a bottle of Paddy, and two fresh loaves of soda bread.

I went on deak. Jimmy handed up my gear and I stowed it in the aft cabin. I checked the engine, a specially fitted 72-hp Perkins. Jimmy tucked the fuel nozzle under his arm and scratched a match across the scarred NO SMOKING sign.

"There's no telling where that U-boat commander took the top off, is there?"

"Not a bit. Jimmy. You did a good job."

"Will you be off now?"

"That I will. I'm only down to Carnardoe today, but I want to get there before the weather breaks."

"I'll be casting you off then. Watch out for periscopes."

I laughed. It is heartening to know that Americans are no longer number one on the Ugly Tourist short list.

It was only an hour run to Lake Carnardoe. I knew where I wanted to go. An old stone jetty hidden in the reed beds that surround the lake. As a boy I'd spent a lot of happy solitary time there.

Now the Shannon is one of the world's most beautiful rivers. It's an easy river, but you have to be careful. Navigational aids are minimal, and there are shifting shoals and reed beds to trap a boat. In the summer you can see the tourist rent-a-boats stranded up and down the river, waiting to be pulled off. I threaded my way through the nearly hidden channel. The rain broke, a solid sheet, bending the reeds. I kept just enough speed to make way. Then I saw it, glistening gray-black stone, a rusty iron bollard at each end. The wind was hard. I shut down and jumped to the jetty, getting a line out before the boat could blow away.

Later, I sat naked in the warm aft cabin, sipping Paddy. In the west the sky turned red. For the first time in years I felt at peace. I rolled some whiskey down my throat and listened to the rain.

It was late afternoon of the third day when I found myself below Cloondara. Thunderheads were building up in the west. I decided to make the short run to Lanesboro.

I was cruising at quarter speed when the boat began to shudder. I put it in reverse and jockeyed the throttle. There was a noise aft that sounded like the stuffing box coming through the deck. The propeller was fouled. I shut down the engine.

The river was deserted. The boat was drifting toward the reed banks. In a few minutes I'd be stuck, at least for the night, maybe longer. I went forward and let loose the anchor. Taking a boathook I tried to free the screw, but whatever was fouling it wouldn't come loose. I sat in the cockpit and smoked a cigarette. There was one solution. I could go over the side with a line and try to cut it free. I looked at the cold gray water. The prospect was not appealing, but then neither was the idea of being stranded.

"Shit." I flipped the cigarette over the side and got the snorkel gear out of the locker.

The water was freezing. The nylon line cut into my chest. Through my face mask I could see the problem. A red rag was twisted around the prop.

I came up gasping. My skin was purple and showed goose-bumps like grapes. I threw the offending rag into the cockpit. Catching the gunwale, I levered one leg over and collapsed shivering on the deck. I'd had the presence of mind to hang a towel on the wheel. I rubbed myself until the purple turned red. As I turned to go below, I heard a cry. If there is a banshee, it was her voice. The cry echoed its agony across the water.