Гарднер Дозуа - Mermaids!

I dropped the towel and stared at the reed bed. The reeds swayed. I caught a glimpse of white and gold rising from the water. The scream of a mortally wounded animal struck me. I grabbed the binoculars. My hand was shaking so badly, it was hard to focus. I held the glasses tight against the neck strap, thumb pressed against my temple.

It was a woman. No hallucination. A real woman. Long blonde hair hanging wet over her back. She turned and I could see the water running down her breasts as she struggled through the reeds. Then she was gone.

"Hello!... Hey! You need help?" I shouted. To my left I saw movement. I brought the glasses up. A slim naked body scrambled up the bank and into the trees. I let the glasses drop against my chest. No one swims naked in Ireland. There are men here, fathers of eight children, who've never seen a woman's skin between neck and knee.

"Hey there... hey!" The boat pitched. The anchor wasn't holding. If I didn't get moving I'd be grounded for sure. I started the engine. Something cold and wet brushed against my foot. I looked down. It was the red rag.

It was nearly dark when I sighted the Lanesboro bridge. On the right, just across from the peat-fired power plant, is a narrow stone-walled channel. I pulled in. There is just enough room for two or three thirty-footers to moor. Quiet, deserted, and protected from the winds blowing off Lough Ree.

I poured myself the last half-inch of Paddy while I changed into warm clothes. What I really needed was a tightly rolled joint and a loose woman, but these are as likely to be found in Ireland as a bushel of snakes. I was ready to settle for fresh salmon and a jar or two at the Bridge Hotel.

On deck I noticed the red rag lying near the wheel. I picked it up. I felt a jolt as if from a static charge. Looking closely, I saw it was not just a piece of cloth, but something like a watch cap. There was a metallic feel to it, yet it had the give of some synthetic fabric. Amazingly there were no rips from the propeller. It was small, but it stretched easily to fit my head.

I looked around. Frank was right. A few days on the river was what I needed. The colors were bright. The cracked gray stones of the jetty showed patterns I'd never noticed before. The aching inner canker of depression was gone. From across the river came the clear sweet sound of a tin whistle playing "Julia Delaney." With the taste of good salmon already on my tongue, I made for the bridge.

When I left the hotel, my stomach was well anchored by a large salmon steak, good Irish potatoes steeped in thick cream and butter, and half a loaf of soda bread fresh from the oven. I pushed the red watch cap back on my head and headed for Devlin's Pub.

Ed Devlin is a retired New York City detective. Like many retired Irish-Americans he finds the Old Country not only congenial, but far from the prying eyes of the IRS and the Social Security Administration. He also makes the best Irish coffee in the world—an ancient Gaelic tipple invented a few years ago by Stanton Delaplane of the San Francisco Chronicle .

There were a dozen or so men at the bar downing pints, and one young couple at a table. I was on my second coffee when the door to my left opened. There was a sudden silence. An old woman stood in the entrance. She was dressed in a shapeless black coat. A skirt came to the tops of her high-laced boots. On her head she wore an odd black hat of Queen Mary vintage, fastened by a steel pin. She leaned on a heavy cane and surveyed the room. The silence was broken by a flurry of Gaelic greetings and much tipping of caps.

Swinging her cane, she walked the length of the bar. As she passed me she paused. I was half-turned on my stool and gave her a smile. Her blue eyes were as cold as ice. I turned back to my drink as she clumped away into the gloom at the rear.

The noise resumed. Ed began to draw a pint.

"What was that apparition?"

Ed lowered his voice. "You've not seen her before? That, my boy, is bean O'Meara. Not 'missus,' mind you, but 'bean.' She's been around since Saint Brendan set sail." He topped off the pint and carried it to the rear.

When he returned he poured us both a shot. "She must have an eye for you. She asked me who you were."

"That's a great compliment."

"Believe it, man. Even the bishop tips the biretta to that one." He began to polish a glass, "True, she's a bit strange. Lives in a cottage up by the old rath. Tutors the young ones in Irish for the Civil Service. Like an up-to-date hedge school."

I pulled the shot glass toward me, "She looks like a witch."

Ed smiled and picked up another glass to polish, "A witch, is it? No... she's a good old soul. Every day to Mass, and thick with the priests. There are some who say she's of the sidhe ." He looked at me thoughtfully, "But we're modem men and don't believe in fairies and such, now do we?"

"Only the ones I've seen back home on Castro Street."

"None of them in this country." He jerked his head toward the back, "But her now, she's a National Treasure ... knows all the old stories. Always some professor coming up from Dublin with the boot full of tape machines. 'Folklorists,' they call themselves."

Ed moved down the bar to take orders from two hard-looking types in leather-patched jackets. I lit a cigarette and thought about tomorrow. I wanted to make the run across Lough Ree, at least as far as Glassan. It's not a long trip, but there are large warning signs above the bridge discouraging private boats from going alone. The weather is unpredictable and at times the lake gets dangerously rough.

On my way in, I'd seen two boats tied up at the quay. I finished my drink. In the morning I'd see if their skippers were interested in making the run. I pulled the watch cap over my ears and moved to the door.

There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned. "Herself requests your presence." Ed gestured toward the back.

"Me? What for?"

"I wouldn't know. Maybe she fancies your curly hair. Just be civil. She's got a tongue that'll take tar off the road. Go on with you..." He gave me a gentle shove.

She sat like a dowager queen, black-gloved hands folded on the top of her cane. In the smoky light her wrinkled face stood out with startling luminosity.

"Sit down, boy."

I sat, feeling like a grammar school boy accused of some heinous crime by the Mother Superior.

"Have you the Irish?"

"My grandparents were from..."

She cut me off. "I don't mean the blood. I can see that. You've a face like Paddy's pig. I mean the language."

"A word or two, that's all."

"That's all any of them have these days. Even the politicians. .." She lifted the pint and took a sip. "You've been badly hurt, haven't you?"

I felt my face flush. "I got hit. In Vietnam."

She moved her gloved hand to touch my right arm. I pulled back.

"I don't mean that. I mean the inside hurting."

I wanted to tell the nosy old bitch to mind her own business. I shoved back my chair. "I've got to take care of my boat. You'll excuse me..."

"Sit! You'll go when I give you leave." The force of her voice pushed me back in the chair.

She paused, then gave me a smile. "That's better. Now, suppose you tell me how you got that red hat you're wearing."

"I found it."

Her eyes were on my face. "You found it in the water, did you?"

"How did you know?"

She ignored the question. "And did you see or hear anything strange when you got it?"

I told her what happened. I didn't mention that the woman I saw had been naked.

"Give me the cap." She took it gently, held it to her breast, eyes closed. "It is. It is indeed the cohuleen driuth ." She opened her eyes. "The cap of the merrow... you call them mermaids." Her voice was soft.

I repressed a sigh. I don't know what I expected, but I wasn't in the mood for some old-woman-blather about mermaids or fairy folk.