CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH THE MERMAN TELLS HIS STORY

There was once upon a time a poor fisher couple who lived together in a hut upon a lonely beach, and while the husband was absent fishing upon the high seas, the wife earned a scanty livelihood by spinning.

Now one stormy winter’s night a little daughter was born to them, and because the mother would have it that the child was ailing, the fisherman struggled forth into the howling gale to fetch a priest for the christening. The path was narrow between the cliffs and the sea, and the waves were so violent that he feared lest they might overwhelm him at any moment. All at once he caught sight of a merman mounted on one of the crested billows.

“Whither away, good neighbour, in the wind and dark?” quoth he.

“My wife lies at home with a newborn child,” replied the fisherman, “and I go in search of a priest that he may christen it.”

“I pray you, let me stand sponsor,” said the merman.

“That shall never be,” the fisherman made answer, “what part or lot have you in any christening?”

At that the merman grew very angry. “You fool!” he cried, “is the good-will of the sea nothing to you? Has she no treasures in her depths for those whom she favours?”

Now the fisherman had no mind to set the sea against him, moreover he was in haste; he therefore gave his consent, and hurried on. That same night a priest came to the little hut on the beach, and christened the baby, and they called her name Carey, because, like one of Mother Carey’s chickens, she had made her nest in the storm. And all the while the sea roared around the hut, and the fisherman, casting a furtive glance at the window behind him, saw that the merman was looking in. From that time forward things went well with him; his fishing prospered, and the tempest spared his boat. Nevertheless he resolved to say no word to his wife about the merman’s sponsorship.

Now when Carey had grown to be a little maid of some seven years old, she was playing by herself late one summer’s afternoon upon the yellow sands that sloped to the water’s edge. All of a sudden a voice called to her. “Carey!” it said, and again, “Carey!” Then, turning her head, she became aware of a merman, seated under a rock near by, and basking in the hot afternoon sunshine. He had a rugged, somewhat world-weary look, and the hair hung about his face like ribbons of brown seaweed, while his eyes were brown and gentle like the eyes of a seal.

“So we meet at last, goddaughter,” said he.

“Are you my godfather then?” asked Carey, and she came fearlessly and sat down beside him on the rippling sand.

“That I am indeed,” the merman made answer, “and here is a belated christening gift.” And so saying he hung about her neck a necklace of sea-shells. “Do not despise it,” he added, “though it looks but a poor thing. It may be that some day you will learn its worth, for so long as you wear it the sea will know you for her own.” Then he told her how it happened that he had come to be her godfather, after which little Carey said she must go home, but she promised to return to that same creek on the following day, and to say nothing to her parents of the meeting.

So the next day she came again, and the day after, and every day throughout the summer she ran to the little creek to see her godfather, and hear from him strange songs and stories of the sea, to which she loved to listen, for all they were so sad. And in the winter, when the rough weather kept her indoors, she would sit contentedly by the fire while her father was mending his nets and her mother span, and would tell over the wondrous tales to herself till she had them by heart. Nor was it long before the summer came again, and then another winter.

Now one Christmas night Carey lay broad awake, and listened to the bells from the grey church on the wind-swept cliff, chiming far and wide across the sea, and on the following morning she slipped out unnoticed and ran to the sheltered creek. This time her godfather was nowhere to be seen, but nothing doubting she called to him, standing barefooted where the waves broke, and at her call he rose straightway out of the sea.

“Last night I heard the church bells, godfather,” said Carey as she sat beside him under their favourite rock, “were they not beautiful?” But the old merman’s face darkened as she spoke.

“They are not beautiful to me,” he made answer, “I know that your race has a love for the sound, and soon grows homesick for the want of it, but with my people it is not so. I will tell you what befell me long ago. There stood a little chapel on a rocky islet, and one Christmas night the bells rang out so joyously and with such a note of welcome in their voices, that I pressed as close as I might to the window of many-coloured glass, and within there was light, and the sound of chanting. But when the monks came forth, they drove me away with hard words, and called me an evil spirit.”

Then Carey put her arms about him, and kissed him many times, saying, “Never mind, dear godfather; I know that you are not an evil spirit, and I will always love you.” And at that the smile came again to his face. These were happy years for them both, and they sped past unheeded, till Carey was no longer a little maid, but a fair tall maiden with many suitors.

Now it happened that one Shrovetide Carey went to church, and as she followed the straggling path along the top of the cliffs, a stranger joined her, clad like a huntsman all in green, with a horn by his side, and two great hounds at his heels.

“Where are you going, fair maid?” asked he.

“I go to church,” she said, “because it is Shrovetide.”

“May I walk by your side?” he asked.

“That you may, if it so please you,” said she. So they walked on together, talking as they went, but when they reached the little grey church he stopped short.

“Do you go in alone, mistress,” he said, “and I will wait for you here.”

So Carey entered the church alone, but as soon as she came out the huntsman joined her again, and they walked homewards together. Now he was a fair-spoken man, with much to tell of distant climes and strange adventures, so that Carey contrasted him in her thoughts with the uncouth, tongue-tied fisher lads, her wooers, and was sorry when the moment came for parting.

“Here I must bid you farewell,” said she, when the pathway was reached that led down to the shore, “for my home lies yonder.”

“Will you not first appoint me a trysting-place?” quoth he.

At that Carey’s heart took fright in her breast, nevertheless she made answer, as though compelled thereto; “To-morrow I go cockling down upon the sands.”

“And may I seek you there?” asked the huntsman.

“That I did not say,” said she, and she turned and ran from him down the winding path, her thoughts all in a turmoil of fear and joy and wonder. But when she reached home she found sorrow awaiting her, for her father, whom she dearly loved, had fallen grievously sick. All night she nursed him, but on the morrow her mother took her place, and bade her go cockling.

So Carey took her basket and made her way along the yellow sands, with joy and grief at war in her heart, and as she went the waves cast up a large sea-shell at her feet. Stooping she picked it up, and put it to her ear, for the sake of the music that it held. “Turn back, turn back,” murmured the voice of the sea, “have nothing to do with this stranger.”

“This is surely a message from my godfather,” said Carey to herself, and for a while she stood irresolute with the shell in her hand, but at last she threw it from her, back into the tumbling foam. “I will go to the trysting-place all the same,” said she, “for I have pledged my word.” But it was not the thought of her promise that moved her, but her fancy for the stranger, which she mistook for love. Not many minutes later she saw him coming towards her, and at first they talked together as on the previous day, but soon he began to court her with words and caresses, and besought her to follow him to his home.

“That I cannot do,” said Carey, “for my father lies dying.”

“Appoint me at least to-morrow’s trysting-place,” said he, “and then I will let you go. Know you the inland woods, and the green ride in their midst, with a fallen tree-trunk at the end of it?”

“I know it well,” replied Carey, “it is where the early primroses blow.” So saying she turned away from him, and made haste homewards.

Now the next day, when the fisherman lay at the point of death, he said to his wife; “Wife, I have something on my mind; it is a secret I have kept from you these many years.” And thereupon he told her of Carey’s godfather, the merman, and of how he had been present at the christening. “I charge you,” added the dying man, “not to deal harshly with our daughter on this account, since it was none of her doing. Moreover, it has brought us good fortune.” And having said these words, the sick man breathed his last.

But that very hour the fisherman’s widow said to Carey; “This is no light matter that your father has confessed to me. Swear to me that you have had no intercourse with this sea-monster.”

“That will I not,” said Carey staunchly, “for I have known him since I was a little maid, and he is no sea-monster at all, but the kindest godfather in the world.”

At that her mother flew into a frenzy of rage. “You deceitful hussy!” she screamed, “so behind my back you have had dealings with a wicked sprite that is without an immortal soul! Get you gone this instant!” And so saying she drove her from the house.

Then Carey went sadly along the beach till she reached the familiar creek, and there she sought her godfather in his wonted haunts, and when she could not find him she called to him many times, but he neither came nor answered. The sea was running high, and the weather was dark and lowering.

“He is angry with me because I did not heed his message yesterday,” thought Carey, “he too has forsaken me. I will go to the wood and meet the huntsman there, for he alone is left to love me.”

Now it happened that on her way inland Carey came across a horse-shoe, which she picked up and took with her for good luck. As soon as she had reached the green ride in the midst of the wood, she saw the stranger at the farther end of it, standing by the fallen tree-trunk, with a great coal-black steed at his side, and the two hounds with him. She held up the horse-shoe in token of welcome, and when she had drawn nearer she called to him merrily, “Only see what I have found! It will bring us good fortune!”

But even as she spoke, the horse reared and pawed the ground, the hounds whined and cowered at their master’s feet, and the huntsman himself held out both hands before his face, as though to avert a danger.

“Maid, if you bear me any love,” cried he, “throw the thing from you! I come of a race that is at enmity with iron!”

So Carey, though she understood him not at all, tossed the horse-shoe into a thicket hard by, and approached her lover. But he on a sudden sprang upon his horse, and caught her to him, and set her on the saddle before him. Then the great black steed rose up into the air, and the hounds with it, and Carey screamed aloud in her terror.

“You are no other than the Wild Huntsman!” she cried out, “woe worth the day that I met you!” Then it was that she remembered how all evil spirits stand in great fear of iron, and knew too late that had she but kept firm hold of the horse-shoe, he could have done her no harm.

Over the tree-tops they soared, and on through the air like a whirlwind, away and away over forest and field and morass, till they came to the mountain fastness where the Wild Huntsman had his home. Bleak and grim was his castle, and it stood amidst sombre, impenetrable forests. Here he held Carey a captive, but whenever he rode forth in the night he would take her with him, and set her before him on his mighty, coal-black steed. Then when the storm blast shrieked overhead, the forest folk would cower together in their huts, and say trembling one to the other; “The Wild Huntsman passes on his way. Hark to the baying of his hounds!”

But on midsummer’s eve Carey saw from the battlements that there were beacon fires burning on all the hill tops far and near, and she rejoiced to think that he could not venture forth that night, for the fires one and all were lit to keep evil spirits at a distance.

Wearily, wearily, the nights and days wore away, and Carey soon lost all count of time. The trees grew leafless and the winds more blustering, and the Wild Huntsman rode abroad more often. Only one day as Carey sat by her casement, she saw a long procession of gnomes, bent and brown and wrinkled, filing through a cleft in a rock, and disappearing one by one. By that she knew that it must be Martinmas already, when the dwarfs bid farewell to the bleak upper world, and retreat to their warm winter quarters in the heart of the earth.

Drearily, drearily, the days and nights wore on, and when Carey rode forth with the Wild Huntsman, she could see nothing below her but pathless wastes of snow, and forest trees groaning beneath a grievous burden of icicles. Then she called to mind the cheery winter evenings in her father’s hut, and she would have wept save that all her tears seemed frozen, even as the world.

At the last came Yuletide. Carey sat alone in the great hall of the castle, and the Yule log sputtered on the hearth.

“Ah me, how bitter cold it is,” chirruped a cricket, breaking silence, and Carey, rousing herself from her sad musings, remembered an old wife’s tale that birds and beasts and even stocks and stones gain speech on Christmas Eve.

“If you are cold, friend cricket,” quoth the Yule log in a crackling voice, “I pray you draw a little nearer to my blaze.” And he burst asunder into such a lively flame, that it would have done any heart good to see it, and warmed even the sad heart of Carey.

“This is no proper house for the keeping of Yule,” muttered the hearthstone morosely, “never so much as a sprig of yew or holly, let alone a goodly show of mistletoe, with tankards of brown ale and a boar’s head all a-smoking.”

“It is indeed a desolate hearth, my friends,” said Carey sorrowfully, “and I have greater reason for complaint than you all.”

“Take courage, mistress,” said the Yule log cheerily, “things may take a turn for the better with you, just as they did with me. Look you, I stood a long while in the forest, perished with cold, snow upon my head and snow at my feet, but now I am a merry Yule log, and warm to the inmost heart of me.”

“Then I too will take courage,” said Carey, though she sighed as she spoke.

Now between Christmas and Twelfth Night the Wild Huntsman rode abroad every night, and Carey rode with him. But on Twelfth Night itself, as she sat before him on horseback, she caught a glimpse of a far silver streak upon the horizon, and as the Wild Hunt swept onward through the frosty air, the streak broadened and broadened till it grew to a shining expanse, and Carey knew that at last she was within sight of the sea. Tremblingly she put up her hand to her neck, and felt for the necklace of shells that was still securely clasped about it.

“I will throw myself upon the mercy of the sea,” said she to herself, “am I not its godchild? And if I die, death will be better than my present lot.” Already the waters were rolling beneath her, ashen grey in the moonlight. Therefore, on a sudden, she sprang down from the Wild Huntsman’s horse, and plunged into the wintry sea. Coldly, darkly, thunderously, the waves closed overhead, and her senses forsook her.

When she came to herself she was lying stretched upon an immense plain, with strange trees waving above her and strange flowers round about; strange, many-eyed creatures slipped past her, gazing curiously, and over her hung the still waters, green as twilight skies. Carey got to her feet, all lost in wonder, and as she stood looking about her, a mighty shadow purpled the water, and towards her a monstrous serpent came swimming.

“Fear nothing, Carey,” it said, “for we are all your friends.”

“Then I pray you take me to my godfather,” she begged, “I am afraid to linger in this strange country all alone.”

“Mount upon my back then,” quoth the sea-serpent, “and cling to my shaggy mane.” So together they sped away over mountain and valley, through forests of branching coral, past cities and hamlets where the mer-folk dwelt, and sunken ships in the midst of forgotten treasures.

At last they reached a cave in a hillside, and here the sea-serpent set her down and left her. On the instant her godfather came to meet her; tenderly he kissed away her self-reproaches, and bidding her rest and refresh herself, he led her to an inner room, where the roof and walls were all of amber, while the floor was strewn with pure white sand. Then he sent his servants to her, swift and silent fishes, who waited upon her with the choicest dainties of the sea, and prepared for her a bed of seamew’s down, upon which she lay and slept for many hours.

As soon as she was awake again, the noiseless fishes returned, and deftly robed her in a fair green dress of feathery seaweed, more delicate than any lace; also they adorned her with chains of lustrous pearls, and wound red sea-anemones in her dark hair, and when she was ready she went in to her godfather, who greeted her with all affection.

“I have been lonely without you, Carey,” said the old merman, “have you come to stay with me now, and to be my little maid as in the former days?”

“If you will have me, godfather,” said Carey, “I will remain with you here, and be as a daughter to you.”

So for nearly a year these two lived together in great contentment, but on New Year’s Eve Carey said to her godfather; “There is a longing within me to-night that will not be stayed; I must needs rise to the surface once again, and hear the midnight chimes from our little grey church on the cliffs.”

At these words the merman grew very sad. “I knew it would come sooner or later,” said he, “go, my child, since you must. You are free.”

Thus it was that when midnight drew on, Carey rose out of the waves hard by the familiar coast, and sitting down under the rock where first she had seen her godfather, she held her breath and listened.

All in a moment the bells burst forth, ringing in the new year; merrily they chimed, yet with an undertone of sadness for the year that was past; over sea and land they clashed and pealed, rushing, swelling, dying, and as Carey heard them her heart-strings nigh snapped with homesickness. Nevertheless when the golden tongued bells had fallen silent once more, she went back into the breaking seas.

At home in his cave the old merman sat and mused. “It were better to die at once and dissolve into foam,” said he to himself, “than to live on through the unnumbered years without her.” Yet even as he thought it, Carey entered, whom he had never hoped to see returning, and put her arms about his neck.

“So, Carey, you have come back to me after all,” he said wonderingly, “back from your own kind and the free upper air, away from the memories and the bells?”

“There are none left upon the shore to love me now,” she made answer, “my father is dead, and my mother has cast me out. I will remain here with you.”

At that the old merman rejoiced greatly, for he knew that he would now be lonely no longer. As for Carey, his goddaughter, she left off from her homesickness, and lived among the mer-folk as one of themselves.

“And is she living there still?” asked Philomène.

But the merman had forgotten her, and was looking out to sea again. So she rose quietly, and paddled out of the creek; the tide was all but in now, and she ran home barefooted along the yellow sands.