In recent weeks, we’ve had odd glimmers of sun on the island – rare summery conditions that have had strange effects on the locals. A person might safely venture forth without wearing a scarf. Some have even gone so far as to roll up their shirt sleeves, or turn up the cuffs on their trousers.
This has proved difficult for Mrs Beaten. The sight of exposed forearms inspires uneasy feelings in her. Especially the vision of blue-ish veins in skin pale from scarcity of sunlight. Gaze for too long and you can make out the presence of a pulse. It is too much, too intimate beholding such things unexpectedly. And as for the trousers…
Mrs Beaten tries not to think about what anyone else might have beneath their trousers, or under their skirts. If the notion is unavoidable, she likes to picture candlesticks and lamp stands. It is a horrifying thing to be able to see a person’s socks. No one should bare their undergarments in this way. A little exposed skin about the calf is too shocking, truly wanton. The young men seem at ease with these appalling displays of flesh.
Mrs Beaten worries about where this will lead, and what unspeakable acts may follow. This orgy of trouser rolling, this hedonistic horror of visible shins runs the risk of inviting other, even more dreadful acts of deviation. She fears the exposure of knees, tries hard not to think about knees, finds herself haunted by the idea of them.
What would she do if she happened to be walking in the street and a man came towards her with his knees on display? How could she possibly cope? Could she control herself in such circumstances? She hopes that the overwhelming nature of the encounter would provoke her into saying some stern and appropriate words of condemnation. She fears that she might stand there transfixed, unable to look away from the sordid display.
If the man asked her to touch his knees, what would she do?
She thinks a lot about the danger of such a proposition. The exact way in which it might be phrased. She pictures a scenario in which she is unexpectedly close to the man who has exposed his leg joints so shamelessly for her viewing.
“Look at my knees, Mrs Beaten. You know you want to look at them,” he says in her mind.
She tells herself that she absolutely does not want to be trapped in a narrow alleyway with a man who demands she looks at his knees. And yet somehow she can still hear his voice in her head. “I’ve got big knees,” he says.
Mr Squash squatted on the ground outside Neville Moore’s mausoleum-like home, idly stroking the bible-black, though distinctly dishevelled, feathers on the head of Neville’s pet raven, Lenore.
“People have lost fingers for attempting less,” observed Neville, admiringly.
“And over-ambitious birds have lost their heads for trying,” said Mr Squash. “Luckily, Lenore and I have an understanding.”
The raven gave the Sasquatch a sideways glance and shuffled uncomfortably on her perch.
“Reggie Upton told me that you’ve been away, trying to find a cure for whatever it is that’s troubling Doc Willoughby,” said Neville, changing the subject.
“Yes. I had to take him to a Buddhist temple high in the Himalayas,” replied Mr Squash. “He’s barely alive, and the monks there are his only chance.”
While it is almost impossible to leave the island of Hopeless, Maine, Mr Squash is able to come and go as he pleases, via a series of secret portals. Convenient as these doorways are, they are potentially lethal for mere humans. As I have mentioned before, in a society more conscious of Health and Safety procedures, each portal would doubtless have carried a notice, proclaiming in large, angry letters:
‘DANGER – NO ADMITTANCE. HUMAN ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. SASQUATCHES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’
“What concerns me,” admitted Mr Squash, “is if the trip kills Doc Willoughby, then so be it. He would have been a dead man anyway if he’d not gone. Durosimi, on the other hand, didn’t really have to accompany him. I would have stayed.”
“Durosimi?” said a surprised Neville. Mr Squash nodded.
“He volunteered to keep an eye on the Doc. The trouble is, he looked in as bad a state as Willoughby when I left them. The monks are going to have their work cut out with those two.”
“Good luck with that,” said Neville. Lenore, who had become restless, and still brooding over recent references to lost heads, flapped noisily up onto a window ledge that had been generously streaked with guano.
“When are you fetching them back?” asked Neville.
“I’ll give it a week or so. I’ve relatives living up that way.”
“Ah, the Yeti,” said Neville, who had read about such creatures in several of the many books that Philomena regularly sent along to him, foraged from the attics of The Squid and Teapot.
“Don’t let them hear you calling them that,” said Mr Squash. “It’s not particularly complimentary in Tibetan. It’s almost as bad as referring to me as Bigfoot.” With that, Mr Squash rose to his feet (and yes, they are inclined to be on the largish size) dwarfing the hermit of Ghastly Green. “I need to get back to The Squid and collect Drury,” he said. “We’re keeping young Winston Oldspot, The Night-Soil Man, company tonight. It seems that he thinks we’ve all abandoned him.”
“Yes, apparently so,” said Neville. “He did look a bit miffed when I saw him the other night.”
“Philomena’s sending him over some Starry-Grabby pie,” said Mr Squash. “That should cheer the lad up.”
“If there’s any going spare,” said Neville, hopefully, “Lenore and I would be very grateful…”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said the Sasquatch, quietly wondering to himself how anyone could possibly manage to eat the stuff.
Meanwhile, half a world away, in the high Himalayas, Doc Willoughby and Durosimi O’Stoat were lost in comfortable oblivion, unaware of the burgundy-robed lamas who rotated the prayer-wheels on their behalf.
When you wake up, your aunty is all around you. When you went to sleep you thought that you had only one aunty, but now there seem to be a lot of her.
You may be feverish. You feel very cold – but it is normal to feel cold so this clarifies nothing.
You’ve heard that there are tiny magical creatures who some people call aunties. You do not think your aunty is a small magical creature but also you have no idea what would happen if an aunty gets inside an aunty.
“This is all perfectly normal” she tells you, and all of her mouths move at slightly different times.
This makes you wonder how many heads you have, and how many mouths, and whether you have woken up with the same number of eyes you had when going to sleep.
“It’s just a nightmare,” one of her mouths says.
You have the feeling she is lying to you.
“When you wake up it will all have been a dream.”
You do not want to go back to sleep, because you have no idea what will have been a dream. This vision? Your life? Everything you have known? If you go to sleep you might wake up into something even worse than this.
“You are just a bone remembering when you had flesh,” she says. “Go back to sleep.”
If this is the only life left to you then you do not want to give it up.
“You are just driftwood and dry seaweed imagining that you are a person, and having a nightmare,” she says, oh so sweetly.
You are drifting now, sliding gently towards oblivion with no confidence that there is anything in you capable of ever waking up again.
Dustcats are much debated by The Scientific Society of Hopeless, Maine.
Observations of James Weaslegrease: According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a dustcat should be able to fly. The dustcat, of course, flies anyway, because who cares about tiny details like the laws of physics.
Keith Errington: As a fellow member of the Scientific Society, I am astounded by your inaccuracy Mr. Weaselgrease, clearly dustcats do not fly, they are simply not capable of flying, to suggest as much is tantamount to lunacy. No. Clearly dustcats float. And it’s their floating that defies all known laws of physics. (Even the ones that “Professor” Evenheist made up).
Mark Hayes: dust ‘floats’ in the air due suspension in air currents , until it settles on a surface, in the same way that heavier particles ‘float’ in water, suspended in the medium a dust cat does not fly, it ‘floats’.
James Weaslegrease: Your theory, whilst interesting, has some room for improvement. Floating is what occurs when a creature has buoyancy within the appropriate body, be that liquid or gaseous. It, critically, involves no input from the creature itself to sustain, and does not allow for directed movement, forcing the creature to move as the flow of its surroundings dictates. With this in mind, I have performed several tests with a dustcat’s favoured human, as well as some especially tasty piles of dust, and have concluded that dustacats are entirely capable of “floating” towards whatever their target is with far too much regularity to be a coincidence. Therefore, since their aerial mobility is controlled, it constitutes flight, as opposed to floating.
At this point it needs noting that the debate in question had occurred informally at The Squid and Teapot and that further insights may be less than perfectly scientific in nature…
Herb Chevin: Your mum’s a dustcat.
James Weaselegrease: You wish my mum was a dustcat.
Bob Evenheist: I have proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that my theories about physics…
Herb Chevin: I’ve got a theory that if I punch you really hard, you’ll shut up. Want to test it?
At this point Herb Chevin undertook to punch Bob Evenheist. Bob flew through the air in a graceful arc and then just lay horizontally in the air above the fireplace, looking awkward until she was towed out at closing time. Various conclusions have been drawn from this, but frankly none of them were useful.
(Image by Nimue. Text by named individuals, other bits also by Nimue.)
Reggie Upton picked up the fallen candle-lantern, which by some miracle had stayed alight, and looked down at the prone form of Doc Willoughby, sprawled in the mud. The last thing that the Doc had said to him was, “I think I’m dying,” and, to all intents and purposes, had proceeded to do exactly that.
“Surely not,” thought Reggie.
To the accompaniment of a series of grunts, wheezes and winces, he managed to drop to his knees and, dredging up some dimly recalled instructions barked out by Surgeon-Major Shepherd, of the Royal Herbert Military Hospital in Woolwich, he rested three fingers just below the fallen physician’s jawbone to check for a pulse. The tiny flutter of life that he felt was not encouraging, but at least it proved that the Doc was still in full receipt of his mortal coil, though only just.
“How the devil am I going to get him any help?” Reggie muttered to himself. It was long past midnight, and the mean streets of Hopeless, Maine were dark and deserted. Only one lonely light glimmered some distance away from, what might be laughingly referred to as, the island’s main thoroughfare.
Reggie groaned inwardly.
To say that Durosimi O’Stoat was somewhat annoyed by the rapping on his front door would be an egregious understatement. While I have no idea what he might have been up to at such a late hour, it is safe to assume that it was unlikely to include any plans designed to benefit his fellow islanders. Finding Reggie Upton standing upon his doorstep did nothing to improve his mood.
“What?” he barked, with a ferocity that made the veteran of the Siege of Ladysmith quake in his boots.
“It’s Willoughby,” said Reggie, who went on to give a brief account of his meeting with the Doc, and all that followed.
“Blast the man,” growled Durosimi, dragging on an overcoat. “We’d better get him inside before something eats him, I suppose.”
Luckily, Doc Willoughby had been considered decidedly indigestible by any predator who may have been passing, and remained, as far as could be ascertained, totally intact.
“Why is it,” puffed Durosimi, “that the only corpulent man on the island decides to play dead in the middle of the night?”
He and Reggie had taken an arm and a leg each, and were carrying the Doc up the hill to Durosimi’s house.
“He’s certainly no lightweight,” conceded Reggie, ‘but we’re nearly there old chap. Chin up, and all that.”
It was fortunate that the darkness concealed Durosimi’s scowl. No one had before said – or even dared to contemplate saying – ‘Chin up’ to the sorcerer, much less referring to him as an ‘Old Chap.’
Doc lay on a vast leather sofa that took up most of one wall of Durosimi’s parlour.
“It’s beyond me,” admitted Durosimi, scratching his head. “The answer might be in some grimoire or other, but to be honest, healing is really not my forte.”
“No, I can imagine,” thought Reggie, but wisely decided not to say it aloud.
“I could go and fetch Philomena,” he suggested. “She’ll still be up. It was James Weaselgrease’s birthday bash in The Squid and Teapot last night, so you can guarantee that there’ll be plenty of mess to be cleared up.”
“Very well,” said Durosimi, resignedly, seeing all hope of completing his night’s work rapidly disappearing.
In less than half-an-hour Philomena was in the parlour and looking down at Doc with concern. She had never liked the man very much, but she had never wished him harm… Well, not real harm, anyway.
“It is as though his spirit has left him,” she declared, after a cursory examination of the Doc’s aura.
“Are you sure?” queried Durosimi. “The only spirit I associate with that man is my whisky, which he seems rather too fond of.”
“He’s not drunk… for once,” said Philomena. “Something is very amiss, though. I fear that it’s beyond my ability to cure him.”
Durosimi looked thoughtful.
“We could ask Mr Squash to take him to the monastery where I stayed,” he said. “If anyone can work miracles, those monks can.”
Philomena looked at him approvingly. Since his couple of weeks recuperating in Tibet he seemed to be a changed man. He was still as dangerous as a viper, but somehow more human than he allowed people to believe.
“Mr Squash looked in at young Weaselgrease’s party earlier on,” she said.
‘Looked in’ just about summed it up. There would have been little enough room for Mr Squash’s bulk in the bar last night.
“I’ll go and see if I can find him,” said Reggie. “I know all of his usual haunts.”
Mr Squash scratched his enormous head and regarded Durosimi with puzzlement.
“What makes you think that the monks would be able to cure him?” he asked.
“They know things that I can only dream of,” said Durosimi. “If they can’t do it, no one can.”
Philomena looked at him in astonishment; for once in his life Durosimi was actually showing some humility.
“He’s very weak; the journey there could kill him,” warned the Sasquatch. “Remember how it affected you?”
“Oh, I remember well enough,” said Durosimi, wincing at the memory. “The thing is, if he doesn’t go to the monastery, to my mind he’s as good as dead anyway.”
Philomena nodded her head, then felt shocked that she was actually agreeing with Durosimi. The day was still only a few hours old, and it was becoming weirder by the minute already.
“Very well,” said Mr Squash, “but someone should stay with him; I refuse to leave him there alone. You know what he can be like. He could try the patience of a saint, and while those monks might be religious, believe me, they’re not saints.”
“I don’t mind travelling back,” said Durosimi. “Going through your portal last time nearly killed me, but it was worth it. I would relish the opportunity to visit Tibet again.”
A small cove, lit only by moonlight. Often a good place for line fishing, but tonight the seas shudder with awful sound, and the fisherfolk huddle amongst the rocks, hoping that the danger will pass before morning.
At first, the raucous trumpeting, echoing between the rocks. A shuddering, making the sea itself tremble, the waves choppy and erratic. A dire rasping, as though rusty metal objects were drawn across each other’s surfaces, setting every nerve ending into spasms of discomfort.
A violent honking, angrier than geese. Screaming geese would be a welcome distraction just now for they at least are a familiar kind of threat.
The sea throws cold wetness over the huddling folk amongst the rocks. Their wiping fingers find it is not water, but something sticky and insidious that clings to their skin.
All night long the sea itself seems to hack and hiss, until the anxious light of a new day creeps in to bring strange insights.
In the centre of the cove lies a large form, grey in the faint light. It thrashes from time to time, and hideous sounds emerge from between its gaping lips. Not just sounds, but flurries of spittle and revolting, slimy nuggets that are taken by the tide. It is a sea monster, and it is dying.
This is a rare sight; leviathans such as this one spend their lives beneath the waves, and only come into the shallows in the final days. Here, they cough up their offspring from the depths of their massive bodies. Each greasy lump is in truth an egg, that will float away to begin a new life. Only in death do they reproduce, and the awful night sounds are life and death entwined as the old sea monster passes and new ones are born through the same unpleasant process.
There is nothing to do but leave the monster to the crows. In time, the bones may be worth salvaging.
(With thanks to Steven C Davis for the prompt. What he actually suggested was that I should record the noises I’ve been making whilst ill, but I thought it would be less disturbing all round if I just tried to describe what the last ten days have been like. I appear not to have drowned, but have unleashed a massive swarm of unholy snot-offspring into the world.)
Legend has it that on a dark and stormy night, twenty two years ago, a large egg-sack washed up on the shores of Hopeless, Maine. From it emerged a being of modest size, and about the usual number of tentacles. There are some who say that at first, this being resembled a weasel, hence the name. Others say that a weasle is an entirely different thing anyway but just as ravenous.
Over the years, James has divided Hopeless flora and fauna into two categories, primarily.
So Cute – Drury, owl demons, dustcats.
So Tasty – everything else.
His hunger does know limits, or at least he has a limited appetite for rocks.
It is best to celebrate this day by giving James offerings of food, As he has infamously low standards, anything passible edible will be attractive to him. Please do not encourage him to eat household items, this has not played out well in the past. Rumour has it that gifts of tasty food can result in odd and arcane blessings from the entity.
I am fairly confident that Winston Oldspot (Hopeless, Maine’s latest Night-Soil Man) is not at all familiar with the adjective ‘miffed’. There is really no reason why he should be, having been raised in an orphanage where miffiness was definitely not tolerated. So, when he perched on a kitchen chair and dragged his boots on in sullen silence, he had no notion that the reason for the dark swampy gloop which had consumed his usually sunny disposition could be expressed very succinctly; he was miffed.
Winston did not dislike children; after all, he had been one himself not so long ago. However, the infant who had so recently arrived at The Squid and Teapot – what was her name? Catbrain? – seemed to have caused nothing less than a bout of insanity. In fairness he could understand Philomena and Rhys being quite fond of their adopted daughter, but Reggie? Really? And that’s even before you mention Drury! What had gotten into them? It was all beyond Winston’s understanding.
A little probing might reveal that the general climate of unconditional love for Caitlin (who most definitely has never been known as Catbrain) was not the real cause of Winston’s current feeling of discontent. It was purely the fact that her self-appointed fan-club of Grandpa Reggie and Uncle Drury seemed to have suddenly forgotten that Winston had ever existed. Ever since Rhys Cranham made the decision to retire from his post, and ceremoniously pass on the lidded-bucket and long-handled shovel to his apprentice, the two had made a point of accompanying Winston on his nightly rounds. Tonight, for the first time ever, neither of them had turned up. Even Mr Squash seemed to have forsaken him, although Winston could not imagine the great hairy bulk of the sasquatch simpering over some toddler.
Winston looked out into the misty, moonless night and hoisted the lidded-bucket on to his shoulders. A Night-Soil Man has to do what a Night-Soil Man has to do, and the cess-pools, midden-closets and privies of Hopeless would not empty themselves.
The self-styled hermit, Neville Moore, has always made a practice of lighting several lanterns around his property whenever he knows that the Night-Soil Man is due to arrive. This is a wise decision, given that the somewhat odd and ancient building in Ghastly Green, which more resembles a mausoleum than a house, has more than its fair share of obstacles to negotiate. Not least of these is Neville’s decrepit pet raven, Lenore, who always appears seemingly out of nowhere to warn the hermit of the presence of intruders; this she does by calling his name. Many a visitor has been shaken to the core by this sudden black apparition, terrifyingly bursting from the night’s Plutonian shore and loudly cawing, “Neville Moore”.
“Good evening Winston,” called Neville from his doorway, several yards safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man.
Winston, drenched in the light of the lanterns, waved feebly at the hermit.
“Hello Mr Moore,” he said, gloomily.
“Are you alright, my friend?” asked Neville, concernedly. “You sound a trifle miffed.”
Winston didn’t like ro admit that he had no idea what that meant, so he changed the subject.
“What are you up to at this time of night, Mr Moore? It must be nearly midnight.”
“Oh, not much,” said Neville. “I’ve been pondering over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore that Philomena found in the attics of The Squid. Reggie dropped it off this afternoon. Only that, and nothing more.”
Winston nodded, and wandered off to the end of the garden, where Neville’s ornate privy awaited his attention.
“So Reggie can drag himself away from that brat long enough to run errands for Philomena, but isn’t able to come out with me,” thought Winston, bitterly.
Of course, had the Night-Soil Man been thinking straight, it might have occurred to him that Reggie and Drury, devoted as they were to little Caitlin, would be unlikely to be cooing and fussing over the girl in the middle of the night.
Drury was not cooing, fussing or indeed moving much at all. Instead he was sound asleep at the foot of Caitlin’s bed, having tired both of them out by playing with her all day.
Reggie was happy to let his friend sleep. He pulled on a stout pair of boots before setting off alone from The Squid and Teapot, having allowed himself plenty of time to get to The House at Poo Corner before Winston would be ready to start his shift. You may recall that the old soldier had lost his sense of smell many years previously while serving in the British army. Almost uniquely, on Hopeless, this gave him the ability to tolerate the company of the Night-Soil Man without gagging or passing out.
It was rare to meet anyone walking on the island after dark, so Reggie was surprised when a figure, carrying a small candle lantern, emerged from the shadows.
“Upton? Is that you?”
Reggie recognised the voice of Doc Willoughby. He did not trust the Doc, but the man was no physical threat, Nevertheless it was as well to be on his guard. He felt the reassuring weight of his trusty sword-stick in his hand, and said,
“Ah, Willoughby. Good evening.”
The Doc drew nearer, and the look on his face, illuminated by the amber light of the candle-lantern, told Reggie that all was not well.
“Upton… Reginald… I need your help,” he said, with a tremor in his voice.
“Whatever is the matter, old chap?”
“I think I’m dying,” said the Doc, and promptly fell face-first onto the muddy ground.
For the first time in living memory, the walls of The Squid and Teapot echoed with a child’s laughter. It had been no more than a fortnight since the small, pallid toddler had arrived on the island of Hopeless, Maine, but Philomena Bucket could no longer imagine life without her.
It had not been easy during those first few days. The girl’s limited vocabulary had been unintelligible; whatever language she had been raised in, it certainly was not English. There were, however, tiny glimmers of similarity here and there, and the meanings of a few words became dimly recognizable.
Small children, however, are quick to learn, and two weeks is a long time when you are only two years old. Her new name, new parents and the strangeness of Hopeless swiftly seemed commonplace to little Caitlin. The ghosts who haunted the privy became her friends, and the weird bony creature who slept in the snuggery was just another friendly dog – a funny looking one, admittedly, but a dog nonetheless. ‘Cu’, she called him, much to Drury’s puzzlement, but he doted upon her, as did all who came into the inn. Caitlin was the absolute darling of The Squid and Teapot.
Reggie Upton had never envisioned himself as being fashioned from the sort of material from which grandfathers are made, but Caitlin had other ideas. Within hours of her being conscious of her surroundings, she leaned out from Philomena’s arms towards Reggie and exclaimed “Gruac” as she tugged at his hair with joyful enthusiasm.
“Did you hear that?” he said, delightedly. “She called me grandpa.”
“Then you had better teach her to say it properly,” said Philomena, unconvinced, but happy that there was a bond so early on between them.
This voyage had not been the easiest. Maybe it was because they were nearing the edge of the world that violent tempests had blighted their daily progress. Or was it that Leif had forsaken the gods? He was supposed to be a Christian these days, but he was thousands of miles away from his home shores, and the Old Ones seemed more relevant here than some gentle messiah of the desert lands. Ægir, and his consort Rán ruled this realm, and if Leif and his crew wanted safe passage, they would demand a sacrifice.
The Norsemen had taken a dozen slaves when they last made landfall. These had proved to be a poor lot, a ragged knot of half-starved peasants, but all that the raid had to offer. Now they were a burden, taking up cargo space and consuming precious victuals. Their oblation would be no great loss, but would make a fine gift to Ægir and the ever-capricious Rán.
In virtual silence the slaves went to their deaths almost willingly. It was only broken by the young woman clutching her child. She fought back, screaming with rage when they tried to throw her into the icy, unforgiving ocean. Leif felt a sudden pang of humanity, and he prised the tiny youngster from her mother’s arms.
“She will be safe with me,” he said, but the hatred and anger blazing in the woman’s eyes as she toppled overboard would haunt him for the rest of his days.
It might be thought that the sea-gods would have been sated by the deaths of so many innocents, but it seemed not. Nothing improved for days. Perhaps it was the knowledge that one diminutive captive still survived that tormented them. Leif knew what he had to do, but his promise to the child’s mother made it impossible for him to simply cast the girl into the ocean. Instead he drugged her, and set her adrift in a small rowing boat for the gods to play with as they saw fit.
As I have mentioned on several previous occasions, the island of Hopeless, Maine enjoys a complicated relationship with time and space. It draws in those whom it chooses to grace its shores from wherever and whenever it pleases. Reggie Upton, now a man in his sixties, was once a Victorian soldier, while Philomena Bucket, barely thirty years old, was born around the same time as Reggie’s grandmother. Philomena would probably be surprised, and not a little amused, to learn that her adopted daughter, Caitlin, came into this world a thousand years ago. As for Leif Erikson, he was never destined to visit Hopeless. Instead, it is believed that he was the first European to set foot on continental America when his longship, tossed by storms, eventually made landfall on the shores of Newfoundland. That, however, is another tale, and will be forever celebrated in the Icelandic Vinland Sagas.
Sometimes it is hard to be sure what comes from true memory, and what I have dreamed in some fevered night when the wind was full of howling and my flesh seemed possessed by unnatural beings.
I remember whales, the shape of them in the water above me and the uncanny sense of their having knees. Do whales have knees? I remember someone telling me in truth I had seen only blubber. But they were telling me about seal blubber at the time, and how that relates to the bodies of selkies in and out of human form and perhaps that did not happen after all.
Still, I cannot shake off this question, this unease. Do mermaids have knees? For if whales have knees, then surely mermaids must? Is that not logical? And if whales have blubber resembling knees then could mermaids be the same?
I only ever see their upper parts, their heads and shoulders as they bob in the bays, calling for me to come into the water. I am certain I have seen them, with their wild eyes and terrible teeth. I have seen them turn and dive, the flash of tails as they resubmerge. But of knees, I know nothing.
“Come and look,” they say to me. “Slip beneath the waves and learn our secrets. Know our hidden parts, discover the truth for yourself.”
I know that mermaids are not to be trusted. We bury the people who trust mermaids, or at least we bury what little of them the sea gives back to us. Perhaps those dead souls might speak out, and share the truth of their own findings beneath the waves. Undoubtedly there were teeth, and tails. Will they remember the knees? Are they – like me- haunted even in death by that which lies beneath the surface?
(Text by Nimue with thanks to Rachel on Twitter for the prompt.)
