The Midnight Circus, стр. 38

Hethought, wished really, that that would be the end of it, though hecould not stop shuddering. He fancied he could still feel the tailaround him, coldly constricting. He went on to the fair, sold all hispies, drank up the profit and started for home.

Hetried to convince himself that he had seen stranger things in thewater. Worse—and better. Hadn’t he one day brought up a shark with aman’s hand in its stomach? A right hand with a ring on the thirdfinger, a ring of tourmaline and gold that he now wore himself, vanitygetting the better of superstition. He could have given it to his wife,Mair, but he kept it for himself, forgetting that the sea would haveits due. And hadn’t he one night seen the stars reflecting their coldbrilliance on the water as if the ocean itself stared up at him with athousand eyes? Worse—and better. He reminded himself of his years cullingthe tides that swept rotting boards and babies’ shoes and kitchen cupsto his feet. And the fish. And the eels. And the necklaces of teeth.Worse—and better.

Bythe time he arrived home he had convinced himself of nothing but thefact that the mermaid was the nastiest and yet most compelling thinghe had yet seen in the ocean. Still, he said nothing of it to Mair, forthough she was a fisherman’s daughter and a fisherman’s wife; since shehad been deaf from birth no one had ever let her go out to sea. He didnot want her to be frightened; as frightened as he was himself.

ButMair learned something of it, for that night when John Merton lay inbed with the great down quilt over him, he swam and cried and swamagain in his sleep, keeping up stroke for stroke with the sea-queen.And he called out, “Cold, oh God, she’s so cold,” and pushed Mair awaywhen she tried to wrap her arms around his waist for comfort. Oh, yes,she knew, even though she could not hear him, but what could she do? Ifhe would not listen to her hands on his, there was no more help shecould give.

So, John Merton went out the next day with only his wife’ssilent prayer picked out by her fingers along his back. Hedid not turn for a kiss.

Andwhen he was out no more than half a mile, pulling strongly on the oarsand ignoring the spray, the sea-queen leaped like a shot across hisbow. He tried to look away, but he was not surprised. He tried not tosee her webbed hand on the oarlock or the fingers as sure as wrackweedthat gripped his wrist. But slowly, ever so slowly, he turned andstared at her, and the little golden fish in her eyes beckonedto him. Then he heard her speak, a great hollow of sound somewherebetween a sigh and a song, that came from the grotto that was her mouth.

“Iwill come,” he answered, now sure of her question, hearing in it all hehad longed to hear from his wife. It was magic, to be sure, acompulsion, and he could not have denied it had he tried. He stood up,drew off his cap and tossed it onto the waves. Then he let the oarsslip away and his life on land slip away and plunged into the waternear the bobbing cap just a beat behind the mermaid’s flashing tail.

Asmall wave swamped his boat. It half-sank, and the tide lugged itrelentlessly back to the shore where it lay on the beach like a bloatedwhale.

Whenthey found the boat, John Merton’s mates thought him drowned. And theycame to the house, their eyes tight with grief and their hands full ofunsubtle mimings.

“Heis gone,” said their hands. “A husband to the sea.” For they neverspoke of death and the ocean in the same breath, but disguised it withwords of celebration.

Mairthanked them with her fingers for the news they bore, but she was notsure that they told her the truth. Remembering her husband’s nightdreams, she was not sure at all. And as she was a solitary person bynature, she took her own counsel. Then she waited until sunrise andwent down to the shore.

Hisboat was now hers by widow’s right. Using a pair of borrowed oars, shewrestled it into the sea.

Shehad never been away from shore, and letting go of theland was not an easy thing. Her eyes lingered on the beach and soughtout familiar rocks, a twisted tree, the humps of other boats thatmarked the shore. But at last she tired of the landmarks that hadbecome so unfamiliar and turned her sights to the sea.

Then,about half a mile out, where the sheltered bay gave way to the opensea, she saw something bobbing on the waves. A sodden blue knit cap.John Merton’s marker.

“He sent it to me,” Mair thought. And in hereagerness to have it, she almost loosed the oars. But she calmedherself and rowed to the cap, fishing it out with her hands. Then sheshipped the oars and stood up. Tying a great strong rope around herwaist, with one end knotted firmly through the oarlock—not a sailor’sknot but a love knot, the kind that she might have plaited in herhair—Mair flungherself at the ocean.

Downand down and down she went, through the seven layers of the sea.

Atfirst it was warm, with a cool light blue color hung with crystalteardrops. Little spotted fish, green and gold, were caught in eachdrop. And when she touched them, the bubbles burst and freed the fish,which darted off and out of sight.

Thenext layer was cooler, an aquamarine with a fine, falling rain of gold.In and out of these golden strings swam slower creatures of the deep:bulging squid, ribboned sea snakes, knobby five-fingered stars. Andthe strands of gold parted before her like a curtain of beads and shecould peer down into the colder, darker layers below.

Downand down and down Mair went until she reached the ocean floor at last.And there was a path laid out, of finely colored sands edged round withshells, and statues made of bone. Anemones on their fleshy stalks wavedat her as she passed, for her