"Mair and the Mermaid" -- July 4

Word count: 500

Mair and the Mermaid

She’d been stalking this boat for days—miles—leagues—across the wide-open sea. She was familiar with every groove, every joint, every barnacle stuck beneath the hull. She was familiar, too, with the sunburned and determined face of Mair, the lone woman who managed the sails via pulleys by day and charted a course via the stars and a dim lantern by night. Mair’s was the kind of face, symmetrical and soft, that a sailor far from land would fall for—would obey. The perfect addition to the colony.

With a silent flick of a long, powerful tail, she placed herself in the cool shadow beneath the hull and waited for nightfall.

As the rays of the sun faded from the sea, a soft yellow flicker around the hull announced that Mair was once again studying the charts. Her tail flicking softly against the hull, she turned over and swam down, just out of reach of a long oar. Sharp fins along her spine flattened as she started upwards, aimed toward the brightest point of light.

****

Crouching in the stern of her small boat, Mair watched the long, lean body disappear beneath the water, the tail bumping the bottom of the boat. As quietly as she could, she picked up her two harpoons one by one, testing the tips.

It had been following her for three days, since she had taken a swim in the sea near the rocky islands where it lived. First, she’d seen its fins—hardly more than prominent bumps on the spine—then, the next day, a flick of its tail. She should have known it would choose the night to make its move.

She wrapped the harpoon line around her wrist and waited.

It came from the rear, knocking her off balance. A gray, webbed hand emerged first, then with blinding speed a torso, the skin thickened, rough and scaly from years of saltwater. Mair looked into its black, empty fish eyes with the dim yellow light of the lantern glaring off them, and then the light shone on tiny, sharp teeth set between a woman’s full lips and the boat shook as it fell back into the water.

Cursing, Mair lunged for the edge of the boat and plunged her harpoon toward the long gray shape in the water.

Down and down it went.

Mair had been hunting mermaids since she was twelve years old and her mother had killed one crawling over the edge of their canoe. As the harpoon cleaved through the water, encountering no resistance, she cursed herself aloud for forgetting, in a moment of excitement, to account for the refraction of the water as she aimed.

Something seized her harpoon, and she toppled over, splashing into the cold water. Salt stung her eyes, her lungs, her nose. Her legs tangled together, wrapped in seaweed. Her long hair floated upwards as she was dragged down—down and down and down.

With barely a ripple, the boat floated onward into the night.