Her father was a shipwrecked sailor, stranded on some sunbaked rock. Her mother was a passerby, a flash of silver in the sea. Longing for his fair-haired love back home while soused on rationed rum, the sailor spilled his seed at the water’s edge upon the eggs our mermaid’s mom had issued and abandoned.
And now, twenty years gone by, their daughter makes her way through briny blue, scissor-kicking and ungainly.
Her hairy legs do not serve her. Her scaley torso, flukes and fins, her sleek fish head and staring eyes are no surprise when her lower half is concealed by coral. When the whole of her emerges, though, entire schools scatter at the sight.
When called to land, as she is from time-to-time, our mermaid staggers through the whitecaps upright, her fins flailing. Humans on the beach, pink and peeling in the sun, gasp before they turn and bolt, repulsed. They stare out from behind their dunes as she lurches forward, gills collapsing, to make the shore. Giving up she topples into surf again, resigned, and swims against the tide to lonely home.
It’s a wonder she’s still alive.
How have I not been eaten?, the human part of her brain thinks. But she knows why.
You don’t eat what you can’t understand.
Neither do you touch or hold. And do not mention love.
#
Our mermaid spends her mornings at the delta—in the shallow, brackish water where the river joins the sea. She digs her long toenails deep into the silty sand. They turn up clams and cockles her strong jaws can crack, thank the Gods, or she’d starve. She cannot catch fish. Her legs do not serve her.
The delta is her city. Creatures gather there from everywhere to feed and flirt. Long-legged egrets and pelicans plenty, tottering turtles and whispering snakes, midges and mites and crawdads, crabs. They court and devour for hours in the tall grasses until daylight wanes.
Our mermaid watches this parade from afar.
But what is that lump padding into the water, badger-brown on webbed feet?
A platypus! Our girl is drawn closer, enough to nearly beach herself, her curiosity is so strong.
Is that the bill of a duck? The tail of a beaver?
She’s standing again, dancing an awkward two-step so she can stare at this fellow monstrosity out of one eye, then the other.
The platypus crawls back on land and cocks his head in her direction. His eyesight is poor, but he isn’t blind. Is that man or fish standing in the surf?
Her gills aflame, our mermaid splashes back into the drink. Her head bobs up and down, above and below the waterline, so she can watch the brown lump waddle toward her through rivulets into the bay.
The platypus closes his eyes, as he always does when he swims. His sensitive bill registers the electric snap of her nearness, and he moves closer. He picks up her scent—this is no man. But he’s seen her size. In the safety of his territory upon the river bank, he is a hunter. In the sea he is prey.
They both suffer the surf in the delta, that muddled medium. The freshwater chokes her, the sea salt him. But their attraction pulls them nearer, and they circle each other warily. She is pleasantly surprised by the soft touch of his bill upon her flank.
Touch.
She’s been touched.
Her two-chambered heart is beating madly. Out of fear? Fascination? What is this feeling? Her cold blood runs warmer as his pelt brushes her skin. Then he’s gone, back to his kind. She watches him lumber up the shore, sees him turn as she submerges.
#
Mermen are the worst. The few she’s met had human torsos. They rage against their lower halves, think spawning some cruel joke. They use their hands, those awesome hands, to throttle and rend. They use their mouths to curse the Gods.
When two mermen cross paths, one will die.
#
Our mermaid haunts the delta.
Fish do not sleep, but the human part of her brain demands dreams. She has no eyelids, so seeks out darkness. Slipping into kelp forest shadows, she thinks of the platypus’ touch in hopes of dreaming more.
His pelt upon her skin. His pelt upon her skin. His pelt upon her skin.
But dreams won’t come.
Can she force them?
Is there, deep within her chest, the legacy of lungs? If she could force dreams, could she force breath? How much of her is human, and how much fish?
The world’s first mermaid was a fish with legs that scuttled up on shore. Its progeny brought with them, eventually, skin, warm blood, backbone, birth. Did it think to scuttle up on shore?
#
The platypus watches the surf. He feels our mermaid’s legacy, that jolt of electricity, at the sight of every object that breaks the water’s surface. Is it her? No. A coconut husk. No. Driftwood. No. A soda bottle. Her scent won’t leave his nostrils. He ventures into surf again, led by his bill toward kelp as she emerges.
They circle each other again, this time without fear. He navigates the whole of her, from toes to teeth. His webbed feet brush along her skin, her scales. He guides her to the surface so he can open his eyes and meet her unnerving stare.
The scent that issues from her lower half is more than invitation. He swims between her legs. His broad tail cups her groin. Webbed feet grip her waist, and they dive and spiral, joined.
#
As her belly grows, our mermaid is bound tighter to the delta. Hungry all the time, she races in the shallows to dig up what she can before the low tide does her in.
The season having passed, her platypus is back to burrowing, preparing for other mates. She raises her head to see the shore but gives that up for desolation.
What is growing inside her? What mix of bird and beast, of man and fish? What unholy fusion of limbs and flippers, hair and hide? And all because she longed for touch? Wanted to be wanted?
Heavier now, without arms to assist, it’s twice the work to stand in the lowest tide.
Our mermaid savors the play of water through her gills, takes one last drink of breath, then wills herself to find her feet. She makes her way toward shore.
Maybe what’s growing inside her is the future.
Belly full of cockle and closer to land, she feels her strength gather as her feet dig into sand.
If her child is every creature joined, maybe every creature will see itself reflected?
Something in her balance has shifted. Could be it’s her young. It’s easier to walk, she finds. It’s possible to run.
At long last, her legs serve her.
When the first mermaid scuttled up on shore, it had to meet another. Something near its kind, or else how could it go on? Is someone, something like her running up a nearby shore? A fellow mosaic, struggling for breath?
She can feel her gills drying, but somehow she inhales. Has she dreamed a pair of lungs, tiny and tremulous? Or blown breath into a dream from which she’ll soon awaken?
Will her child be blessed with eyelids?
She’s running faster now, over rocky turf. Her long toenails crack and break, her tender soles complain. Somehow she stays upright, disregards the pain.
The dawn sun’s reds and yellows bring the shore’s parade to life.
Her fearsome figure startles flocks, their feathers fill the sky.
Screech and scream surround and goad her on.
Her breath shorter with each step
she comes to realize
that one more forward
means not enough
to return to sea.
She steps again.
