And So They Lived: The Little Mermaid
A Castle on the Sea, 1836
A horse – drawn carriage drew up to the castle. Out stepped a man, famous for his short stories. Servants beckoned him into the castle, down the long winding hallways, into a room made fully out of glass. An old woman sat in a chair and the far end of the room, her eyes focused on the sea below. The chair she sat in was enclosed within an indoor garden, filled with deep blue flowers and very few pure white flowers. Not a single inch of the floor was visible. The overwhelming garden kept the man's attention rapt. The woman, however, seemed to bathe within the flowers. And where she sat, they seemed to move. The flowers caressed her bare feet, like waves upon the shore. Her eyes never once strayed from the sea
She stood up slowly and the flowers calmed. Her body turned to face the man. "Mr. Anderson, I'm glad to see that you came," she uttered, her voice so hoarse he could barely hear her, yet each word echoed with grace and confidence.
The man removed his hat and bowed in respect. "If I may ask," began, asking her approval to continue. She gave a single nod, granting him her permission. "What is the reason that you called me here?" His eyes burned with curiosity. This woman was famed for never receiving guests, not since she had lost all her children and her husband. Yet, she had called him to her, in what he could tell would be the last days of her life.
"I assume you've heard rumors about this place," she speculated, taking a few steps closer. "And I guess those rumors inspired your most recent story." She cast her eyes to the sea once again. "But I must tell you, Mr. Anderson. You've heard wrong." She walked across the room towards the windows, and where she moved the flowers seemed to move with her.
The sun began to set upon the castle, and the deep red orange light flowed into the room through the glass walls. Its radiant color cast an orange glow upon the deep blue flowers that lined the ground. They seemed to move, not only where the woman stood, but through the entire room. They crashed upon each other like waves in the sea. The pure white flowers were the tips of the waves, the crown as they folded over crash. Mr. Anderson suddenly felt as though he'd been submerged in the ocean and the waves claimed his soul.
"You see, Mr. Anderson," the woman murmured, her voice ethereal under the enchantment of the sunset. "The real story is far from what you wrote." She faced him once again, orange light reflecting off her weathered skin, her eyes absorbing the color, until they themselves were the orange-blue of the ocean at sunset. She beckoned him to look up at the ceiling.
A magnificent mural was painted on the ceiling. It beheld the likeness of the most beautiful woman Mr. Anderson had ever seen. Her hair glistened with the orange – glow of the sunset. Her shimmered the same ocean color as the old woman's and beheld an emotion so filled with vibrancy, poignancy, and love, Mr. Anderson couldn't fathom what she was feeling. The corners of her mouth were turned up in what seemed to be a secret smile. But most shocking of all was the tail that began at her hips and stretched to wear her feet should be. The scares gleamed with vivid colors, reflecting the luminous blues of the flowers, greens of the seas below, and orange-reds of the sunset.
"That, Mr. Anderson, is Adria de la Mer, and this," she stretched out her arm to indicate the flowers beneath. "Is her garden."