IV In Dreams
In dreams, unhappy, I behold you stand
As heretofore:
The unremembered tokens in your hand
Avail no more.
No more the morning glow, no more the grace,
Enshrines, endears.
Cold beats the light of time upon your face
And shows your tears.
He came and went. Perchance you wept a while
And then forgot.
Ah me! but he that left you with a smile
Forgets you not.
xXx
The ship sank. The men scattered, heading for lifeboats and abandoning ship.
Captain Ichabod Crane stayed.
The captain must go down with his ship.
So, when The Katrina sank, Captain Crane stood on the deck until he could no longer do so. When the broken vessel sank to the bottom of the ocean, Crane found himself clinging to a section of the hull, wet, bedraggled, and exhausted.
He summoned the last of his strength, crawled atop his makeshift raft, and fell unconscious.
Soft hands and soft singing roused Crane from his exhausted slumber. He could feel the hot sun beating down on his prone body. He could feel the itch of the salt stuck to his skin where the water had dried and left its residue. He could feel the rough wood beneath him, unforgiving against his joints, harsh against his cheek.
He could also feel delicate fingers brushing his hair from his face. They were cool and soft. Tender, like a lover's caress.
Above the quiet lap of the waves he could hear gentle singing. More accurately, humming. A tune of which he had never heard, but Crane found he was instantly taken with its ethereal melody.
How can this be? Surely, the ship sank. My exhaustion and this wooden surface below me confirm I did not dream that storm.
Curious, Crane pries open a crusted eye. It takes all his might to do this much.
He can make out a shape in front of him, small, dark, the top half hovering above the surface of the water. A person, hanging on to the side of my raft. He is silhouetted, the sun behind him, obscuring his features.
Crane parts his parched lips to speak, to ask this person his identity and why he is not climbing atop the raft to get dry. All that comes out is a dry rasp.
The person puts his finger to Crane's lips, and utters a soft, "Shh…"
His eyes widen, then narrow, blinking, attempting to banish the blurriness. A woman. What is a woman doing out here?
She leans forward slightly and caresses his face once again, her fingers lingering in his beard, as though fascinated. He can see her skin, brown like delicious chocolate from the New World, shimmering with water droplets. His eyes follow her arm to her face and, just as they begin to focus, she darts away in a flash of raven-black hair.
"W—" he manages, unable to yet lift his head. He sees the flash of a large tail covered in shining copper scales flicking above the surface for a few seconds before disappearing.
As Crane once again succumbs to unconsciousness, he tells himself he must have been hallucinating.
One word floats into his brain as the blackness descends.
Mermaid.
xXx
Something cool is being held to his lips. It feels firm and vaguely plant-like, but there is sweet, fresh water coming from it and Crane latches on like a babe to his mother's breast.
Too soon, it is gently pulled from his lips, and he chases it, wanting more.
He opens his eyes to see his brown mermaid has returned. She holds a cluster of seaweed with bulbous stems swollen with what must be fresh water. She shows him the one she has just pulled from his mouth and he sees he has sucked it dry.
Groaning, he struggles to sit up. He wants more. Greedily, he reaches for another piece, but as his eyes land on her face, his hand stills.
Beneath perfectly arched brows, large, beautiful, golden eyes somberly regard him. Her forehead is broad and smooth, and high cheekbones flank a small, straight nose. Her lips are full and pink, the kind of lips meant to be kissed. Black hair halos her face and cascades over her shoulders, veiling her breasts.
She is the most beautiful creature Captain Ichabod Crane has ever seen.
She looks down and places another branch of seaweed into his outstretched hand.
Slowly.
The word forms in his head, but he did not think it. His eyes flash to hers. He tries to speak again. "W-was that…?" His voice comes in a soft rasp.
Yes. Drink slowly or you'll become ill.
"Thank you," he whispers, lifting the seaweed to his lips. He bites into the fat stem and drinks.
Slowly.
xXx
She brings him fish. He eats, though it is uncooked and the texture makes him squeamish at first.
She finds items from the wreckage she thinks will help him. Part of the sail to shield him from the sun. A compass, too waterlogged to be of any use, but he appreciates the thought and holds it to his heart. A pair of boots, which she frowns over when she sees they are much too small for his large feet.
And always, always the bulbous seaweed filled with the fresh water that saves his life.
"Thank you for thinking of me," he says. Each time she brings him something, he repeats it.
He asks for her name. It is long and complicated, beyond his ability to pronounce, but the first part sounds similar to "Abbie". He inquires if he may simply address her thusly.
She nods, smiling.
"My name is Ichabod," he tells her. She touches his cheek, stroking his beard, and gazes into his blue eyes for a moment. Then, she dives away, her copper tail glinting behind her.
xXx
There is another storm. She protects him. Makes certain his raft doesn't capsize and throw him back into the sea.
She's remarkably strong for one so slender and graceful. Crane clings to his raft, to her, no longer certain he wants to find dry land if it means never seeing her again.
When it is over, they are both exhausted. She reaches out, cups his face in her hands, and softly kisses him once before slipping quietly and sedately beneath the surface.
Rest.
In the morning, he is found by a Royal Navy vessel and rescued.
Crane is grateful, but sad. He keeps quiet about his Abbie, not completely certain whether or not he imagined her all along. Now clean and wearing fresh, slightly ill-fitting clothes, he watches the waters, searching for her. Her lithe, dark shape. Her copper tail, like polished coins woven together. Her ebony hair, so soft, even when wet.
Once or twice he thinks he sees her. But, it is always merely a glimpse. It could just as easily have been a seal or dolphin.
He worries that he's gone mad.
xXx
Crane stands, alone, on the boulders by the sea behind his home. He climbs over the rocks, venturing out as far as he dares to stand and gaze out over the glistening water. He has been home for nearly two weeks, and for nearly two weeks, he has come out every night. When he can spare the time, he comes out during the day.
He watches for her. Longs for her touch. His whole being cries out for something, some clue to tell him he didn't imagine her. His mermaid, his savior, his Abbie.
He dreams of her. He dreams that she is a human. He dreams that he is a merman.
Her voice is in his head, the few words she had shared with him indelibly printed there. At unexpected times, he finds himself humming her strange melody.
His footman thinks he's lost his mind. His maid frets over him.
The broken compass she salvaged for him is his constant companion, always residing in his pocket. He withdraws it and clutches it in his hand, the shape and weight comforting. The instrument will never work again. It is broken, like his heart.
He looks down at the compass, then out over the ocean, his eyes scanning one last time as the sun slowly sinks beneath the horizon.
In the dying light, there is a distant splash and a glint of copper.
Crane audibly gasps, nearly dropping his compass.
xXx
He wakes the following morning, lying on the rocks, to find a clump of bulbous-stemmed seaweed resting beside him, still glistening with seawater. He feels a strange tingling on his cheek and reaches up to discover his beard is wet with seawater on one side.
"Abbie..."
A/N: This was inspired by Nicole Beharie's desire to be a mermaid. I would also like to explain the uncharacteristically ambiguous ending. I didn't want it to just be another "Little Mermaid" story. So, I intentionally left their fate open to the readers' imaginations.