Salty Sea, Soft Skin

In the week before the funeral, I caught a cold.

One of those obsessive colds that lingers long after the fever leaves. One that left me sniffling with puffy eyes and a stuffy nose weeks later. If you were here, I’d imagine you’d tell me to curl up in one of those lawn chairs by the beach with a good book and just rest while you pampered me. That tomorrow was always a day to be had. That nothing was done well while sick.

But it was hard to find more than a few seconds of rest then. So many faces, so many more people that I could’ve ever believed you would know with the life you led. And none the same – I shook hands with suits, with grizzled fishermen, with rich somebodies who parked their million-dollar yachts in front of our small haven just to clasp my hands and tell me how much they loved you.

And it was all the same, too. “Boy,” they would say, hands on my shoulders, “I loved your dad. He was a great – a great man, and a great father. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I’d say, “I loved him too. I loved him, and I loved our family.” And I’m not a boy, I’d think.

And then I would shrug from their stare, and I’d take a small walk around the rocky shoals and gentle sand. And I’d walk into the house, meters from the shore, and I’d inevitably find myself at your closed casket, and there would always be someone there. Sometimes there would be a small child or two with their heads down and their hands clasped and their mouths moving silent whispers. And that would make me want to cry, and that just made my puffy eyes and stuffy nose a little worse.

And someone would see me, and it would begin again. “Boy,” they would say.

But it’s hard to believe they loved you like I did. It’s hard to believe their words are real when what I remember of you is afternoons on your sailboat on angry, dark waves with the sea in our hair and the sand between our toes, and how they remember you seems to be with the small slips of paper tucked underneath chairs or between drawers of cabinets or in the candleholders of antique chandeliers, names scribbled on with hurried excitement, hidden in places I’m certain they thought I couldn’t see. As if they were sparing me from something.

Few things escaped unmarked as your grave approached. But oftentimes what remained were your final gifts. Meaningless to anyone else but me. I saw things. I saw hastily packed sandwiches in the cheap plastic lunchbox. I saw an afternoon out wrestling with sharks on the broken fishing line. I saw countless weekends when I was sick like these days in the rusted pot tucked in a corner of the garage. Days when you’d cook up crawfish boil and tell me to do nothing but rest.

And then I found your last gift. In what used to be the nursery, fallen underneath an old oak dresser. A packet of paper hastily bound with twine, on which the first page read, to me obviously in your half-illegible scrawl:

Guides and Tutorials: A Beginning Book for Merling

The word ‘merling’ was underlined three times, and there was a smear of graphite beside the word. 

Merling. A word I hadn’t heard in years.

I relaxed onto the floor and began to read.

The art of merling is highly misunderstood at best. There is a tale as old as time: inexperienced young seafarers set out, ill equipped, chasing the adrenaline and excitement that comes from the sport. And a few weeks later, they are lost to the beasts and nothing is heard from them again. Many times, it is forgotten that merling is an extremely dangerous, highly volatile activity, and that there is inherent danger in acting beyond the law.

Remember: tomorrow is always a day to be had. There is nothing to be gained from merling besides some financial gain. But if you do decide to hunt, remember: you will never feel comfortable, but if you do not at least feel prepared, never set out.

It may feel strange to begin with a guide to merling by trying to disillusion the reader. But, as I have said, it is more dangerous than you can imagine, and there will always be those who, beyond any warning, still dream and thirst for those moments of glory. To those hearts, hearts much like myself, these guides are written – from an experienced merler with years in the trade.

I will begin with a basic description of a first merling mission. The unfortunate thing about merling is that the barrier to entry is extremely low. Many times, the only things I find myself using is a sharp carving knife, a roll of thick duct tape, strong twine or rope, and an icebox. Obviously, there may be tools such as harpoon guns or auto-cauters, but these tools are both niche and expensive.

The beginning merlers’ mission often begins with long bouts on the sea, but I will assume an experience with seafaring and will not elaborate on that. Of course, if you live in an area with reported sightings on beaches or rock shoals, you may be able to hunt on foot. I do not recommend this: carrying equipment makes you both louder and slower, which makes a hunt much more dangerous.

On the sea, it is easy to spot the beasts from even distances such as a quarter of a nautical mile. They will often lounge on warm rock or sand, and green and blue scaled mermaids are especially easy to spot in open sun, so I recommend inexperienced merlers to go after these species. They are more common, and therefore worth less, but nothing is worth more than your limbs or life. 

Once you spot one, it is paramount to move as softly and slowly as possible. Remember: their sight is better than a humans, so if you can see them, they see you. If you are unthreatening, they will most likely not make a move to escape.

Once you are within 20 feet of the beast, whether in land or sea, it is important to note that at this point, if the maid feels threatened, they will most likely lash out at you instead of fleeing – they move at speeds of seven to ten feet per second on land, and faster in the water.

It is important to hide all tools or weapons as best as possible during your approach. If you are careful, at this point it should have closed its eyes and be lying prone.

Remember: if it has its eyes open or if it is attempting to speak or sing to you, back away slowly and escape immediately. No maid is worth more than your life.

Once you are within arms length of the maid, you must strike immediately and without hesitation. At this distance, an attack from it would be deadly. In my many years, I have met countless merlers with arms or legs missing from moments of hesitation.

Begin by striking at the eyes of the maid. The eyes are a very rare commodity and they catch a hefty price, but I have found that stabbing the eyes first grants the most safety. Remember: no maid is worth more than your life. 

Stab at the right eye of the maid, as that is most often the dominant, and then the left. The maid will almost certainly cry out, and you must cover its mouth with tape or stuff the mouth with an oiled rag to prevent sound. After this, grab the bottom fin and tie it up with your rope or twine – this prevents attempts to flee.

Now is the most crucial moment. Do not take a moment to rest. You must begin with swiftly cutting off the arms of the maid. The maid will possibly attempt to cut its throat with its hands, and you must prevent this, as it only takes a few seconds after a maid’s death for the scales to wilt and the hair to turn gray.

There is a special and quite specialized technique for extracting scales and hair that I have developed, and it is detailed later in these pages. 

It is important to store everything in an icebox or auto-cauter as fast as possible after removing them from the body of the beast. Of course, leaving them out for a few minutes is fine. Never spend more than 30 seconds besides a singing maid, as it will soon have others to defend it.

Escape is the most simple part: run as fast as you can from where you came from. Do not attempt to save your rope from the fins of the maid. Try to put about 300 feet of distance between you and the maid before you slow down; this is the distance at which their scent fails them. 

It is only a few minutes after this moment when you can finally call yourself safe. Remember: once you are within 20 feet of the maid, panic means death. At that point, even if you regret your decisions, panic and imprecision means certain danger. Remember: no maid is worth more than your life.

To those brave, strong, foolhardy people who feel this is their calling: I wish you nothing but the best of luck. You will undoubtedly feel overwhelmed with terror at many points. I am sure I do. But I always remember: I do not do this for the money or for the status. I do this only for the heat, the restless beating of my heart, the dangerous call of my human body.

But I am not as brave, or as strong, or as foolhardy as you were. Some days later, the funeral finally came, and I don’t doubt many suits and fisherman and rich somebodies were looking for me that day so they could put their hands on my shoulders and tell me how much they loved you. 

But I was not at your grave that day. I was at the rocky shoals on the other side of the small island we called home, crouched low with a knife in my hand and tape in my pocket, rope slung behind my back. 

I gingerly approached the small shape, making small footsteps across tide pools and angry black stone. The shape did not move. I took low and long breaths, controlling the rise and fall of my body. I was within 20 feet of the thing. The beast. I placed a hand on the rock and slinked towards the shape. 

It moved. It sat up and stretched its arms above its head. It laid back down onto the warm rock, faced away from me. I took a long inhale and held it for a few seconds before continuing onwards.

I could now make out the small lines and ripples on the surface of the animal as its dark skin morphed into shimmering green scales and eventually into two soft fins. Long hazel hair fell down past its shoulders onto the rock, and its back was smooth. 

I was now at arms length of the mermaid. I could not reach its eyes. I took a step forward and balanced on the point of a rock. I leaned far over the body of the mermaid and tried to take a strike at its face. I swung my arm, my foot slipped off the point of rock it balanced on, and I fell, my knife slipping from my hands, on top of

the body of the mermaid.

I quickly rolled off and scrambled backwards onto the rock, reaching for my knife a few feet away. I saw the mermaid convulse before flipping up and looking around before locking its eyes on the knife raised in my hand. Its left eye was a bright green, and its right a pale sky blue. Its coppery face was pocketmarked with light dots, and thin white lips sat between a long, regal nose.

It was beautiful. 

I am not as brave, or as strong, or as foolhardy as you were, Dad. When it opened its mouth and began to sing, in words far beyond my perception, I could do nothing. The tone washed over me and filled my ears. I could barely drink in its beauty with my gaze. I wanted to reach out and touch it. To feel its soft skin. My knife clattered out of my hands onto rock below. I stretched out with my hand, to touch it, to run my hands over its soft face, to feel my fingers in its hair. To bring it close to my body and feel its warmth on mine. 

Its song stopped, and the perfect lips stretched into a wide smile. The thing flopped forward and widened its jaw impossibly large. It bit off my arm. I screamed, and the thing flipped backwards into the ocean.