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but no man moved me	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 1076 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-but no man moved me
- 1
But no Man moved Me – till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe
- Emily Dickinson, “I started Early”

The sea called to all of them in its’ eternal presence, in its’ ancient rhythms. The sea surrounded them, they were victims of its’ caprice and beneficiaries of its’ bounty.

The sea. . .fascinated the boy for as long as he could remember.

His parents had wished for him to have a trade; his father worked for the harbormaster and was an eminently frugal man, his mother took in mending and other needlework. Their sensible outlook kept food on the table and a roof over their heads. And it allowed the boy a little pocket money to pursue his passion.

He loved to draw, and to paint, and his parents saw it as a hobby, a slight talent, which they indulged because they loved him. They displayed his seascapes proudly upon the walls of their home in the harbor.

As parents will, they imagined that he would take his education - as much as for any other boy on the island – and use it for his ultimate path. A clerk, perhaps, like his father. Or a craftsman of some sort. But there was only one path for the boy.

A painter resided in the town, but he was considered an Artist: he had painted for royalty, and accepted commissions from wealthy people for portraiture. This type of work bored him, but he understood the economic necessity. In those hours when he did not patiently sketch people in sittings at the studio in his home, or travel to distant lands to do the same when summoned, he painted the sea in its’ ever-changing states: dark and rough with storms, full of sparkling sunlight, calm upon a night of full moon. His seascapes were admired, but not often purchased. He was held in high regard by the people of the island, they considered him their pinnacle of culture, their claim to a particular type of fame which many of them had no time to consider, merely acknowledged when appropriate.

The boy had gone to the Artist, asked if he were willing to accept an apprentice, as there was no other course of study available to him on the island, with no hope of leaving unless he signed on to be a seaman, and that life had no allure for him. It was rough, and dangerous, and his father became distant and sharp whenever recalling the days aboard ship: seeking adventure and finding only drudgery, disease, and occasional witnessed death. The Artist examined his drawings and paintings and saw a natural talent, a keen eye for forms and nuances of shade. He agreed to take the boy on as an apprentice, but did not promise a profitable future.

“I will house you, feed and clothe you, in exchange for your labours, and I will teach you how to paint to the best of my ability. But your parents are right, boy, you’d do much better learning a trade. When you’ve a family someday, how do you expect to take care of them?”

“Perhaps my life isn’t meant for such things. Begging your pardon, sir, but I see no wife or children in this house.”

“Your parents are far too indulgent of that curious mind of yours, I see. But you are correct, I never married. I was too busy chasing my ambition. And now my mistress is my muse –“ He waved his arm outwards at the water beyond the window. “I wouldn’t condemn another to my fate.”

“I’ll make my own way, somehow. But I will be finishing school soon and if I don’t have somewhere to go they’ll put me into a trade.”

“And you don’t want that, I take it?”

“No sir. I want to be an artist, like you. I want to paint the sea as long as I live.”

“So you shall, any road, I think. Even if you found yourself buried in a ledger or behind a lathe, you would come home every night and despite your weariness you would pick up a brush and create her upon canvases stacked to the rooftop, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well there’s no hope for it then, is there? When are your studies concluded?”

“In May, sir.”

“Well the first of June you’ll come to me, then. I’ll fix a bed for you in the attic, and a space in my studio. You’ll do whatever I ask in the mornings and every afternoon you shall receive a lesson. In the evenings you’ll be free to do what you will, and on Sunday, of course.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

“Here, I shall write your parents a letter, you can bring it to them now.”

And so that was how David Gilmour came to find his path, not knowing something would also soon find him.

His parents were not overjoyed with his decision, but did respect the Artist as an important man, and appreciated that their son had made plans in regards to his future. Once his schooling was complete, David moved his meager belongings to the house of the Artist, sleeping upon a pallet in the attic. During the day his work was that of a servant: performing all the heavy lifting and more rigorous chores in the household, as well as running errands. His first lessons from the Artist were rudimentary ones: learning to mix colors, stretch canvases, and distinguishing the right tools for various types of drawing and painting. He learned the difference between oil, watercolor, gouache and tempura; learned about different types of canvases, when one would utilize pencil versus charcoal, and differing styles and methodology. The Artist was generous with his advice and materials, and David was enduringly grateful, seeing no reason to complain about rising at dawn to stroke all the fires in the house and heat the water, chopping wood to keep the house warm in the misty chill of every morning, carrying heavy packages of art supplies from the customs house, pulling weeds in the flower garden from which the Artist would occasionally pluck a particular piece of inspiration.

It was that very same garden David would inhabit on Sunday afternoons, staring out at the sea and sketching endlessly, sometimes painting, attempting to capture a quality which was perhaps not immediate to the naked eye. The mystery of her depths, the way in which the colors changed as the sunlight shown down, or the diffused light of a cloudy day. But he found himself drawn to the shore, to be as close to the water as he could and still create: to feel its’ rhythms, smell its’ scent, hear its’ murmuring sighs as it caressed the land like a tireless lover.

He began spending that time at Silver Cove, enjoying the contrast of water-worn stones against the froth of the tide. One day an old fisherman approached him. David recognized the man from his many trips to the harbor – he had a face which resembled a dray horse - but could not recall the man’s name.

“Have ye seen a creature yet?” he called, sitting on one of the rocks to bait his hooks.

“Pardon?”

“Silver Cove, it draws the creatures in. They watch us, y’know. They want ta lure the humans down in the depths.”

“Those are only stories!”

“Aye, but where do stories come from, lad? From life.”

“I’ve seen naught but water and rocks, sir.”

“Have a care, ya should. For ye are a comely one, aren’t ya?”

David frowned. It wasn’t the first time he had heard such comments. His mother bemoaned the fact of her sons resembling the maternal line, as the family produced beautiful women but the men were considered foppish or too overly attractive. They all bore almond-shaped bright blue eyes under lovely brows, set in a face which seemed to be the Golden Mean of visages, pleasing to nearly everyone who laid eyes upon it. The lips normally called undue attention as they were full and ripe even in the most noncommittal of expressions. Their hair was usually of an indeterminate shade, somewhere between gold and fallow. Island men were generally weatherbeaten and stern in their masculinity, but not those of the Gilmour line.

“I’m no judge of such things.”

“But you’re an artist, aren’t ya? If ye no opinion of beauty then why do ya waste yer time drawing pictures?”

“I cannot follow your logic, sir, to my regret.”

The fisherman made a gesture of dismissal. “Aye yer an obtuse welp! Just keep an eye out for the creatures, I warn ye.”

Though David was inclined to dismiss mythology for anything other than fanciful narrative, after the fisherman had moved further down the beach he couldn’t help but try to spy movement behind the rocks and in the tidepools, looking for anything other than the water his eye informed his brain should be there.

The land. . .fascinated the merkara for as long as they could remember.

The elders knew to keep well away from the nets and spears of the fishermen, could stay below the storms which plagued the surface (as more than a few of the race were unlucky enough to be washed ashore and died after a few days exposure to the air), but often could not contain their curiosity regarding the creatures so much like themselves yet who walked about on strange appendages and breathed the air rather than the water. And so their legend persisted as long as humans caught a glimpse every so often of the race which inhabited the depths of the ocean, gliding though the water with a rare grace.

The merkara were known for their beauty: their faces exquisite carvings of flesh and bone. They possessed human faces, in point of fact, although their features were marked by an almost unearthly tilt of eyes and mouth, something slightly alien and yet utterly compelling.

The youth whose name could never be translated into human speech - but which sounded like a kind of echoing roar - had first glimpsed a human when very young. He had the habit of straying from his pod, swimming into crevasses and through fields of kelp, endlessly curious about the crystalline world around him. His mother would scold him - a series of short sharp squeaks – warning him of predators and other dangers. But he was ever-dreamy, and loved to explore. Thus he grew to maturity, his body long and lean.

The merkara were a sort of hybrid race: descending from the mating of a water demon and a human male, the specific details long abandoned to the vagaries of history. They possessed torsos much like people which progressed to a series of tentacles at what would be the hips of a human. The tentacles – of which there were normally four thick ones – enabled the merkara to move through the water at great speeds, and to catch lesser prey or defend themselves from larger predators, with relative ease. But when humans spied them the tentacles were often mistaken for fins, thus giving rise to the legend of “mer” people.

The youth grew to be fascinated by humans swimming in the depths.

Only two tentacles? How could that be?

His mother pulled him back through the kelp where he had hid, watching as the man swam about with a knife, looking for shellfish. She chattered warnings and threats at him, and he had hung his head: ashamed, but not repentant. He learned to be careful not only about being seen, but being caught as well. The youth had found a place where he could observe the humans of the nearby island, watch them walk about as well as swim, listen to their speech, observe their habits.

But more than anything, he wanted to touch one of them. Their skin looked so smooth, smoother than any of the mammals he was familiar with, and he wondered if their hair felt much the same as that of the merkara, which was somewhat coarse and thick.

The youth spent that time - other than when he was required to help gather food for his pod - secreted within the rocks of Silver Cove, trying to gather his wits and his courage for a closer encounter with the humans he observed, feeling a heavy ache which could be said to be more like infatuation than mere curiosity.

The youth was said to be one of the most beautiful of his kind. His hair was dark, floating about his face as he hovered in the water, streaming out behind him as he swam as swift as any other creature in the sea. The otherworldly beauty which marked his race was especially prevalent in his features: possessing prominent cheekbones, a proud nose and full mouth. But his eyes, as wide as the moon which hovered in the night sky and as blue as the sea in her deepest depths, were considered the most memorable aspect of his face. He had many admirers among the other youths, they would compete for his attention in any way they could. But he very quickly tired of his own kind, escaping whenever he could to glide in solitude back to his favorite hidey-hole.

One late moonlit night David could not sleep. The tradewinds had completely died down, leaving the shore thick with the heat of a summer’s night. The attic of the Artist’s house was particularly stifling and going so far as to open all the dormer windows did not offer any relief. David dressed, descended to the house below, gathered his supplies, and set out for Silver Cove; wondering if there would be enough light to draw the black glass which stretched away from the shore.

The tide had come in, but even so David found a high rock to perch upon and let his eyes adjust to the distinct lack of light. After a time he began to sketch the sea in the distance and as he did so he heard a splash, too specific to be merely the waves upon the rocks. He paused in his task and cast his eyes around without moving his head. The moon was bright, but everything was either black or blue in the dark of night and it was somewhat difficult to distinguish certain shapes. He thought it might be a turtle or a small mammal of some kind, but was nearly frightened to death when he saw what appeared to be a pair of very wide eyes looking up at him from behind another rock nearby.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, shouting and attempting to keep his balance on the rock. “Who’s out there?!”

The figure did not move away, and he saw a hand appear on the side of the rock. A head came into view, and the moment David saw the face of the youth he knew it had to be one of them, the creatures the fisherman had mentioned. He had heard stories all through his childhood, but had never really given the tales any credence. He imagined it was the specific mythology of the island.

But now David knew the old man was right, and he also knew that the youth had the most beautiful face – real or imagined – that he had ever seen.

David began humming, he remembered that the creatures were drawn to song, and started drawing the face as quickly as he could. The eyes blinked slowly as the youth came closer, seeming to hover soundlessly in the water. It was too dark to see much of anything save the face and the long dark hair which framed it. But that was enough, the sight stealing the breath from David’s lungs, the utterly strange perfection staring up at him from the water. He continued to sing in a la-la-la fashion, recalling an obscure lullaby his mother used to comfort him with, as the youth came closer, finally resting his hands on the side of the rock which David perched upon. David smiled, and the youth smiled in response.

“Can you talk to me?” he whispered.

The youth made a sound, a kind of high-pitched chittering, which made David’s ears ring just slightly.

“My name is David,” he replied, pointing to himself. “David.”

The youth put a finger on his own chest and made a type of roaring sound, it sounded like the waves in a storm, but also like a sea lion.

David leaned down, careful not to make a sudden move, tilting his head. The youth did the same, his beautiful mouth pursing with what seemed to be curiosity. David was reminded of a boy he had known in school, two years ahead of him. who was equally skilled at drawing and admired by all for the talent. His parents had sent him away to learn to be an architect, and David had always regretted never seeking his tutorage, as he now discerned a similarity in features.

“I cannot pronounce that,” David whispered again, “so I’ll call you Roger.” He pointed his finger, holding it out towards the youth. “Roger.”

The youth held out his own finger, the faintest brush against David’s, and made a sound which approximated the song David had been humming, then in a flash of silvery water he was gone.

David finished his sketch and by the time he was done and on his way back to the house of the Artist knew he had fallen in love. He only hoped the creature would be as enthralled with what he had seen as he was with that achingly beautiful face and graceful long fingers which waved delicate as kelp when viewed underwater.

David was old enough to drink in the tavern now – something one did to declare one’s independence – and the Artist instructed him that he should do so at least once a week to observe people’s faces, all the nuances of expression, and sketch them as best he could. But the first night he embarked upon the experiment he was served by someone with a face which put all other potential subjects to shame. It belonged to a boy – probably his own age or near it – who possessed that same near-otherworldly tilt to his features as his own. His hair was bright blond, like gold, and his eyes were almost the same shade as David’s, but somewhat lighter, like blue cloth faded by the sun.

The boy put a tankard of ale in front of him at the bar, then held up a hand when David made to hand him a coin.

“It’s on me,” he said.

“Are you sure?” David asked. “Wouldn’t want Old Nick to beat you for giving the grog away.”

“I’ve had worse things done to me,” the boy said.

“What could be worse that a beating?”

“I’ve a brand.”

David gasped, both the drink and his assignment forgotten. “You were a slave?”

“I was kidnapped, served in the galley of the Interceptor for eight years.”

“Isn’t the Interceptor lying at the bottom of the sea on Parsons’ Point?”

“Yes, and if we hadn’t been making for shore I would have likely gone down with her, much like most of the crew. The deacon’s wife said it was the hand of God what washed me ashore, but I say it was a fifteen-foot wave.”

David laughed, but then caught himself, until he saw the smirk on the boy’s face.

“I’m David.”

“Yes, I know. I’m Terry.”

“How long have you been here? In Port Barrett?”

“A year, I reckon?”

“But you’ve not been in school.”

He shrugged, supple shoulders moving beneath the rough cloth of his shirt. He wiped the counter and David stared at his hands. The fingers were long and thin and he felt a prod of memory: the beautiful creature which he was unsure to accept even as he pined, only a day and a night after his initial glimpse.

“What’s there for me to learn? “

“Can you read and write then?”

“A little. I can write my own name, read a few Bible verses. There’s not been much use for such things, the life I’ve lead.”

“Yes but, you’ve a different life now, I imagine.”

Terry grimaced, and it didn’t suit his face at all. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but it doesn’t seem much different, save that I’m on land.”

“You could learn a trade, but you’d need at least a little schooling.”

Terry made a kind of breathy huff as he collected empty glasses from the surface of the bar just beyond where David stood. “Captain Taylor used to say the only trade I was fit for was being bent over and buggered. Because I was too pretty.”

David wanted to sketch Terry’s face in that moment, even as the pain etched itself into his mouth and his brow and the corners of his eyes. He was beautiful, but he was also old before his time, somehow.

“I’m sorry.”

“I imagine you know what that’s like, being too pretty.”

David shrugged, felt his face flush. “Suffered a beating now and again, but learned to duck my head and not speak too loudly. Eventually people forget.”

“But the beauty’s inside you as well, isn’t it? Your pictures, I mean.”

“How d’ya –“

The tavern owner bellowed the boy’s name and with a wink he was gone, running towards the doorway which lead to the kitchen. David decided to try and sketch Terry’s face any road, and he was surprised he was able to absorb the details so quickly; but only the beauty came forth upon the paper, not the pain.

David was in the kitchen polishing the silver in preparation for a dinner party the Artist was going to host the following evening when he heard a thunderous knock upon the front door of the house. One of the more prosperous men of Port Barrett stood upon the stoop, looking impatient and disappointed.

“Where’s Guthrie, then?” he demanded.

“He’s at the customs house I believe, sir.”

“When he returns, tell him Mr. O’Rourke must speak with him as soon as possible. My wife has decided she wants her bloody portrait painted as a birthday present, and the occasion is less than a fortnight away.”

“I will, sir. Has he your address?”

“Yes of course. Say, you’re the Gilmour boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you’re going to be an painter, eh?”

“Going to try, sir. God willing and with Mr. Guthrie’s instruction.”

“Yes, mind you do what he says. There’s no more skilled than he, I’ll wager. Good day, lad.”

“Good day, sir.”

When the Artist returned and David gave him the message, his master looked thoughtful for a moment.

“I wonder if you shouldn’t accompany me, to do some sketches.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t know that I’m learned enough to assist you with a commission.”

“You’ve a habit of questioning my observations, don’t you? But I’ve seen the portraits you’ve been drawing, in the attic, and I think you know your proportions.” He led his charge into the studio, handing him paper and a piece of charcoal. “Sketch me, right now.”

He looked up into that placid and pleasant face, which he had come to admire over time for those qualities, and also for a certain characteristic of assurance: people seemed to trust that his master would portray them to the best of his abilities. He began to draw the slightly rounded face, wide dark eyes and thinner nose and mouth, but taking the liberty of drawing the hair to its’ perceived length, as his master wore it pulled back at the nape of his neck as did all gentlemen of the town. David had seen the Artist with his hair down, so he made the addition from memory. Once finished, he handed the paper to his master.

“Well done, David, I’d say that’s a fair rendering indeed. But I am disappointed that there’s no passion in the portrayal.”

“Begging your pardon, sir?”

“Those pictures on the wall of the attic, of the beautiful boys, they’re exquisite. It’s as if I can feel your regard for your subjects when I look at them. But in this there’s only the polite remove of realism. It’s rather cold, actually. Perhaps you’re right, you’re not quite ready to be equally passionate about all your subjects.”

David felt his heart drop into his feet, but his master gave him a faint smile.

“You’re too young yet to play the game of diplomacy. And you should be thankful for that, lad.”

“Yes sir,” he murmured, but David felt a sickening regret that his master was displeased somehow, even as it was true that he could not summon the same feelings which had colored the strokes of his new acquaintances.

It was not enough to merely stare out the darkened window at the sea, wishing to know what lay beneath the surface, seemingly stretching forever. David knew how to swim – as did every inhabitant of the island – but he had never been one for sport nor for any interaction with the ocean save his art. David was aware this was a strange quirk given his interest, but in as much as the sea fascinated him it also terrified him with its’ inherent power and overwhelming size.

But a few brightly-lit nights passed and he filled up sheets of paper with that face, dreamt about what it must be like to be such a creature, gliding about in the deep blue. The Artist had a fairly extensive library and one of the books was a tome on mythology. David paged through it till he found a chapter about mythical creatures of the sea. He read a passage about mer-people which seemed to at least somewhat resemble the boy he’d seen: astoundingly beautiful and graceful, with a love of song and a curiosity of humans. But without knowing in full exactly what the male could be was in itself a form of torture, and not merely intellectual.

So one night David set out to learn as much as he could.

Packing a change of clothes, a flannel to dry himself with, and some drawing implements he set out for Silver Cove, leaving the house as quietly as he could. Once he reached the waterfront and turned down the side of the street which led to the shore, he heard someone clear their throat. Looking over to the other side of the street, he saw Terry emerge from the shadows, his hair gleaming in the darkness like doubloons in a treasure chest.

“It’s very late,” he said, walking slowly towards the other.

“And yet not too late for drinking. Who’s minding the tavern?”

“Old Nick always sends me off after midnight, says he doesn’t want to be responsible for what might happened if the lechers get hold to me once they’re fully in their cups.”

“Sounds like you should be abed.”

“And you? Why aren’t you abed then?”

“I’m…working.”

“Drawing in the dark? What does one draw in the dark?”

“The sea. The sea can be drawn at any time.”

“May I accompany you? I won’t be a bother.”

David’s heart had a hitch of curiosity. He thought of having Terry sit for him, what sort of portrait would he paint of this beauty? Would he be Adonis? The Archangel Gabriel? Or perhaps merely a beautiful boy just rising from sleep, golden hair spread across a white pillow as sunlight stroked the plains of his face and caused his eyes to alight as bright as a cloudless day? There was another urge beneath the one to render him…to touch him, after the painting was done. Artists often ravaged their muses once the moment of perfection had been reached, once the heavenly due was collected only the earthly one remained.

But the other, the one who had been swimming through David’s dreams, rose up in his mind and made a sound he would never forget as long as he lived. The sound of his unpronounceable name.

“I…prefer to work alone. No offense to you.”

“None taken,” Terry said, with a sad smile. “Have a care out there, in the dark.”

“How did you know I was a painter?”

“Old Nick has one of your paintings in his office. Pointed you out in the street to me one day, said you and I were a pair of pretty rotters, good for nothing but mooning about and being decorative but altogether useless.”

“How did that tosspot come by one of my paintings?”

“Said yer dad gave it to him in exchange for his tab, and that it was a lucky thing he actually liked the painting or Mr. Gilmour would have been in hock for sure.”

David sighed. He knew his father enjoyed a tipple now and again, but had no idea he was exchanging the paintings his son had given the family as gifts for payment against a seat at the bar. He was incensed, but did not lose sight of his goal.

“Good night to you, Terry,” he said, making to turn down the path.

“Good night, David.”

Once the paving stones ran out and the sand began, he looked back and he could see a slight bright-haired figure watching him from the top of the street, but there was no acknowledgement of the glance, and David wondered if Terry was even staring at him at all. Perhaps he was looking out to sea, wondering what other ports he could have washed into, if not this one.

Every night in the cove the youth waited for another glimpse of the human. The human which seemed too beautiful to be human, as every other human he had ever seen was interesting, but certainly not as fair as his own race.

But this one - whose name was apparently some strange sound like the bleat of a land mammal - this one was different. And he could sense the similarity in them, the feeling that they had once known one another in another time. His race told stories of how the water demon had dragged her lover down to the depths and transformed him so that they might be together always, wrapping her tentacles ‘round him as their mouths met and so their fates did as well. And thus it was inevitable that the merkara would be drawn to that half of their nature which resided above their heads and their reckoning.

Perhaps he (for the youth sensed that the human was male, like him) was also a kind of demon, and maybe he could transform the youth, bring him into the light and air and keep him forever upon the land. He had often dreamt of such a thing, wondering what it would be like to go about on two tentacles, even as the human appendages looked so different from his own.

David made his way along the wet sand, having removed his shoes and socks, rolling up his trousers as he normally did. He planned to find a rock above the tidemark to keep his clothing dry, strip down to his breeches and pray the water wasn’t freezing. He knew well enough to stay by the rocks of the cove – the current beyond the shore was notoriously strong, especially this time of year. He walked into the tide, and the water felt blessedly lukewarm, the heat of the day having warmed the surface. There was a slight chill as he ventured further, but David gritted his teeth in a determined fashion and dove in. After the initial shock he was able to swim out among the rocks, careful not to set his feet down too often, as they could be treacherous to bare skin. He came up alongside the same rock he had spied the creature at and treaded water, letting his eyes focus in the darkness. The tide ebbed and flowed, its’ motion like being back in the cradle, a calming prospect. Just as David wondered whether he should swim out further he felt a brush against one of his legs and looked behind him, startled. It was too dark to see anything in the water, but he could feel the movement around him. He willed himself to be still, not wanting to frighten the creature away. A long moment passed and then he surfaced, breaking the water cleanly and quietly. David was startled again but only at the stealth which the creature exhibited. Their eyes met for another long moment and the being he named Roger made a sound, something like a question, a kind of croon. He held out a long-fingered hand towards the other’s face. David smiled, moved incrementally closer to allow Roger to touch his face. He had expected the skin to feel clammy and rough, much like a fisherman’s hands, but the pads of his fingers were smooth under the mantle of seawater. Roger ran his fingers along David’s cheek and across his forehead. Then those fingers touched David’s hair ever-so-gently, full of curiosity. David made to touch Roger’s hair in return and the youth started, eyes wide.

“S’all right,” David whispered, touching his own hair then extending his hand towards Roger. “Hair,” he said, “want to touch your hair.”

Roger raised his eyebrows (how intriguing it was that the humans looked so much like the merkara) and glided closer again, bowing his head slightly. David brought up a hand and gently stroked the dark mass, it felt coarser than human hair yet thick and heavy as he ran his fingers through it and they drew ever-nearer, David could feel the brush of something he thought was a tail, but it felt a great deal more smooth and supple. Then he could simultaneously feel it on either side and cast his eyes downward, though naturally the water was just as he would portray it – black glass – showing nothing but his own reflection. David reached a hand down and Roger darted away again, seeming to hover in the spot.

“Limbs,” David said, though he didn’t know why, as his creature would not understand. He moved onto his back so he could put a foot out of the water. “See?”

Roger moved closer again, and slowly brought the tip of one of his tentacles upward. David’s mouth was agape when he saw it, curling at the feel of the air upon it. The appendage was a sort of pearl-gray color, reaching out to David’s foot and he felt that smooth surface again, almost like something inanimate. But when it fully made contact it affected him in a completely surprising fashion, a thoroughly pleasurable sensation. To his embarrassment an erection strained against his breeches even as the water was chilly enough to preclude such an event. He gasped, his head lolling against the surface of the ocean. The tentacle wrapped around his ankle and pulled him to the other. Roger put his arms around David and began singing his approximation of the song which David had sang before, but this time it had a kind of wild quality to it, like the cries of gulls or whalesong. A trill known only to their own kind, by all rights David might be the first human to hear it, staring into wide eyes and entranced by the lips as they moved to serenade.

Before David knew what he had done he leaned forward and kissed his creature. Roger responded in kind, their lips pressing hard, their tongues tangling much as the tentacles which now embraced David, stroking his skin and squeezing with a faint pressure. One of them brushed against his crotch and its’ perceived silken touch caused him to spend immediately, a groan in his throat traveling up to their fused mouths as his eyes rolled back in his head for a moment, flashes of light pinwheeling on the edge of his sight like the fireworks from China he had witnessed one year, during the anniversary of the town’s founding. David had only ever brought himself off with a trusty hand and this was above and beyond such fumblings – as he had never allowed another to touch him, male or female, their direct stares somewhere between pique and pining – the most intense emotion he had experienced in all his life.

The girls found him haughty (though he was merely shy and tongue-tied) and the boys found him confusing (he received as many beatings as awkwardly-worded invitations) so David had spent most of his time in a world of his own making, and this sweet embrace had been long-awaited and even more anticipated in his thoughts. He had convinced himself he was in love with the creature and the actual touch only served to solidify the definition of the emotion to his own heart and mind. They broke the kiss just long enough for Roger to sink into the water for a moment, then resurface.

“You’ve gills, don’t you?” David asked, though more to himself. He looked at Roger, but couldn’t discern where they might be. “You can’t be out of the water for too long.”

Roger made another trill and pulled David close again. David wrapped himself around the other without hesitation and they began kissing again. Roger held him up easily in his tentacles, stroking in various places (his cock, the base of his spine, his feet, his stomach) and the moon crossed the sky as they married their desires. David marveled at the flesh of the other as Roger allowed him to touch every part, letting him know by expression and sound which was pleasurable and which was painful. David stripped off his breeches, tossing them onto a nearby rock, wondering if Roger possessed a similar appendage. He held his prick in his waterlogged hand and pointed to the other. Roger titled his head and led David’s hand below the waist, the tentacles spreading out from the spot where a human would have legs. Up under a arch of what might be termed flesh there was a proboscis of a kind, thin and delicate. David brushed against it with a finger and Roger let out a shriek, echoing off the rocks and across the water. It nearly made David deaf and as he raised his hands to his ears he could smell the result, a thick briny odor even as his fingers were slick with the substance, heavy like oil. Roger’s eyes were wide, his face bore confusion, just as David gave him a look of embarrassed supplication.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry!” He reached up with the other hand to stroke Roger’s hair.

Roger was blinking rapidly, his eyes darting back and forth.

Mother said, “You are eager to spawn, the urge is upon you, and you must, soon, so you may claim your place in the pod. You are not a child any longer, beloved.”

He sensed that they were the same, they could not spawn together. But even as he was confused at his own desire for one just like himself, the urge drove him to wrap around this beautiful one, capture him in a kiss, pull him under to see if the sea change worked for everyone.

And he did just that. Roger gave David his breath as they floated gently downwards toward the bottom of the cove. David could feel the pull of the current but Roger’s specific gravity kept them in place. David’s ears popped painfully at the change in pressure and his legs wiggled involuntarily. Roger broke the kiss, and although David could not see his expression, it was one of confusion. Without air, David began to struggle and Roger brought them back to the surface. David coughed and sputtered once they were up and Roger looked at him with seeming concern, making anxious sounds.

I don’t have the magic. But can he transform me?

When David had recovered, he looked up and noticed the sky was growing lighter.

“It’s nearly morning,” he said. “I need to get back.” He looked at his fish-like flesh and chuckled. “I’m so full of salt water I bet I’d float for days.” David kissed Roger one last time and pointed towards shore.

“I need to return, Roger. Let me go.”

David gently pushed at the tentacles and to his surprise Roger loosed him. He had wondered how insistent his love would be that they stay together. He swam towards the rock where his breeches were, grimacing at the clammy and gritty feel of the fabric as he pulled them on. He began to swim for shore and when he looked behind him as a wave pushed him forward he saw that Roger was right on his heels. He turned around, holding up his hands.

“No, Roger! You can’t follow me! You’ll die!” He pantomimed not being able to breathe, praying that the creature would understand him. Roger stopped and ducked his body below the water again. When he surfaced he looked disappointed, making a clicking sound.

“I’ll come back tonight, all right? We’ll be together, but you cannot come out of the water. You can’t survive out here.”

David hoped that his expression and tone were caution enough, he kept pointing back to the water. He pointed to Roger, then the water. Pointed to himself, then the land.

Roger seemed to understand, with a keening sigh of resigned dismay. He brushed his lips against David’s one last time and dove under an oncoming wave. David paddled to shore and crawled onto the sand, looking behind him out at the water as it shimmered in the coming dawn.

It was a breathtaking sight, as the light on the horizon slowly melted away the darkness, much as he felt his heart was melting, too long encapsulated in the ice of solitude.

Though David no longer resided in his parents’ house, he was still expected to attend church in their company every Sunday, and so the mornings in question saw him seated next to his mother in a pew as they all listened to the grandeur of the pipe organ as played by Mr. Wright, so loud it could be heard nearly everywhere on the island. They sang the hymns, listened to the sermons, and humbled themselves before their Maker for a period of time, then went on to live their actual lives the rest of the week, whatever that might be. David had been used to lulling himself into a kind of stupor for the duration though now he could only think of Roger, his creature, and fidget till the duty was through. But as he viewed the assemblage he noted Terry a few pews back, with Mrs. Mason (Old Nick naturally sleeping off the excesses of the previous night). The smile Terry gave him in return surely wasn’t suitable in a house of God, but it was a testimony to the glory of His creations.

And yet another pulled at David’s heart, like the tide, beckoning everything back from whence it came.

David paced his attic room, wondering how he could reconcile the wonder of his recent discovery with the rest of his existence. If he were to begin to portray the creature – as he had done in a few nascent attempts that afternoon – would he be dismissed for being fanciful? How could anyone not see the beauty in him, even in secondhand portraiture? But he had no one to discuss such things with, as he paced and picked up a pencil, then set it down again. Then it came to him, the one person who might understand, even as David was reluctant to disclose the whole story.

After dinner David proceeded to the tavern, giving Terry a brief smile when he came in the door. He looked around and found the fisherman seated in a corner alone, nursing a hot toddy.

“Can I get you another?” he asked upon his approach, rattling the coins in his palm.

“Most assuredly, lad,” the other rasped as he looked up. David took his glass and ventured to the bar, securing an ale for himself. Terry attempted conversation but David gently rebuffed him, stating he had an appointment. When he returned to the table the fisherman fixed him with a direct gaze, one of his eyes disturbingly wider than the other.

“And why would ye want to be drinkin’ with an old man, eh?”

“Sir, I must know: have you ever seen one of the creatures?”

The fisherman sat back in his chair, let out a raucous cackle. David was startled, but no one else seemed to take notice. He took a drink of ale to fortify himself, feeling positively manic in his need for verification.

“Aye. I wouldn’t have told ye to keep an eye out had I not known meself. I’m not one for fancies, boy. And neither are you, I imagine.”

“No sir. Would you relate your experience, please?”

“’Twas years ago, I wasn’t much older than yerself. I had a berth on the Windlass, she was one o’the bigger fishing vessels. ‘Course she’s long been consigned ta Davy Jones’ locker, but I crewed her in the prime. Our catches was legendary.”

“So I’ve heard tell.”

“During a terrible storm – the waves positively gargantuan – I had the misfortune ta be washed overboard as we was making fer the harbor. But it were still a far piece, a few miles, and I had no hope of being washed up. All was turmoil as the waves tumbled me ‘round, I feared I was done for. I believe I was sinkin,’ too tired ta swim, when suddenly something was pullin’ me upward. I looked up and couldn’t believe me eyes – it was one o’them. The Captain, you see, told the tale himself but no one would believe him. And yet, there she was, a rare beauty with the face and torso of a woman, and instead of legs she was like a squid below decks."

“Tentacles,” David said, leaning forward so as to keep his voice low.

“Aye. And they was pushing us up fast as a skip in a fair wind.”

“Do you recall how many she had?”

The fisherman wrinkled his brow, sipped at his drink. “Don’t seem like they was too many. Four, mayhap? Not more than six.”

David nodded, and gestured for the old man to continue.

“We come up ta the surface, just as one a’them waves was breakin.’ I was afeared we’d be pulled down again, but she wrapped those things ‘round me and took me right through it. We actually rode the bloody wave, boy, right up the top then down the other side. I nearly expired from fright but it was the most excitin’ thing I’d ever done. And ever will, I reckon.”

He downed the rest of his drink, then gave a loud sigh and smacked his lips.

“That new kid, he makes a fine toddy, wot?”

David looked over at Terry, who was wiping down the counter and fending off the drunken pawing of some of the more bolder patrons. He attempted to look nonchalant, but it came out as more a grimace. Still, such a moue did nothing to spoil the beauty of that fine-boned, well-proportioned, fair-featured visage. And David imagined that was the trouble entire: Terry could no more cease being beautiful as anyone else could stop breathing. It was an indelible fact of nature.

“I imagine that’s good for Old Nick, to find such a talented apprentice. Pray sir, conclude your tale, if you please?”

The fisherman folded his hands in his lap, looked over at the grimy window beside him.

“We come up on the ship - which by an act o’Providence I reckon - had not been capsized. They was throwing out the buoys, callin’ for me and another lad who had gone over. We never did find that one, bloody shame. She made some kind o’sound, I can’t even describe it –“

“Did it sound like an animal of some kind? A whale, perhaps?”

“I s’pose so. It was strange and high and it made me head hurt ta hear it. She pointed one a’them tentacles like she was tellin’ me ta swim for it. So I did, even as it took me a near eternity. But me mates spotted me, brought me aboard, thank Christ.”

“When she touched you, with the tentacles –“

“I’ve had meself some fine whores, I’ll wager, but there was none s’good as that. It felt like all the softest things – fur, feathers, silk – and I wanted her ta hold me till the end, but she had gone back under, faster than I could follow. I’d no choice but ta go back, though I pined fer a long while, after. There isn’t a cold night goes by that I don’t imagine what it must be like, ta be held by those things.”

David nodded, drank the dregs of his own glass. “I appreciate your candor, sir.”

“And now boy, what tale do ye have ta tell?”

The other blushed, looking down at the scarred wood of the table. “I fear I cannot. But if you should ever need my specific skills -”

The fisherman laughed again, the cackle set David’s teeth on edge. “Oi! As if I was a gentleman, goin’ ta have his portrait painted? Wot fancy, lad!”

“Well, p’haps nothing so grand, but –“

“No need, boy, yer silence is speech enough. Tell ya wot, if yer cook is ever lookin’ fer the best fish, just tell ‘er to find Georgie, alright? I can still reel in the good ones, I can.”

David shook his hand, solemnly, then went over to the bar. Terry approached him with a look of concern.

“Y’look glum.” He reached for David’s glass and murmured hmm, tilting it towards his own chest, but David shook his head.

“No, thank you. I s’pose I am melancholy.”

“Want to talk ‘bout it?”

David smirked. “Did Old Nick instruct you to garner that ability?”

Terry frowned. “No, actually, he prefers I have as little to do with the customers as possible – even as he puts me on display to encourage repeat business – so my inquiry was as a friend, though p’haps I assume too much.”

“I meant no offense.”

“Again, you mean no offense, but your words skirt it ever so closely.”

“I apologize.”

Terry proffered his own smirk. “So did you care to unburden yourself?”

David shrugged. “Just the weight of when so many things crowd the mind.”

“What were you prying out of Georgie, if I may ask?”

“Myths of the sea.”

“Myths?”

“Stories. Of sea creatures and such.”

“Y’mean like mermaids?”

“Yes, things like that. You spent a long time at sea, ever seen anything like that?”

“No, though I spent most of my time below decks, also listening to lies.”

“Lies?”

“Well what are stories, after all, if not well-crafted lies? And I’ve heard enough of those to last me a lifetime.”

“S’pose I never thought of it as falsehood, just fancy.”

“As does everyone who seeks to obscure and misdirect, no doubt.”

“What sorts of lies have you heard?”

Terry positioned himself right in front of David, propping his elbows on the bar, resting his chin in his hands. Their eyes were perfectly level, and David was stunned to see Terry’s eyes up close, their color so fascinating. He spoke in a low tone, which had a seductive purring quality to the cadence.

“Every voyage it seemed I had a new suitor. There was always someone who could not resist my beauty. And I was not adverse to the attention though most of it was from ugly chaps, who were filthy and loutish. The matrons would never allow the girls to come near me, even as they smiled at me and likely pitied my fate. But I knew the only way off the Interceptor was through a man.”

David’s mind reeled as he considered what Terry was inferring. He now understood what it meant to touch another which was not other, was only self.

“And so one crossing there came a man, nearly as beautiful as you. He coveted me immediately, and I was as coy as decorum would allow, though he shanghai’ed me into his quarters one night, making a great show of demanding a late meal. He had money, lots of it, and thus spoke the only language the Captain cared to understand. He was skilled in seduction, and his words were as pretty as he was. Because I’d no real knowledge of what it meant I fell for it all, the words and the deeds.”

“He forced you, y’mean?”

Terry fluttered his eyes and his tone turned mocking, but with a decided sexual tease.

“Oh there was no force, lad. His hands and his mouth did their job well and I sank to my knees, grateful for the attention and dazzled by him. He was beautiful, y’see. Everywhere.”

At the last Terry had leaned forward till their faces were mere centimetres apart, whispering the final word. David was mesmerized, his breath came back as his lungs protested, much as they had done under the water.

“He had no end of honeyed words, as we met every night, much as the prow of a ship meets the water.” Terry smacked a fist into the palm of his hand as illustration and found it amusing when David’s eyes went wide.

“He said he was going to buy me from Captain Taylor. That he would take me away from the drudgery and out into the wide wondrous world. And I believed him, letting him take me as he might, whenever he might, in any way that he might. And some of those ways were very strange, believe you me. But I loved him, y’see, and in that I was overjoyed to let him do as he would. But when we reached port, he was down the gangplank and I never saw him again. He did leave me some money for my trouble, which I had to hide lest Captain Taylor take it from me, but the joke of course was that the sea took it – it went down with the Interceptor and that bastard Taylor whom I hope is rotting in Davy Jones’ locker even now.”

“He took advantage of you, and that is terrible, but –“

“David, the world takes advantage of everyone, it wears a different guise each time but the lesson is the same. I was a fool, I’ve naught to blame but meself. But now I know a lie when I hear it, unlike you. But I’m older, after all.”

“We’re the same age, I heard Mrs. Mason tell my mum at church.”

“As my lover once said, ‘Experience ages one so much more than the mere passing of time.’ We may be the same age, David, but I am a child no longer.”

David sighed, confused by the sudden bitterness Terry displayed. It wasn’t his fault and yet Terry seemed to want to punish him for something, something unspoken but heavily implied.

“I’m sorry Terry, I didn’t mean to infer that you had a dearth of experience. Clearly you are my superior in that.”

Terry straightened up, sighing, his expression becoming cold and distant. “Don’t want to keep you, I imagine you’ve some water to paint or something. G’night.”

The stunned silence which followed felt like guilt of a kind, even as David departed with a destination already selected.

The youth had not wanted to leave the cave, even as the rest of the pod went about its’ daily rituals of gathering food and engaging in play, watching the world around them for danger and delight. Their race had always cleaved to one another, every member integral to the whole, and in this he was an anomaly: the youth preferred solitude, keeping himself apart from the pod as often as he might. His mother worried that he might be branded for a rogue, banished to survive on his own.

She had asked, in the musical trill which marked concerned inquiries, what was troubling him, why did he shun them in such a way, not even venturing out to eat. He said his heart was heavy with an impossible knowledge, that he might rather die in pursuit of it than live as one of the pod. His mother’s hands flew to her face and her eyes, so much like his own, grew wide with dismay.

This talk of death, she said, it disturbs the communal peace we have sought over our history. We keep to our kind, knowing we are neither of one kin nor the other. We are unique and we are merkara. We treasure our own, every one.

But my kind holds no fascination for me, the youth had retorted, and his mother was pained at his look of anguish.

You have found a human, she said. Her voice had gone cold as the depths.

The youth nodded, sensing her shame but not feeling it himself.

“No one truly knows how we came to be – not even the wisest of us – and there is no hope in longing for any but our own kind, no matter how the other may resemble us.”

“The wisest? The Sydrian?”

“He can tell you naught but scraps of tales. You are a rogue, as I feared.”

She turned away, after leaving him some food. The youth ate alone and decided to seek specific counsel.

The one they called Sydrian also lived apart, in a gorge where most predators did not go, as sealife was not prevalent in the area. Merkara would bring him food as offering, acknowledgment of his age and wisdom. But none of them knew just how old he was, and he himself claimed not to know, only that his memory seemed to stretch back before any of them had come to be born.

The youth swam a far distance to find him, but knew by the scent as soon as he’d reached the place that Sydrian dwelled within the foreboding rocks. He was larger than the youth – in fact, larger than any of the merkara – some of his tentacles scarred from the history of life at the bottom of the sea.

They discoursed in their language of whistles and clicks, of trills and growls.

“You seek me boy, and I find it amusing, as you are nearly as lonely as I. Is it not time for you to spawn?”

“Yes. But I don’t want to.”

“The madness is upon you, I can smell it. So what precludes your ascension?”

The elders would say that the face of Sydrian was the exact image of the human, the one whom the water demon Merkara had lured into the depths, making him the progenitor through the sea change. The sea change was said to be magic, but none of the merkara had the knowledge of it; and their race had remained small, but as they could mate with one another they did not die out.

“I desire a human.”

Sydrian’s eyes reminded the youth of the darkness of the gorge, which lay beyond the entrance, pierced by a shaft of refracted sunlight. Beyond his bulk there was only darkness, and his eyes mirrored it wholly.

“You condemn yourself, but I recognize the dilemma.”

“Do you have the magic?”

“The magic is only a tale, boy. The way to enchant died with Merkara, and all that remains of her is the name we took for ourselves. I tried, but I would counsel you not to take my path, or see your beloved expire for your madness.”

“You tried?”

“I did. And she – what is left of her – lies with me always, a testament to my folly.”

“Her body?”

“Her bones.”

The youth turned away, much as his mother had done, ready to do something rash as his heart would not resign itself to the pronouncement of fate: that there was nothing to be done for his love save rejection, regret, and later, aching recollection.

David ran along the sand to Silver Cove, his heart pounding not from the exertion but the anticipation of seeing the one he believed he loved once more. Even in his delirium he couldn’t suppress the thoughts of how it could be possible, and how it could be accomplished, to love a creature seemingly unreal and yet…he had been held by him and kissed by him and there was no other feeling so indubitably right, cradled by something out of a fevered fantasy whose touch delivered constant bliss.

David wondered if the tales of the mermaids, of the sirens who lured sailors to their doom, were created as a result of encounters with these creatures. He could understand why their lore was so memorable, as they were all likely as beautiful and enchanting as the one he called Roger. When he reached a familiar spot he pulled off all his clothes – modesty be damned – and quickened his pace to the water, swimming into the waves with an eager stroke. He paddled around the Cove, calling for his love, who then seemed to appear and disappear with a playful agenda. David understood that it was a game and pretended not to see Roger, which caused his creature to come near, brushing a limb or splashing him with water from behind a rock. He laughed and continued the pretense of ignorance.

“Roger? Roger my love, where are you? I’m waiting for you, darling!”

He had never used the endearments, but knew what they meant, from books and his parents’ example. It thrilled David to say them out loud, even as he knew his creature had no understanding. They swam around in lazy circles within the ring of rocks, until the youth tired of the sport and came up on his human, surfacing right in front of him like an orca breaking the water. David pretended to be startled, but then threw his arms around the other.

“I’ve got you, pretty thing! Now you must be mine always.”

Roger made a throaty trilling sound, his expression a smile which he hoped mirrored the human’s. David kissed him then, but instead of the near-brutal passion of the previous night, his touch was far more gentle, and the creature responded in kind. They kissed so long Roger brought them down in the water several times, but did not pull away. David hung onto him, dizzy and giddy with desire, with the pleasure the feel of the tentacles bestowed upon him. He found himself so aroused he began rubbing against Roger, the movement subtle but growing more fervent as his blood warmed in the motion and his nerves urged him on to resolution. Roger seemed to understand what he wanted and stroked at his erect member with the tip of a tentacle, David losing his sense and his grip, floating onto his back crying out as the delight went on seemingly without end. He felt as though he were on fire, even as the water grew cold he was boiling. Eventually he reached a point of pain, his body drained of every response and he stilled the motion of his creature with a hand. The touch yielded furrysilkysmoothcreamysoftsoftsoft and he was loathe to let go, but Roger withdrew his embrace altogether. David floated delirious for a time unknown, as Roger stared at him, his beautiful brow furrowed in some thought he would never know. David finally came back to himself and righted in the water, swimming towards the creature. Roger’s face seemed sad, and David ran a hand along his arm.

“I’ll be with you, any way I can. You needn’t be sad.”

What are you saying to me? And why does it sound so beautiful?

“You can’t let yourself be seen by anyone, y’know. They’d hunt you. I couldn’t let them hurt you. They’d want you as a trophy, a curiosity. But you are my love, aren’t you? My dearest love.”

Could I do it? Could I give both of us to the sea, as there is no other way for this to end, save a return to misery for each?

“Your kind is here, aren’t they? Been here for years and years. P’haps even for centuries. We can be together. Mayhap I’ll be a fisherman instead, find a place nearby so we can be closer. Though my parents wouldn’t like that, of course, and Mr. Guthrie would be disappointed, but I’d make it up to him. Keep him in fish. But I won’t abandon you.”

Don’t want to spawn. Don’t want to live, if I can’t be in your arms always.

“I’ll keep you safe. You needn’t be out there in the depths, where anything might happen. You could get eaten by a whale, couldn’t you? Though I bet you’re too clever for that.”

It’s folly, he said so. But my heart is black and cold, there is no room for anything other than this folly.

“Listen to me, I’m a right nutter, aren’t I? But you’re real, you’re not a fancy and you’re not a lie. You’re real, and you have my whole heart.”

I couldn’t live, as he does, cradling the bones of his true love, apart from others and only the memory of communion to cry over.

Roger made his decision, and asked forgiveness of all, though especially to this beautiful one he wanted more than life itself, as he would go to his death not knowing why.

He pulled David to him, tightened his tentacles and brought them both below. David sought his mouth and they kissed, but once on the bottom Roger pulled his head away and loosed one of his tentacles, winding it around his own neck. They weren’t so deep in the water that the moonlight couldn’t penetrate and among the phosphorescence of the local sea life David could see what he was doing. Horrified he made to pull the appendage away, and Roger tightened his grip. However, David’s arms were free and he thrashed and scratched at Roger even as he sought to keep him from harming himself. Finally David’s head began to throb from lack of oxygen and he resigned himself to the outcome, his fingers loosening their grip, his eyes closing. Seeing the actual end taking place before him, Roger became sick with self-loathing. With a loud cry of rage (sound carries so much better underwater), Roger let go of David and pushed at him till the other realized he was free. Silver orbs of bubbles trailed in his wake and Roger watched them, enchanted as always with the humans, even as he was finally resigned to move forward towards communion with his own kind.

The human would not allow him to die, and that was proof of eternal regard which could be acquired without sacrifice.

His heart was heavy as an anchor, a specific stone lying at the bottom of Silver Cove. David could not forget the look of betrayed anguish upon his creature’s face, even as he did not rise to follow him when David frantically swam to the surface, gasping and coughing once he came up for air. The water was clear below him, he could see his proud lover looking upwards, his beautiful face, his lithe body and the four tentacles spread out under him, keeping him in place even against the current. He stared for a few minutes, then swam away, quick as a spooked school of fish.

But even as the beauty seduced him and the temptation hooked his emotions David could not accept the lingering thought that he should have stayed, even if it meant an end for both of them. He loved the sea, loved its’ ever-changing features and the majesty of its’ depths but he could not reconcile those feelings with succumbing fully to its’ dark magic.

During his afternoon lesson he made to ask the Artist a question he had never posed previous.

“Forgive my asking, sir, but how came you to paint the sea?”

His master paused in his task, with a sad smile. Then he put his brush into a glass of turpentine and took up a cloth, wiping his hands.

“As you may know, I was not born on the island.”

“Yes sir.”

“Where I born and raised there were no large bodies of water nearby, just a small stream fed by some underground source, which also provided the water for our well. And so when I was sent away to school, to another country, that was my first encounter with the sea. I was stunned to see so much water, with seemingly no end to it. And yet, of course, if one sails the ocean one will eventually reach land. But once upon it, with nothing but the blue in every direction, the horizon a mere line between the water and sky, it awed me. I was marked thus, for the rest of my days, to love the sea. And it was my first love, I believe. One might love many times in one’s life, but the shadow of the first is always upon those which come in its’ stead.”

David was enthralled with his master’s speech, the cadence and the visions which it provoked. He spoke without thinking.

“And did you love again, sir?”

The Artist looked away, walked over to the window where one could view the ocean, sparkling in the light of midday as if someone had scattered diamonds upon its’ surface, dazzling one’s sight.

“Yes. For an all-too-brief, and ultimately painful, period of time. But that is a tale for my memory alone.”

“Of course, sir. Begging your pardon.”

“No harm in the inquiry, lad. I do have a tale regarding how I came to be here which you may find interesting and enlightening, but it will have to wait for another time.”

“Yes sir.”

“You may go now, David. Spend the rest of the afternoon as you will. But remember that Cook has no compunction feeding your supper to the cats if you’re late to the table.”

David smiled. “Yes sir.”

As he stood up, the Artist came over and put a hand on his shoulder, smiling that same sad smile. It seemed to be the only one he possessed.

“I am glad you came to seek my instruction, Mr. Gilmour. I feared I should pass into the veil without ever sharing my knowledge, and that is a sad thing to contemplate.”

“Thank you, sir, for the gift of it,” David replied, smiling in return, and he hoped his expression was more cheerful.

His master nodded and turned away, his blessing bestowed and his mind perhaps more at ease. David hoped that it was, even as he decided to try and do the same for himself.

David ducked his head inside the gloom of the tavern, but did not spy Terry behind the bar, only Old Nick’s wife Nettie, writing up the accounts. He went into the alley behind the building and found his quarry seated just inside the doorway of the back entrance, peeling potatoes.

“H’llo Terry.”

Terry looked up, squinting, then made a sort of frown. “H’llo David. Did you lose your way?”

“No, I’ve come to ask you something.”

“Have you? Well you’ve a captive audience, I s’pose.”

David knew the dismissive sarcasm was a front, and wondered how best to dispel it.

“D’ya need some help?” he asked, squatting down on his haunches so he could look into those lovely blue eyes.

Terry snorted. “I’ll wager you’ve never peeled a potato in your life.”

David smiled, shrugging in a semblance of shame. “No, I haven’t. Chopped a lot of wood, though.”

“I sometimes think this is what Hell will be like. An eternity of peeling potatoes.”

David laughed, shocked at Terry’s easy blasphemy. “D’ya think that’s where you’re going?”

“For the thoughts I have, sometimes, I’ve no doubt. But I’ve long resigned myself to the sinner’s path. And you?”

“Well one never truly knows, do they? It’s for us to live as best we can, but only God may decide our fate.”

“You’re a fine parrot, Gilmour.”

David gasped. “Why would you slander me so, then?”

“I mean to make you understand that I do not fancy idle flirtation. If you’re thinking of being a virtuous man then you can find somewhere else to tarry.”

“But –“

“I know how you look at me. And I look at you in the same way. I am accustomed to a certain covetous attitude. But I believe you do not know what you desire, and that pains me. I’ve had enough of pain, I think.”

They were at an impasse, and David said the only thing he could to convince Terry he was not merely curious.

“Would you pose for me?”

Terry looked up, his expression transforming from bitterness to wonder.

“Pose? For a painting, y’mean?”

“Yes. I’ve wanted to paint you ever since I first saw you.”

“As what?”

“Yourself. But also as any number of things. An angel. A god.”

The eyes widened, and they seemed to change color, from faded indigo to bright azure.

“And what would you do with such a thing?”

“I’d paint it for you.”

Terry blew out an embarrassed sigh, his face flushing. “What would I do with a painting of meself, eh? Use it as a mirror?”

“You could do with it whatever you like, it’s not for me to tell you. I only desire to portray you as best I can, for you are a most beautiful, and worthy, subject.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can. But of course you’re occupied at the moment.”

Terry smiled, sly and shy. “Want to help me?”

“If you’ll show me how.”

David took Terry’s place upon the chair and the other bent over it, guiding his hands in the task. The feel of Terry’s warm breath upon his ear made David think of his creature, but he knew even as long as he would paint the sea (perhaps with this beautiful one floating upon the water, kelp tangled in his hair, his skin a pale contrast with the deep blue of the ocean), he could not sacrifice any other desire to it, not even a love which he might never feel again, but he could perhaps cultivate something similar among his own kind.
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but no man moved me