The four children who remained met in the wreckage of Liri. Round about were the heaped chaos of the hall, the farther-off bits and pieces of lesser homes, gardens already withering, fishflocks already scattered, broken scrimshaw, crabs and lobsters swarming through foodstocks like ravens over a corpse on shore. The meeting spot was where the main door had been. The albatross lay wingless; kindly Lord Aegir had fallen on his face; Lady Ran who takes men in her nets stood above, grinning. The water was chill and waves raised by a storm overhead could be heard mourning for Liri.
The merman’s children were unclad, as was usual undersea save at festival times. However, they had gotten knives, harpoons, tridents, and axes of stone and bone, to ward off those menaces which circled closer and closer beyond the rim of their sight. None of them looked wholly like merfolk. But the elder three shared the high cheekbones, slanted eyes, and male beardlessness of their father; and while they had learned the Danish tongue and some of the Danish ways, now it was as merfolk that they talked.
Eldest among them, Tauno took the word. “We must decide where to go. Hard it was to keep death at bay when everyone stayed here. We cannot do it long alone.”
He was likewise the biggest, tall, wide in the shoulders, mightily muscled from a lifetime’s swimming. His hair, caught by a beaded headband, fell to his collarbones, yellow with the least tinge of green; his eyes were amber, set well apart from the blunt nose, above the heavy mouth and jaw; because he had spent much time on the surface or ashore, his skin was brown.
“Why, shall we not follow our father and tribe?” asked Eyjan.
She had nineteen winters. She too was tall, for a woman, and strong with a strength that lay hidden beneath the full curves of breasts, hips, thighs, until she hugged a lover tight or drove a lance into a wallowing walrus. Hers was the whitest skin, for her hair was bronzy red, floating shoulder-length past a challenging gray gaze and cleanly molded face.
“We know not where they have gone,” Tauno reminded her. “It will have to be far, since these were the last good hunting grounds left to our kind around Denmark. And while such merfolk as dwell in the Baltic or along the Norway coast may help them on their way, there’s no room for as many more as Liri’s people are. The seas are very wide to search, my sister.”
“Oh, surely we can ask,” Kennin said impatiently. “They’ll leave traces. The dolphins are bound to know which way they headed.” A sparkle jumped in his eyes, making them more than ever summer-blue. “Haa, what a chance to gad about!”
He was of sixteen winters, had yet to fare far, and knew only youth’s eagerness to be off beyond the horizon. He had not gotten his full growth and would never be tailor broad. On the other hand, he was well-nigh as agile a swimmer as a full-blooded merman. His hair was greenish brown, his countenance round and freckled, his body painted in the loudest-colored patterns the dwellers had known. The rest bore no ornament; Tauno was in too stark a mood, Eyjan had always scoffed at the trouble it cost, and Yria was shy.
The last one whispered: “How can you joke when. . . when. . . everything is gone?” Her siblings moved closer in around her. To them she was still the babe, left in her crib by a mother whom she was coming more and more to look like. She was small, thin, her breasts just budding; her hair was golden, her eyes huge in the tip-tilted, lipparted face. She had stayed away from revelries as much as a king’s daughter might, had never gone off alone with a boy, had spent hours a day learning the womanly arts at which Eyjan jeered—more hours in the dome that had been Agnete’s, fondling the treasures that had been Agnete’s. Often she lay on the waves, staring at the greenhills and the houses ashore, listening to the chimes which called Christian folk to prayer. Of late she had been going there with one or another of her kin when these would allow, flitting along a twilit strand or behind a wind-gnarled tree or down into the ling like a timid shadow.
Eyjan gave her a quick, rough embrace. “You got too great a share of our mortal side,” declared the older sister.
Tauno scowled. “And that is a terrible truth,” said he. “Yria is not strong. She cannot swim fast, or far without rest and food. What if we’re set on by beasts? What if winter catches us away from the warm shallows, or what if the Liri outcasts move to the! Arctic? I do not see how we can take her on any journey.”
“Can’t we leave her with some foster?” asked Kennin.
Yria shrank into Eyjan’s arms. “Oh, no, no,” she begged. They could scarcely hear her.
Kennin reddened at his own foolishness. Tauno and Eyjan looked at each other across the hunched back of their little sister. Few were the merfolk who would take in a weakling, when the strong had trouble enough fending for themselves. Now and again one might; but he would do so out of desire. They had no true hope of finding a sea-man who would want this child as their father had wanted a certain grown maiden; nor would that be any kindness to the child.
Tauno must gather his will to speak it aloud: “I think, before we leave, we’d best take Yria to our mother’s people.
IV
The old priest Knud was wakened by a knocking. He climbed from his shut-bed and fumbled a robe on in the dark, for the banked hearthfire gave no real glow; and he felt his way to the door. His bones ached, his teeth clapped with chill. He wondered who might be near death. He had outlived every playmate. . . . “I come, in Jesu name, I come.”
A full moon had lately risen. It threw a quicksilver bridge on the Kattegat and made glint the dew on cottage roofs; but the two crossed streets of Als lay thick with shadow, and the land beyond had become a stalking ground for wolves and trolls. Strangely quiet were the dogs, as if they feared to bark; the whole night was cracklingly still; no, a sound somewhere, hollow, a hoof? The Hell Horse grazing among the graves?
Four stood in a cloud of their own breath, unseasonably cold as this night was. Father Knurl gasped and signed himself. He had never seen merfolk, besides the one who had come into his church—unless a glimpse in childhood had been more than a marvelous dream. What else could these be, though? He had heard enough accounts from those of his parishioners who met them now and again. The features of the man and woman were cast in that alien mold, the boy’s less clearly so, the girl-child’s hardly at all. But water dripped and shimmered from her too; she too wore a fishskin tunic and clutched a bone-headed spear.
“You, you, you were to have. . . been gone,” the priest said, hearing his voice thin in the frosty quiet.
“We are Agnete’s children,” said the tall man. He spoke Danish with a lilting accent that was indeed, Knud thought wildly, outlandish. “Because of her heritage, the spell did not touch us.”
“No spell—a holy exorcism—” Knud called on God in his mind and squared his narrow shoulders. “I pray you, be not wroth with my villagers. The thing was none of their doing or wish.”
“I know. We have asked. . . a friend. . . about what happened. Soon we shall go away. First we would give Yria into your care.”
The priest was somewhat eased by this, and likewise by seeing that his visitors’ bare feet were of human shape. He bade the four come in. They did, wrinkling their noses at the grime and smells in the single room which the parish house boasted. He stoked the fire, kindled a rushlight, set forth bread, salt, and beer, and, since the newcomers filled the bench, sat down on a stool to talk with them.
Long was that talk. It ended well after he had promised to do his best for the girl. Her three siblings would linger a while to make sure; he must let her go to the strand every dusk and meet them. Father Knud pleaded with them to stay ashore too, but this they would not. They kissed their sister and took their leave. She wept, noiselessly but hopelessly, until she fell asleep. The priest tucked her in and got what rest he could on the bench.