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The merman fell in love with the fisherman the day he cut him free from the toils of a net. The mesh had snagged the merman’s dorsal fins; all attempts to struggle free were fruitless, only entangling him further and tearing the delicate skin on the fins.
The fisherman had made an astonished noise as he pulled the merman up with his catch. The merman had panicked, then; he had seen what had happened to his kind when snared by humans. But the fisherman had cut him free with gentle hands, then carefully rolled him back into the sea.
From that moment, fascination had the merman in an iron grip. It wasn't that the fisherman was beautiful. Like all humans, he was irredeemably ugly: his teeth were strange white pebbles, with no points to speak of; his eyes were too small; his skin utterly lacking in scales. Not to mention the bizarre fleshy appendages that dangled off his bottom instead of a tail, and how repulsively smooth he was—not a single fin anywhere.
But there was something about his smooth, dark skin, and the soft filamentous stuff that covered him in lieu of scales....
He began following the fisherman, sometimes shooing fish into his nets. He stayed out of sight and out of the way. And he watched, rapt.
One day, there was a storm. The merman didn't think much of it; storms rarely convulsed the depths in which he lived.
But the little fishing boat heaved, and rolled, and bucked—then flipped.
The merman looked on intently. He'd never seen anything like this happen before. He wondered where the fisherman was, and dared to swim closer.
There! A limp body, drifting down. The merman smelled blood.
The merman gathered the fisherman in his arms. Blood flowed from a cut on his head. He was so still. The merman felt a pang of panic.
Humans couldn't breathe water and were useless at holding their breath. How long had he been submerged? How long since the boat flipped?
The merman thought of shore: of the people there with nets and knives and cudgels; of the things they had done to merfolk—out of fear, or for the sheer joy of killing. He thought of never seeing the fisherman's clever fingers again as they tied ropes and unpicked knots. Of never again hearing him make those strange, musical sounds with his mouth, like the songs of whales, but higher and faster.
He swam to the surface. It was difficult going: the fisherman was limp and awkward, and ensuring his face remained out of the water was a challenge. The waves crashed and battered them, but the merman was strong, and he had been playing in stormswells since he was a hatchling. He swam and swam until he reached the beach where the other humans lived, riding a big wave halfway up the sand.
It was deserted, which was both a relief and a difficulty. On the one hand, the merman need not fear being mutilated or killed. On the other, he wanted the fisherman taken someplace safe and dry.
He dragged the fisherman up as high as he could, then slipped back into the water.
The fisherman remained unmoving. The merman didn't know if he still was alive—how did one tell with these terrestrial creatures? The thought that he might not live ate a hole in his heart.
The rain finally relented. The waters calmed. The sun fought free of the horizon.
The merman remained in the shallows, fear prickling him all over. With daytime came humans, and his dark shape would be distinct in the clear waters of the bay. He stayed, regardless.
The sun was high in the sky when the fisherman stirred. The merman made a dance of joy.
The fisherman struggled to a sitting position and put a hand to his head. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound seemed to still pain him. The merman's tail wriggled with anxiety, sending up a splash. The fisherman looked up.
The merman, feeling brave, waved at him—only to be promptly and utterly consumed by burning embarrassment; he darted off for the depths without seeing if the fisherman waved back, or had even seen him.
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The fisherman didn't return. The merman circled the fishing grounds every day, and mourned.
Other boats came, and other nets were flung into the briny waters, but none of them were his fisherman's.
A full moon came and went; still his fisherman remained missing.
The merman screwed up his courage and decided to go back to shore. He had a little bit of human language. Perhaps he could find out what had happened. Had his fisherman died of his wounds? Or perhaps the water had harmed him irreparably. Humans, the merman thought despairingly, were so fragile.
He arrived at dusk and floated by the jetty, immobile and looking up through the water. His fisherman didn't come by. Nobody did. He stayed until the dark before dawn, when the other fishermen began preparing their boats to put to sea, but none of them were his human.
The merman dove deep and swam away.
He returned the next day, and the next, and the next.
Then one day, shortly after night had fallen, he heard a familiar voice humming a familiar song—a sad one, one that made the merman's heart feel as if it were falling, falling.
The merman swam closer, moving carefully. As slowly as he could, he poked his head above the water.
And there he was, only a silhouette, but one the merman knew as well as his own hands. He sat near the end of the jetty, feet dangling in the water. The merman moved closer—close enough to touch.
"Hello," said his fisherman, softly.
The merman froze. He considered diving down.
"Thank you," said his fisherman, then several words the merman could not understand. The merman stared, eyes just above the water. His fisherman looked healthy enough; the wound had healed, leaving a red scar on his forehead.
His fisherman fell silent, and cocked his head.
The merman was in agonies. He wanted to ask his fisherman so many questions—did his wound still pain him, why had he not returned, had the water hurt him some other way, could he sing that song again. But he had no words that would be audible to human ears.
So he blew a small stream of bubbles.
His fisherman laughed. The merman, enchanted, blew another stream of bubbles. The fisherman laughed harder.
Then he did something unexpected.
He leaned down and reached out a hand towards the merman. "Come," he said, and then "my friend."
The merman swam closer, dizzy at his daring. He reached out his own hand, silvery blue all over, webbed and covered with scales, and placed his hand in his fisherman's. It was warm, and very soft, and dry all over.
"Friend," said his fisherman again.
The merman nodded, and held his hand, and floated on bliss as much as on water.