Chapter Text
Somewhere on the East Coast, there is a very small coastal village nestled between mountains, forming a large cove. It is infamous for the dark red hue of its beaches. This unusual color can be explained by iron-rich volcanic rocks oxidizing over thousands of years, giving the sand this striking
,rust-like color. It gave the village its iconic and memorable name: Iron Cove.
This cove is, however, hundreds of kilometers away from the nearest volcano, and the origin of its red beaches has been a confusing mystery since its discovery.
Some believe that the cove would only be the gaping mouth of a very deep and large underwater volcano, explaining the iron-rich rocks, and the red hue of water inside of the cove. This theory is yet to be proved, or disproved, for the couple hundreds inhabitants of Iron Cove have categorically refused any sort of scientific excursions on, or under, their waters. Others believe something far sinister gives the sand this significant color. That the beach is haunted by a giant ship-wreck, hundreds of bodies of colons arriving in America staining the beach, staining the water. An ocean of blood.
Other than its haunting dark-red beaches, the village is known for its old-fashioned fish boats, its rich folklore surrounding ocean life, and its reclusivivity. The people are old, and not fond of strangers. They have learned to be wary of those willing to exploit their home for fame or money. Many have come to try and decipher its mystery, and many have left disappointed.
It is a very old village, most houses are still made out of wood and stone. It is said that in the morning, you can see the ghosts of past fishing ships floating on the cove, illuminated by the sunrays just peeking through the heavy fog. The older folks, those who have lived their entire lives in Iron Cove, will tell you to listen at dusk, for the mermaids to sing. They warn, also, to never go out on the water after dark, when those mermaids sing the loudest, and lure boats to crash on the steep, exposed cliffs of the cove, where the water is most shallow, and the sand darkest.
—
The first ship in the cove is always the same. In the morning like clockwork, when the fog is still heavy over the valley and the water is calm. The sound of its old but reliable motor echoing over the water and into the village announces the start of the day just like the call of the rooster.
It’s an old sailer, with a cabin on top of it. The hull is painted a dark blue, and written in deep scarlet letters it reads: The Iron Lung.
—
On this boat stands a fisherman called Simon. His hair is dark, but no darker than his eyes when a tourist asks him about the irregular scar on the left side of his face, going from his lip to the apple of his cheek.
He lives in a house in the middle of Main Street. This house was rebuilt on the husk of the one before, that went up in flames one cold night killing the old priest that lived inside. His charred body was never found; they assumed he had been burned straight into ashes.
Now this dark and sulky man lives in it. Simon isn’t from Iron Cove. He came from somewhere deep in the country, and moved with his mother when he was a child. He grew up, took the bus to the neighboring town to go to school, apprenticed under Old Murtagh, the best fisherman in town with the filthiest mouth. Swore like a sailor, they say. He smoked so much on his old pipe that the morning fog was partly his fault. Well, Murtagh wasn’t an easy man to work under, but Simon did so until the old man finally gave out. With his last breath, he gifted Simon his boat.
Simon’s mother died not long after that, and he found himself alone, surrounded by empty space. The hearth inside the house stopped being lit, and a house that had once burst into flames turned colder than rock.
Simon left before sunrise, walked down Main Street to the docks, through the thick fog, a dark shadow with a bag hoisted on its shoulder. He came back around dinner with a pretty good haul, and sold his fish to local producers or markets, sometimes even in the next town over. He drove an old, rusty brown truck. Murtagh’s. Then he went back into his house, until the next morning. Sometimes he went into the local inn to get a drink or a meal. He stayed seated at the bar, keeping his back to the joyous patrons, and didn’t say much. Ordered, ate, said thanks, paid and left.
The owner, a woman named Ava, always kept him a copy of today’s journal. She had babysat him when they were both younger. Now she barely recognized the man sitting in front of her. He was tall, but always hunched over, he was large, but kept his arms tight on his sides. His eyes were casted downward, always fiddling with the stray string of his old and worn green sweater.
“This is the fish you caught earlier today, Simon. It’s good fish,” she would tell him, and he would nod over his journal. The next evening, he brought her four more good fishes, dropping them already filetted on the counter.
The only day Simon’s boat wasn’t on the cove was Sundays. He would go to the local market in the morning and buy a week's worth of groceries, then go back to his house. If there was one sure thing about Simon, it was his routine. He didn’t chat, didn’t really have any friends except if you counted the town’s resident mechanic, Jack, but people got to know Simon through his consistency. The grocer kept a good cut of beef in the back for him, Ava knew to prepare his usual meal, knew the exact time he would arrive, knew the exact spot he would sit down at. Funnier patrons made jokes about him sitting so much on this specific stool that it had worn down to fit only Simon’s ass in it.
The fishmonger knew to expect good quality, healthy fish. He always gave Simon a good cut of his sales.
Jack was the only one who had been able to coax a conversation out of him, brief though it was. Something in his boat had seemed wrong. An engine purring at the wrong pitch, a lever pulling harder than normal, his boat lights flickering less than usual. Sure enough, his fuel lines had been worn down and needed to be replaced.
“How did you even figure out something was broken?”
Simon had shrugged. “I listen to hear. She’s consistent, she’ll tell me if anything’s wrong.”
Jack had wiped the motor oil off his hand on a dirty rag, and looked Simon up and down. Jack was very happy with his own scrawny body, thank you, but he had to admit there was something imposing about Simon’s size. He was thick in all the right places, built from a lifetime of fishing. Tall and quiet, though not impolite, he rarely smiled.
“Yeah that’s what Old Murtagh used to say. ‘Boats talk, son. You better listen if you don’t wanna sink’,” Jack quoted, trying with little success to replicate Old Murtagh’s strong Scottish accent. His efforts are rewarded by a small smile. You know, Simon’s face isn’t too bad, either. In a town as small and recluse as theirs, he’s got something of a movie star like-ness. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that Simon’s isolation is self-imposed. Jack knows a couple of ladies in town, or even the next one over who would be very happy to welcome him home in the evening, fish smell and all. Hell, if Jack swung that way, he’d probably be all over Simon. His eyes are deep in a way that Jack likes. His hair is long, longer than most men wear it here, wavy, and often pulled into a loose knot on his head.
Alas, many have tried, many have been turned away. Simon used to get picked on when he was a young adult, and it only took him throwing someone on the floor, and holding them there for it to never happen again. His size and strength isn’t something to be scared of, but clearly Simon isn’t above using it to enforce his boundaries.
“Well, it’s the same ship, isn’t it,” Simon smiles, running his hand over an old scuff in the paint.
This boat is older than Jack’s mother, and he’ll die long before it finally gives out, he’s sure.
—
There is a word running through the village on this fine, cool morning of May. The sky is greyer than usual, it might rain later in the afternoon, if Bettie Malcom’s old squeaky hip is to be trusted. She says ever since she got it replaced with a metal one, she can feel the particles of electricity of a storm before it even appears.
Putting aside Bettie’s hip, another sort of storm was brewing this morning. It started with Harrison seeing a black van pulling into town last night, jumping through the rough dirt road leading into the village. It was too clean, too new, to belong to anyone in the cove. He told his wife, Abby, who told her dad, the grocer, who told his clerk Harry, who told old Bettie when he delivered her groceries this week.
Bettie said she already knew, of course. She lived right in front of the only inn, and had seen two men walk inside with large suitcases, their black van parked right beside. One of them was a tall, white man who seemed way too nervous to be here, and the other a shorter darker man who kept looking towards the water. They had settled in, then walked towards the marina. Troublemakers, she had called them.
She went on about her hip until she finally let Harry escape. Harry called his friends, who then told their parents. By eleven that morning, everyone in town knew about the two new shiny strangers.
Visitors weren’t uncommon, though quite rare. People running after ghost stories, young couples wishing to walk along the red shore barefooted — it was said to be good luck in marriage —, or the occasional researchers. Fifteen years ago, the town committee had petitioned for scientific research to be prohibited inside the walls of the cove. No samples — sand or water — were to be taken, no boats with sonars were to leave the marina, and no divers were allowed in.
Their reasoning? Countless studies had been conducted in the past century, trying to uncover the mystery of Iron Cove, and none of them had been fruitful. If everyone was to take a bit of their beach, they wouldn’t have any of it left. Furthermore, the cove had a fragile, rich ecosystem. Nearly all residents lived on the fish there. They couldn't afford to jeopardize their livelihoods for the sake of science and discovery. Some things are better left unsaid. Their request had been granted.
Scientists aren’t banned from Iron Cove. Of course, they are welcomed to come, take a look, and go home empty-handed.
Naturally, when one of the strangers, the tall, pasty one, introduces himself as Doctor Ryland Grace to Ava during dinner at the inn, she asks him what kind of doctor. He starts to sweat.
—
Simon breathes hard through his nose, his whole body pulled tight as he aims to bring his net back to the surface. It’s heavy, but nothing he isn’t used to. The crane helps but he always prefers to do the heavy lifting himself. The exhaustion at the end of the day always makes it easier to fall asleep.
He anchors his feet on the floor, knees parallel with his hips and he pulls. He twists the rope around his elbow, using his arm as a lever to try and lift the net easily.
Sweat makes hair stick to his forehead and neck. The sun beats directly on his bare shoulders. In the middle of the cove with no shadow whatsoever, and with all the physical effort, it get warm very fast. Simon usually takes his cover off, keeping a tank on. Today’s warmer than usual, a cool but insufficient breeze coming from the sea, and he ended up shirtless to try and cool himself off. The salty marine air tickles his nose, and cold water splashes into his face. The sun is blinding, and so are the small glints of it reflecting off the water straight into his eyes.
Simon hates it. Hates the smell, hates the cold water and the burning sun. He hates the feeling of slimy fish between his hands, the sight of gills and mouth opening and closing frantically as they try to breathe air, and choke on oxygen. He hates the rattle fish make as they die in his cooler, rutting on the ice. And most of all, he hates this fucking net that won’t come up.
It swings from side to side with the current.
Simon groans loudly and lets go of the rope as it pulls so tight that it digs painfully into the bare skin of his forearm. He kicks the side of the guardrail and gives the crane the responsibility of lifting this fucking net.
“Fucking fish,” he swears, wiping sweat from his brow with his hand. He pushes his hair back and waits as the metallic hum of the crane signals that the net has made it to the surface.
Simon leans over and swears madly as he finds himself struck with a net-full of eels. They squirm together, forming a mass of disgusting black worms. He swears again and clenches his fists together, trying to keep his cool. A cloud thankfully passes over the sun, offering a small reprieve from its constant beating.
It’s way too warm for him to get angry, but he finds it hard not to lose his cool because this is the third net he’s pulled up this morning, only to find it full of no-good eels. Simon bends over the railing and starts to undo the knot of the net. The cloud blows over and the sun reappears. Normally, the water of the cove is pitch-black. You could stick your hand right under the surface and not even see the tip of your fingers.
At this hour, close to noon, the sun shines straight down into the first few feet of water, giving it this clear ruby-red hue. Sometimes, Simon catches sight of silver scales shining through the red. The water is clear for only a ten minute window, then it goes back to being opaque.
He isn’t aware of any particular eel-breeding season, but there are way too many for it to be normal. He’ll have to talk about it with the other fishermen and women. He considers docking early and coming home to take an afternoon nap. He’ll try again in the evening. Today, it looks like all the fish is gone.
Simon grumbles and groans as he fights the horde of eels, the net slick with slime keeps slipping from his fingers.
He doesn’t notice it at first. It’s perfectly still, floating in place just a few feet below the water, but there is a face watching him. It blinks, and that’s what pulls his attention to it.
Right next to the net, something — someone — is watching him. Two round, bright blue eyes cutting through the red, shining like scales.
His heart kicks painfully in his chest, but before he can react, grab the knife in his pocket, the eyes blink again and they sink further into the water, quickly disappearing. Simon catches the hint of a face, but is unable to make out its features.
He’s left staring at his own pale reflection. Simon’s hands shake around the rope of the net, a shiver shaking violently his body. The eels are squirming even harder in the net, and Simon knows they are trying to escape. That they recognize the danger. He knows it intimately, because his nervous system is kicking into action. It feels like the first time he saw a bear in the forest.
Blood rushes out of his brain, and his ears ring as he sits down and back heavily, losing use of his legs. Simon lays down on the floor, uncaring of the way the sun-warmed metal burns his back. Simon rubs his eyes, tremors making his whole body shake. Without realizing, he’s gripped his knife tightly in his other hand, keeping it close to his chest like a life-line. He feels cold, so cold.
He stays there for several minutes, trying to calm the wild beating of his heart. His brain keeps telling him to run away, very far, but there is nowhere to go on this boat. He just has to hope that whatever he had seen wouldn’t be brave enough to jump on the deck…
—
By the time he makes it to his house, it’s past lunch time. As he drove the boat towards the shore, Simon kept looking back over his shoulders, scanning the water. Just in case.
He’s told the other fishers about the eels. Kept the other thing to himself. No need to add to his reputation by starting on about mermaids and shining eyes in the water. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light, those were eyes. And not fish eyes. Simon knows fish eyes.
He doesn’t think it was a hallucination, he’s not crazy. He would know it, if he was crazy.
He thinks.
He’s sailed on those waters his whole life and he’s never seen anything like it. If Murtagh was still alive, he’d be pestering him about mermaids, or ghosts. Spirits of the women who drowned in the bay.
“By the way, there’s two guys staying at the inn,” he’s told.
Simon shrugs as he ties his boat to the dock. “As long as they don’t cause any trouble.”
“One of them is a microbe doctor, I think. That's what Ava said.”
Simon looks up from his knot. He’d worked up an appetite in the few hours he was on the boat. He’s usually able to stave off his hunger until the evening, but the extra adrenaline kick had perhaps made him spend more energy than usual.
“Well if someone gets a cold, we know who to call,” Simon answers, leaving without another word.
He cares little about visitors. They get them once or twice a month. They usually cut their vacation short when they realize how boring Iron Cove is. They had this writer once try to interview people about the red water. He was trying to write a horror novel or something. He stayed three days before packing his bags. Simon wonders if he ever wrote that book.
He walks uphill to the inn, glad to see that he made it back on time. He can see dark and stormy clouds make their way on the Cove. Everything would be drenched in an hour. Hopefully Bettie’s hip wouldn’t hurt too bad. Simon lives next door to her, near the inn and he helps her with her garden on sundays. She cooks him dinner in exchange.
Simon walks in the inn, surprised to find it completely empty, except for two people. The first stands out, with his obnoxiously yellow rain jacket. He’s wearing a dark blue beanie, and seems to be talking Ava’s ear off about something. The second one is shorter, with dark skin. He’s bald and listening intently to what is being said.
The door slams behind Simon, and the first man turns around. He’s sitting on the stool Simon prefers…
Their eyes meet. He’s blonde, his face is long and angular. Through his glasses, Simon can see his eyes are blue.
A shiver runs up his spine, and he breaks eye contact.
Simon makes his way to the bar, sitting at least two seats away from the man. That doesn’t stop him from talking to Simon.
“Hi! I’m Doctor Ryland Grace,” he says, extending his hand. Simon shakes it, reluctantly and nods.
“You’re the microbe guy?”
Dr Grace’s companion laughs at him. Dr Grace looks at him quizzically before offering a crooked smile.
“No, no. I’m a molecular biologist”.
“Okay,” Simon says, with some degree of understanding. He looks to Ava for help.
“You hungry, Simon?” She asks.
“Uhm.. no, it’s fine. Just a beer, please.”
She nods and begins to pour. Simon is hoping Dr Grace will leave him alone, he stares ahead and tries to ignore the way the man fidgets on his seat, incapable of being still.
“You fish?” His companion asks Simon.
He nods. Ava drops the beer in front of him. He thanks her, bringing it to his lips.
“You have a boat?” The man continues. Simon turns to look at him, acquiescing. His skin is darker than Simon’s, and his arms are covered with tattoos. There are some on his bare scalp as well. He looks older than the doctor, middle-aged, while Dr Grace seems closer to Simon’s age. Simon spots a green ring on his left ring finger. Married. Where is his wife?
He’s pretty skinny and short, and wearing a leather utility belt with many pouches. Simon can see tools poke out.
Simon can tell where this is going. These two are not here for pleasure. He rolls his eyes and goes back to his beer. “You can rent a dinghy at the marina and row yourselves. I don’t offer rides.”
Dr Grace moves to block out the other from Simon’s vision.
“Excuse my colleague, he’s not from here.”
Neither are you, Simon keeps to himself. Ava stands behind the bar, in the middle of them. She’s watching Simon, and he can see she won’t hesitate to throw him out if he goes too hard on the good doctor.
Dr Grace addresses Ava next. “I’m aware my kind isn’t welcomed here. We’re not here to conduct research on the sand, or whatever, I swear.”
“It’s none of my business what you’re doing here, Dr. You’re free to visit the Cove, and I’m happy to rent you a room for as long as you need.” She gestured to Simon. “This one’s just not as friendly as me.”
Dr Grace seems relieved, and turns back to Simon.
“I’ve been invited to speak at a conference in the town close to here, but all the hotels were booked by the people attending. Months in advance.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have no interest in going on a boat. I like to keep both of my feet on solid ground.”
Simon hears the first droplets of water hit the roof of the inn. Sooner than he thought. He finds it hard to believe that all the hotels and inns were booked. The Doctor’s buddy doesn’t look like much of a scientist, either.
“You were on boat, today?” The other man asks again. Simon knows what Dr Grace meant by “not from here”. The man has got a thick accent. Simon can’t quite place it, but it’s definitely not from this continent.
“Rocky!” Dr Grace says, trying to shush him.
“I was. Fished nothing but eels.”
At that, Dr Grace’s attention zeroes in on him, eyes focusing through his glasses. Simon looks down into his glass. Something about the man’s gaze makes him feel uneasy.
“I’m sorry, Simon,” Ava says. “Beer’s on me.”
He looks up, frowning. “It’s fine, Ava. I have money—“ he goes for his wallet, but someone drops a twenty on the counter before he can reach his pocket.
“An apology, for earlier. Sorry to have bothered you, Simon.” With that, he rises from the stool, pulling his companion with him. Dr Grace pulls the hood of his raincoat and walks into the heavy pouring rain. Rocky waves at Simon before following suit, wearing nothing but a black shirt.
Ava takes the twenty and shoves it into her pocket. “They’re weird, aren’t they? He was telling me all about, atoms and cells or whatever. Proteins. I didn’t get it, I never listened in science class.”
“They’ll leave soon enough,” Simon assures, going back to his beer. Ava agrees and turns the radio on. It’ll rain until tomorrow morning. Well, there goes his evening.
—
Eels. Eels, eels, and eels. It’s been that way for the past two days. He goes the entire length of the cove and finds nothing but eels. He wonders if he would be able to sell eels at the market. It’s not a particularly popular fish. He slams his hands on the railing, dropping his fifth net back into the boat. He’ll get nowhere today.
He decides go back to shore and talk with the others to see if he’s the only one. He walks into the cabin and lifts the anchor, pushing the engine forward. The wind feels pleasant in his hair.
Movement catches his attention. From the corner of his eye, he can see something sparkle under the water. Something moving as fast as he does, keeping up the pace even when Simon accelerates. He takes a deep brief and tries to get a better look without moving his head too much.
It looks like a dolphin, from afar. A strong tail beats under the waves, just by his boat. Simon can make out blue-green scales forming a giant fin. It doesn’t splashes, it only glides seamlessly right under the surface of the water He swallows and looks forward again. If he ignores it, perhaps it’ll go away.
For a few seconds, he sees it disappear from his peripheral vision. He sighs, and starts to slow down.
Then, something breaks the water in front of his boat. It lifts off a couple of meters from the surface, tail long, bare human torso twisting in efffort before it dives back down. Water splashes in Simon’s face. His boat comes to a still. He can still see the round impact of the landing
That is… definitely a mermaid.