Okay, here goes ...
THE FISH TAIL WOMAN
Alice Fen had lived her three score and ten never having imagined she might see such wonders. The woman - for what else could Alice call her? - lay in the woodland clearing among beech, oak, sycamore and sweet chestnut trees, resting on a bed of fallen leaves, their russet and gold glowing in the early morning light. Dropping her bundle of kindling, and wrapping her shawl more tightly about her, Alice walked toward the perplexing sight.
The woman was not dead, as Alice first supposed, but sleeping, her chest gently rising and falling. Her skin was pale, contrasting with jet black hair, long and luxuriant, rippling like water. The grandmother looked along the length of her, from the dark glossy hair to the bodice made of the finest silk, blue as a robin’s egg, fastened with delicate mother of pearl buttons. Alice’s gaze took in the woman’s hands and her slender waist, below which – Alice closed her eyes before slowly opening them again – below which the scales began. Scales glinting silver and shimmering green, with flecks of metallic blue, grey, mauve and lavender, moulded around a fish tail which covered the lower half of the woman’s body. Alice knelt, her bones creaking, the dry leaves crackling as they took her weight. Tentatively, her fingertips made contact. The fish scales were warm to the touch as she ran her hand along the tail toward its tip.
It was not, Alice thought in bewilderment, a theatrical costume or something worn at a masquerade ball, the likes of which she’d heard of, though never seen. The tail wasn’t a garment, but part of the sleeping woman; she and the tail were one.
“My dear, wake up. You’ll catch your death.”
Alice repeated her words, raising her voice when the woman didn’t stir. She lightly tapped the woman’s face, then tweaked her nose. Still no movement, except for steady rise and fall of her chest.
“I’ll fetch my grandson. Stay here. I won’t be long.”
It was difficult getting back to her feet, Alice’s limbs stiffened by cold, her mind clouded by the sheer impossibility of it all. Retrieving her kindling, Alice hurried, as much as she could, to her cottage where someone else lay sleeping. Her grandson woke when she called. Nathaniel Thorn yawned, pushing away the thin blanket covering him. He sneezed, then frowned at the hearth where flames had all but died down. Nathaniel’s thoughts were on bacon sizzling in a pan and a cup of hot, strong tea.
“There’s a woman in the wood!” Alys cried. “A fish tail woman.”
Nathaniel burst out laughing.
“Did you lose your mind while searching for kindling?”
“No,” Alice insisted. “You must come and see. You must.”
His grandmother couldn’t be persuaded otherwise, and Nathaniel’s amusement turned to irritation.
“Fine!” he eventually said, sounding anything but. “Make a fool of yourself if you must, then cook my breakfast and leave me in peace.”
Nathaniel allowed himself to be guided to the clearing and there he stopped, his mouth gaping open.
“Is it witchcraft? Or is she an angel? Grandmother, I don’t understand.”
Alice Fen didn’t believe in witches, though she’d witnessed the burnings in years gone by. She believed in angels though. Perhaps that was what they saw? Either way, she thought, we can’t leave her here.
“We’ll take her home. Keep her safe until she wakes.”
With trepidation Nathaniel approached the sleeping form. She was, he realized, a beauty. This was no peasant woman with roughened hands and reddened skin. Her silk bodice and mother of pearl buttons were expensive, and pearls nestled among the curls and twists of her hair. The creature was a fine lady, for all her scales.
Nathaniel had seen fine ladies before, fleetingly, at Stonecross, a busy market town five miles from Petty Spurge, the village on whose outskirts he and Alice Fen lived. He’d spied them at the Black Swan, the coaching inn where travellers stopped for refreshments or to stretch their legs on long journeys.
Nathaniel had observed those fine ladies taking the air, lifting the hemlines of their gowns to avoid stepping in the courtyard’s mud and muck. Once, he’d seen a private carriage halt outside the inn, a pair of liveried footmen leaping down. Their uniforms royal blue and trimmed with gold braid, their expressions haughty. He’d imagined himself rigged out in such finery, catching the eye of a pretty little heiress.
Wondering if he was capable of lifting the woman with her shining scales, Nathaniel was pleased to find she was light as a feather, fitting perfectly into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. With all care, Nathaniel took her to the cottage, and did as Alice instructed, placing the woman on the rush matting by the hearth. His grandmother swiftly built up the fire.
“It isn’t bad luck?” Nathaniel said. “Having her under our roof?” He couldn’t drag his eyes away from the woman’s face, her beauty was incomparable. “Why was she in the wood? Why so far from the sea?”
Alice had no answers to give. Instead, she told him to hush.
“Let her sleep. When she wakes, we’ll know the truth of it.”
However, hours passed and the woman neither opened her eyes or twitched her scaly tail.
“Should we put a lighted feather under her nose to rouse her?” Nathaniel asked, growing anxious as dusk fell.
“Let her be,” Alice Fen urged him. “Go to sleep yourself.”
They took to their beds, scratchy straw filled mattresses that rustled like the autumn leaves in the wood. When dawn came, there the fish tail woman lay, on the rush matting, eyes closed, her chest gently rising and falling like the tide.
“We should consult someone,” Nathaniel said, entranced by her presence, but unnerved by it too. “A doctor? A priest?”
Before they’d a chance to summon either, Nathaniel’s aunt, who was Alice Fen’s daughter, walked in. She bought the chill morning air with her, as well as a loaf of freshly baked bread and a covered dish of butter. It was by sheer good luck the covered dish didn’t break when Prissie Fettle, wife of the village baker, let out a piercing shriek and dropped it on the floor.
“Lord above us! What in the name of all mercy is that?”
The tale was told, though Prissie was none the wiser. She was a woman of small stature, sharp of eyes and elbows. Little went on in Petty Spurge without coming to her notice.
“Jacob will know what to do for the best. Nathaniel, fetch your uncle. Be quick about it.” Prissie bent over the woman, those sharp eyes narrowing. “Pearls,” she murmured, a note of avarice creeping into her voice as she priced up the jewels and the mother of pearl buttons. Her hand stretched toward them, but Alice slapped it away.
“We are not thieves,” she said, causing her daughter to redden and deny it was ever her intention. Mother and daughter sat beside the fireplace, waiting until they heard the door scrape open. Prissie’s husband, the village baker, stepped inside, Nathaniel in his wake.
Jacob Fettle was a rotund man with a substantial girth, usually encased in a flour dusted apron. He filled any chamber he walked to, breathing deeply as if to suck the air out of the room and into his lungs, keeping it to himself until he chose to exhale and allow others use of it. Jacob was a proud man, mindful of his good name and reputation. What no one in that room could’ve expected was that Jacob Fettle would take one look at the fish tail woman and slump to the floor, fainting clean away.
By nightfall on the second day, Alice was regretting her son-in-law's arrival. Once consciousness returned to him, Jacob wasted no time in sending Prissie for the wheelwright and his wife.
“They’ll be green with envy we’ve seen it before them. Hurry, wife. Make haste.”
Alice held her tongue when the couple arrived, closing her ears to their prattle. She protested when the wife’s sister and her children came to marvel at the strangeness in their midst. The wife’s sister sent word to her cousin, and he came, bringing along his brothers. Soon, despite darkness falling and the moon rising in a starlit sky, more villagers appeared, trying Alice’s patience, treading mud into the floor, making her recite her story of going into the wood time and time again. Nine o’clock came and went. Ten. Eleven. When midnight rolled around, tiredness overcame Alice. Her head drooped. Her eyelids fluttered and closed. She fell asleep in her chair.
It was dawn when Alice Fen woke. She was confused to find folk already gathered outside, faces peering in at the window. Nathaniel stood on the threshold, an earthenware jug in his hand. As Alice watched in disbelief, he collected money from the sensation-hungry crowd, who readily tipped coins into the jug. Two by two, like animals boarding Noah’s ark, inside they trouped, clustering around the sleeping woman, dazzled by her iridescent scales.
“You should be ashamed!” Alice cried. “The lady’s not an object to be gawped at. Be off with you!”
Her words were met with jeers and laughter. Prissie hastened to Alice’s side.
“Hold your tongue,” she hissed at her mother. “Can’t you see there’s profit to be made?”
Alice bridled, demanding they allow the sleeping woman her dignity, but her pleas went unheard. All day and into the night they came. Talk spread around the market square in Stonecross, insinuating itself into shops, taverns and lodging houses. Talk snaked its way through the Black Swan’s tobacco-stained saloon, into the parlour and scullery, among grooms and stableboys, reaching the ears of carriage drivers and blacksmiths.
For three days and three nights, the earthenware jug was filled, emptied, and filled again. Despite the commotion, the fish tail woman slept on. Her skin as pale as ever, her hair dark and luxuriant, the fish scales undimmed.
On the fourth day a pair of portly gentlemen arrived in dusty travelling coats. Their carriage had stopped at the coaching inn where they’d heard talk that intrigued them. The gentlemen professed themselves amazed. They returned an hour later, bringing a man with paper, ink and brushes. Alice Fen scowled as the artist knelt by the sleeping woman, capturing her likeness.
The week wore on, and Alice was worn out. In the end she was left with no choice, Prissie insisting Alice move into a room above the bakery.
“It’ll be quieter for you. You won’t be disturbed.”
“This is my home, daughter. Who’ll take care of the fish tail woman if I go?”
“I will,” Prissie said, firm in her resolve.
Alice was distraught, feeling responsible for the sleeping creature. I should’ve left her where I found her, Alice thought. Kept my mouth shut and not caused this excitement. It’s my fault, she chided herself. Weariness enveloped her, a sense of having meant well but acted foolishly. Alice bade farewell to the fish tail woman. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered, and left her home with a heavy heart and an ache in her chest that wouldn’t go away.
Jacob Fettle returned to his bakery, but continued to take a close interest. Prissie moved into the cottage when Alice moved out, she and Nathaniel taking turns to collect entry fees and manage the visitors that kept arriving. The artist’s drawing had been displayed in the Black Swan’s saloon. The landlord was arranging visits for interested persons, especially for the Quality passing through Stonecross on their way to Bristol and Bath. Fine ladies, of the kind Nathaniel admired, were thrilled to hear of the bizarre spectacle in an otherwise dreary backwater. They, and their equally fine gentlemen willingly delayed their journeys, and were guided to the cottage where the spectacle lay.
Prissie and Nathaniel moved the sleeping woman from the rush matting. She was lain on a bed, a blanket beneath her. Prissie combed the woman’s hair. She’d stealthily, one by one, removed the pearls that nestled among the curls.
“She won’t be needing these.”
With money rolling in, Prissie ordered the dressmaker in Stonecross to sew three new gowns, and instructed the milliner to make three matching bonnets, each trimmed with wide satin ribbon. Won’t I look a picture in those, Prissie thought, relishing the notion of wearing them as Sunday best and causing the wheelwright’s wife to twitch with envy.
Nathaniel and Jacob sported new trousers, coats and snowy white shirts, while the baker enjoyed the high regard of local tradesmen whose own profits had grown as word of the woman spread. More travellers arrived, not merely passing through, but taking rooms, eating supper and drinking sherry. Locals took to idly watching the newcomers, commenting on the fashionable cut of their tailoring, and the attractiveness or otherwise of their faces.
As weeks turned into months, numbers coming to marvel over the fish tail woman only increased. She, despite the noise and hubbub slept as soundly as ever, neither needing bread or water, her complexion fresh, her scales shiny as newly minted guineas. From ploughboys to milkmaids, chandlers to ditch diggers, ladies' maids, butlers, launderesses, women of easy virtue and men who gambled away fortunes as easily as they breathed, all came to the humble dwelling once occupied by Alice Fen.
To Prissie’s delight, men and women with titles came too. Sir Horace this, Lady Caroline that, the Earl of wherever and a baker’s dozen of dukes. She practiced her curtsies and Nathaniel perfected his bows. By now, Jacob and Prissie Fettle were selling souvenirs. Tiny dolls with blue cotton bodies and beaded tails, along with roughly printed pamphlets singing the fish tail woman’s praises. More money went into and was emptied out of the earthenware jug. Prissie counted coins and bank notes, relishing the chink of metal and rustle of paper, Jacob looking on in admiration, Nathaniel pleased to take his share.
Prissie called upon her mother in the room above the bakery, presenting her with a doll. Alice Fen regarded it with contempt, tossing it aside.
“This can’t go on. Once the novelty of it wears off, folk will turn against you, resenting the money you’ve made. You’ll rue the day you started down this path.”
“Stop your scolding,” Prissie retorted. “It’s nonsense that you speak.”
However, the words had a ring of truth to them. The more Prissie thought about it, the more likely it was her mother was right. Prissie spoke to Jacob, and together they came up with a plan.
‘For Sale’. The handbills were in bold black lettering. Jacob and Prissie had settled on a price for Melesina, as they’d called her. They were gratified by several enquiries within hours of the handbills distribution. Three from men of science with letters after their name. One from an agent, claiming to act on behalf of Lord Byron. Another from a portly doctor who sweated a great deal, mopping his brow with a blue spotted handkerchief. All made offers, and were anxious to settle the matter to their advantage.
“Which shall we choose?” Prissie asked, itching to take their money, scared the chance of acquiring wealth might somehow slip away.
“Perhaps,” Jacob said, the wheels in his head turning like millstones grinding flour, “we’ve gone about this the wrong way. Hear me out, Prissie.” He held up his palm to quieten her. “We should auction Melesina. Gather all interested parties together. Let them get carried away outbidding each other. Imagine!”
The interested parties were informed and more handbills distributed. They were secreted in the luggage of those travelling as far as London. Word spread and tongues wagged. Soon, half the country was marvelling about the peculiar story of the fish tail woman. More folk poured into Stonecross and Petty Spurge. More dinners were paid for. More souvenirs bought. The lanes and muddy tracks were choked with sightseers. All eager to witness the spectacle of the beautiful Melesina who never said a word, but slept, her chest rising and falling as the days and nights passed.
The date of the auction grew nearer. Nathaniel issued orders for the cottage to be swept and scrubbed. Prissie purchased an emerald green coverlet to spread beneath the woman, showing her off to her best advantage. Jacob sold tickets. The cheapest for mere spectators, rising in price for those allowed entry to the cottage, and with money to spend. With a week to go, excitement was reaching fever pitch. The auction was all anyone talked about. Except Alice Fen, that is. She refused to speculate about what price the woman might fetch.
“Tis wrong to sell her, as though she were but a pound of butter or a pinch of snuff,” Alice said. “The shame of it will stain all who indulge in such immorality. Mark my words.”
Though no one did.
With only three days to go, Prissie stood in the cottage, hands on hips, Nathaniel at her side, both proud of their efforts. Everything was in place and pristine. The door was locked, and all visitors banned until the auction. The fish tail woman lay on her emerald green coverlet, a wonder to behold. Prissie and Nathaniel exchanged smiles. However, as they did so, Nathaniel’s nose twitched.
“Aunt, do you smell something?”
Prissie’s nose twitched too.
“What is that?”
The pair of them sniffed the air. They moved from an empty cooking pot to the fireplace, to a chair and finally to where the sleeping woman lay. As they stood over her, the smell grew stronger.
Fish. She smelt of fish. Prissie blanched. The woman had given off no scent before, other than that of cleanliness and the faintest trace of roses. Prissie’s eyes flickered toward the woman’s tail.
“Oh!”
Was she seeing things? Prissie took a handkerchief, rubbing it vigorously across the scales. No! It wasn’t her imagination. The scales were losing their shine.
“Her hair,” Nathaniel said. He wound a strand between his fingers. “It’s like straw.”
“Fetch Jacob,” Prissie ordered him. “Now!”
Jacob arrived, out of breath, having ran the entire way. He leant over Melesina, and his face turned ashen.
“What’s happening to her?” Nathaniel cried. “Is she ill? Grandmother might know. I’ll get her.”
“Stop!” Jacob nearly spat the word out in his haste to say it. “Nobody must know about this. You hear me? This must be our secret.”
“I’ll polish her tail with beeswax,” Prissie said, her mind working rapidly. “It’ll shine like a new pin when I’ve finished with it. You.” She pointed at her nephew. “I need roses. Lots of them, and make sure they’re highly scented. Rose water too. Buy the largest bottle we can afford.”
“I’ll nail a cloth over the window,” Jacob said. “The less light to see by, the less they’ll have to see. Prissie, you wash Melesina’s hair. Use herbs to make it smell sweet.”
The three of them were agreed, each with their part to play in the deception. For though they didn’t say it, each knew deception was the plain truth of it, and felt sick with fear. They were so close to making their fortune. It couldn’t slip through their fingers now. It couldn’t.
The day before the auction came, and the trio entered the cottage, locking the door behind them. Gingerly, they approached the bed, each putting their hand over their mouth. The smell was pronounced, an odour of weeks-old fish hanging unpleasantly in the air. The woman’s scales were duller than ever, despite Prissie’s vigorous polishing and copious applications of beeswax. Her brittle hair was tangled in knots, despite having been brushed and perfumed with fragrant oils.
Prissie and the two men set to work once again. The emerald green coverlet was doused in rosewater and rose petals were scattered across it. Melesina’s hair was washed and combed, her fish tail polished until it glowed. Hours passed. Finally the cottage was sweetly scented and once more the beautiful Melesina sparkled like a freshwater pearl.
“One more day,” Prissie murmured. “All tickets are sold?”
Her husband nodded.
“By midday tomorrow, we’ll have our reward, and she’ll be someone else’s problem.”
Nathaniel crossed his fingers. Please God, they prayed, let her last another day.
Morning came. Rain poured from the heavens like a second great flood. It ran through Stonecross market square and along the narrow lanes of Petty Spurge, pooling and puddling, turning rutted tracks into streams with muddy banks, treacherous underfoot. The rain ran down rooftops, filled horse troughs to overflowing and soaked every man, woman and child who slipped and slid their way toward what’d once been Alice Fen’s home. Among the throng were the three men of science with letters after their name, the agent claiming to act on behalf of Lord Byron, and the portly doctor who mopped his brow with a blue spotted handkerchief, before wringing it out and cussing the inclement weather.
As autumn had segued into winter, most trees had shed the last of their leaves. Branches were bare and spiky, outlined against the leaden grey sky. Jacob, Prissie and Nathaniel stood outside the cottage, the key in Jacob’s hand. It shook in the lock as he turned it, fearful of what might greet them. He opened the door.
The onlookers surged forward, knocking him out of the way, pushing inside, their clothing drenched, their shoes squelching on the floor. All jostling and barging. Necks craned. Wanting to get to the front, to stand beside the bed where she lay and catch one more glimpse. Feet were stepped on. Elbows jabbed into ribs. Tempers frayed. The scent of roses was overwhelming, and Prissie rejoiced. The money they’d spent on perfume and flowers, it was worth it after all. The crowd filled the tiny room to bursting point, not an inch to spare. Suddenly, a cry went up. Another, and another.
“She’s gone!” “Where is she?” “Where’s Melesina?”
“Let me through!” Jacob shouted, his weight and vast girth enabled him to barrel forward, Prissie and Nathaniel in his wake. The crowd parted like the Red Sea and the trio finally stood next to the bed where Melesina lay.
Where Melesina used to lay.
The green coverlet was rumpled, strewn with rose petals. Across its surface wasn’t the peaceful sleeping form of Melesina. Instead, mostly hidden by its folds, was something dull and grey as the sky above. Nathaniel threw back the coverlet and they all saw it. A fish tail. Nothing else. A rotting, slimy fish tail that, once exposed, wasn’t masked by the smell of roses any more. It was rank. Greasy and spoilt, oozing and pustulant.
There were more shouts and angry cries.
“Do you take us for fools?” the wheelwright roared. “I want my money back!”
“And mine!” “Mine too!” “Scoundrels!” “Fraudsters!”
The crowd were turning nasty. Fights breaking out. Plates and chairs were broken, neighbours squared up to each other. Hair was pulled. Faces slapped. Shins kicked. Jacob, Prissie and Nathaniel frantically parted with whatever coins they had, promising everyone their money back.
“Trust us,” Prissie urged, but her words were met with jeers and laughter, reminding her of when she’d scolded Alice Fen for berating those gawping at the fish tail woman. ‘Hold your tongue. Can’t you see there’s profit to be made?’ There’s no profit in this after all, Prissie realised, the thought crushing her. Jacob too was totting up costs. The green coverlet. His wife’s gowns and bonnets, the snowy white shirts and printed handbills. Worst of all, the compensation demanded by the three men of science, Byron’s agent, and the portly doctor with the blue spotted handkerchief. Jacob wept bitter tears, while Nathaniel slumped against a wall, his hopes in ruins. No fine lady would look at him now.
None of them slept that night. They didn’t even close their eyes.
In the month that followed, as winter bit deep and snow lay on the ground, life returned to near normal in Petty Spurge. Jacob and Prissie continued to bake loaves, and villagers kept buying their bread, though with barely concealed contempt. Nathaniel ate his slice of humble pie, apologizing to Alice and dedicating himself to working hard and earning an honest crust in future. He made repairs to the cottage, and Alice gratefully moved back in. She settled once more into her routine, rising early to wrap her shawl tightly about her and venture into the wood to gather kindling.
What Alice told no one of, least of all her family, was that each morning as she entered the wood, she’d find a bundle of kindling already gathered. Neatly stacked, tied with twine. Sometimes Alice would catch a glimpse of something between the trees. A flash of silk, blue as a robin’s egg. A curl of dark, luxuriant hair. Just a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye. Often, she’d taste the salt tang of sea air, though the tides were far beyond this land locked county, and each Friday she’d discover a gift left for her.
Lying on the stone doorstep, in a puddle of water, its scales gleaming, would be a fish, freshly caught. Ready for Alice to take inside and cook in a pan of spitting fat. She’d eat her fill and never fail to be grateful for all the blessings bestowed upon her, content to be warm and full-bellied in her little cottage by the wood.
Comments
Post a Comment