Mermaid's Poem
A young poet found a beached mermaid by the gulf.
Her long fish tail lay immersed in the ebbing tide, her wounded body wedged among sharp reefs, stripped of the strength to struggle. Hearing his footsteps, she lifted her head and gazed weakly at the poet.
With just one look, the poet saw stars and oceans in her emerald eyes.
A beauty so pure, so soul-stirring.
Not far off, several ships sailed on the horizon. The young man recognized the flags—they belonged to fleets specifically organized to capture mermaids, said to hunt mermaid pods in the deep sea, driving lone mermaids toward shore, then seizing them as they beached.
Live mermaids were the most prized playthings of high society lately, each fetching a handsome price.
Soon the fleet would return to the nearby port, and perhaps someone would follow the traces to this gulf and discover this valuable catch.
The mermaid still lay on the shore, struggling to raise her head toward the young poet before her. She made no sound, only her wet black hair clung to her face like seaweed, stirring faintly with each labored breath, silent and sorrowful.
Nothing like the legends that spoke of mermaids singing enchanting songs to mesmerize sailors, then dragging them underwater to devour them.
Before the poet realized it, his body had acted—he removed his coat, wrapped the mermaid in it, and carried her away from the gulf.
---
The poet lived in a semi-basement on the outskirts of this seaside town. It was dark and damp, so unwelcoming that no one ever wanted to come near—a perfect place to hide a mermaid.
The space happened to have an enormous abandoned water tank left by the landlord, three or four meters long and wide, about a meter tall—spacious enough for a mermaid to stretch her tail and not feel cramped.
The only trouble was filling it with water, which required the poet to trek back and forth with iron buckets many times.
Throughout this process, the mermaid merely floated in the tank, her slender fingertips gripping the edge, watching the poet's comings and goings in silence.
The poet noticed she couldn't speak. Even when her tail accidentally struck the tank wall and jostled her wounds, she could only emit a faint, hoarse gasp.
This meant she was naturally like those mermaids who had to be silenced with poison before being sold to nobles—unable to sing enchanting songs, unable to bewitch minds or take lives.
The poet, who had been tense for so long, inexplicably felt relieved.
---
Though mermaids were mythical creatures, they still needed medicine for their wounds and food for sustenance.
Seeing the wisps of red spreading through the water and the mermaid's pale, wane face, the poet gripped his hands tighter—then pushed them into his empty coin purse and could only bow his head in shame.
A destitute poet who couldn't even support himself—how could he save a stranded mermaid?
The answer lay right before him.
Scattered along the path where he'd carried the mermaid into the room were several scales shed from her tail. They only needed a touch of the thin light filtering through the semi-basement's single window to reflect soft, luminous radiance—smooth, gleaming, as brilliant as stars in the night sky.
The poet was drawn to them without realizing, gazing for a long time before reaching down to pick them up.
He saw the mermaid watching him, a faint curiosity on her otherwise blank face.
He instinctively clutched the scales tighter. They had a strange texture, like silver-blue luminous jade—warm and cold at once, as if they might seep into his palm.
---
The poet's instinct proved right—these scales were indeed valuable.
Otherwise, the jewelry shop owner's narrow, laughing eyes wouldn't have glinted with greed when he saw them.
The poet wasn't sure if the sly fox believed his story about finding the scales on the beach, nor how much this shady merchant was lowballing him, but the final price was satisfactory enough.
At least there was money for food and medicine now, with even some left over for the poet to give a copper to a flower-selling girl on his way home, in exchange for a single fiery red rose.
He thought it would suit the mermaid's black hair beautifully.
---
By the time the poet returned, it was dark outside. The room had no light, only the shimmering moonlight reflected in the water tank.
The mermaid was submerged up to her upper face, only her lips and the tip of her nose above water, her emerald eyes glowing even more luminously in the darkness, tinged with a haunting beauty.
The poet rummaged around for a long time before finding half a candle. Sitting by the tank with its faint glow, the mermaid swam over to him. He tucked the rose into her hair—and just as he'd imagined, the crimson blossom against the dark strands looked like how the young women in town dressed up, only far more beautiful than any of them.
The mermaid didn't understand these things. There were no flowers in the sea. She simply accepted the poet's adornment, then let him take her arm from the water and apply ointment to her wounds.
It must have hurt—she made soft hissing sounds through clenched teeth.
But that was all. She sat motionless in the water like a reef, watching the poet spread ointment evenly across each wound, without a single cry of pain or resistance. For the poet who had saved her, she seemed to trust him completely, enduring it all with quiet docility, gentle to the extreme.
The poet's hand trembled; the ointment slipped into the water.
The mermaid immediately dove down and retrieved it from the pool floor, the flower petals from her hair scattering as she resurfaced, the ointment held in her mouth as she looked up at the poet.
The poet hesitated, reaching toward the ointment near her lips—but his hand drifted instead to her soft cheek. The mermaid didn't pull away; she even pressed her face into his palm, nuzzling it gently. Her eyes, full of pure innocence, seemed utterly unaware of their own soul-stirring beauty.
They say mermaids are cold-blooded creatures, and indeed, her cheek was as cold as the scales that had fallen from her tail—ice formed in the depths of the sea.
Only the poet's palm was always warm.
---
Over the next many days, no one in the small town knew that a destitute poet was keeping a mermaid.
But more accurately, she was keeping him—and herself—too.
For the poet needed to periodically fish shed scales from the tank and trade them outside for food and medicine, as well as candles, firewood, ink, and paper.
Occasionally there would be a fresh bloom, which the poet would place in an empty bottle on the tank's edge.
At first, the mermaid didn't understand why the poet kept fishing scales from the pool floor, but after a few times she caught on—this was necessary exchange. Later, whenever she saw the poet standing by the tank, she'd dive to the bottom first, then resurface, spreading her webbed fingers to present several silver-blue scales high in the air before him.
The small scales were valuable enough to cover short-term living expenses. If one were being precise, they let the destitute poet live slightly better than before he'd rescued the mermaid.
So the poet never felt entirely at ease when accepting the scales.
But whatever that unease contained, he refused to examine it too closely. He told himself this was a necessary arrangement—he'd saved her only because he wanted her to be free, never to gain anything for himself.
Once her wounds fully healed, he would return her to the sea, far from the greed and malice on land.
---
While waiting for the mermaid to recover, the poet often found himself lost in thought watching her.
Watching her elegantly sweep her long tail through the water, watching the spray of droplets whenever she tossed her dark hair, the poet gradually began to understand why nobles were so enamored with keeping mermaids—every scene she inhabited was so graceful and vivid, rivalling any masterpiece by renowned painters.
Even the way she ate had a strange beauty.
In truth, the mermaid wasn't picky—she could eat any human food—but after several feedings, the poet discovered her favorite was fish.
Live fish.
The mermaid's webbed fingers were nimble and strong, swiftly pinning a freshly dropped live fish with piercing precision, her fingertips puncturing the body so the creature could never escape, only thrash its tail uselessly as she brought it to her lips and bit into its spine.
Trickles of red seeped from the corners of her mouth, staining her dark hair—like crimson flowers blooming in the dead of night.
The poet found it increasingly difficult to look away from the mermaid. Her every movement was like a thin, sharp blade, prying open his most hidden desires, swelling into magnificent inspiration.
These inspirations were enough to fill several fine poems, and the poet eagerly sought out paper and ink.
He was writing poetry for her.
When the poem was finished, the mermaid had also finished her satisfying meal. She arranged the picked-clean fish bones along the tank's edge, then pillowed her arms and lay beside them, mimicking the expression the poet wore when looking at her, curling her lips into a soundless smile.
This was her first smile.
The poet involuntarily set down his pen and went to her side, then noticed something reflecting light at the bottom of the pool.
They were ordinary fish scales—because the mermaid ate only the flesh, not the scales, those gray-white discs had been abandoned and littered the pool floor.
Among them dotted one or two of the mermaid's own scales, distinct from the lifeless ordinary fish scales—though separated from her body, they still radiated a haunting blue luminescence that demanded attention.
The difference between mermaid scales and ordinary fish scales was like that between precious gems and gravel.
"Because they're lowly creatures." The poet bent down and stroked the mermaid's cold forehead. "How could they compare to your perfection—a gift of grace and mercy from the Creator?"
---
By the way, during these days free from financial worry, the poet had rare leisure to do things he truly wanted.
Such as organizing his past works.
He'd written many poems, even compiled a poetry collection, but almost none had sold—it sat in a corner of the room, accumulating into useless stacks of paper.
The poet didn't think his writing was bad; rather, he believed this era had no patience for anyone willing to sit still and read a good poem.
Only he himself, on stormy nights, would sit by a single candle in the semi-basement, open that unappreciated collection, and read each poem aloud to the mermaid in the water.
He didn't know if the mermaid could understand, but at least she listened attentively. That kind of rapt attention was something the poet hadn't seen on anyone's face in many years.
"If only you could become human," the poet fantasized, then quickly shifted to a wry smile. He set the collection aside and sat by the water, running his fingers through her dripping hair, recalling the legends of mermaids—their enchanting voices carried a bewitching magic that could make any listener fall under their spell.
"If only you could speak…" The poet's gaze held hope. "Could you turn my poems into songs and sing them for the world?"
No response.
This was a mermaid who couldn't sing, whose thoughts could not be conveyed to anyone, just like the poet—an outcast among her kind.
The poet suddenly felt liquid welling from his eyes, trailing down his face, warm. He didn't know why he was crying. Perhaps loneliness, perhaps disappointment, or any number of reasons—but on this storm-ravaged night, he couldn't stop the tears from falling.
The mermaid gripped the edge of the tank, watching curiously as crystalline drops slid down his cheeks and fell into the water, dissolving without a sound.
She leaned closer and kissed the tears from his face.
The poet recoiled in surprise—and in the next second was even more shocked to see tears also spilling from the mermaid's emerald eyes.
This bewildered him. "Why are you crying?"
The silent mermaid couldn't answer, only tilting her head toward the small window in the ceiling, where raindrops drummed heavily, and from farther off came the wind and waves of the sea.
The poet understood at once.
The tank was filled with fresh water, unsalted, while tears carried the taste of the sea—perhaps they reminded her of her distant home in the deep ocean.