Stories for Telling: Mariana

MARIANA

Where the setting sun still paints the receding hills red and the river spreads its arms to meet its friend the ocean, a little house stood alone in the wood. The buzzing of bees could be heard as the rain downed gently on its roof. Smouldering ashes were all that was left of the fire in the hearth. The smell of earth and cherry blossom filled the night air. A man sat on a small stool, wielding a tool: a sail needle with which he was stitching together the strong cloth. His hands were rough from weather and work, but his movements graceful as if he were embroidering silks. The man shook his head, his manes flying like a wild dog. A single tear streaked his face, dropped on the white linen, leaving a darker mark. What once was would come no more.

He had come home from one of his trips, long journeys on his ship, to sell cotton and wool, dried meats and fruits and the odd gun if he could lay his hands on them. He had returned and found her dead, the love of his life, who had come to be with him, Gunthar Plot, seasoned sailor and home-wrecker.

He would forever be haunted by the image of her hair disappearing underneath the waves as she had jumped into the water to speed up their reunion while his ship slowly sailed into the misty bay. They had dredged for hours, but found nothing.

How had it all come about? Oh, the day they met was engraved in his memory. He had sat on the shoreline, fixing the little sloop that brought him to and from his ship. It was on a day not unlike this one; hazy rain fell, scents were released by the strengthening sun, spring had arrived with a promise of summer. Mist hung across the bay, so he heard her before he saw her delicate beauty.

A vision in white, floating into view, singing softly a tune he knew. She had stopped and looked into his grey-blue eyes with her own green-golden ones. He tried to speak but was transfixed, enthralled, enchanted. A question mark hovered between them.

A hand outstretched. Instant fire. Then lips met lips and sand got into clothes as they rolled and rolled along the sheltered beach. She laughed, her laugh as clear as a mountain stream. “I am Mariana,” she whispered. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” he mumbled while kissing her neck, encircling his fingers with her red curls. It was as if all life had conspired to this meeting. It was destiny. They were soul mates who had recognised each-other at once. Or were they?

Time had stood still, hours had gone by in seconds, the mist was clearing. The sound of a horn pierced the sky. She swiftly gathered her garments and ran away; gracing him with one more smile. She formed a thought in his head: “have faith”. Then he was suddenly – and utterly - alone. That glorious moment of all-encompassing happiness had passed as quickly as it had arrived.

Listlessly he wandered back home to his house in the woods, despair descending into his heart as he feared he might never see her again. Mariana. Her name would haunt his dreams and waking hours. He would wake up sweating, remembering their embrace. His appetite left him, he grew a beard and as the pain of her absence didn’t abate he went wild and wayward.

He had looked for her everywhere, calling her name across glen and marsh. Searching in all the nearby towns and villages, asking: “Do you know, have you seen, have you ever heard of Mariana?” But nobody knew her, saw her, heard her. It was as if she had never been. He took to his ship and sailed the seven seas to find a trace of his love. He hired agents to track her down. But she was lost and so was he. He went mad.

Truth be told, he had always been a bit of a ruffian, going his own way, never heeding others. That’s why he liked the sea, the freedom to always be on the move. He still felt the blood of his Viking ancestors urging him to explore and conquer. Whenever he felt a yearning in his heart, he would just pack up and leave, trading (and sometimes thieving) here and there to earn his keep. Oh, there were women – as you know, one in every port – but none of these had captured his heart. He might spend a night, a day or even a month, but then his companion would wake up one morning to an empty bed, not even a dent in the pillow where he had lain.

But now things were different. He was no longer his own. He suffered from insomnia, he grew sad and angry. At night he howled like a wolf, in the day he growled like a lion. It was commonly known that he was involved in plenty of bar-room fights and bore the scars of his rage on his body.

Girls with red hair became his obsession. If he saw one walking on the market or along the shore, he would wear her down until she were his. He stole wives from their husbands, daughters from their parents, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him.

For he was not undesirable. His fair hair, his tanned face and grey-blue eyes, his muscles weaving like ropes around his limbs and his blistering smile made him attractive to dreamy housewives and romantic schoolgirls. And his unexpectedly gentle voice deceived them into believing they meant something to him. But his heart was closed. It had been closed before, but having once known the light of love and see it extinguished, the doors were now locked and barred.

Until one day …. He came home and found a small casket in front of his door. Inside it lay a large shell and inside the shell a lock of red hair. As he lifted the shell from its box, a tiny piece of parchment fell to the ground. In elegant round letters was written: ‘have faith’. At once out of breath, he sat down, clutching his treasures to his chest. Mariana! She existed! She had not been a figment of his imagination. Hope set his heart ablaze. He danced around the room, ran outside and screamed: ’she lives!!!’ The bees buzzed happily around him and two little birds alighted on his roof, twittering excitedly.

But what now? Was there anything he could do but wait? Have faith? He thought he would go mad all over again, but this time he decided to go and seek out the old wise-woman who lived on the edge of town. Maybe she could shed some light on this mystery.

The room was dark, except a small candle that burned brightly at the back. Gunthar knocked on the open door, but no answer came. Carefully he edged through the maze of ragged chairs, small tables covered with tattered pieces of real Indian silk, statues and images that reminded him of the ones he had seen on his travels. Finally he saw her, her bright yellow eyes searching his with a smile. She was not old, nor young. Her face was laced with lines, but they were not deep. Yet, she gave the impression that she had been there forever, never moving from her seat by the candle. Layer after layer of the most exquisite material was draped around her frail body. But looking closely, you could tell that the moths had had their way with her clothes. Her hair was grey nor blond.

“You will meet again, but it will not be as you imagined”, she told him, even before he asked her. “You must see through the veil, that’s how you can find her. She has been with you, but you didn’t see. Look through the veil, nothing is as it seems.”

She smiled, indicating that the session was over and it was time for him to leave. Nothing more would be revealed that day. As a parting gift, she pressed two small glass angels into his hand. He stumbled outside, dazed and confused, nearly choking. Instead of answers, all he got was more questions. Look through the veil. What on earth could it mean? Had he not heard mystics speak about the veil between this life and the next? Could that mean that she was dead? “She has been with you, but you didn’t see”, the lady had said. Was that because Mariana was now a ghost that hovered nearby? They would meet again. Would they meet, then, on the ‘other side’, when he died? Did reunion lie in death? He was ready to die if he had to. Life without her had become so pointless that he didn’t feel the need to cling to it. But he felt certain the wise-woman didn’t mean for him to take his own life, so he didn’t. Instead, he started speaking to Mariana as if she was right beside him. And although she never spoke, he imagined her close and found some comfort in that.

You might wonder, dear reader, what happened to our red-headed heroine. Rest assured, all will be revealed shortly, as we make our way to the conclusion of this tale.

For we now return to that dreadful day, when he saw her disappear beneath the waves. He had travelled many a league and was returning to the trusted alcove where they had first met. He had talked and talked to her for hours, days, months, while staring out over the sea. Sometimes, just before dawn, he would feel as if she was right next to him and lightness would fill his step. That is how he felt when he arrived that morning.

A veil of mist hung across the bay. Suddenly, she appeared. Look through the veil! He saw her splash into the water, running to meet him. His heart leapt. He dived and swam towards her, waves engulfing him. He surfaced, searching for her. Her red hair was like a beacon. She was his lifeline and he struggled to reach her. But she was floating down, disappearing underneath the sea. He lunged down; trying to catch her, but only water ran through his fingers and bits of seaweed. He tried and tried until he was too worn out. He lost consciousness and drifted down to the sea bed, the two glass figurines, which he had kept with him at all times, floating out of his pocket and, after bouncing up and down a couple of times, burying themselves in the sand.

The sun was warming his back. Was he dead? No, he lay on the beach; face down in the sand, his joints stiff, his clothes drenched. The mist had gone. Seals were barking out at sea. He looked over the water. He had seen her, through the veil of mist, but it had not been as he had imagined. The old lady had been right.

Having lost her twice, he had crossed the threshold. He no longer wanted to live. Sitting by the dying fire he made up his mind. He took the sails that he had stitched together. He dragged his little sloop out into the water, lay down and covered himself with the oiled cloth. Slowly the lapping waves moved him away from the shore and the current took the small boat in its arms. In this way, he would be close to her. He started talking again, words flowing from him softly, continually, in the language of his forefathers. “Ástin mín, ástin mín. Þú hefur náð botni sálar minnar.” Seals swam around his boat, barking and dancing in the water. One of them attracted his attention. It appeared to be laughing while it nuzzled its nose against the sloop. It had unusual green-golden eyes. He would have recognised those eyes anywhere.

They floated into a cloud of mist. “I love you”, she said, and placed a kiss on his mouth. “But ... , how…?” he stammered. “You have fallen in love with a selky, silly”, she smiled. “We can only cross between worlds through the mist. That’s why I couldn’t come to you. But I was with you all the time. Did you never see me, swimming off the port bow?” “Of course I did”, he laughed, still bewildered. “I always knew it was you.”

And now? Can a love like this exist? Of course it can, in fairytales. And this is one. So he jumped overboard and his love for her transformed him. Together they swam, sometimes seal, sometimes human, and found joy beyond compare.

'A Mermaid’ (detail) by John William Waterhouse, 1900   

Photo: Royal Academy of Arts, London

© Pep Mac Ruairi