“Something wrong with your dinner?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, what is it?” Father asks. “You’ve nary said a word all day.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Come, come, Kaspar,” he says, sucking meat from the shell. “Out with it. What’s bothering you?”

I take the foreclaw from my plate and turn it, examining its pointed contours. “What does the mermaid mean?”

“Mean? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a bedtime story for children. A scrap from some old legend.”

I point the claw at him. “If the mermaid exists, then what does that say about the Almighty? Does he allow this creature to live or is it beyond—”

“Enough.” He aims a greasy finger at me. “There’ll be no more blaspheming in this house. And no more talk of this wretched mermaid. You were all deluded by a trick of the light. There is no mermaid. End of discussion.”

My jaw aches from clamping my mouth shut, from holding it all inside. In the end, my tongue betrays me.

“It’s real,” I say. “It is hiding under our fishing hut as we speak.”

Reverend Uriah blusters up another dismissal, but a second glance at my face blunts his conviction.

“Show me.”

I lead the way through the crypt and down the stone passage to the fishing hut. All four of us dip into the knee-high water and peer at the scaly being huddled there. Father is trembling, his eyes bulging from his head. Bryndis lets out a gasp. Pip goes straight to it as if to embrace the creature. Father yanks him back to safety.

“Go and fetch Gunther,” he says. “And the other fishermen. Tell them to bring their nets and harpoons. Quickly now.”

“Father, no,” I protest. “It’s wounded.”

He won’t listen, pulling his children away from the thing coiled in darkness. “Go. Now!”

***

I do as I am told. What choice do I have? The men, roused from their evening pipes, gather their hooks and nets. One man, Clovis, retrieves the family broadsword from its place on the mantel, and hurries to catch up. They follow quickstep down the corridor, marching over the flagstone like knights of old, eager to carve their names into a saga of their own making. Most gasp when they see the fish-woman, some invoke God’s name. A few titter with some strange delight, as if they have been anticipating this moment their whole lives.

All look to Gunther the Brave for direction. He orchestrates the approach, directing the men with nets and those with spears. Father insists the men capture it without killing it. Gunther closes in on the prey, and the others follow. Clovis, who is a slight man, can barely hold aloft his family sword. When it falls from his thin hands and splashes into the water, Gunther gives the signal and the men pounce.