The woman was tall and lithe, with long hair so blond that it was white. She stood on a rocky cliff, wind blowing salt water into her delicate face. The wind was cool, but she didn't notice as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

With her eyes still closed, the woman began to slowly unbutton the blouse she was wearing. A soft song formed on her lips and fell from them, almost lost in the cool autumn air. She removed the blouse, dropping it as freely as she had dropped the song, then quickly did the same for the remainder of her clothing.

Once free, she hesitated, opening her eyes and turning to look over her shoulder. Behind her stood a house, its windows twinkling in friendly welcome, beckoning her to return. An intense longing gripped her, almost making her change her mind. She wanted to go back to that house more than anything. Anything but one, she corrected herself, forcing her eyes and yearning away from what the house represented. Though it hurt, she knew that soon she would be filled with joy and that joy would wipe away some of her pain.

Turning her back to the house, the woman squared her bare shoulders and walked to the edge of the cliff. Her hair whipped around her as if it were dancing at the prospect of what was to come. A smile came to her face, and she forgot what she was leaving behind as she leaned forward and pushed off from the cliff with her toes.

Hitting the water was magnificent. For the first breath, the water was a cold shock, slightly jarring, but in the next moment, it was a kind knife, cutting away the last five years of her life as if they were just a layer of skin. The woman felt herself changing, felt her legs melding together, felt the openings come alive at the base of her throat, felt her body being welcomed once again by its true home.

The little house on the cliff was forgotten.

Edan stood in the doorway, staring at the cliff's edge. He felt...nothing, numb. Muirin had always told him that she would go someday. Had insisted that she felt the pull, day in, day out, but he had made himself believe otherwise, that love for him, or for the children, would anchor her to land. He had ignored her words.

"Edan, sweet, this is but a moment. You are too quick, too hasty to decide. You humans are made of fire and blood. Merrows are patient as the sea. But I hear it calling me, Edan. I hear the songs, and long to join in. Someday I will return, darling, and you must be ready."

He had kissed her, as much to stop her unwanted words as for love. She hadn't spoken of it since. Merril had been a baby then, just starting to walk, and finding more than enough mischief to keep him happy. Cordelia had been a slight bulge in her mother's figure, and Ida barely an idea. Thinking of the children turned Edan back into his home. Cordelia and Ida lay silent and still, and safe! (God bless and protect them, oh Lord, please bless and protect them) safe, in the moonlight, their flaxen hair tangling.

Merril was sitting up on the edge of his bed. "Father?" he asked softly.

"Go to sleep Merril."

"Is she gone...for good?"

"You know the answer as well as I. Sleep now, son."

The boy lay back down, but sleep did not come easily. He could hear the songs his father never even imagined. There in the dark he grieved for his mother, and listened to the ocean rejoicing for its long lost daughter.

Ida did not like going to church. Oh, the sermon was interesting enough. (Sometimes, at least, when he wasn't talking about respecting one's elders and such.) And the building itself was pretty, with the stain-glass sorting the sunlight into images that would positively glow. (At least, when the sun was out.) But the people...oh the rest of the congregation! She positively *loathed* them. And it was mutual. They always crossed themselves when Mother walked by them. Ida suspected it had less to do with protecting their souls than snubbing Mother. But Mother never seemed to mind it. But now, seeing one of the old villagers slowly making the sign of the cross as she approached, Ida found it hard to keep calm, the way Mother would have wanted her to.

As if sensing her anger, Merril quickly scooped her up in one arm for a ride. "It's a difficult road for such short legs," he told her gently. "Let's see if I can't make it a little easier."

She smiled. Merril had always understood her well, and she him. She knew his words were less about the road, and more about disagreeable villagers who couldn't even take a day off from their snobbery to let them mourn for their mother. He would help her if he could, but she must keep her temper in line.

"Don't baby her so, Merril," Cordelia said. "She's a great big girl, and she's walked here a hundred times at least on other Sundays." Unhappiness had shortened Cordelia's temper, and her sympathy.

"Today isn't like any other Sunday," Merril chided quietly, and Cordelia fell silent.

Edan followed behind his children, hands buried deep in pockets, face buried deep in shadows, silent.

So they entered St. Matthew's Church to face the mercy of God, and the scorn of their fellow parishioners.

When Church was over, Merril raced his little sisters home, leading them into a game of laughter and speed. It was their place, on this road, and the world could not catch their young feet as they flew by.

This, also, was a trick of Merril's - one he had used before. By the time they all got back to their little cottage, the girls were too tired to want to follow their big brother on any more outdoor excursions. Besides, there was the breakfast to be made, the washing to be done, the thousand little chores that forever needed tending to. And they would have to learn, now, to tend them without a mother's watchful eye.

Arriving home, Merril sat outside, catching his breath on the stoop until his father arrived. He stood to greet Edan's heavy steps.

"Where are the girls?"

Merril nodded towards the house. "Inside. I told them to start preparing food for us. Father, I'm going to go walking a bit."

Edan eyed his son. "Towards the cliff?"

Merril could not lie. "Yes."

"Merril. If you're thinking of--"

"Well I'm not." Merril almost allowed himself to be annoyed at his father's concern. But. after they had all suffered so much pain, understanding overcame his petty irritation. He said, more gently, "I will not follow her, Father. I'm just going walking. I'll be back by the time the meal's done." He smiled.

Edan knew the boy well enough to see truth in his eyes. "All right. But mind the winds, and don't go too close to the edge of the cliff."

"Yes, Father." With that, he was off across the grass that separated their home from the cliff's razor edge. He walked straight to the edge and sat down. Removing his shoes and socks, he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his hands around his ankles. With his eyes closed, he listened to the water crashing against the rocks below.

Tell a tale of fishes' mail
And fish that walk upon the land.
Sing a song of right and wrong
And seashells on the sand.

Round it flits and there it sits,
A gull upon a portly ship.
He sees the seas and drinks the breeze
And knows the fish who jump and dip.

But who now sits, who plainly fits
Not in his own world or in mine
Upon the cliff, above the skiff
Above where seagulls' wingtips shine?

It is my son, the eldest one
Of all my children of the land.
He hears my song, he knows I long
To take him once more by the HAND!

The last word of the dream mingled and transformed into the scream of a seagull as it passed by his head in a dive towards the waves. He startled out of his doze. His gaze immediately fell to his hands, where a strange feeling crept beneath his fingers. Lifting them away, he saw that his ankles had turned a strange pale green and become rough. almost like...

...fish scales?

Merril leaped up and ran back to the house, not even bothering to put his shoes back on.

His breath caught in his chest as his bare feet were torn by the rough grass that grew around their house. He hadn't run barefoot in too long, and his feet had grown soft again, bleeding easily. Stumbling, Merril entered his home...and froze. A stranger was seated at the hearth, Ida sitting on his knee, Cordelia at his side. Both girls' eyes were bright and wide, fixed firmly on the stranger's face. At his entrance, the man looked up.

"And this must be the much-spoken-of Merril," he said. His voice was very low and rasping. He had an odd lilting to his speech -- strange, but not unpleasant. His brown hair was unkempt and scraggily, and the long hair and his beard surrounded his dark face like a beast mask.

Merril was too startled to make reply, and he stood staring stupidly at the man.

"I am Elatha," the stranger said, sensing his discomfort.

"May you be welcome to our hearth and home," Merril said, finally finding his tongue, and remembering his manners.

"I already made him welcome!" Ida said gaily. "Didn't I, Cordelia?"

"The hospitality of this home is like balm to my tired spirit, almost more welcome than a warm place to rest," Elatha said grandly.

"Courtesy is considered one of the virtues of these islands, though I find it comes and goes at will." Edan's voice emerged from the shadows as he entered through the back door.

"Father," Cordelia said, "Sit down, lunch is ready." There was no reproach in her tone, but her words silenced him.

As the family said the mealtime prayer, Merril slid eyes down to his feet. They were completely human, just bruised and bleeding from his run. He quickly looked up to find Elatha studying him intently. Merril met his eyes questioningly, wondering what the man was thinking.

When the prayer ended, Merril quickly broke the silence. "So Elatha, what fate-driven wind brought you to our shores?"

"Don't pry, Merril!" Cordelia said. "If Elatha wants to tell us, he will."

"It's all right, Cordelia, though I fear my dull story is hardly an adequate return for this meal." He broke one of the rolls and continued, "I suppose the entirety of my life can be summed up in a single sentence: I am an artist." He smiled. "A painter, to be more specific. I even painted briefly at the Imperial Court, but my career there ended rather quickly. I find painting on command...difficult."

"Difficult?" Cordelia asked.

"Impossible," Elatha corrected himself. "I left with my head still attached to my shoulders, so I've nothing to complain of. These islands are beautiful and far away. I hoped I could begin anew."

"The demand for paintings isn't very high," Edan said grimly.

"I can do other things. I'm not a bad hand at carpentry either if I need to, and I'm certainly not above doing any kind of honest work."

"And he knows everything Father!" Ida said. "He can read! He's read books from the king's own library! He was telling Cordelia and me a story about Athena, the lady who drives her chariot across the night sky, and..."

"It seems clear you have charmed my daughters already," Edan interrupted her. "I wonder if you couldn't be troubled to stay with us a little longer. You need a place to stay, and I think my children could benefit from your experiences. You could teach them to read."

"Yes! Oh say you will, Elatha! Otherwise we will have to go to Brother Cleary, and he smells strangely and he's always telling me that children are the devil's own curse."

"I would be happy to stay with you. Truly, I hadn't expected this good fortune. I don't know how to thank you Edan."

"Teach them well, and that will be thanks enough." Edan nodded to them and left the house.

"Is he angry?" Ida wondered allowed.

"Just sad," Merril told her. "Come on, we need to clean up. Ida, will you show Elatha where the spring is?"

When they had left, Ida half dancing, talking nonstop about a bird that she had seen, and asking if anything besides bird could fly, Merril turned to his other sister.

"What do you think of him?"

"Elatha?" She seemed surprised by the question.

"Yes, do you trust him?"

"Why? Shouldn't I?"

"I don't know. I sense a...a kind of...I don't know, darkness in him. I can't tell whether it is born of sorrow and pain, or anger and dishonesty. I don't think he lied, but I don't think he told the entire truth, either."

"You're sure of this feeling?"

"Delia...what can I know?"

Cordelia was silent for a moment. "All of our tainted gifts," she spat, suddenly angry. "Why can't we just be human!"

He waited until she was calm again. "So, what do you think of him?"

"I trust him. He smells like a wind that has passed through sunshine and rainstorm, itself changed, but not changed. He is an artist, Merril. That much I'm sure was true."

"I'll trust him then too, for now."

Cordelia waited, knowing there was something else. These siblings, all three, were closer than most, and knew each other's moods as well or better than their own.

"I wonder if he'll teach me how to paint," Merril said.

"I'd be happy to," Elatha said from behind them.

Both siblings spun around. Cordelia dropped the bowl she was holding, but luckily it didn't break.

He stood in the doorway, holding a bucket of water in one hand. Ida was no where to be seen. Neither could have guessed how long he had been there, or how much he might have heard.