Dragged by the evening current upon the village’s shoreline, the crumpled, sodden form of a woman, or so she appeared, lay sprawled in a tangle of frayed seaweed and netting, a halo of crimson staining the sand beneath; she was rejected, as if the waves themselves had grown tired of her.

From the mist-shrouded path that wound its way down the cliffside, a sound cut through the eerie stillness of the scene: the rhythmic, persistent creak of an old, wooden cart, pushed along by the calloused hands of a solitary figure. Hunched with age and laden with weariness, the man was not an essential fisherman or well-respected sailor, like most in the village, but merely an unwelcome peddler of little regard whose rickety barrow frequented the market stalls, packed with an assortment of dubious remedies and trinkets: brittle vials of strange tonics, faded charms wrapped in tattered cloth, and bottles of murky elixirs, each promising to cure everything from one’s broken heart to the gnawing pains of gout.

Rattling over the pebbled beach, as he did nightly, his lantern flickered weakly in the thickening fog, casting long, wavering shadows across the damp sands as his eyes scanned the familiar stretch of terrain for any discarded or forgotten treasures he could utilize. It was there he found her, his cart groaning to a halt.

For a moment, he remained still, his breath shallow as his eyes took in the form splayed out before him. The woman was tragically beautiful in the way that drowned things often were: her pale, lifeless features delicate, yet ravaged by the relentless grip of the sea. Harsh, mottled bruises of purples and blues marred her once smooth skin, whilst her long, dark hair hung in limp, knotted strands, tangled with coarse seagrass and dulled by saltwater.

A deep, gaping wound marked her stomach: a jagged gash inflicted by a harpoon’s brutal strike, its rusted tip, still lodged within her flesh, a grim testament to the violence of the nearby fishermen and pirates.

Stepping cautiously closer, the peddler’s lantern fluttered, catching the shimmer of something iridescent. His eyes narrowed, suspicion growing as his gaze descended. There, where her hips should have been, the body’s form twisted into a long, smooth tail, gleaming with scales that rippled in the lantern’s glow, tapering down to a delicate fin, unnaturally bent with torn edges.

A sense of dread passed through the old peddler as his mind, sluggish with years of regret and unfulfilled hopes, raced through the half-remembered tales and warnings that had slipped through the cracks of his memory. How drunken sailors in the village tavern, their eyes wide with feverish passion, recounted tales of scaled women whose hauntingly seductive voices could lure men to their watery graves. And of the weathered fishermen, their lives spent upon the salty waves, who spoke in hushed, reverent tones of near-drownings and their unexplained rescues by creatures whose beauty had seared itself into their souls, never to be forgotten. He instantly dropped to his knees, breath hitching and heart pounding as a cold rush of certainty surged through him: this was no mere drowned girl or hapless sailor, but, undeniably, a mermaid.

Brushing his trembling fingers gently against her tail, he felt the cool, smooth scales beneath his touch, coruscating in a myriad of sea colors: aquamarine, emerald, and violet, each catching the faint light of his lantern in a kaleidoscope of hues.

“They all ignore me,” he thought, seething with the quiet frustration of years spent on the outskirts of a community that dismissed him as a feeble, forgotten old man with nothing to offer; unseen, unheard, and unworthy of notice.

“Well never again!” he shakily muttered under his breath as he roughly gripped the base of the tail with a bitter resolve, his fingernails digging into the flesh white-knuckled.

These scales, shining with unnatural beauty, were no longer just a treasure, but power he could claim for himself; a power that would elevate him, make him sought after, and ensure he would never again be empty-handed.

A tremor of desire coursed through the old peddler as his hand drifted to the knife at his belt, its cold, polished steel glinting in the dim moonlight as he unsheathed it.

“After all,” he thought, his eyes gleaming with a predatory glare, “it’s the sea that took her, not me.”

With a sharp, deliberate motion, he pressed the blade into the edge of her tail, the steel meeting a hard, underlying resistance before slicing through the glittering scales with a sickening rip, the first coming loose. Beneath the lost scale, the raw flesh was pale and soft with the sheen of exposed muscle, and as the knife continued its cruel path, tugging and tearing, a trail of dark, briny blood spilled over his trembling hands, the sharp, iron tang mingling with the salt heavy in the air.

As his eyes narrowed in concentration, his breath grew ragged, almost ruthless, as his blade sliced deeper, the scales slipping free one by one with repulsive, wet sounds that echoed through the heavy silence of the beach, broken only by the distant calls of a gull. Slick with blood, his hands fumbled, but never faltered, each cut methodical with rhythm as he worked his way down the tail, ignoring the way her body seemed to flinch beneath his touch.

Unable to meet the silent judgment, he avoided the vacant, unblinking stare of her glassy eyes, as well as her slightly parted lips, seemingly suspended in the middle of a scream that would never come.

Eventually, the old peddler sat back, panting with exertion as he surveyed the mangled wreck of the mermaid’s tail before him: its once iridescent segments now all stripped away, revealing a raw stump of exposed, bloodied flesh. After wiping the dripping blade of his knife, along with his forehead, across the sleeve of his coat, he hoisted the hefty sack of stolen scales that lay beside him over his shoulder and began to drag the corpse of the mermaid upon his cart, her magic now reduced to scraps, back to proper land.

As the night faded into dawn, the first rays of morning light pierced through the haze of the evening’s thick fog, casting a golden glow over the village as it slowly awakened from its quiet slumber. It was then that the faint clattering of wooden shutters opening, the soft murmur of voices drifting from doorways, and the clicking of shoes against the cobbles signaled the beginning of the villagers’ morning routines: some tended to their garden, a few hauled in a fresh catch from the boats, and others had already gathered at the market square, ready to barter for the day’s goods.

At the edge of said square, where the cobblestones met the cliffside path leading down to the beach, the old peddler’s cart sat in its usual place, his standard collection of placeos and dubious trinkets overshadowed by something new. Behind the cart, towering above the other stalls, loomed a makeshift, gallows-like structure covered by an enormous, sun-bleached sail cloth.

Villagers hesitantly gathered, intrigued as the peddler, dressed in his worn, patched coat, climbed atop his cart with unusual vigor, his eyes alight with the fervor of a man who possessed something other than the day’s usual wares.

“Good people,” he chanted, his raspy voice cutting through the bustling marketplace, louder than his usual mutterings. “Gather round and behold something you’ve never laid eyes on before—something only whispered about in tales.”

He paused, allowing a sense of anticipation to settle over them like mist, his eyes sparkling with confidence.

“Today,” he continued, “I present to you a gift: rare, mystic, and of great value.”

With a flourish, he pulled out from his coat pocket a small glass vial containing a single iridescent scale, its surface shimmering with an unnatural radiance in the morning light.

“Behold,” his voice rang out with promise, “these scales, my dear people, are no mere ornaments; they are a blessing from a sea maiden herself, rarer than gold and capable of curing sickness, bringing luck, or even, just maybe, granting your heart’s deepest desires.”

Rumblings of curiosity and skepticism spread through the mass as villagers slumped forward, exchanging glances filled with doubt, but also slight interest.

A young man in the crowd scoffed , folding his arms. “A mermaid? Really? You’ve been trying to sell these fairy tales for years, old man. What’s next, a sea dragon?”

Small laughs scattered.

“Exactly,” another chimed in, nudging a neighbor. “Remember the beans he promised would allow us to learn fluent French overnight? He’s nothing but a liar!”

The laughter grew louder, mocking the peddler’s actions of the past, but he was undeterred, his excitement only intensifying. With a leap, he descended from the cart, his torn boats hitting the platform of the makeshift gallows with a satisfying thud sound that snapped the audience’s attention back to him.

“Do not be discouraged by the whispers of naysayers!” he declared, his voice filled with almost manic energy. “For today, you bear witness to something beyond belief!”

With a grand, dramatic tug, he drew back the weathered sail cloth, revealing what lay hidden beneath: the corpse of the mermaid, suspended from an iron hook pierced through the harpoon wound in her stomach, her form swaying gently in the breeze.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as the villagers leaned forward, their eyes transfixed in awe upon the form of the mermaid. To them, she was not merely just a copse, but rather a piece of legend made flesh. She was a creature spoken of only in hushed tones and exaggerated whispers. In her, they saw the impossible brought to life. The very fact of her existence was both an honor and a terror, causing a craving for the untouchable. The mermaid was a promise, one they’d heard in stories and dreamed of but never expected to witness. And now she was here, laid bare before them.

“Look, Nana!” a small boy whispered, tugging upon the shawl of his grandmother, for whom also was entranced.

“She’s just like in the stories your papa told,” she whispered back, her voice filled with an almost childish excitement, ignoring the blood that still oozed from her flayed, striped tail. “She’s beautiful!”

“She is beautiful, isn’t she,” whispered another woman who stood beside the grandmother, her voice barely above a breath as she stepped forward. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached toward the hanging body, but she stopped just shy of touching it, as if afraid that it might break the illusion.

As they stood transfixed by her haunting beauty, the old peddler took a calculated step forward, his eyes burning with a sense of satisfaction as he could feel the weight of their attention upon him.

“Yes,” the peddler cried out, his voice now a commanding force in the sea of whispers. “She is truly beautiful. But, unfortunately, beauty like hers is one that fades if left untouched…unsavored.”

He once more lifted his hand, holding the small, glass vial containing the single scale. He let his gaze sweep over them all, his voice tinged with reverence.

“A single scale,” he continued, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet carrying through the hush that had fallen over the market square. “One of many, yes, but each one precious—each one capable of holding her power, her grace, her mystery. Imagine what that could mean for you.”

The crowd stirred, eyes darting from the peddler to the mermaid and back again. One by one, they stepped forward, each clutching a coin, holding out a hand in anticipation. To the fisherman, he promised good fortune at sea. To the baker, prosperity and protection for his family. To the young woman with sorrow in her eyes, true love. And so on.

By evening, all of the scales had been sold, and the crowd dispersed. As the last villager departed, clutching their vial of iridescent hope, the old peddler stood alone to pack his cart in the square, the desecrated form of the mermaid still hanging from the iron hook behind him. He looked at her for a moment, his eyes cold as she was no longer of use to him, and so he unhooked her, and dragged her limp form back to the shore. The sea roared below, the waves crashing against the rocks, and without ceremony, the peddler threw her body back into the water, the ocean accepting her once more; the sea was indifferent, just as it had tossed her upon the shore, it took her back without hesitation. As the peddler watched her sink beneath the waves, the saltwater consuming her in silence, he reached into his coat pocket, fingers trembling as he retrieved the single scale he had saved. It shimmered faintly in his hand, its iridescent glow slowly fading as he held it up to the moonlight. In an instant, it crumbled to dust, slipping through his fingers like sand. A bitter smile curled on his lips, and he turned away, the wind howling as the sea whispered its final song.

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