Once upon a time, in asmall village on the edge of the sea, there lived a little old man who everybody knew as Mr Rug. Nobody knew his first name, as he was so old that nobody in the village could ever remember him being young. He would dress outrageously, or at least that is what the conservative village folk thought, in bright red suits with black shirts and socks. He was small and his movements were rapid and he spoke quickly whenever anyone happened to talk to him. He sported a large handlebar moustache that he periodically would dye a dark black to match the toupee that he wore.

One evening Mr Rug was out for a lonely sea-side walk in the gloaming, alone with his wild thoughts about the nature of things. The sea-breeze was whipping up strongly in the rapidly fading light, so strong that he had a clasp one hand to his toupee every now and then to stop it blowing to where the west wind blows. The air was cold on this autumnal evening and cut though his clothes, so he hurriedly paced through the sand to make his way to the point at the far end of the beach. He would often-times come to this secluded spot to be away from the world of men and its pedantic demands.

He rounded the point, scuttling quickly over the rocky shore until he was finally out of the wind. He breathed in the briny air and felt alive. He looked out into the distance and saw the first stars beginning to emerge from their velvety veil. Beneath the sea was raging away to itself, intent on paying no heed to the beauty all around. Behind him stood cliffs that had become sinister in the darkness, all gnarled and unknowable. He sat down on a large rock and pulled his coat high over his shoulders and smiled to himself.

In no conscious moment, time had suddenly disappeared and all the world grew dark around Mr Rug. More stars lay scattered across the sky and ominous looking clouds gathered in pensive silence on the horizon, further darkening the moonless sky. He smiled more now, he knew what was coming. The air was becoming full of electricity.

The clouds spat scintillating sparks at each other and the wind grew howling. Mr Rug clutched at the toupee with vigour and was racked with an ecstatic joy in the roaring wind. Rain fell from the clear sky overhead and with a great crack of thunder the sea before him started to recede rapidly, leaving fish gasping and crabs scuttling on the newly dry land.

Mr Rug jumped to his feet and walked down to match the pace of the retreating shoreline. As the sea went backwards it also went upwards in height, so that after a few minutes Mr Rug had walked forwards a few hundred metres and stood facing a sheer wall of green water over thirty metres high. The water had slowed down and now stood trembling under its own massive weight. Mr Rug giggled and stoked his hand through the wall, feeling the mystic energy run through his body. With a second great thunderclap a vortex appeared in the water before his face, spiraling down into inky blackness.

The vortex grew wide and strange music floated out, the sounds of fanfare and great ceremony. Mr Rug stared down into the void eagerly and was jumping around with excitement. He saw shapes emerging slowly from the black. At the front of the pageant came swirling ghosts, eyes white and floating on unseen currents. They sang a song of the drowned in moaning monotone as they drifted back and forth, circling the vortex and randomly crossing paths. Mr Rug had no time for such moping spectres, so he extended his middle finger at them and told them, by shouting, of productive ways to spend their time. They lingered briefly before flashing back down into the sea. He could see more shapes following and he waited patiently.

After the ghosts had disappeared, Mr. Rug could hear a familiar singing rising up out of the sea. Faint at first but growing ever stronger, high and strong it emerged from the dark water. It was not quite singing, somewhere between an operatic soprano and a baleful wailing, yet was music to Mr. Rug nonetheless. Mr. Rug smoothed down his wild eyebrows with a licked fingertip in readiness for his beloved mermaidens.

The voices grew louder and suddenly Mr. Rug was besieged by a hail of purple jellyfish, flying up out of the vortex. He ran wildly for cover as they flew past him, their thin tentacles lashing at his face and hands. A few hit him squarely in the back of the head as he ran behind a nearby rock. He sat down laughing and picking the painful stinging tentacles out of the skin on his hands, face and neck.

“You got me again!” he shouted gleefully.

Mr. Rug chuckled away to himself as the tentacle stings started to redden and swell. He got out from behind the rock and approached the wall of water reverently. The singing dropped suddenly in pitch and the face of the water wall started to tremble in harmonics with the sound. A purple light cut a path up along the vortex and dark shapes of mermaidens were swimming at the very limit of his vision in the water. He closed his eyes and awaited their visitation.

Mr. Rug felt a soft touch on his cheek and knew not to open his eyes as the magic would disappear.

“I’ve not come to see you for some time my love,” he said “I’ve missed you so intensely you cannot understand.”

His mermaid lover whispered back to him and he knew she understood, her sweet breath coiled itself around his face and he knew love once more.

“I’ve come with no interesting tales to tell,” he laughed to himself as he said “All my days all I do is burn for you. Tell me of your life under the sea.”

And she spoke to him.

He listened intently as she spoke, he could also hear her handmermaidens swimming behind her and giggling at her stories of the deep. He reached out and felt her delicate hand, her smooth skin against his coarse fat fingers. He reached up and felt her flowing hair. He longed to be able to see her after all this time but knew that he couldn’t. He bent forwards and pressed his lips against hers and kissed sweetly. He couldn’t stand it any longer, he opened his eyes and saw her beautiful face. She pulled back shocked and the wall of water came crashing down. And all was black and roaring.

Time passed and the sun rose again and Mr. Rug awoke with a cough of salt water in his bed in his little cottage by the sea. He wiped away the water from his chin and looked around the room. The sun was pouring gloriously in through the window and he could smell coffee. He looked out into the kitchen and could see that breakfast had been prepared for him, and all over the table were exotic seaweed and starfish. He rolled over and noticed that he was sharing his bed with a large tunafish. He cuddled up to the tuna and fell asleep again, dreaming of the next time he would go down to the sea.

The end.