Chapter 33

He’d believed in merfolk from a young age. His father and grandfather had sworn by them: fisherman’s tales, sea stories, a glimpse or a song. Never any proof, but murmured in ship’s rigging, in sails, in firelit recounting.

He did not quite know how to deal with the legend become real. Here on the rocky shores of Gull Skerrie. Here at the edge of the world. Here on his tiny northern island where lives were measured out in briny catches of the day and rib-warming chowder and an utter lack of secrets.

But there hadbeen secrets. He sat in place for a moment, a man under cool blue sky above pale grey stone. He’d been helping to build the amphibious theater, a loose semicircle that’d encompass sea and land. Other people were working too, busy and bustling.

This theater was something new. This life was something new. The world had come to Gull Skerrie. Fantasy had come to Gull Skerrie.

Above his head the namesake birds called and wheeled, lonely, perplexed.