The Mermaid of Minnesota

By

Cincoflex@aol.com

Rose bent down to her son, and gently set his glasses back on. Harry beamed at her, and she took in the sight of him with an inward tender sigh.

At three, Harry MacGyver was a strong boy, with the rounded tummy of a toddler and the active enthusiasm of a born explorer. Early on, the pediatricians had caught his mild strabismus and prescribed corrective lenses. He now wore round glasses perched on a snub little nose, magnifying his big brown eyes. Rose refused to cut his hair, and the thin wispy baby locks had gone wild, growing into thick blonde ringlets that framed his freckled face. Most of the time he wore demin overalls and striped shirts, and lately, a cape made from a pink dishtowel.

“Ready for a picnic in the living room?”

“Yup!” he replied in a surprisingly deep voice for a toddler. Rose sent him towards the kitchen with a little push on the back.

“I wanna story,” Polly announced to Mac who was busy spreading peanut butter on the toasted bread, trying to ignore Barnum nudging his left hip and Harry behind him, tugging on his shirt.

“Um, what, Polly? Harry, hang on, I’m almost done—“

Rose finished pouring the milk into sippy cups before carrying them out to the picnic blanket on the living room floor of the Grotto.

“I NEED a story.”

“A story? Are you sure?” Mac asked, carefully cutting the sandwiches in half.

“Yes. My momma always tells me a story when I ask, but she’s busy making my baby so YOU need to do it Uncle Mac.”

Rose met her husband’s slightly startled glance and grinned—five year old Polly Parker-Penn had a certain way with words, just like her mama. She’d gone from being a gorgeous baby with café au lait skin and gossamer mahogany curls to a self-assured little minx complete with dimples, charm, and five different Barbies as well. Currently Penny and Perry were off at the hospital bringing another Parker-Penn into the world, so Polly was staying with the MacGyvers until the deed was done.

Scooping Harry and the sandwiches up, MacGyver carried them both to the living room, followed by the little girl and a hopeful Great Dane.

“Making HER baby?” Mac whispered to Rose, who giggled, settling down on the floor and handing Harry a cup.

“Thank,” he replied in his deep voice. Polly patted the blanket next to her.

“Sit here, Harry, okay?”

As if there were any other choice: little Harry MacGyver was completely in love with Polly and did anything she commanded. With a happy grin he plunked himself down at her side, waggling his sneakered feet and staring up at her with breathless devotion.

Mac rolled his eyes; Rose swatted his shoulder even as Barnum came over, planting himself between the two grown ups, sighing and still staring at the sandwiches.

“Harry, I’m telling you, you can’t let a pair of gorgeous eyes lead you astray, buddy—especially before you’re completely potty trained.”

“Polly MINE,” Harry insisted, hugging his ladylove and making her giggle.

“Harry honey, let go—Polly needs to finish her milk—and breathe,“ Rose warned him. Mac passed out the sandwiches with a grin, slipping half of one to Barnum, who gave a sigh of content. Rose tweaked his nose.

“Mac MINE,” she whispered. His dimples flashed.

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Make a baby for ME—“

“Mac!” Rose giggled. Polly was watching them with an air of boredom.

“Please tell me a story—“ she repeated with a dramatic little sigh. Harry patted her shoulder and glared at his father.

“Daddy! Story NOW,” he boomed, making Mac look stunned for a second.

“Whoa, remind me not to mess with a three year old in love—“ he muttered to Rose.

“It’s not the age, it’s the genetics—MacGyvers are pretty emphatic,” she pointed out, taking a bite of her sandwich to hide her smile. Mac shot her a suspicious look, but Harry broke in with another order.

“Mermaid!”

“The Mermaid story—“ Mac weakly responded, blushing. “--Ah Harry bud, that’s just for bedtime and just between US, remember?” he hurriedly whispered as Rose pursed her lips and Polly leaned forward.

“Mermaid story, Mac?” his wife asked softly. MacGyver’s blush deepened, and Polly, sensing her moment of power, giggled.

“Yeah yeah, a mermaid story, uncle Mac! I LOVE mermaids ‘cause my mommy was one when she got my daddy.”

“That’s true, she was, wasn’t she?” Rose agreed, remembering. Mac made a show of collecting the plates, buying time. Harry noisily drank from his sippy cup and managed a loud burp that made Polly laugh.

“Say excuse me now Harry—“ she ordered. He smiled at her, traces of milk dribbling down his chin.

“’Sucuse me now,” he echoed. Polly laughed again, and Rose mopped his face as she glanced over her shoulder at Mac.

“The story, honey?” she reminded him with perfectly annoying sweetness. He gritted his teeth as both kids turned their attention to him, settling on the blanket and watching his expression.

“Okay. Rose, I need you to know that although I told Harry this was a true story, certain facts have a somewhat dubious nature, all right?”

“I can’t WAIT to hear all about this mermaid, MacLover—“ Rose retorted, stretching out on her side resting her back against the heavy warm bulk of Barnum.

Mac sighed. He looked at the three expressions around him: Polly’s was eager, his wife’s was amused and his son’s was stern and waiting.

“All right then. Once upon a time after the Civil War, in a wondrous land called Minnesota there was a man—“

*** *** ***

MacGyver looked over the homestead and sighed. His plans for heading out west and claiming a little land under newer skies had ended with his grandfather’s last will and testament, and now he stood on the far edge of his inherited property line wondering if he was going loco.

The cabin Harry Jackson had left him was livable, certainly, and the acreage was all right provided the next summer didn’t have a drought, but at the moment, the nippiness of the first snowfall dampened any enthusiasm he had for surveying the land and checking out smoke rising from the northwest corner. The cold, wet snow clung to his coat and chilled his marrow; even Bess his mare was not happy to be out in it.

“Cats and Dogs, it’s cold!” he complained outloud, dismounting and casting a glance around the cluster of dark pines that formed a natural cove. In the spring it would be a lovely place, he mused, but in winter it looked foreboding. He checked the sky and found the smoke thickly rising from somewhere ahead.

He hoped it wasn’t an Indian camp; although most of them were peaceable there were still several tribes who’s attitudes had changed since Harry’s time, and Mac had no more stomach for violence. A stand with the first Minnesota volunteers at Gettysburg had extinguished any taste he might have ever had for gun-forged settlements. With a wave of his gloved hand, he brushed away the snow from his hat and urged Bess forward into the trees.

The ground was rockier here, and he found the going too steep for the mare. Reluctantly he tied her reins to an outstretched branch and patted her reassuringly.

“Stay under the trees, girl—I’ll be back,” he told her. She whickered, and moved to the sheltered side of the pine as MacGyver stomped on, grumbling to himself. After fifteen steps he heard—

Swearing. A lot of it, and oddly enough, not all of it in English. Puzzled, he cocked his head and listened, his face growing faintly red as he caught words in Norwegian, Swedish and English. There were others but they made no sense to him. He moved forward again.

As he got closer to the source, a few new facts dawned on MacGyver. First of all the air and ground were getting warmer. It wasn’t as surprising as it might have been; Mac was aware that several hot springs lay between his side of Menokatee Lake and the other. The second fact was that the voice spouting the obscenities was a woman’s. The low melodic timbre seemed at odds with the foul language, but intrigued, he pushed on until he stood on a rocky outcropping rising seven feet over a large steaming pool.

First mystery solved—the smoke he’d seen was actually steam rising from the thermal spring. He grinned as thoughts of Saturday night baths courtesy of Mother Nature dawned on him. It would be much easier to clean up here than to haul icy water in front of the tiny fireplace in the cabin.

As he let his gaze sweep over the pool, a stunning sight met his astonished gaze. A woman floated near the left edge of the pool, struggling to free her long hair from the thorny branches of an overhang of blackberry vines. Her wet hair had snagged but good on the winter dead brambles, and Mac could see it was causing her as much pain as annoyance. Her back was to him, and the sleek pale sheen of it made him swallow hard—it had been a good long time since he’d seen the sweet curve of a woman’s bare spine.

He hollered.

“Hey!”

Startled, the woman twisted and looked up at him, her gaze a blend of fear and anger. She yanked at her hair again, flailing her arms in the air and creating a natural bounce to her gloriously bare chest. MacGyver backed up, closing his eyes even as his eyelids protested. They weren’t alone as other body parts added their enthusiastic argument for more visual confirmation. MUCH more.

Mac let his chivalry wrestle his libido and cleared his throat as he slapped a gloved hand over his eyes.

“Excuse me Miss—I didn’t mean to startle you. Need help?”

“Of COURSE I do!” she yelled back up at him, her frustration apparent.

“Um, okay—“ he floundered, wondering how he could render assistance without a fair amount of unavoidable lechery. The woman seemed to sense his dilemma and called up to him again.

“Throw down your hat—“

“What? Why?”

“Please just do it—“

Blindly, Mac whipped off his hat and tossed it in the general direction of the woman. He heard her splash and after a second she shouted,

“You can open your eyes now—“

Warily MacGyver did so, to see that she had clapped his hat over her chest. It didn’t completely cover the situation, but it was enough to pass for the moment. Mac drew in a grateful breath and managed a smile under his thick mustache.

“Fair enough Miss.”

“I’m lucky you have a big head—“ she replied sweetly. He shot her a disbelieving look as he climbed down, wondering if he’d just been insulted or not. When he reached the waterline, the woman twisted to study him at the same time he took his first good look at her.

She was a petite girl; her ivory skin was dappled with freckles, and her big eyes were as blue as a summer sky. MacGyver noted that the long strands of her hair caught in the bramble had dried, and were a glossy cinnamon red--a color he’d always had a secret weakness for. She reached up the hand not clamping the hat to her chest and tugged ineffectively at the snag.

“I popped up for a breath and tossed my hair back only to hit the vines—not a smart thing to do I suppose,” came her grudging explanation. Mac nodded, and reached his gloved hands for the dried brambles, trying to estimate how best to break them. He teetered precariously on the rocky ledge

“I can probably snap the branches, but it’s going to take some time to fish them outta your crowning glory there—“

He heard her whimper, and realized her neck was probably getting sore, so without further delay, Mac took the brambles between his hands giving them a hard bend. The damp dead wood fought him, but eventually his strength won out, and the vines broke with a satisfying crack. The girl promptly sank under the steaming water, and panic shot through MacGyver; he peeled off his coat and prepared to dive in just as she resurfaced with a happy sigh.

“Much better! Any longer and my neck would have snapped. What are you doing?”

“I was going to jump in and fish you out—“ he mumbled, suddenly aware that she seemed perfectly fine. The girl chuckled, her laugh echoing around the spring.

“Aren’t you the sweet one! But your efforts would have been wasted. I’m all right now, thanks to you.”

“Glad to hear it—“

“And you probably need your hat back—“ came her purr.

“Ah, no—go ahead and keep it—“ he blustered as the girl prepared to fling it back at him. Mac shifted his gaze as she tossed it high, calling,

“Acridamio!”

The hat hit his face, and he flinched, prepared for a face full of wet felt. Instead the light brush of a perfectly dry hat made him open his eyes. He picked it up and shot her a suspicious look. She had dropped down deeper, so that only her neck and head were above water now, the dark bits of thorn branches still snagged in her hair.

“How did you DO that?” He demanded, checking the inner band of the hat, feeling the brim. She laughed.

“I did it very well—“ she teased, batting her blue eyes at him. It wasn’t a satisfactory answer at all, but MacGyver hesitated. He clapped the hat back on his head and twitched his mustache, uncertain what to do next. Clearly this wasn’t your ordinary every day sort of situation.

“All right then. My name’s Ma—“

“—NO!” she yelled at him, eyes wide. When he stared at her, she shook her head.

“If you give me your name, you’re giving me power over you, and I already owe you a debt, sir. Tell me something else I can call you instead.”

Mac shifted his feet, perplexed. His mama had told him about witches and magic in fairy tales when he was a wee lad, and Grandfather Harry had spun tales of dark mysteries out in the Etoile du Nord, but this was 1865, and common sense decreed that this young gal was a might touched in the head.

“Now listen here Miss, I’m not generally in the habit of talking to gals in your state of undress. And while the spring is a mighty nice place to take a swim, it would probably be best if you got out now and headed back to where ever your folks are waiting,” he rumbled, trying not to blush. The girl in the water was busy picking bits of bramble out of her hair.

“My father was Magnus Everard, the Viking; my mother was Clytie EastRising the sea nymph and they both died quite a long time ago, sir. Did you know you have eyes like a river otter? Big and brown and soft looking—“ she commented with a lopsided grin.

Mac blushed again. He couldn’t help it—the last thing he’d been expecting was to hear was anything like what she’d just spouted. He cocked his head and stared at her.

“A river otter?”

“Sweet little clowns of the water. There’s a family just two miles up the creek on the north of your lay. The old man never trapped them, you know—he loved them as much as I did. I was very sad to see he died.”

“Me too,” Mac admitted gruffly, wondering why talking about his grandfather with a naked woman didn’t seem as odd as it should have. She swam closer to where Mac stood and he could see her pale skin under the water as she began to climb out.

“Hold on, hold on—“

But she managed to hoist herself up, and Mac’s eyes flew open as he watched the water run down her wet shoulders and tapered waist to sparkle on her green silver scales. He staggered back, barely hearing her laughter.

“You’re—!“

“Yes,” she admitted, turning to let her long wet hair cover her chest. A strong flick of her tail sent water in a wave over the ledge, hitting Mac’s boot tips. He swayed a bit.

“You think it’s all a dream, and that tomorrow you’ll laugh about it when you chop wood or whittle by the firelight,” she predicted sadly. “It was the same way with the old man. It took him several visits to believe in me and not think it was his whisky to blame.”

“I thought you—your kind only lived in the sea!” Mac accused once his voice returned. The girl had the grace to look embarrassed. She plucked a thin twig from her honey cinnamon hair and flicked it away as she muttered,

“I know. Ages ago my father roamed up the St. Lawrence Seaway in his longboat, coming far inland. My mother came with him guiding him from the shoals and sandbars. I’ve never seen the Homewater, although I have heard of it from them, and others.”

As she spoke, she kept the lower part of her tail trailing in the water, sweeping back and forth, the strong fins lacy and green in the dark water.

“You’re a mermaid who’s never actually SEEN the ocean?” MacGyver mused with a grin. The girl’s eyes flashed, going from cornflower blue to the dark slate of a stormy sky.

“I WILL, someday,” she predicted stubbornly. For a moment, neither of them said anything, and finally Mac squatted down, pulling off his gloves. He reached out gently and worked a particularly nasty tangle of branch and hair loose.

“I don’t doubt you will, Miss. Quite a head full of briar you’ve got here,” he commented softly. She sighed, letting him help unsnarl her locks, accepting his gentle help for the apology it was. When they were both done, her hair was clear of debris, and nearly dry. Mac studied it.

“Mighty pretty color.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. For a moment they simply stared at each other and finally she bit her lip.

“The old man called me Pearl, but I didn’t like it much. Can you think of something better?”

“Hmmmm. Well, I doubt I’ll ever look at a patch of vines without thinking of you—Briar?”

She made a face, but it was an amused one, and she nodded.

“Briar will do then. And I shall call you Bud, as he did. Names are powerful, and not to be given lightly, even in this day. Now what favor do you ask?”

“Favor?” Mac tried to keep his gaze on her face, but it was difficult to do with so much beautiful skin peeking out between long strands of her red hair. She slipped back into the water, spinning to face him once more.

“You did me a service, Bud, and that puts me in your debt. Of course, you need not ask now. When you think of something, set a bucket of water before the fireplace and call my name three times.”

“Just like that?” he sounded skeptical as he pulled his gloves back on. She nodded.

“Just like that. Good-bye, Bud. And thank you—“ she called before diving down into the steaming water, a strong flip of her tail fin sending a final ripple across the dark water.

Later that night, when Mac made his solitary supper of beans and sorghum, he looked out at the crackling fire. As he shook his head, a tiny sound made him look down; next to his plate was a piece of dried bramble, a few strands of long glossy hair wrapped around it.

The days stretched into weeks, and the cold of winter settled in with a vengeance. Mac found himself snowed in by a blizzard. He had stacked enough wood and laid in enough dry goods to handle the needs of the body, but his spirit grew low. He spent long hours talking to Bess, and carved himself any number of things to pass the time: Chairs and utensils and toys of all sorts. By the time the third storm in two months rolled in, he was desperate for the sound of another voice.

Bess grew ill; the tall grey mare wheezed with every breath and her nose was hot to the touch. Mac dosed her with sulphur and molasses, fretting over every wracking breath. It was late at night when he finally considered asking for advice.

“Can’t believe I’m actually DOING this—“ he grumbled to himself as he dragged the pump bucket over to the fireplace, the water sloshing on the hardwood floor. MacGyver sighed, wiping a hand over his face as he looked down in to his reflection.

“Fine—Briar, Briar, Briar—“ he mumbled half-heartedly, embarrassed at the sound of his own voice. After a pause, he began to turn away when a little slosh caught his ear.

“Bud! I’ve been waiting,” came her voice, faint and echoing through the water. Astonished, Mac leaned down, and instead of seeing his own reflection, he saw Briar’s face, her long hair floating in a dark frame around it. He blinked several times.

“Now how in tarnation can you fit in that bitty bucket?”

Briar giggled.

“All water is my domain, Bud, from the drops down the icicles to the dew on the spider webs. How can I help?”

Mac got on all fours to stare down into the bucket; in the firelight, the highlights danced in Briar’s hair.

“My horse is sick. She’s a good mare, got me home from the war and then some. I don’t want to lose her.”

“What ails her?”

“Breathing—she’s wheezing like a bellows, Briar.”

“She needs mullein and mugwort. Here—“

A slender hand reached up, holding a puffy bag of linen; Mac could smell the rich herbal scents of it as he took it from her.

“Brew it and make her drink the tincture. She can chew part of it in her feed too—that should help get it into her system.”

“How long should I use it?” he demanded, setting the bag down at the side of the bucket and peering down into the mermaid’s face.

“Use it all. Miss Bess should respond well by sunset tomorrow if you start at dawn today. Go and sleep, Bud—you’re weary.”

“I am, but creatures come first. I’m grateful for your help, Briar. Thank you,” he told her gruffly. They locked gazes, caught in a lonely moment and when it grew unbearable she reached up and splashed; the droplets hit his face, making him jump.

“Hey!”

“Those lovely otter eyes WILL tempt me! Go see to your horse, Bud, she’ll be fine.”

“Will I—“ he paused, struggling not to sound too plaintive, “--Will I see you again?”

“I can only return through the bucket if you do me another favor,” she sighed wistfully, her own expression wry. “Otherwise you have to come all the way back to the spring.” With a careless hand she brushed aside the floating strands of her hair, and Mac grinned.

“Oh! I DID do you one—hold on a moment, gal—“

He scrambled up and lurched to the table, pawing among the carved trinkets there before picking up the cedar comb and hurrying back to the bucket.

“Here—“ he held it out; her hand rose out of the bucket to touch his, fingers cool and soft.

“Oooohhhhhh!” came her breathy sigh, bubbles rising up through the water.

“Thought you could use one after all those snags—“ MacGyver mumbled, embarrassed. Briar immediately ran it through her hair humming with pleasure.

“A comb! This is beautiful, Bud, completely perfect.”

“It’s nothin’ really—“ he replied with a grin, taking pride in her delight. She leaned forward.

“I owe you a favor in return, Bud. Bring the bucket to the fire and call my name three times as you did this night, and I will be there,” she reminded him absently, lost in the simple joy of combing her long hair. As Mac watched, she slowly faded away, leaving him on his hands and knees, the linen bag of herbs next to him.

Thoughtfully, he picked it up and looked to the cast iron stove, giving a nod to himself.

“All right Bess my girl, time for a good dose of medicine—“

*** *** ***

MacGyver banked the favor the mermaid owed him; it was a sweet benefit, and the thought of it gave him comfort through the darkest part of his nights. Bess did recover, growing strong and restless in her stall, eager to stretch her legs.

Between storms, the days were short, but bright, and MacGyver took advantage of the light one fine morning to hitch Bess up to the wagon and ride out to town, twenty miles away.

A quick trip through the mercantile shop and feed store gave him enough in dry goods for the rest of the season. He bypassed the saloon, blushing at the catcalls of the girls who eyed him through the swinging doors, and headed to the cooper’s whistling.

“I can make it for you, MacGyver, but it seems a bit over-largish—planning on watering oxen?”

“Maybe, if I find a good team,” he replied noncommittally. The cooper shrugged.

“Well, word’s gone around that you’re eager to sell your claim and head west. That true?”

Mac looked thoughtful.

“Still might, if I get a good offer—“ came his slow reply. The cooper shrugged.

“I doubt you will, to be honest, MacGyver—Harry’s property is said to be haunted. Lots of folks claim there’s a ghost of a murdered woman that sings in the night up there. You ever hear her?”

Managing to keep a straight face was hard; Mac gave a polite shake of his shaggy head.

“Can’t say as I’ve ever heard any singing,” he stated carefully. The cooper gave a laugh.

“Be that as it may, MacGyver, the stories do fly around here. I’ll have this order ready by spring for you.”

Mac left the coopers with a light heart. On a whim, he stopped in at the post office and sent a few letters, then headed back, watching the skies. They were starting to darken with a familiar rush of cold in the air, and Mac sighed. Another storm coming in, probably by nightfall. He was preoccupied, and not as focused on the road as he might have been when half a mile from the cabin the right front wheel hit a rock half-buried in the snow. Mac flew from the wagon, landing hard on his shoulder on the stony ground. Bess slowed to a stop, jangling in her harness, looking over at him on the ground.

It took a while for him to get up; Mac was in a cold sweat by the time he staggered the wagon. His shoulder hurt badly, and he could feel the grind of bone as he managed to climb in. Bess whinnied uncertainly, turning her head and giving a shake. Mac managed a weak smile.

“Get me home, girl—“ he directed before slumping back into the wagon. He gritted his teeth through every bump on the road, wondering if he would be able to unhitch Bess when the time came. When they arrived nearly an hour later, he drew in a shaky breath and tumbled himself from the wagon to land in a painful heap on the ground.

The shoulder was broken; of that he had no doubt. The crack to the back of his head wasn’t a good thing either, and now Mac’s vision was slightly blurred. He clung to the wagon wheel with his good arm and pulled himself up, then worked his way down the length of the wagon to the horse’s harness. After undoing her, Mac gave her rump a light slap and she trotted to the barn, leaving him to cling to the wagon shafts and breathe shallowly against the wave of nausea.

He refused to panic. The town was twenty miles back, and by the look of the sky he had only a few hours to get settled in. He looked to the cabin. He looked at the wagon. He looked at—

The horse trough. Harry had one at the foot of the yard, complete with pump. Mac staggered over to it and smashed a gloved fist through the thin layer of ice on the top of it, breaking through to the shocking chill of the water underneath. Rapidly he widened the hole, flinging the thin shattered plates of ice aside to clear the surface.

“Briar, Briar, Briar!” he groaned, hoping against hope as another wave of pain washed through him. For a moment, all he could see was his own pale reflection in the dark water, and then—

Her face, pleased at first, turning to alarm at the sight of him.

“Bud!”

“I’m hurt. Need help, Briar,” he admitted, leaning over the water, gulping. Her face grew clearer, and he pulled back quickly enough to avoid getting hit as she rose from the surface, arms reaching for him.

“What happened?” Even as she spoke, Briar was studying him, taking in his pained expression, his oddly hunched shoulder.

“Got thrown from the wagon a mile or so back—my shoulder’s broken, and I took a good crack to the back of the head,” he gasped. “I need you to get me help, if you can. Let someone know to come get me before the storm. Anyone.”

“There isn’t time, Bud! Even if I talked to someone else it would take a long while before anyone believed them. Let ME take care of you,” she offered.

Mac drew his brows together quizzically.

“Fer cryin out loud, Briar, how? You’re a mermaid; I believe you have a little problem with WALKING—“ he complained, feeling much more dizzier now.

“Move over—“ Briar ordered sweetly. Mac rolled against the edge of the horse trough just in time to avoid the slosh of icy water as Briar rose up, and using the sides, pulled herself waist high.

“One if by sea, two if by land, it is my wish that I should stand—“ she chanted loudly.

Mac was positive that the fall had to be responsible for the unbelievable sight that happened next. Rose leaned over the edge of the trough and let herself fall forward, plunging over the side of the horse trough. He gasped, because instead of seeing the long silver green fishtail he’d expected, Briar’s lower half was now composed of two sweetly curvy bare legs.

He sucked in deep breaths, realizing a naked girl was lying on the snow at his feet.

“Tarnation, gal, get up before you FREEZE!” he bellowed weakly, closing his eyes. He wanted to offer her his coat, but knew he’d never be able to get it off without much more agony from his shoulder. Briar got up unsteadily, not at all concerned about the cold or her state of undress. She took a tentative step over towards him, her long wet hair stirring in the growing breeze.

“Lean on me, Bud—you need to get inside—“

“And you need some CLOTHES, woman,” He muttered back, face flaming. He averted his gaze as she settled his good arm over her shoulders and began to lead him into the cabin.

“I don’t need them—as long as the cold comes from water, I don’t feel it,” she told him.

“Trust me, you DO need them,” he argued back, embarrassed. “On the back of the door is my spare shirt; I beg you, just--do me the favor of puttin’ it on.”

Willing to humor the folly of an injured man, Briar did as he requested. The striped nightshirt was long enough to reach her ankles and MacGyver drew a relieved breath once she was covered up.

“That’s better.”

“I suppose—“ came the dubious reply as Briar plucked at the fabric. Mac settled into the willow rocker by the fire and sighed.

“Bess and the wagon need tending. You don’t have to unload it, just get it into the barn and I’ll do it when the storm’s over,” he mumbled as his eyes closed. Briar came close and flicked her fingers at him; cold water hit his face and he flinched.

“Hey!”

“Stay awake, Bud—you can’t go to sleep for a while. Let me take care of Bess and I’ll be back to you,” she told him with a stern voice. He straightened up and watched her go out the door, grinning to himself.

It was hard not to doze. MacGyver’s vision was still blurry every other blink, and his shoulder throbbed mercilessly. He knew it would hurt much more when it was time to set it, and to avoid dwelling of that moment he turned his thoughts to Briar.

The fact that she could change shouldn’t have surprised him; creatures of the Fey had all sorts of strange powers. She’d proven her honesty by healing Bess, and Mac had no fear of her, just a guardedness that wouldn’t go away. Mermaids in the old tales were not known for their generosity or unselfish natures, and Mac knew that what he was asking of her now went far beyond the simple bucket favors they had traded to this point.

“Bud!” her voice roused him; sleepily he glanced up at her.

“Hey Briar—“ he struggled to keep his eyes open. The mermaid shook her head, long hair swinging as she did so.

“I’m going to bind your shoulder and give you some St. John’s wort and thyme. Stay awake! Talk to me—“ she ordered. With help, he managed to lean forward and Briar took his coat and shirt off stopping often when the pain threatened to overwhelm him.

“My father’s people were from the west of Scotland,” Mac groaned, casting about for a subject that might interest a mermaid. “--Steeped in stories of the Selkie.”

“My sea borne kin, yes. Mother told me she was once pursued by a Selkie through the North Sea,” Briar giggled. Mac smiled back.

“Did he catch her?”

“No—mermaids are never caught against their will.”

“How is it that you can walk?” Mac demanded, gritting teeth as she gently rotated his bare shoulder, trying to set it back into place. She brushed a long strand from her face and sighed.

“Because my father was human, I have the legacy of land. It’s not lasting though, Bud. I must touch water daily, or risk drying out and blowing away as spindrift through the winds.”

Mac shuddered, and not all of it was from pain. Briar bound his shoulder up tightly, nimble fingers tying the strips of linen in a neat dressing. She pressed a hand to his forehead.

“Moon and water, answer your daughter—“ she murmured. Mac drew a breath as the slow aching throb of his headache lessened. She looked down at him with twinkling eyes.

“The water in your body listens to me. Now the flow is even, and the pain will fade. Sit here and I’ll brew you a tonic.”

Mac settled back into the rocker, feeling the weight of the day drain out of him and fatigue take its place. He watched the slender figure of Briar moving through his kitchen on the far side of the cabin, and as he did so, something sweetly painful vibrated through his chest. Even with her back to him, she flinched.

“Bud?” she spun around, blue eyes wide.

“Jest a pang,” he muttered.

The tonic tasted nasty, but by this time MacGyver knew better than to argue; he drank the steaming slime and shuddered as Briar laughed.

“It will give your blood strength and help the bones to knit. Now go sleep and rest up.”

“Bess?”

“—Is fine.”

“What about you?” Mac asked, getting slowly to his feet. Briar flushed, looking down at her hands shyly.

“I must return to the trough. Keep the bucket by your bed and call for me if you need me in the night, Bud.”

“You can’t go out there!” Aghast, Mac looked through the window to a swirling world of white. Briar was already unbuttoning the nightshirt, and when Mac turned his face back to her, he blushed hotly.

“Briar!”

“It will only get ruined in the water, Bud. Sleep well, and call if you need me.”

Leaning forward, she moved to press a kiss to his forehead. It tingled, and Mac sensed her tremble, echoing it slightly. There was something here, a magic he wasn’t quite ready to name. Briar held the nightshirt against her body until she reached the door; once there she dropped it and stepped out into the storm. MacGyver shuddered.

Later that night, when the soreness returned and he tossed restlessly, he heard a sound rising faintly above the cry of the wind; it was a wordless lullaby, sweet and melodic, spinning up out of the bucket near his bed. Mac listened to it until his breathing evened out and he fell asleep.

*** *** ***

It was a slow recovery, made easier only by Briar’s patience and Mac’s strong constitution. Every morning, he went to the trough and broke the ice for her, helping her out of the freezing water. She tended to Bess, and managed the chores around the house; all the things that Mac’s broken shoulder prevented. The only one that eluded her was tending the fire.

“I can’t—fire and water are mortal opposites, Bud,” she apologized. He could understand that, and managed well enough if she brought him the fuel and matches. Her strength astonished him; she chopped wood and hauled water, insisting he bathe, she cooked and kept his cabin tidy.

Through it all they talked. Mac told her of his childhood, his late father and determined mother, of hair-raising adventures through his boyhood, and the grimmer ones later on through the war. Briar in turn told him equally fantastic tales of bewitched Vikings and sea monsters, of a Northern wilderness known only to creatures beyond the ken of man.

By the time his shoulder was completely healed, MacGyver knew he was in trouble of a much more painful sort. Being a forthright soul, he wrestled with his conscience; aware that Briar might never return the feelings he knew were growing within his heart.

One bright morning he didn’t break the ice in the trough, but instead made the long ride to the hot springs. Bess was delighted to be out again, and cantered nearly the entire way.

Once there, MacGyver stood on the shore, looking out over the water, thinking. A splash caught his attention and he looked down to see a familiar head and shoulders rising out of the dark water.

“Bud! You’re well again!”

“Sure am, thanks to you, Miss Briar of the spring. I came to thank you, and bring you this—“

He held out another comb, a small one to be worn in the hair. This comb was made from the bone of an elk, carved with delicate designs of ocean waves and seagulls; Briar gasped with delight.

“It’s beautiful!”

“No more so than the one who’ll wear it—“ Mac responded with a shy smile. Briar blushed. She made no move to come closer.

“I have something to tell you—“ she called softly, urgently. Mac lifted his chin. With slow and careful movements, he took off his coat, laying it down, and then began unbuttoning his shirt. Startled, Briar looked up at him, her eyes going wide.

“What are you DOING?”

“Well, in all this time you’ve come to me, so I think it’s only fair that I return the favor at least once,” he replied slowly. His winter pale skin clearly showed his embarrassment, but he continued to disrobe until he stood dressed only in his faded Union suit. Briar eyed him with poorly concealed hilarity, and the sight of it warmed him even as he pretended offense.

“Laugh if you must, gal, but these have stood me in good stead,” he replied with mock dignity as he waded down into the water. Briar swam slowly nearer, smiling as Mac moved deeper, between the steam swirls.

“Oh this feels mighty nice,” he observed with surprise, looking around the dark water. “Not too hot.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” Briar replied chattily, circling around Mac, who was now chest deep in the water. He spun slowly to follow her, and in the process they drew nearer to each other. Briar rose up, but he coughed warningly, averting his eyes and she blushed, sinking down again.

Mac held out the comb again and Briar took it from his hand, studying with fascination.

“What are those birds? I’ve never seen them?”

“Seagulls. They live near the ocean.” He replied, taking a breath and going under. When he came back up, Briar had affixed the comb into her locks over her right ear. The ivory made a beautiful contrast to the dark red of her wet hair. Mac looked at her, mouth slightly agape.

“Briar—“ he began with a soft desperation in his voice. She swam closer and took his face in her two hands, gazing into his eyes.

“I have something to tell you, Bud. My name is Rose DuskFalling,” she blurted shakily. A strong jolt of that familiar prickly sweet tingle hit him right in the chest and he drew in a harsh breath.

“My name’s Angus MacGyver. I love you,” he exclaimed, startled at his own daring. The mermaid dimpled and pressed her mouth to his as they both slowly sank under the water.

Mac wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or awake. The softest sweetest kiss he’d ever had in his life was complicated by the fact that he was under the water. But he wasn’t choking or struggling for breath or coughing. Briar Rose pulled back, blinking at him and he blinked back.

“The kiss of a mermaid is magic,” she bubbled at him. He nodded, dazed.

“You don’t say.”

At that, she darted down, motioning for him to follow; Mac did, swimming in awkward strokes until he felt the brush of her tail against his face.

“Stay close—“ he heard her order, “We are leaving the spring and going to the river—“ Looking down, he saw the sunlight filtering down through the water, the shafts dancing over the bottom of the river scattered over the rocky foundation was a collection of strange and wonderful treasures: strings of wampum, rusted guns, broken china and most amazing of all, a huge and heavy platter of pure gold, gleaming in the dappling light.

“My home,” Briar Rose told him, waving a hand in a careless gesture, while the other stayed across her chest, pinning her hair against it. “My treasures, my bed—“

“Cozy,” MacGyver commented politely, still fascinated by his ability to breathe underwater, and more interested in working up to another kiss. Briar Rose settled into a swaying hammock of anacaris weed and motioned for him to join her; Mac did. Vaguely he wondered if he looked as ridiculous as he suspected he did; a scruffy man in a wet union suit, his hair floating all around him, his mustache more fitting for a walrus under the water.

“I love you too, Angus MacGyver, but unless you’re willing to seek my freedom, all we will ever be is this.”

Mac thought about it. He watched small fish dart in and out of her drifting hair, and others circling his bare feet. He looked into her blue, blue eyes and smiled.

“What do I need to do?”

She sighed, a delicate stream of bubbles rising up through the water.

“The son of a King must go to roundest island in the middle of the largest lake in Minnesota. There, he must hunt the stag with green eyes. When he catches it, out of it’s mouth will come the raven with pink eyes. When he catches it, out of it’s mouth will come the Chinook salmon with purple eyes. When he catches THAT, out of it’s mouth will come an egg. In the egg is my freedom. Hatch it on land warm and dry and I am free of my link to the water.”

Mac mused for a moment longer.

“Complicated, but I believe I can manage. How long will it take to hatch the egg?”

Briar Rose gave him a desolate look, and even though they were under the water, he swore he saw tears in her eyes.

“Angus MacGyver you can’t even begin! You’re not a prince!”

“Welllll, in a manner of speaking I am, Briar Rose. Ages ago one of my ancestors did a favor for Arthur, King of the Brits, and the glamour of that still holds.”

“So you ARE—the son of a king?” the mermaid blinked, her mouth a perfect O of surprise. He shrugged.

“Adopted, but still in the family, so I’m as qualified as you’re going to find in these parts.” Reaching for her hand, MacGyver took it and gave it a light squeeze.

“Being set free won’t beholden you to me, Briar Rose. You still can choose another—“

But she shook her head, smiling with a tender shyness.

“I’ve chosen. When I gave you my name I gave you the power over me, dearest.”

MacGyver grinned. With a tug on her hands he pulled her face to his and kissed her again, the bubbles around them making a heart-shaped wreath.

*** *** ***

A week later, MacGyver stood on the rocky beach of the roundest island in the middle of Red Lake Minnesota, setting down his load of supplies and shaking his shaggy head. His determination was tempered by the obviously fantastic nature of his quest, and yet, remembering the blue of Briar Rose’s eyes somehow kept it in perspective. Carefully he took stock of the goods he’d brought with him. A great deal of thought had gone into them, and he was certain that the stag and the raven wouldn’t stand a chance. The salmon might be a tad trickier.

He carefully set the huge block of salt in the middle of a clearing not far from the water. Using his knife, he chipped at it, and gathered enough flakes for a large handful, then scattered them far and wide, then hid himself and waited. As he did so, he unpacked two other items from his pack and spread them out, humming softly to himself. It was only after a moment that he realized the tune was Briar Rose’s lullaby.

Mac smiled to himself, remembering how she had fretted over his determination, and begged him to be careful.

“They are not NORMAL creatures, Bud—Mac,” she pleaded with him, “They’re canny to the ways of Man, and liable to enchant you. Once you have hold of them, you must not reply to them in any way.”

As MacGyver looked up from his musings, a large stag pushed through the brush on the far side of the clearing. It was a magnificent beast, with huge antlers and powerful legs. It turned its head to study the clearing, and Mac saw the gleaming green eyes clearly. The creature moved to the salt lick and began to taste it, tail flicking with pleasure. Mac moved quietly, crawling low until he was close enough to move under the animal.

Once there, Mac whipped the braided snare loops around the Stag’s feet, then rose up beside the beast and yelled. Startled, the Stag leaped and stumbled, falling heavily on his side. Mac grabbed the antlered head, putting one knee on the strong neck as he pinned the beast down.

“Let me GO!” came the hard, wild bellow of the Stag. Mac grimly held on, and reached for the other item just under the bushes. With a flick, he dropped the fishnet over the Stag’s face.

The animal struggled, and fought, but Mac kept it pinned. Finally with a scream of rage, it shouted.

“Chase the Raven and let me GO, human!”

A hard wet cough, and out of the Stag’s mouth flew the Raven with eyes as pink as the inner edge of a seashell. It snagged immediately in the net fighting the hemp weave with strong powerful wings. Mac grabbed the edges of the net, jumping away from the Stag, who rose and charged off into the forest, leaving him to struggle with the netted Raven.

The bird furiously fought, thrashing this way and that; sharp claws slipped through the net to scratch Mac’s cheek as he began to haul the net down from the air.

“Release me Man, or I’ll slash your eyes!” the bird shrieked in a feminine hiss of rage. Mac grimly held on and managed to get his gloved hands around the Raven’s feet. Out of the corner of his vision, Mac took stock of where the waterline was, and turned his back to it as the Raven screeched again.

“Follow the Salmon and unhand me NOW!”

The bird cawed widely, and out of her beak slithered a wriggling young Salmon. Wily and desperate, the Salmon writhed just under the open end of the net; Mac let go of the hemp mesh and dove for the fish as the Raven soared away, the net dropping off of her wings when she did so.

“No, no, NO!” the Salmon insisted, flopping towards the waterline with incredible speed and strength. MacGyver tried to grab it, but the gloves kept him from getting a good grip, and three times the fish slipped out of his hands.

“You will not win, you will not WIN!” the salmon taunted, his scales flashing as he managed to roll down the slope of the ground to the water. Mac savagely yanked his gloves off and shot after the fish, latching onto its tail. It goggled, and a lovely egg of cornflower blue rolled out of its mouth. Mac scooped it up triumphantly.

“Ha! I sure DID win, you slippery, sorry spawn of a—“

A sudden flash echoed through the air on the island. The Stag snorted. The Raven cawed. The Salmon splashed into the water.

MacGyver was gone.

Briar Rose stirred restlessly. The trip to Red Lake and back should have taken Mac no longer than a few days, but nearly two weeks had gone by, and in that fortnight the mermaid had been haunted by dark dreams. She swam between the river and the spring and the trough hourly, and still there was no sign of her love. The birds told her nothing, and the fish moving downriver had not heard anything. She brooded.

Finally, she settled back into the horse trough, choosing to stay there and wait. She watched the skies anxiously, but they remained clear. Late in the day, while she was combing her hair, she felt a splash at her feet. Looking down the length of the horse trough, she saw a pair of baleful brown eyes looking at her just over the surface of the water.

“Go away little otter, I’m not in the mood to play today,” she chided him with a splash. Undaunted, the otter kept his gaze on her and paddled closer. Briar Rose looked at him again—the mustache seemed familiar--

“M-MACGYVER?”

A rolling flash blinded Briar Rose; she coughed as water went up her nose, and when she could see again, there sat her one true love, wet, naked, and looking distinctly put out. He held out a hand and spat; the cornflower blue egg rolled onto his palm.

“I MUST love you, woman, because I sure as HECK would not swim the length of Minnesota carrying an egg in my mouth for anyone ELSE, do you hear me?” he roared. Briar Rose laughed through her tears and threw her arms around him settling into his lap right there in the horse trough. Mac kissed her thoroughly and finally managed a laugh at his own expense as she demanded the whole story.

“I HAD to taunt that fish, and look where it got me—“ he concluded with a wry chuckle. Rose tugged a corner of his mustache.

“The power of names, Mac—because I knew yours and used it, you’re back in your true form. If you had never told it to me, you’d still be an otter.”

“True I suppose. And we have the egg now, so the trip was worth it,” he told her with a gentle kiss to her temple. Briar Rose took it from his hand and sighed.

“You’ve won a chance for my life, MacGyver, and that is a wondrous thing. The only dowry I have is my father’s plate, but it would bring enough money to leave here if you want, or stay and work the land. Whatever you choose, Dearest, I choose to follow you.”

The egg hatched three days later, rolling and rocking in its nest of shredded woolen shirt. Instead of hatching a fish or a bird, though, MacGyver and Briar Rose saw the silver green strands drift up as the gossamer mermaid’s lullaby floated free of the eggshell to sail away through the air and out the cabin window, blowing through the dark pines.

“In fact, to this day, some believe the cry of the loon is their attempt to copy the mermaid’s song,” Mac finished with a flourish. He looked down and sighed. Polly was asleep, stretched out on the blanket, sighing softly. At her side, still clutching her hand tightly was Harry, also out for the night; eyes closed behind his little glasses. When he turned to Rose, he grinned, watching her snuffle into a Kleenex.

“Mac that was lovely!” she wiped her eyes. He grinned and pulled her to his shoulder, laughing to himself.

“Yeah well. Harry told me that story years ago when I was a kid up at his cabin. All I know for the record is that I DID have a great, great great great grandfather named Angus who fought with the first Minnesota Volunteers during the Civil War, and that his wife was named Rose DuskRising. She was probably Algonquin, but other than that—“ Mac shrugged. Rose gave a contented sigh as she settled on his shoulder.

“Still, it’s a wonderful story, Mac, and more people ought to hear it.”

“Like--another MacGyver?” he suggested softly. Rose gave a sigh and patted her abdomen.

“Another one did,” she smiled as Mac tightened his hug, his brown eyes sparkling happily.

END