We drifted slowly past Carrigeen Glos, a low, sullen line of rocks. A group of cormorants, either gorged with mackerel fry or hopeless of an evening meal, perched together at one end of the reef, and stared at the setting sun. A few terns swept round and round overhead, soaring or sliding downwards with easy motion. A large seal lay basking on a bare rock just above the water’s edge. I pointed it out to Peter, and he said it was a pity I had not got my rifle with me. I did not agree with him. If I had brought the rifle Peter would have insisted on my shooting at the seal. I should certainly not have hit it on purpose, for I am averse from injuring gentle creatures; but I might perhaps have killed or wounded it by accident, for my shooting is very uncertain. In any case I should have broken nature’s peace, and made a horrible commotion. Perhaps the seal heard Peter’s remark or divined his feeling of hostility. It flopped across the rock and slid gracefully into the sea. We saw it afterwards swimming near the boat, looking at us with its curiously human, tender eyes.
“A man might mistake it for a mermaid,” I said.
“He’d have to be a fool altogether that would do the like,” said Peter.
He was scornful; but the seal’s eyes were human. They made me think of mermaids.
“Them ones,” said Peter, “is entirely different from seals. You might see a seal any day in fine weather. They’re plenty. But the other ones--But sure you wouldn’t care to be hearing about them.”
“I’ve heard plenty about them,” I said, “but it was all poetry and nonsense. You know well enough, Peter, that there’s no such thing as a mermaid.”
Peter filled his pipe slowly and lit it. I could see by the way he puffed at it that he was full of pity and contempt for my scepticism.
“Come now,” I said: “did you ever see a mermaid?”
“I did not,” said Peter, “but my mother was acquainted with one. That was in Inishmore, where I was born and reared.”
I waited. The chance of getting Peter to tell an interesting story is to wait patiently. Any attempt to goad him on by asking questions is like striking before a fish is hooked. The chance of getting either story or fish is spoiled.
“There was a young fellow in the island them times,” said Peter, “called Anthony O’Flaherty. A kind of uncle of my father’s he was, and a very fine man. There wasn’t his equal at running or lepping, and they say he was terrible daring on the sea. That was before my mother was born, but she heard tell of what he did. When she knew him he was like an old man, and the heart was gone out of him.”