Introduction.

In 1860, Mr J. Walker, an author, artist, and biologist, spent a summer in Cumberland—now Northern Cumbria—to study and illustrate the local plants and wildlife for his Illustrated Guide to the Flora and Fauna of the Coast of Cumberland, which was published the following year. During his stay, he composed a diary.

The diary is a slim book bound in blue linen. The beginning and end dates—the diary spans late May to mid-August—are stamped in faint gold letters on the cover. Walker was an avid diarist and this volume is but one in a series (see the Final Entry), though it is the only extant one (see ‘Rediscovery’ below). This is very evident in the abrupt, in medias res beginning. Clearly, Walker’s previous diary was full, and he began the new one where the other left off—so close, in fact, that one should probably be thankful he did not begin mid-sentence.

Written in black ink, the diary additionally contains a handful of illustrations. These range from rough ink sketches of landscapes to fully coloured and detailed portraits; the highlight of the whole volume is a full-body portrait, done in gouache and covering an entire page, of the merman he made the acquaintance of during his stay and frequently visited.

Historical Context.

Diaries.

In their mode of writing, content, immediacy, and lack of an audience—indeed, the vast majority of diaries are kept private at least during the writer’s lifetime—diaries take a unique space in recollective writing. They record the writer’s daily experiences, thoughts, and feelings. Diaries from the past can equip the historian with vital details into the daily life of the past like no other document can.

A distinction is made on occasion between a journal and a diary. While both are written on a daily or near-daily basis, recording events as they occur, a journal commonly refers to an objective record of events, such as a scientist’s field journal, which may be written with the expectation that it will later be made public in some form or another. Diaries, by contrast, are private recollections that include the writer’s feelings, views, and sometimes even intimate details. In effect, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between a diary and a journal—the present object of study, for example, has features of both.

It can be assumed that a large number of all diaries ever written, if not the vast majority, have been destroyed, either by the author, their descendants, or mere time. As unique, personal, and often intimate records of another person’s life, family members may be reluctant to let their loved one’s diaries enter the public eye, while diary writers themselves may destroy their diaries for fear of scandal or incriminating themselves. J. Walker was certainly conscious of this, and by encoding portions of his diary, took steps to protect himself (see below).

Science.

The modern system of biological taxonomy was largely established by Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus (1707-1778). His system introduced rank-based classification of organisms—though it has been updated over time—and his naming system of genus species (subspecies) is still adhered to.^[1] J. Walker himself follows this system when he coins the name homo sapiens aquatilis in an article for the 1861 edition of the Annals and Magazine of Aquatic Biology. Subsequent scientists have put forward different taxonomies for the merfolk, but following taxonomic conventions, Walker’s nomenclature, as the first to have been published in a scientific paper, is the one that is in use.

In 1859, Charles Darwin published On the Origin of Species. To call this work groundbreaking would be an understatement. It threw the entire Christian worldview into question. Some opposition also came from the ranks of science, but many recognised it as the pioneering work it was. It was also widely popular with a lay audience, and published internationally.^[2] Walker certainly read it and adopted the theory proposed; in the abovementioned piece for the Annals and Magazine of Aquatic Biology (of which a draft is included in this diary), he refers to Darwin’s theory.

Biography.

Little is known of J. Walker—not even his first name is recorded—aside from a few key biographical dates. He was born on 12 August 1825. From 1845, he attended  Frinton-Smith University in London, studying biology. It is not known how he learned art as there is no record of him receiving a formal education in this subject; this does not necessarily mean he was self-taught, however. He taught at his Alma Mater from 1853-1856, but stopped for unclear reasons—the speculative mind immediately jumps to scandal (Walker was  gay, see below), but it might also be due to his chronic illness (see below), or simply because his contract ended or he found the job unsatisfactory or the pay too abysmal. In 1859, Walker entered a contract with Peters & Cobbler, a small, now defunct publisher based in Manchester specialising in scientific illustrations, to produce the aforementioned Illustrated Guide. He arrived in Cumberland at the house of an old friend, Maurice, whom he had met as a student at university, in late May 1860, when this diary begins.

During the following decade, Walker established himself through a series of treatises and articles, many though not all of which have survived long enough to be digitised, as the leading authority on Homo sapiens aquatilis. It is clear from his scientific writing that he returned frequently throughout the 1860’s to Cumbria to further study Homo sapiens aquatilis. His star continued to rise until his work was—one must call a spade a spade—hijacked by more recognised and renowned scientists such as Reginald Fortescue-Mills, Henry James Matheson, and Ferdinando del Mar. These other scientists  had the means to travel and study Homo sapiens aquatilis all over the world, often writing about their travels to great critical and public acclaim, pushing Walker further and further into the margins.

Walker subsequently fades from the historical record. The last unambiguous reference to him is from 1874, when he is mentioned as an editor and peer reviewer for the now defunct Cumbrian Journal of Marine Biology. There is a headstone of a J. Walker, 1825-1898, in St Andrew’s churchyard, in the parish where he spent the summer of 1860. If this really is the same J. Walker—and there are a few contemporary Johns, Josephs, and James Walkers—it might suggest that he settled down in Cumbria.

Walker had some form of chronic illness or health condition that kept him home- and occasionally bedbound for two to five days once or twice a month. He himself did not know what condition it was and had, at the time of the diary, resigned himself to it. The symptoms he most frequently describes are muscle and/or joint pain, headaches, fatigue, and occasionally fever. The symptoms are vague and broad enough to be congruent with a number of chronic health conditions and a diagnosis is therefore impossible. By the time of the diary, he had lived with the condition for a number of years. He self-medicated—atypically aware of the negative side effects and therefore cautious—with laudanum.  

Furthermore, Walker was gay. While the term is anachronistic, it can and should be retroactively applied to him:^[3] Walker never married, had sex exclusively with men, and at one point in the diary describes himself as ‘incapable of loving a woman’ (see the second entry for 10 June). This diary firmly rebuffs the myth of the sexually repressed, prudish Victorian. While encrypted out of necessity—sex between men was illegal^[4]—the passages in which Walker records his sexual encounters are pornographic in their detail. If his record of the conversations he had with his sexual partner is to be believed—perhaps they were embellished in hindsight; almost certainly they are not verbatim reproductions—he was  frank and blunt in communicating his sexual needs and desires, with a specialised, uneuphemistic vocabulary.

Textual Issues.

Without a doubt only ever meant for his own eyes, Walker’s style is self-referential and occasionally obscure. His reticence in regards to names is especially frustrating; the only person to ever be referred to by name is his friend and host, Maurice, and even here,  it is unclear whether this is the man’s first or last name.

The text of the diary is reproduced as faithfully as possible, with small concessions. Walker underlined words for emphasis; this is rendered as italics in this edition. Passages that were formerly encrypted are marked by curly brackets: {}. Spelling errors are silently corrected. Occasional ellipses such as copula deletions are similarly rectified.

The code that Mr Walker used to encipher his more risqué passages is a Vignère cipher (see entry for 10 June), thought in Walker’s time to be unbreakable.^[5]With the Vignère cipher, a text is encoded using a different Caesar cipher for each letter of the text. This renders it very easy to implement, but difficult to crack. First described in 1553, it was in use for centuries. The cipher was first broken in 1854, but it was not until 1863 that a method for decryption was made public.

The key Walker uses differs for each passage, and is the last three words that are preceded by a punctuation mark in the unencrypted passage before. For example, the key to the encrypted passage for the second entry of the 10th of June is went to dinner. Walker mentions that he composes the plain text of his diary on separate papers and transcribes the encrypted passage into his diary. Afterwards, he destroyed the plaintext.

Discovery.

I discovered this diary by chance at a yard sale in a shoebox of books selling for fifty pence each or three pounds for the whole lot. I paid three pounds but only fully grasped the kind of discovery I had made when unpacking at home. The moment I understood that what I held in my hands was an authentic Victorian diary, I contacted the yard sale proprietors again. It appears that  Walker was a distant relative, a few branches sideways up in the family tree. But all my other inquiries were disappointed. They knew nothing about Walker aside from his name. As to the other diary volumes, this is the only one they can attest to; they assume it survived this long and was not discarded because of the pretty pictures inside.

Ellen Baker

 

The Diary of Mr J. Walker

27th of May 1860.

I finally feel like myself again. The fever broke yesterday and I was well enough this morning to join my patient hosts for breakfast. I took especial pain to thank Maurice’s wife for nursing me through my illness with such gentle care and without a word of complaint. I really have no reason left to resent the poor woman; but when she tentatively broached the subject as to why I had been so cold towards her for most of our acquaintance, I took my customary route of  pretending to have failed to have heard her. Maurice caught my eye across the table; I could not tell whether he was annoyed at my rudeness or relieved that I kept silent.

Maurice had business to attend to, so his wife and I were left to amuse ourselves. I attended to the correspondence that I had to neglect during my illness; she did whatever wealthy farmers’ wives do. After an excellent lunch, she and I went on a walk together.

The fresh air and gentle exercise greatly invigorated my still illness-strained spirits. Furthermore, I was able to gather a good amount of specimens to illustrate. Maurice’s wife, knowing little about flowers aside from which looked pretty on the windowsill,  was deeply interested in my project, and I was happy to have an attentive audience.

Our ramblings took us all the way to the cliffs; I say cliffs because that is what the locals call them, but really they are quite small; a man standing on the shoulders of another could climb atop them without the slightest difficulty. But cliffs is what they are commonly referred as, so cliffs they shall be!

At any rate, Maurice’s wife and I were at the cliffs, gazing at the sea. The weather was mild and no more than a steady breeze was blowing, just enough to give the waves white, foamy crowns. But having seen the turquoise wonder of the Mediterranean, this one is such an unattractive little sea.

 I shielded my eyes with my hands against the sun and gazed out across the water at the skerries some way from the shore. When I saw movement on those jagged rocks, I at first thought it to be a seal; but when I pointed it out to Maurice’s wife, she laughed at me. ‘It is not a seal, Mr Walker,’  she said, ‘It is one of the merfolk.’

‘Merfolk!’ I echoed in astonishment. I had heard of this elusive population, but had not dared to hope to catch a single glimpse of them, and certainly not just a week into my visit. I heartily cursed that I neglected to bring my binoculars.

Maurice’s wife and I continued to watch the lonely individual—now that I knew what to look for, I could make out that the figure had arms, and a body that was too long and slim to belong to a seal.

After some time, the figure moved, and, with a number of manoeuvres that I could see were rather  inelegant even from my distant vantage point, shuffled down the rocky skerry and slid into the water. The tail splashed once onto the water, and after that, nothing more was to be seen.

 

29th of May.

The town is a charming one. It has a number of amenities, among them a pub that looks clean enough from outside. But even better: there is a bookshop! Maurice had laughed when he saw my excitement at this; he made a rhetorical question as to whether I had believed to leave civilisation behind when I left London. I did not dignify it with an answer—Maurice is less travelled than I and does not know that there are towns larger than this where there is not one bookshop to be found. And, having known the anguish of those circumstances, I am thus much more appreciative of any bookshop I can find.

Maurice had business to attend to in town and asked whether I wanted to wait in the pub for him, but I declined. On our way into town, I had espied a copse of juniper bushes that would look excellent in my Guide, and so we parted. I sketched the junipers and returned to my lodgings, and by luck and to my relief, avoided Maurice’s wife. It is not that I dislike her in particular, it really is not that (some residual jealousy notwithstanding). I do not even like this habit of mine to avoid company whenever possible. Life for one such as I is a lonely existence—I know I am making a fine melodrama of my life, but the fact remains that  for my own safety, I must keep my heart hidden. And that is not conducive to interpersonal exchange.

 

31st of May.

I have expanded my radius of exploration every day since my convalescence, and today, I went as far as the next village; not in search of plants this time, but animals. I sketched every rabbit, hare, blackbird, magpie, and sparrow that held still for long enough; I even devoted a whole page in my sketchbook to an anthill and its inhabitants, as well as another to a buzzard resting on a fencepost. Having reached the village, I stopped for a ploughman’s lunch^[6] in the local pub before heading back to Maurice’s abode.

I think that the entries on the land-dwelling plants and animals are going to be swiftly finished; not only have they been well-served by artists and natural philosophers who came before me, allowing me to lean on them, but I have much practice in drawing them, too. It is the sea and all that lives within it that really fascinates me, and that I believe will elevate my Guide above others that are available.

 

2nd of June.

To-day, I had the great fortune to be allowed passage on one of the fishing boats meandering the bay. I had my binoculars, a pocket-sized sketchbook, and several pencils with me. Thus outfitted, I climbed aboard.

The boat (they call it a “nobby,”^[7] isn’t that a droll name?) was manned by a taciturn sexagenarian (I am estimating) and his son, who is around my age. The son explained to me all kinds of thing on the boat, but all I can still recall is that the net drags along the bottom and they mainly catch shrimp or flatfish.

I spent the first bit of the escapade scanning the sea for dolphins and the skerries for seals or merfolk. I saw several seals, lazily watching us crawl by, and a dolphin or two circled the nobby curiously, but I glimpsed not one scale of one of the merfolk. I sketched the dolphins, in any case, and now have a good selection from which I could make illustrations for my Guide. I have begun composing the entry on the dolphins before I turned to to-day’s recollections. I am still holding out hope that I might see a seal from close enough that I might make a large, detailed, and full-body illustration. Patience, I shall be here for a long time yet. I have told the son of my project and asked him to be alert—perhaps he or another fisherman might chance to catch a seal and could show it to me before releasing it or (perish the thought) it expires.

 

5th of June

For several days now, Maurice has hounded me to join him for a pint at the pub. Why he is so insistent I cannot fathom; he knows full well I  prefer a quiet study to a rambunctious gathering of drunks. It is just like our days at university! I reel, sometimes, how much he has changed, and how little he has changed, at once.

{That being said, my accompanying Maurice was only in part indulging him, though I tried not to get my hopes up. A country pub in Cumberland will hardly serve the same clientele as my habitual Gentlemen’s clubs in London. Still, audentem Forsque Venusque iuvat,^[8] I told myself.

In the end, though, I caught the interest of nobody who caught mine. Sometimes I would catch the eye of someone I liked, but then he would only look confused, as if thinking I was someone he was supposed to know but could not place. Once or twice, I locked eyes with someone; he would tilt his head at me, size me up, all of those minute codes and signs nobody who is not looking for them would catch. But the spark never lit within me, and I am not that desperate that I would lie with anyone even if I did not like the look of him. And so I turned away each time.

I think Maurice noticed. We went home quite earlier than I had expected. I think he thinks he is protecting me.

I went home dissatisfied and had to content with my own hand, conjuring up a series of men, each more handsome than the other. But in the end, it was quite unsatisfactory and disappointing. I suppose my hopes had been raised despite my best effort. Ah, now. To bed.}

 

7th of June.

To-day, I saw a merman up close!

I had borrowed a rowboat to try to get closer to the skerries than the fishing boat can and observe and sketch the seals. Even with my binoculars, however, the sketches remained rudimentary and small. The gentle rocking of the boat did not make my task easier. I tried several times to get closer than I was, but could not find any spot to dock my boat, and the current of the sea meant I was drifting slowly but surely away. Altogether, I was not having a good time.

When, all of a sudden, my boat was hit by something from below, I was so shocked I dropped my sketchbook. I leaned over the edge, peering into the water. Was it a seal? Or a dolphin? Maybe a male, trying to defend its territory?

I caught a glimpse of something large flit from one side to the other, and I saw at once that this was larger than any harbour or even grey seal had any business being. I held my breath in anticipation—I already knew this must be one of the merfolk.

As I hung thus over the side of the boat, I heard a ripple behind me, the sound of something large emerging from the water. I turned and locked eyes with a merman. I saw that he had pale skin, nearly white, and very dark hair; but the moment his eyes met mine, he dove back beneath the waves, his tail, shimmering silver, the last I saw of him.

I sat down heavily. At once, I picked up my sketchbook and attempted to draw what I had seen, but I soon groaned with frustration; the glimpse had been too fleeting, and his escape too swift. So I turned back towards the seals. But unless my publisher is happy with sketches of skerries with some blobs on them (and I do not believe they will be) I need to find a way to sketch them in more detail or else abandon the entry altogether.

 

9th of June.

Peters & Cobbler^[9] have rejected a good quarter of my illustrations of plants (including, to my chagrin, a painting of parnassia palustris^[10] which I had thought was near flawless), so to-day I went hill-walking in search of more specimens. I found many, made more sketches, and I fear I overexerted myself—for the last leg home, I had to rely on the kindness of a fresh-faced farm boy driving a cart. {He was handsome and cheerful; he spent the journey telling me not just his own life story, but also that of the fat pony pulling the cart. I quite enjoyed his company and was disappointed when the gables of Maurice’s house’s roof came into view. I made some cryptic remarks that someone like me would understand, but the lad gave no indication he did. Pity.}

 

10th of June.

As I had already suspected, I awoke this morning in pain—familiar by now, and thankfully relatively mild this time. Still, I decided to pause my ramblings for to-day.

Maurice’s wife was greatly concerned for me when I told her and Maurice of my current predicament at the breakfast table, and wanted to insist on calling a doctor; she needed much assurance from me as well as her husband that her worry, while touching, was not necessary.

‘But if you’re in so much pain, surely a doctor should at least examine you?’ she asked.

‘Madam, I am moved by your care for me,’ I replied. ‘But I have seen more doctors than I can count on one hand, and  not a single one was able to tell me the cause of my predicament, much less prescribe a cure. I’d rather throw my money into a wishing-well; that would cure me sooner than a doctor could, I wager!’

Maurice and his wife were largely absent, having had business to attend to eslewhere. I spent the morning mostly in the garden, making finer illustrations of my rough sketches. Around lunchtime, it started raining, so I spent the rest of the day in the sitting room, illustrating, and, when the light became too bad for painting, composing the entries, and tending to my correspondence. I prepared more entries and illustrations to be sent on to Manchester,^[11] which I shall do the next time I am in town. I furthermore occupied myself with the encryption of my diary.

My hosts came home while I committed the plain text to the fire. Maurice’s wife asked me what I was doing, and laughed when I told her I was destroying plain text I had encrypted. ‘Why, Mr Walker, what have you to hide?’

‘I’ve laid nearly all of my eggs in the one basket of my Illustrated Guide,’ I replied. ‘I cannot risk being robbed of my hard work and thus my future.’

‘Surely, there is no need for such drastic methods!’

Maurice came unexpectedly to my aid. ‘The publishing business is a murderous one,’ he said solemnly.

His wife only laughed louder. ‘What do you know about publishing!’ She shook her head.  ‘Keep your secrets, Mr Walker,’ she cried in merriment. ‘I’m sure I don’t even want to know!’

We then went to dinner.

The same day. Later.

{My thoughts are all a-whirl and if I don’t affix them to paper I shan’t catch a wink of sleep.

Just as I was composing this day’s earlier entrance, Maurice entered my room, already dressed for bed. The notion came to me that maybe  he had not forgotten about me after all entered my mind for a split second, but I dismissed it right away (it is even more absurd now when viewed with the benefit of temporal distance). So I only asked him what brought him here at this hour.

He looked wild and fretful. He gesticulated somewhat frantically towards my diary. ‘It was not the text of  your Guide you were burning, was it?’ he said. ‘You still write that diary!’

I did not bother with re-hashing this old, weary argument. ‘It is encrypted in an unbreakable cipher,’ I merely reminded him, ‘and you saw how I burn the plain text until it is nought but ash as soon as I have the opportunity.’ I tapped this current volume with my pen. ‘What’s more is that this does not go further back than this past May— you have nothing to fear.’ (I shall be cautious not to mention to him that I am writing down this very conversation.)

He fixed me with his sharp gaze—it used to make me feel like I was the most interesting thing he had ever seen, like I was a work of art the details of which he wished to commit to memory; in this moment,  I felt more like a weed that he was contemplating how best to be rid of. ‘Then what is it that you both wish to record and need to conceal at the same time?’

‘You know it.’

‘Then you still—?’

I merely nodded. It is one thing to privately come to terms with and record my desires and their pursuit—quite another to admit to them out loud, even to  an old co-conspirator.

‘You are foolish,’ he said, rather snapped. ‘Foolish and childish.’

‘Why are you here, Maurice?’ I asked. I felt rather tired with more than physical exhaustion. ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

He seemed at a loss himself. Finally, he declared, ‘You ought to get yourself a wife. Then you would no longer have anything to encrypt.’

I trembled, if with anger, shame, or fear, I cannot say. ‘I shall do no such thing,’ I retorted, barely managing to keep my voice low. ‘I shall be quite miserable shackled to a woman I have not the character to love, and she no happier herself!’

Maurice drew himself up. ‘Are you insinuating—?’

I held up my hands placatingly. ‘Not with one syllable, old friend. You love her; it is plain to see. But I am plain incapable of loving a woman as you love her.’ I wished to add, ‘as I loved you,’ and I don’t know if it was wisdom or cowardice that held my tongue.

He regarded me a minute or so more. I looked away. He finally left without so much as a “good night.”

I detest how this brief encounter has cast my mind back to our last, bitter months together. But, reading back over this recollection, I realise I stood up to him to-night in a way I had not done back then.  That must count for something, must it not?}

 

11th of June.

I was heading home along the edge of a small woods, the trees young and the undergrowth lush, when something small caught my eye. I stopped and looked harder into the gloom. There it was again! A tiny speck of greenish light winked into existence a feet or two above the ground. It drew a languid circle in the air and winked out again, only to appear again in a completely different place. The longer I looked, the more specks appeared, dancing circular motions over the underbrush.

I stood transfixed by the dance of the fireflies. Now two would come together; then, they would separate again. They appeared and disappeared by no pattern I could discern. They meandered through the air on some errand I could not guess at. Everything was green, even the darkness. The underbrush dissolved into a hazy wash, the shapes of grass, ferns, and trees only to be guessed at. The fireflies’ lights were yellowish stars against this backdrop, as, like stars, some were lighter, brighter, more noticeable than others.

A long time I watched, until the image was seared into my mind for ever. I went home and immediately made a small colour sketch of my experience. I will make it into a proper picture by daylight.^[12]

 

12th of June.

I saw the merman again to-day. This time, he had emerged only so far that only his eyes protruded above the waterline. Once we locked eyes, he immediately went down and was no more to be seen. 

Maurice’s wife, I have learned, has a good taste in books. Over tea, the conversation turned to literature. She and I have many books in common! She shares my disdain for Dickens, and asked whether I had read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall; when I replied I had not but wished to, she told me I could borrow it from her. And, true to her word, it was on my desk when I sat down to write in my diary. I look forward to reading it.

 

13th of June.

I finally got a good look at the merman to-day.

Once more, I was in my rowboat, this time armed with a fishing rod, and identifying and sketching the fish I caught (I’ve decided to leave the seals be for now, until a better way of getting close enough to sketch them should arise).

I was momentarily engrossed in the iridescent scales of a mackerel, when I heard, once more, the ripple of water that signals his emerging. I turned my head, our eyes met, but this time, he did not flee.    

He had risen up to just above his elbows. His colours were those of a photograph: nothing but whites, blacks, and silvers. His skin was alabaster. His hair was coal black and cropped short. I could not see his tail clearly, but it flashed like a mirror in the sunlight beneath the water surface.

His eyes were dark, as black as his hair, so that I could not tell iris from pupil, darker and larger than any human’s but not so large as to be grotesque. His entire face had a smoothness to it I would have attributed to youth in a human. There were no further differences between his face and that of a human, except that his ears lay very flat to his skull and were rather small.

He regarded me (and I presume from his flat chest, which was bared, that it was a he) with something approaching challenge. I suddenly got the feeling that as I was studying him, so he was studying me.

‘Hello,’ I finally said.

‘Hello,’ he replied. But before I could ascertain whether he understood what he was saying or merely echoed me, he sank back into the water. He gave me one last, scrutinising look, then he disappeared. I could not see where he went.

 

16th of June.

I have seen the merman almost every time I was on the water in recent days. Sometimes, the feeling of being watched made me sweep my gaze around, and by the time my eyes fell on him, he had already turned tail and all I could glimpse of him was his disappearing fluke. At other times, our eyes met and, both of us startled, we exchanged greetings before he would sink into the water. And at yet other times, I only saw him far away, so far that I am not altogether sure I have not mistaken him and a seal once or twice.

 

17th of June.

This time, as I rowed my now familiar and dear little boat to my usual spot, I had already expected that the merman would visit me, and I was not disappointed.

To-day, he emerged from the water some two yards or so from my boat, lifting only his head, regarded me, and dove back down again. I had assumed that this would be the last I saw of him to-day, so I turned back to my specimen (a sea bass this time) and was more than shocked when he emerged again, and right in front of me!

So far, he’d only ever looked at me with cautious curiosity, but now, he was clearly agitated. ‘Who are you!’ he demanded, sounding as frustrated as if I was a puzzle he had tried for a long time, and in vain, to solve.

Setting aside my astonishment that he could speak English, I told him that I was an artist.

‘Artist?’ he echoed.

I lifted the bass. ‘I’ve been drawing this fish.’ I motioned to the skerries. ‘Though what I’m really hoping is to get closer to the seals.’

He looked over at the rocky islets, and his face softened. ‘Silly creatures,’ he said, but with affection. I could only agree.

I told him my name and asked for his.

He told me, and when  I did not grasp it, told me again. It was an altogether alien string of noises to my ears, so alien that I cannot hope to transcribe it. I repeated it to him several times until he grew impatient and waved me off with a ‘That will do.’

His voice was clear and I liked to listen to it; his accent was lilting like an Irishman’s, and he rolled his Rs similar to the manner of the Italians. The syllable -ing (and similar) he pronounced -ink (and similar), as I have heard some Germans do. But he also clicked his tongue on Ks, especially when they occurred at the end, and occasionally, an S came out with a whistle;^[13] I know not to what these might be compared. Perhaps a philologist would.

I expressed my surprise that he spoke English, and very well, too; to which he cocked his head and asked, ‘Do you not speak my language?’

I of course replied in the negative, which seemed to confuse him even more. I asked why he assumed I would speak his language, and he said, ‘Many of you land-folk have learned it. As many of your people speak our language as our people speak yours.’

Realising the misunderstanding, I told him, ‘I am not from here. I live much further South and inland, and am only a visitor to this region. In fact, I’ve never spoken to one of your kind before.’

‘I see.’ He paused, and scrutinised me once more. ‘Well, goodbye,’ he said suddenly, and was gone.

 

18th to 21st of June.

The past days have been such a whirl I had not the strength left to write.

I met and talked to the merman every day. On the 19th, the sea was tumultuous and conversation with me in the boat and him in the water proved impractical to the point of impossibility. He therefore led me to a cavern in the cliffs. It resembles a large, domed hall. Gaps in the ‘ceiling’ let in light, and the mouth is vast. The ground is black rock, covered in sand and washed every day by the tides. Pools and eddies make walking precarious. But he—the merman—could sit in a pool while I could sit at its side and we could talk more easily.

I asked him about his occupation. He told me he is a fisherman, or rather a hunter, as the methods he described are closer to hunting than fishing. He roams the sea on his own, armed with a spear (which he had not with him, to my disappointment) and then barters his catch to the rest of the community. In return, he receives lodging, kelp which his people farm, services, and  trinkets which he sells to humans. They buy from humans, too, mostly metal—his spearhead is steel—but as it corrodes rather swiftly underwater, they don’t have much use for it and so only buy it rarely.

I asked if they have clothes and jewellery, and he replied that they wear no clothes, but some of his people like to fashion earrings, necklaces or what I suppose could be called hip-laces from shells, pearls, and bone.

He revealed to me that his people have two languages: one they speak, the other they make with their hands, quite like the deaf do when left to their own devices. These signs his people make when they are underwater but need to communicate. He showed me some of these signs, denoting words such as ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye,’ ‘food’ and ‘drink’ ‘day’ and ‘night,’ ‘friend,’ ‘thank you’ and ‘please,’ several different signs for different kinds of fish, and an intricate vocabulary referring to every possible state of the tide.

We talked about more—about him, about me, and I told him as much as he wanted to know about humans and more. As the sun dipped low, we would part, and meet again the next day to continue our conversation where we had left it off.

But I want now to turn to to-day’s recollections:

 22nd of June.^[14]

To-day, I saw his full body for the first time.

He had, so far, always stayed in the water, but to-day, we met at a time when the tide was really very low, and there was hardly any water in the pool he usually stayed in. He therefore heaved himself out of this pitiful puddle and settled next to me.

I could not help staring, I’m afraid. His tail begins an inch or so below his navel, I would say, as this is where most scales begin to converge, but there are scattered scales all further up, the highest reaching just below his pectoral muscles, which makes an estimate difficult. The scales are fine and delicate and shimmer silver. His tail, which is nearly twice as long as the rest of his body, ends in a broad, muscular fluke, the sides a little larger than his feet would be, if he had them.

He caught my roaming eye and smiled, but said nothing. We talked for some time—to-day he was more the interviewer than I. He started asking about humans, but our talk quickly wandered to the two of us as individuals.

{I  did notice him come ever closer to me, but I said nothing. I found myself not wanting to discourage him, but was at the same time too cowardly to encourage him.

His questions became bolder, his comments more cheeky.^[15] I can proudly say I gave as good as he did. After one particular volley of words, I found myself face-to-face with him, so close I could see myself reflected in his eyes. I said before his eyes are black. I was wrong. They are a deep, dark green like dry kelp.

He smiled. I smiled back. He came closer until his body was pressed against mine. He reached out, and when I gave a brief nod, he went about undoing the buttons of my shirt one by one, starting at the bottom, rather taking his time. All the while, he was making some kind of noise, humming, chuckling, even whistling occasionally. I was frozen in place, unsure of what to do with myself in the absence of clothing on him that I could remove in turn. I did laugh when he finally undid the last button and pushed my shirt back, only to frown in displeasure at my undershirt. And then he laughed with me. He  leaned over to brush his nose against mine.

But when I took his chin in my hand and pressed a kiss to his lips, he sat up at once. His eyes were even larger than usual, round and startled.}

And suddenly, there was a great clamour outside. I turned on instinct; I saw the light of lanterns slowly come towards us. Behind me, there was a splash, and I turned around just in time to see his fluke vanish in the water.

Sighing, I buttoned my shirt back up and got to my feet. I called out and met them halfway. It was a party of  fishermen, who had discovered my carelessly discarded boat and feared the worst for the bumbling landlubber! When asked what I had been doing in the cavern, I replied truthfully that I had made the acquaintance of and was conversing with one of the merfolk. They were astonished, as the merfolk are a very elusive people and rarely commune with us humans beyond brief interaction. The fishermen questioned me all the way back home.

{But my thoughts were with the merman and how my kiss had startled him. I had been so sure he was interested in me. I can’t have misread his body language that completely, can I? Maybe he merely wanted to take my clothes off to see what humans look like without them. But our talk had long since moved away from the broad strokes of our respective people and had turned to us as individuals. How can it be that he wanted me out of my clothes  but not for me to kiss him?}

I am as spent as this candle. I shall to bed.

The same day. Night.

{I had a dream. It was hazy and confused, as if I viewed the proceedings through a heavy fog. I cannot even be sure I was an active participant or just a disembodied, misty observer. I remember bodies engaged in sexual acts, but no details, either to the identity of the bodies or the acts themselves.

What woke me was my almost painful erection. I was still half-asleep and not interested in anything other than making it disappear in the most straightforward way possible so I could recommit myself to Hypno’s embrace. But as I lay in the dark, stroking myself with brisk efficiency, the merman came unbidden to my inward eye, with his lithe, long body, his large, curious eyes, and his lilting, melodic voice.

It was over altogether quite quickly after that.

I’m not sure how I feel.

Probably I should go back to sleep.}

 

23rd of June. 

Once more, I was in pain when I awoke this morning. It still hasn’t lifted—there’s an ache tugging at my muscles as if I was bearing a load too heavy for me—even though it is seven in the evening as I compose this entry.

Back to this morning: it was bad enough that I did not even attempt to rise and instead rang for the maid to have my breakfast brought up. But who should it be but  Maurice’s wife herself who entered ten minutes later with the tray? As she arranged the tea, egg, sausage &c. on the night table, she told me she had intercepted the maid to check in on me herself. I thanked her dutifully for her care for me.

When my breakfast was arranged to her satisfaction,  she regarded me critically. ‘You don’t look ill,’ she said.

Ah, that hated remark! If only I could charge a penny—a farthing, even!—every time I heard it; King Croesus would look like a miserable pauper, indeed. ‘Trust me, madam,’ I said, and I’m sorry to say I was rather short with her, ‘I am.’

Unheeding my words, she sat down in the bed next to me and put her palm flat on my forehead, a touch so sudden and inappropriately familiar it startled me into speechlessness. ‘You haven’t a fever, at any rate,’ she observed. Looking back now, I cannot tell if she was trying to discern if I was not lying about my illness to shirk my work, or if she believed me, but assumed it made me infantile. This latter is another attitude that would make me rich if I could charge for it!

Brusquely, I shook her hand off. I ran out of patience long ago for people either disbelieving me about my illness or treating me as if I were a child. ‘Not yet I haven’t,’ I replied. ‘I would if I got up, though.’ I took a moment to rein my irritation in a little. ‘Ma’am, you nursed me through my fever in May. That, I incurred from travelling during a flare-up—this is what I call these bouts of pain and fatigue—instead of delaying my journey to rest. I have lived with this ailment for the better part of my life; I have learned to read it like a fisherman reads the tide. And right now, I can read as clear as day that to convalesce, I need to remain in bed.’

She fell silent. I was upset; quite too upset to try to discern if she was, too.

‘Please, Mr Walker,’ she said at last. ‘Your breakfast is turning cold.’

I dutifully took the cup of tea and sipped it. It was good, strong tea, and I even detected the treat of a spoon or two of sugar.

‘If I may be so bold,’ she continued, and I arched an eyebrow—she is quite the boldest woman I ever made the acquaintance of—  ‘may I suggest you ought to get married?’

I choked on my tea.

‘A wife,’ she continued, ‘would take care of you and nurse you during your “flare-ups”.’

‘I have managed on my own so far,’ I got out. ‘I shall not ever marry a woman I am not in love with.’ It is my standard answer; I am quite proud of it, as it contains not one word that is not truthful.

‘What,’ she exclaimed, ‘you have never been in love?’

Now this was altogether more difficult to answer truthfully. {I do not even know why I am so reluctant about lying about my inclinations anymore. Plenty of men lie about it. Some even when I’m standing right next to them.}

‘I have been in love,’ I said reluctantly.

‘So why did you not marry?’

‘Circumstances prevented me.’

‘Oh, Mr Walker,’ she  ejaculated^[16] passionately, ‘surely one day you will fall in love with a woman you can marry!’

‘Perhaps,’ I said rather more prosaically. {After nearly thirty-five years of loving only men, it seems rather improbable.

But then again, Maurice fell in love with a woman, too. I don’t know if, should I ever follow his example, I would be relieved or terrified.}

The pain is getting worse every minute. I shall have to take some laudanum and see if I can’t sleep.

 

27th of June.

For three whole days, my confounded illness has kept me prisoner. To-day was the first day I felt well enough to walk further than Maurice’s garden. I went to the cavern where the merman and I have been meeting, taking the land route this time. I have not the strength for rowing yet. As I approached the little pool where he and I would have our conversations, I saw that he was already there.

He had his forearms on the rocky side of the pool, his chin resting upon the stone, and idly tracing patterns in the sand with one finger. He lifted his eyes when he noticed my approach. With a sweep of his hand, he erased the patterns before I could glimpse them. He did not greet me, but watched me approach without making a move to leave.

I took my shoes and stockings off, rolled up my trouser legs, and let my feet dangle in the pool beside him. He, however, made no attempt to get out; he even took his arms below the surface. ‘You were gone,’ he said. His tone was plainly accusatory, but I also imagined there was a faint note of distress. Of course, from his point of view, my sudden disappearance must have looked plain like rejection. Poor lad.

I smiled at him. ‘Forgive me, I was ill.’

‘Ill?’ He does something odd with his L’s; they sound more like vowels than consonants, his tongue further in the back of his mouth than it should be, I hazard.^[17]

‘Ill,’ I repeated, making sure to stress the proper pronunciation. ‘Do you not know the word?’

He frowned at me rather hotly. I am afraid my question offended him. ‘I do know the word,’ he huffed. ‘But you don’t look ill.’

Et tu, Brute? ‘I assure you, I couldn’t even leave my bed.’

He thought for a moment. Then, I felt his hand on my foot. He eyed me. I could tell he was not yet placated.

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ I said quietly when he would not speak.

Finally, he smiled. His hand absently stroked my foot. ‘Will you come in the water with me?’ 

‘I can’t swim, I’m afraid.’

He sighed rather theatrically. He grabbed the ledge and hauled himself up next to me. He rolled over until he was lying on his front, and, his chin in both his hands, looked up at me. ‘This isn’t very comfortable for me,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all I could think to say. ‘Maybe we can find a shallower pool where I can stand?’

‘Yes, maybe.’ But he made no indication to move. Instead, he reached for me. {I let him take hold of my shirt and tug me down to him. I did not mind the sand I got on my clothes. (I later simply told the laundress I had been gathering shells to illustrate.) He took hold of my collar and pulled, not ungently, until I was kneeling in front of him and our noses touched.

‘I’d like to kiss you,’ I said hoarsely.  

‘I don’t know that word, “kiss”,’ he replied, but before I could find an explanation, he asked, ‘Is that what you did before? Your mouth on mine?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, relieved beyond words that I did not have to explain. I remembered how he had drawn back in surprise when last I had attempted to kiss him. ‘Do your people not do that?’

He shook his head; we were still so close his forehead brushed on mine. He still had my shirtfront in his hand, and began, once more, to undo my buttons, this time from top to bottom.

‘Did you… not like it? We don’t have to,’ I hurried to say. ‘We don’t… have to do anything you don’t want.’  I wondered yet again if I was mistaken when I understood his body language as interest in me and my body; if his people didn’t kiss, it was not such a leap of logic to assume their courtship differed from ours in other ways, too. With the gift of hindsight, I know better; and in the moment, the fact that he was single-minded in the pursuit of divesting me of my clothes whenever he had the opportunity should have already made me catch his drift, but in my defence, it is quite difficult to think logically in his presence—he is, after all, a gorgeous man firmly taking my clothes off!

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I was surprised the other day.’ He paused. And then he pushed himself up and kissed me experimentally. It was not a good kiss, I’m sorry to say. Quite too wet and toothy. I took his cheek in my palm—he has a smattering of scales there, a little like freckles; they are hard and rough to the touch—and kissed him back. Our lips did not leave each other for quite a while.

It wasn’t long before his hand was back on my buttons, though his fingers shook now and he seemed to have lost his patience. He gasped against my mouth, and then winced, and drew back. ‘This doesn’t work.’

‘I—what? Why?’

He looked at me, and—and this astonished me more than anything I had learned of him so far—he blushed. ‘I’m not—unmoved by you.’ He smiled in embarrassment. ‘It’s a… predicament.’ And he let go of me to roll on his back, sighing with the relief of pain eased.

All I had eyes for was the area where his crotch should be, right above two scale-less spots.^[18] There was a slit there that must have been so tightly closed before that it had been invisible, for I do not recall espying it before this instance. Now, however, it lay loosely open, and the tip of his penis poked out. It must have felt awful, trapped underneath his body like that.

His eyes met mine almost defiantly.

All I could think to do was reach out. I stopped myself just before I touched him. He, however, took my hand and placed it right on his cock. It was not so much an invitation as a demand, one I was more than willing to fulfil.

I repositioned myself so I was kneeling half over, half beside him. I watched his cock while stroking it, coaxing it ever further out of its protective sheath. He was far from silent; he keened and sighed and muttered, some words in his own language, others in mine; all encouraging. His hands were all over me; he pushed first my braces, then my shirt off me, then tugged at my undershirt. I only let go of him long enough for him to pull it over my head and throw it aside. (It later turned out that sand on an overshirt is easy to explain to the laundress; sand on the undershirt, though, is more difficult to come up with an excuse for. I finally settled on telling her I’d discarded my overshirt because I’d been hot. Which was not even a lie!)

He sat up at the sight of my bare chest and put his palm flat down over my heart. I let him, for I like the way he touches me, as it displays his affectionate curiosity.

‘Do all humans have this?’ he asked, running his hand through my chest hair.

‘Only the males,’ I replied, ‘and not all of them, either.’

He cocked his head, pensively rubbing his hand over my chest—and over my nipple. I had to bite my lips to keep from moaning, then remembered that we were alone and well out of any human earshot and let myself make all the noises I wanted to make.

He was not unresponsive to this. He pushed himself further up to press another toothy kiss to my mouth. I felt his cock against my stomach. I took a hold of his shoulders and gently pressed him down on his back again to resume stroking him.

His penis had finally emerged in full. It is almost identical to the human penis, if perhaps a little slimmer and longer than any other specimen I had the pleasure to encounter. But since human genitalia express a wide range of variety as to shape, size, girth, length, &c., I can’t rule out that this is just what his looks like, and that someone else’s might be quite a different story. While his skin is almost perfectly white, his penis is flushed pink, surely from the engorging blood.

It was as gorgeous as the rest of him.

I jerked in surprise when I felt his fingers on the fly of my trousers. I’d been so absorbed with his penis I plain forgot about my own. But now that he’d reminded me so firmly of it, I couldn’t put it out of my mind. I gave an involuntary twitch with my hips.

‘This is more complicated,’ he observed, struggling with the more stubborn buttons of my fly.

‘Allow me,’ I said. My voice was husky. I took my trousers and drawers off as quickly as I could. (I just gave up with the laundress and she looked like she was done asking questions, too.) Before I had a chance to think of what to do with myself, he had taken me, positioned me as he saw fit: I was above him, my knees straddling his tail, my cock above his. He took them both in his hand and started stroking, slowly and leisurely. I followed his strokes with the thrusts of my hips, though every now and then, I added my grasp to his. We were quite dry—well, I was, anyway, he is always damp with seawater—and rough at first, but we both soon leaked enough to slick ourselves up which made the glide that much smoother and easier.

He’d started in my language, but was now only speaking his own. I am not a philologist, but I believe I heard him repeat the same two or three words (or maybe phrases?) over and over. Not such a leap of logic, my own conversation was, after all, variations on the theme of ‘won’t you come for me, I’ll make you come for me, please let me make you come,’ peppered with pet words.

I felt rather than saw him spend,^[19] absorbed as I was by the enchanting expression it put on his beautiful face. His cock pulsed against mine, and he moved his hand throughout the process until I came just a few minutes after he did. I almost collapsed on top of him and barely held myself up, fearful of crushing him. We both stayed still, safe for our panting, for a little while, until I regained control over my limbs and sat back on my heels.

He reached into the pool with one hand and began rinsing our mingled emissions off where they had landed on his stomach. When he was finished, he winced in pain and rolled on his side. His back was red and irritated. The sand must have abraded the skin quite badly. ‘Well, now I know why we normally do this in the water,’ he murmured sardonically, half to himself.

I stretched out beside him. ‘Have you never lain with a human before?’

‘No,’ he said, and tilted his head at me. ‘Have you lain with a merman?’

I shook my head. ‘But… have you… ever lain with a man? A merman, I mean?’

‘Of course. You’ve lain with a human man, I presume?’

‘I have,’ I replied. ‘Many, in fact.’ I glanced over in trepidation (human men can get so huffy about not being the only one!), but he just nodded.

‘Yes, quite right,’ he said.

We were quiet for a while.

‘I’m not supposed to,’ I finally admitted.

He turned his head to me; he had a strange glimmer in his eye, I’m at a loss as to how to describe it, for it was half unease, half relief.  ‘Not supposed to… what?’

‘Lie with a man.’ I had to clear my throat. ‘It is illegal.’

‘Illegal?’ he echoed. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Against the law. Forbidden.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He made a face, again one I am unable to describe to my satisfaction. ‘I… am not supposed to lie with anyone at this time.’

Now it was on me not to understand. He explained: ‘We are only allowed to—mate? is that a word? at specific days of the year; only on days when the moon is new.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘We are not even allowed to… to…’ He said the word in his language, which I am unable to transcribe; he looked at me. ‘What was the word you used? “Come”?’

I nodded, ignoring the way his casual and inquisitive use of the word made my cock twitch.  

‘We are not allowed to come at all on any day other than the day of the new moon,’ he summarised. ‘And then, only once.’

‘That sounds tortuous.’

‘Believe me, it is.’ He looked up at the cavern’s ceiling, then back at me. I could already see the colour return to his cheeks. ‘Shall we go again?’

And I agreed. But I can’t write any more tonight—recording this has left me rather aroused, so I shall take care of that now.}

 

30th of June.

{He and I have grown ever closer over the last few days, and have copulated several times. Sexual intercourse with him is uniquely pleasurable and, to put it simply, plain fun. I am endlessly fascinated in how his body looks and works, and he is similarly interested in mine. It makes for a rather intoxicating experience.}

I have made several more illustrations of parnassia palustris, and these P&C accepted, while I don’t like them nearly as much as the first. They did praise my illustrations of fish, and assured me that those I have sent in of delphinus delphis^[20] are already being engraved. I now only have a small handful of plants I need to seek out, three or four species of bird, and, of course, phoca vitulina.^[21]

Their inquiries towards the merfolk have left me uneasy for reasons I can’t fully grasp. When I set out for Cumberland, it had been with the full understanding that should I be able to include them in my Guide, it would be sensational, but that their renowned elusiveness and shyness would make this feat near impossible. I have not yet informed them of my acquaintance with the merman. If I never tell them, they will never be any the wiser and philosophically accept that my Guide will not be able to feature the merfolk. I’m starting to seriously believe that that would be the wisest course of action.

 

1st of July.

To-day, I asked him how long he can remain underwater before needing to surface and take a breath.

He shrugged. ‘I can’t say precisely. We don’t measure time as you do.’ I naturally asked him how they did measure time, and he replied, ‘Our longest measurement, other than the day, we call a’ — and here he pronounced a word in his language; I do so wish there was a way for me to transliterate it! — ‘which means “dive.” This is the average time we can hold our breath. This, we divide in half or by fifths.’ He smiled in a contrite manner. ‘This must be a very unsatisfactory answer to you, I’m sorry!’

‘No matter at all, my dear. We shall discover a better answer together.’ I took my watch out. ‘Will you demonstrate?’

‘Of course, if it pleases you.’ He scuttled over to the edge of the pool. ‘I hope you’re patient.’

I marked the time on my watch and nodded go-ahead; he let himself sink backwards into the water, his lower half still on the edge of the pool. He twitched his fluke from time to time; I was reminded of the way a human would pace or tap his feet when idly waiting. It was an odd sort of contrast: me with my feet in the water, him with his fluke on land.

And so I waited, as well. The first ten minutes I had anticipated. Fifteen minutes I had thought possible, but improbable, and was suitably impressed when they passed without him coming back up. But longer than that I had dismissed as an impossibility, and when the twenty-minute mark came and went,  I leaned over to see if my merman had not drowned himself. His large green eyes met mine through the water surface and he smiled so broadly he revealed all  his teeth. I shook my head in amazement. And then it was another ten minutes until he blew out his breath in a veritable fountain of bubbles and rose up again! In total, he had spent thirty-four minutes completely submerged and had not come up for breath even once. He was still smiling, and touched my shoulder. ‘Is your curiosity satisfied?’

‘You are a marvel,’ I said. It was all I could think of.

He chittered {and kissed me in that endearingly clumsy manner.

Quite unbidden, I suddenly wondered how his amazing  breath control could be applied to fellation.^[22] I felt myself redden profusely.

He cocked his head at me in puzzlement, and glanced down. Seeing my beginning erection nudge against my trousers, he just shook his head with a little laugh. He put his hand on me and applied just the gentlest of pressure, humming in satisfaction when I could not help a jerk of my hips at even such a light touch (he has such a strong effect on me). His cool demeanour belied the fact that I could spy the head of his own cock beginning to peek out of its slit.

He had me out of my trousers and drawers within moments. He stroked me, but only once, because then he looked at me with his head tilted. ‘I’ve shown you something I like,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you show me what you would like me to do for you?’

I still couldn’t shake the thought of fellation, so I said, ‘Do your people… ah, stimulate each other using your mouth?’

‘Kissing, you mean?’

‘Almost.’ I bit my lip. ‘But… on the genitals?’

‘Oh! Yes, we do that.’ He smiled widely. His palm pressed on my prick and I gasped, grasping at thin air with one hand. He took my flailing arm and put it firmly on his shoulder.

‘You like to touch and be touched, don’t you,’ I noted with faint amusement.

‘Don’t you?’ Before I could give a reply, he sank down and kissed the head of my cock. He glanced up, I don’t know why, probably for confirmation, and, finding it, started lapping alongside my length, small, rhythmic licks that had me see stars with their unbearable gentleness.

I feared I would not be able to restrain myself; if I kept my hand on his shoulder, I would surely squeeze so tightly I hurt him, I thought, so I put my hands down next to me. But he looked up at me like not touching him hurt him, and so I put my right hand on his neck, vowing to myself to leave not even the smallest bruise. I felt him relax.

One of his hands rested on my foot; the other came up to encircle the base of my cock. He gave it one pump, then another, then, on the third, he chased the downwards movement with his mouth.

I cannot remember any of the nonsense I spewed. I hooked the foot he wasn’t holding onto behind his back, pulling him closer. He followed willingly. He had a good, steady rhythm, slightly faster when drawing back up than when bobbing down. Every now and then, he let my cock pop out of his mouth to lave it with his tongue and stroke it with his fingers.

At first, I found his leisurely pace enjoyable, a hazy fog of arousal as pleasurable as the buzz of a little alcohol or laudanum, and I lost myself in sensuality.

But at some point, I don’t know how long it took me, I was beginning to anticipate the moments where he let my cock slip out of his mouth with trepidation. But for those, I would have found my release quite soon; as it was, though, it felt like every time he let me go, I stumbled and flagged slightly.

This ebb and flow finally proved too much and I gave in and started begging him to let me come, make me come.

He hastened to please. His mouth was back on me, warm and sweet, his tongue playing with me. He sped up, and it wasn’t long until I cried out and spent right in his mouth. He swallowed it all down.

When I had regained the wherewithal to ask how I should return the favour, he declined. Instead, he clambered out of his little pool and embraced me.} He asked me about how humans live; his questions in that regard never dry up, it seems. We talked until the sun was nearly set, and I went home.

 

2nd of July.

‘Could you teach me how to swim?’ I asked Maurice at dinner.

He stared at me with his spoon frozen halfway on its journey to his mouth. ‘You don’t know how to swim?’

‘Would I ask you if I did?’ 

‘Mr Walker,’ said his wife, quite as shocked as he was, ‘do you mean to tell us that all this time you’ve been out on the water you did so without being able to swim? But what if you had capsized!’

I shrugged. In truth, I had never thought that far ahead.

‘But how did you manage to never learn?’ asked Maurice. And then he added, ‘Is that why you didn’t join the swimming club at university?’

I reluctantly explained how fear of my illness worsening with strenuous exercise had stopped me from joining many a club at university. Back then, I did not like admitting to my illness, and to-day I do not like admitting how much I allowed it to shackle me.

‘But your illness hasn’t gone away,’ interjected Maurice’s wife.

‘It never will,’ I replied. ‘But I’m no longer of the opinion that exercise will worsen it. So, please’ — I turned once more to Maurice — ‘will you teach me?’

‘Walker,’ he said, in the tone I know all too well and despise just as much— the tone that told me he thought I was being silly or fanciful or plain ridiculous and really needed to sit down and have a think about what I was about to do.

‘Why not!’ I protested.

‘What if—you could have a fit and drown.’

I sniffed. ‘I may not know what my illness might be called, but I know it’s not epilepsy.’

‘Still, what if you are wrong and it does make it worse?’

Before I could retort anything else,  his wife ejaculated, ‘Oh, darling, just teach him how to swim or I shall never again know peace!’ She fixed me shrewdly. ‘You would continue to go on the water even if my mule of a husband refused to teach you how to swim, would you not?’

I smiled broadly. ‘You know me well, madam.’ I looked back at Maurice. ‘Now, old friend, you owe your wife.’

Maurice shook his head and ate his soup in silence. But I know him well enough that I understood that this means he agreed; otherwise, he would have continued to argue.

He confirmed it after dinner, when he asked me when I would be best available to the lessons. I answered that I should be happy to begin the lessons to-morrow. ‘To-morrow, then,’ he said.

 

3rd of July.

I had my first swimming lesson to-day.

Maurice and I went down to the beach near his house after lunch. We laid the towels out on a boulder by the cliffside and undressed.

{As I took my drawers off, I chanced to look over at him. He had shed his last piece of clothing and was fully nude.^[23] He was stretching absently, pulling his arms above his head or rotating his torso. Becoming a farmer had been a gift to his body; he was much leaner and muscular now than in our student days.  And yet I was not stirred. It was not until this moment, looking at him as Nature had made him and finding myself utterly uninterested, that I realised that my infatuation with him had been a constant companion ever since I first met him in the halls of our Alma Mater, and I only noticed it had been there once I realised it was gone. I suddenly felt quite at peace, if a little wistful.}

I turned and finished undressing myself.

Swimming, it turns out, is not that difficult once you get the hang of it. I had some difficulty at first and Maurice nearly quit me in frustration when for the fourth time I flailed in a panic as my feet left the ground, but we both trooped on and suddenly, I was swimming a circle around Maurice. I felt a far cry from the graceful movements of my merman, but it was a start and  I am proud of myself, if I may be allowed this moment of immodesty!

Maurice declared us finished for the day and we swam back to the shore, dried ourselves, and began to dress.

I was just pulling my trousers on when I noticed Maurice looking at me. He was dressed only in his underthings. ‘What is it?’ I asked him, for of course I could tell there was something on his mind.

‘Walker,’ he began. He fell silent again. Just as I was about to prompt him, he ejaculated full of anguish,  ‘Why do you resent me so!’

I was surprised into replying at once, ‘I do not resent you.’ {Which is not altogether true, I confess. Part of me, I suspect, will never be able to look on Maurice without this pinch of ire, that he had abandoned London, abandoned a promising career as an academic, abandoned me!, to become a bloody farmer up here in Godforsaken Cumberland!^[24]

‘Walker’ — I don’t remember a single time he ever used my Christian name — ‘your coldness is intolerable! Why’ — he cut himself off with a strangled cry and seized my forearms — ‘w hy can’t it be as it was before?’ 

‘You are married,’ I replied, as if I’d never given in to married men before. I twisted my arms out of his grip. This next was impossible to say without hurting him, but I said it anyway. ‘And besides, I do not want you anymore.’

His Adam’s apple bobbed noticeably as he swallowed drily. ‘You don’t,’ he echoed. 

‘No.’ I may as well have stabbed him, the way his face contorted in pain. I couldn’t help countering, ‘You haven’t wanted me for years.’

‘Walker, I—’ he began, but I cut him off, giving in to the anger I had kept a lid on for all these years. I wanted to hit him with all that pent-up fury, but I made a tight fist by my side instead.

‘You have no right to demand anything from me anymore,’ I burst forth. ‘I would have given myself to you totally—I had—but it was you who had not the stomach for it and fled hither! And now, after all these years, you discover that I have moved on, and you can’t bear it! Did you really think I would have waited for you, tucked away in some cabinet like the good china only to be brought out for holidays? Accept that I will never again be your lover, or you shall lose me as your friend!’

He looked so wretched after my outburst that I was immediately a little sorry. He sat down on the boulder. ‘I love my wife,’ he said, which was rather a non sequitur, but I let him go on without interruption. ‘I do. And I have not—’ He closed his mouth and shook his head. His hands were restless as he continued.  ‘No, I have regretted marrying her, from time to time.’

That was complete news to me. Of everything I could accuse Maurice, marrying his wife for anything but real, true love was not a part.

‘I have not regretted it enough to’ — he vaguely circled his hand around in the air — ‘seek out other women.’ He paused. ‘Or men.’ He looked up and smiled thinly. ‘Except for you, it seems. But you are right.’ He clapped his hands on his knees and stood. He held out his hand. I clasped it without a moment’s thought. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘It was a fleeting moment of weakness. You and I, we are finished.’

When was the time that this statement would have rendered my heart asunder? Was the man who would be devastated at this proclamation me, or is he some stranger, someone I passed by at one time and left behind me?

Are we ever really the same as we were?}

I am tired and my candle is nearly spent. I’ll to bed.

 

5th of July.

{My dearest merman was delighted when I not only took my clothes off upon him arriving in our cavern, but eased myself into the pool next to him. I showed him the movements that Maurice had told me, swimming this way and that. I had expected him to laugh at how awkward my swimming is compared to his, but he was nothing but kind and encouraging. He coaxed me ever further out, until I could barely brush the ground with my toes. I stopped there for fear; I still need much practice.

He swam away from me a bit, and called for me, but I shook my head, too occupied with keeping my head above water and not swallowing saltwater to speak. He came back and touched my cheek. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I want to swim with you. I shall not let anything happen to you.’

And in his large, sincere eyes, I found the courage to follow him, and swim farther and into deeper waters than I had ever done before. At one point, courage failed me, and I flailed and floundered; but he was at my side, and held me, making sure my head was above water. He talked to me—nonsense, mostly, but it was soothing, and I calmed down. We spent a long time in the water together.

Afterwards, I was rather tired, and so he and I dozed in the sand by the side of the pool. When I awoke (I estimate about an hour or so later), he had rolled onto his front, his head on his folded arms. On his back, his scales travel further than on his front, reaching all the way to his the nape of his neck. I could not help but reach out and stroke them, which made him stir; he sighed, put his head to the other side so he could blink a lazy smile at me, and allowed my hands roam where they willed.

He permitted me to count the vertebrae in his spine; as I had theorised, he has 15 Thoracic vertebrae and pairs of rib,^[25] but five Lumbar vertebrae.^[26] Possibly, some of the fused Sacrum vertebrae found in humans are unfused in mermen, and fulfil the function of Lumbar vertebrae; I’m unable to determine this without an autopsy, which is naturally out of the question. It appeared to me, however, that the intervertebral discs are wider in him than in humans, which accounts for his greater flexibility—again, only an autopsy could elucidate my palpation-based guesses.

Neither he nor I were unmoved by my manual exploration of his spine. ‘Is your curiosity satisfied?’ he asked me, a little out of breath; it was not, but I gladly gave in to him, and he turned me on my back and swallowed me down. No mouth has ever felt as heavenly as his.}

 

8th of July.

We swam together some more today, but the sea was rather tumultuous, so we soon abandoned the activity and instead found a spot in our cavern. I helped him out of the pool, {and he put his arms around my neck.

As I had him thus in my lap, I asked him what he would like me to do. He, between kisses to every part of my face, said, ‘Why don’t you kiss and lick my cock until I come apart in your mouth?’

While I enjoy being fellared,^[27] (which man does not?)  I do not categorically enjoy performing the act myself very much. That is not to say I detest it, and it does bring me some pleasure, but I much prefer to use my hands on a lover, as I not only fancy I am more skilled at it, but also  because I like an unobstructed view of his face and body as he gives in to pleasure, and need, and desire. I like to be able to caress him, cherish him, to kiss him and dote on him, and whisper in his ear all manner of silly, loving things until he is helpless to do anything but cry out and come.

But he asked me so sweetly, and I cannot resist him even if I attempted to, and so I did what he asked and fellared him.

He stretched out languidly, pulling me with him by my shirtfront. His cock had emerged almost completely, so far that the last few inch fragments made no difference. I began by stroking it, which he appreciated well enough, and he kissed me back when I kissed him. But the caressing hands on my shoulders moved upwards until they were on my head. He did not push me all the way down, just an inch or so, but I understood it as the demand it was and ducked down. 

I kissed the tip of and licked alongside his cock, but it was so unbearably salty I spluttered and spat. I had to get back up and fetch my water bottle to rinse my mouth out lest I threw up.

He found this all terribly amusing! ‘Of course it tastes salty, silly,’ he crowed when I complained, ‘I live in the sea!’ I responded rather sullenly that he doesn’t go around swimming with his prick out, or did he?, which only made him laugh more. But he is kind, and so he rinsed himself off with water from my bottle. His cock was still far more salty than I’d have liked, but it was bearable, and as I laved it more and more, and stroked it with one palm wet with saliva when I needed to regain my breath, I rather cleaned it of the last speck of salt until all that remained was his own taste. I liked that much more.

His left hand was in my hair, the other caressed the side of my face. His tail curled and twitched and finally came to rest across my legs, a heavy, but comforting weight. He babbled as he always does during coition, supplemented with whistling, sighing, even laughter, and all kinds of other noises. The closer he got to coming, the less sense he made to me, first abandoning English, then speech altogether, until he keened once or twice and came into my mouth.

I have always quite detested the taste of semen (another reason why I do not particularly enjoy doing fellation). It’s so vile and bitter, and his was furthermore made unpleasant by  mingling with the aftertaste of salt in my mouth. I swallowed it because he asked me to, but if he ever persuades me to fellare him again, I will refuse this last favour, as it nearly made me retch once more. Altogether, it would have been quite the miserable experience for me, were it not for the pleasure and satisfaction, expressed so vocally and beautifully, it brought him.

He sat up and gathered me in what would be his lap if he had legs, kissing me. His left hand stroked my face, the other my cock through my open fly. ‘Would you like me to return the favour?’

I breathlessly told him to keep doing what he was doing anyway, which he did with pleasure, and I soon ejaculated into his waiting palm.}

 

12th of July.^[28]

I have been thinking of my conversation with him about merman and human men a lot recently. It seems to me that the distinction between my people and his as human on the one hand and not human on the other is quite unjustified. I have come to the conclusion that rather than two vastly different species, we are, in fact, mere subspecies. Henceforth, I shall refer to my people as Homo sapiens terricolus and his as Homo sapiens aquatilis.^[29]

The physiognomic differences between the two subspecies are stark and draw the eye; aquatilis has a tail where terricolus has legs. Aquatilis is capable of spending a large amount of time in and under water; in Mr Darwin’s words, he is adapted to a semi-aquatic way of life. His teeth, similarly, are adapted to his diet, which comprises majorly of fish.  He apparently does not need to drink.^[30]

But the longer one looks, the more the similarities rise to the surface. From the waist up, aside from colouring—and does not Homo sapiens terricolus display a wide selection of colours?—the two subspecies are as identical as two individuals from two different terricolus races are. That is to say, identical enough.

The genitalia of aquatilis, for example, are, aside from the concessions made to temperature regulation and streamlining of the body, i.e. that they are internal unless aroused, near identical to those of terricolus. I wonder if interbreeding may be possible—if a female aquatilis can bear the child of a male terricolus or vice versa. Further study towards this subject is needed^[31]—making the acquaintance of a female would be a good start, alas!

Aside from physiognomic considerations, our two tribes are less distinct than at first would appear in other ways. Aquatilis has a culture, distinct from terricolus; they have their own language—languages, even, one they speak, the other they make with their hands when underwater—and are fully capable of learning our own, and it is decidedly not in the manner one may teach a parrot or starling to imitate the human voice. Their speech apparatus (lips, tongue, teeth) is the same as that of terricolus. They have art and history and songs—I had the pleasure of listening to a few as he sang them to me. I am, however, a biologist, and shall leave the study of culture, beyond my rudimentary observations, to the anthropologists.

In conclusion, Homo sapiens aquatilis is a fully intelligent, rational, aquatic human being. They are not animals, and we should not continue to pretend that they are. As such, I have decided to not include aquatilis in my Illustrated Guide to the Flora and Fauna of Cumberland.

 

16th of July.

I mentioned to my dear merman that I still had not had a chance to draw the seals. When I explained to him that I have not yet found a skerry or other spot where I can dock my boat and move closer to them, he said he knows of one skerry on which many seals converge on sunny days; he believes there is a good spot where I can dock my little rowboat.

Not having anything better to do, I asked if we could go there right then, since it was such a sunny day, and he happily obliged. I took my boat and followed him, swimming ahead. I strained and was sweat-soaked within minutes; his pace (if it can be called a pace when he is swimming) seemed to be leisurely to him, and he would periodically turn his head to watch my approach before swimming on.

We finally reached the skerry; it is quite a way from the coast, and I was a little frightened that I might have stranded myself there. He showed me a tiny inlet, and as he had promised, it was perfect for my boat, almost as if the two were made for each other.

I clambered out of my boat, which he steadied for me. Then, he pulled himself out of the water and he dragged himself across the ground.

‘Does this not hurt?’ I asked him in worry.

He shrugged in a philosophical manner. ‘It is not comfortable, but I shall be fine.’

As he had predicted, the skerry was covered in seals all over. I cautiously went up to one sunning himself in that curved pose.^[32] As I approached, it dropped its flippers to the ground and stared at me for a good, long while. Not wanting to spook it, and risk it in turn causing the entire colony to take to its proverbial heels, I crouched down. My merman, who is slower on land than me, reached me and settled down next to me. While the seal still scrutinised me, I quickly took my pencil and sketchbook, and, bracing the latter on my knee, began to sketch the seal.

Having apparently decided I was no threat, the animal came nearer and I had to bite my lips very hard not to laugh lest I spook it— how clumsy it is! It propels itself by essentially bouncing forwards!

The seal then sniffed up my leg, making it difficult to keep my sketchbook steady, huffing and puffing. Every now and then, it made honking and barking noises.

I was sketching faster than I had ever done in my life. My merman seemed more fascinated by the mad dance of my pencil than the seal nuzzling me.  He had his chin on my shoulder the entire time. I understand that, even though they have art, it is not naturalistic in style, and the techniques are altogether different, as well. The idea of art as permanent seems foreign to him; I gather that part of the appeal of aquatilis art is its ephemeral nature. Being created underwater, it is highly susceptible to wear, and usually lasts less than a year. I wish I could see aquatilis art! But even if I could hold my breath long enough, terricolus eyes are ill-suited to underwater galleries.

But back to the seal.

I could see everything! The curious glint in its large eyes, the agitated opening and closing of his nostrils, the tiny holes on the side of his head that are his ears.^[33] I could see each individual whisker and hair. He had a deep grey coat with lighter spots ( or is it the other way around) and white splotches around the eyes.

After a while, he lost interest in me and bounced a few feet away, where he rolled onto his side. He scratched at his belly with one clawed flipper, and then seemed to fall asleep. He unfortunately did so with his back to me, and when I cautiously made to get to my feet so I could move around and see his front, he startled and looked at me with piercing eyes so that I froze in my movement and only sat down after he put his head on the rock once more.

I sketched like I had never sketched before. I captured the seals in all possible angles, and didn’t even give in to the temptation of drawing my merman until I had a good score of detailed drawings of the seals, and only two pages left in my sketchbook.

All too fast, the sun descended, the tide rose, and I had to leave the seals and return to shore. He accompanied me as far as he was able, and {would only leave my side after he had pulled himself up on the side of the boat to kiss me.

Not that I complain.}

 

20th of July.

I find I enjoy swimming a great deal. It is good exercise, and not as tiring as other activities. His joy at us being in the water together only enhances my enjoyment. {He is clingy, and only more so when I swim with him. His hands barely leave my skin.

After I tired myself out to-day, we sat together in our cavern. I would have liked to sit in the sun, as I always fancy the sunlight keeps my illness away, but his skin is so pale he would surely burn to a crisp within minutes. As usual, he had tugged and prodded me until I was positioned in just the way he wanted me to; to-day, he had pressed me up against a rock and nestled himself in my arms, his back to my chest. It is amusing but also impressive how clear a vision he has of even such unimportant matters, and how unerringly he goes about getting what he wants.

‘I would like to draw you,’ I said to him. I felt myself blush a little. ‘All of you.’

He turned his head to look at me, slightly puzzled.

‘I would like to draw you with your cock out,’ I continued, more boldly than I felt. I let my hand wander down towards his genital slit. ‘Aroused. Touching yourself.’

His breath hitched. But he asked, ‘What for? You can come see me do that whenever you fancy.’

I paused. ‘No, I can’t,’ I replied. I let my fingers draw closer to his slit. ‘Not when I’m ill. And not after I’ve gone home. And you have occupations and engagements, as well.’ I pitched my voice lower. ‘And besides, it’s not just for having the illustration; drawing it is a unique pleasure in itself.’ He must have been feeling the way my penis stiffened against his back just telling him about it.

‘Surely you’ve already made drawings, then?’ he asked. He shifted slightly from side to side, rubbing against me, and the unashamed grin he gave me when I had to bite my lip and make a fist in the sand told me all I needed to know about whether or not it was deliberate.

‘I have not,’ I finally managed to say. ‘I would need you to model. And for that, I need you to be willing.’

‘I am.’ He said it as simply as he’d say it was raining, or sunny, or whatever the weather might be. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Hold on.’ I pushed him off me and staggered to my feet, my legs slightly weak. I retrieved my supplies from the boat and sat down on a rock, this diary open on my knees and a pencil ready in my hand. And I suddenly felt myself at a loss as to what to do next. Drawing him in the act had been an idea that had nagged at the back of my head until I simply had to broach the subject; now that he had agreed and I was ready to begin, I did not know where to begin.

And so I began where a portrait always begins. I drew a circle. The moment I moved my hands with purpose, they recalled and hastened to their task. I quickly sketched a portrait of his face, which I later marked No. 1.^[34]

When I was done, I showed him. He studied it closely, even taking the diary in his hands and holding the pages so close to his face his nose almost touched the paper. ‘This is not what I look like,’ he said at last, almost accusingly.

I took the diary back to compare the drawing to the model. I found a myriad of flaws in my art, of course, I always do. But I know I am capable of accurately capturing what is right in front of me, and I think this portrait of him is a good likeness, and I told him so! 

‘I am not that beautiful,’ he said sullenly.

‘It is how I see you,’ I told him truthfully. I understood him well; just as I seem incapable of looking past the flaws in my art, despite the assurances of all my acquaintances that they can’t see one line wrong, so are we all incapable of looking past the flaws in our own face, though the world may disagree!

The next sketch I began is the full body one, marked No. 2. I captured his defiant posture—something in the way he supported himself on his hands while his tail curved around him I found very inspiring— but he’d assumed it more or less by chance and I had to tell him more than once to be still.

‘Is the whole thing going to be this uncomfortable?’ he asked.

I assured him it was soon going to be much more pleasant. Pleasurable, even.

So, finally, we come to sketches Nos. 3-10.^[35]I had myself in a firmer grasp now. I began by asking him to recline, which he did with no small amount of relief. My further instructions he followed with glee, as they essentially amounted to me directing his masturbation.

I first asked him to do what he would normally do when he began touching himself. His eyes firmly on me, he stroked over his genital slit with one open palm, applying gentle pressure here and there (No. 3). As it relaxed and became looser, he occasionally dipped a finger inside, which fascinated me so much I abandoned my perch to come closer (No. 4.). It wasn’t very long before his prick emerged. It was here that his composure collapsed; his face flushed the most beautiful shade of pink, the same as his cock (I wonder if reproducing these sketches in gwash^[36] might be worth the risk), and he wore the most enchanting expressions of ecstasy. (No. 5). His tail rippled and twitched in an altogether mesmerising way. By the time his penis had emerged enough for him to grab a hold of it, I told him to do so, and to stroke himself slowly. Now I would tell him to use only the tips of his fingers; then, his whole fist. I changed positions frequently to capture different angles, and every now and then, I would tell him to stop and hold (Nos. 6-9).

I had not even intended for him to resort to begging, but he soon did. He was half-incapable of speaking English by this point. Though quite desperate myself, I could not resist making him hold off for one last drawing (No. 10). I finally closed my diary with a flourish and sat back. ‘Well, my dear,’ I said, trying for nonchalance but failing quite badly, ‘go on.’

Having previously only ever looked at his face when he comes, I now enjoyed the unobstructed—safe for his hand—view of his penis. He brought himself to climax swiftly, and his semen spilt on his belly in a series of short, powerful bursts.

He let his hand fall lax to his side, and, panting, regarded me through half-closed eyelids. ‘Did that suffice?’ he asked.

I bent over him to kiss him for a long time. ‘You are magnificent,’ I told him.}

 

24th of July.

I had not expected anything to happen to-day. My merman had already told me, the last time we spoke, that he would be unable to meet with me for a few days. Maurice is in Lancaster on business. I had even been looking forward to having time to myself to finish and send off  more entries for my Guide, and had planned on an early night. But as I changed into my bed clothes, the maid came in and said that one of the fishermen had caught something for me. I hurried back into my proper clothes, and practically ran to the docks. All the time, I was wondering what in the world it could be—surely not my merman? He’d told me how his people are occasionally caught by surprise by a net. The lucky ones survive until the net is heaved back on board, they’re given a pat on the back, and tossed back in the sea with more or less of an apology; the unlucky ones drown.

My heart beat faster and I forced my feet to pick up speed, as well.

When I arrived at the docks, I saw a gaggle of fishermen standing around, smoking their pipes. I saw the noddy I am kindly taken on board of now and then. I also espied the old fisherman and his son. And at their feet, a net, with a large, grey body in it.

Heart pumping like a steam engine, I pushed through the fishermen. Only when the body was at my feet did I see that it was not a merman or mermaid, but a seal.

‘Mr Walker!’ exclaimed the son. He gestured to the prone corpse by our feet with his clay pipe. ‘Look what we found you. Was caught in our net this noontide. Barked at us like he wanted to curse us all down five generations, but a good blow or three to the head took care of that!’ He laughed, the others joined in, and he took a self-satisfied drag of his pipe. ‘That’ll be a fine addition to your book, eh?’

‘Yes,’ I replied numbly. ‘Of course. Very good.’ I am furious now, as much with the fishermen as with myself; nothing was “good,” and certainly not “very good.” What on earth did the fisherman think I would want to do with a dozen stone of dead seal? I’d sent the entry and drawings for phoca vitulina off weeks ago. It’s useless, anyway, trying to make a drawing of a live thing from a dead thing. You can’t fool anyone.

And all this pales in comparison to the crime of an innocent life, needlessly taken. Why hadn’t they left it alive, like I’d asked?

That thought jolted a little spirit into me. ‘Why did you kill it?’ I demanded.

The fishermen, who’d been chatting amongst themselves, fell quiet, probably in surprise.

‘Why not?’ responded the son at last, taking another drag of the pipe. ‘Only good seal is a dead seal.’

The other fishermen nodded. At my incomprehension, they said,  ‘Our nets are getting lighter every year. It’s the seals: they gobble up all our fish and leave nothing for us. If we don’t exterminate them or at least drive them from this coast, our livelihoods are at stake.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ I said flatly. ‘The seals have lived on this coast for centuries and there’s still plenty of fish to go around.’

The son blew rancid pipe smoke in my face. ‘You have a lot to say about fishing for someone who can’t tell a jib from a topsail.’

He was right; I know nothing of fishing. I know a thing about biology, however.  But I thought it prudent not to offend the people into whose land I had intruded. I made this mistake before, and even I am not stupid enough to repeat a mistake as grave as that more than three times. And so: ‘You’re right there, old boy,’ I said.

The fishermen glanced at one another in barely-concealed amusement, certainly at my clumsy attempt at familiarity.

‘I thank you for your effort,’ I went on undeterred. ‘I haven’t got my sketchbook with me, however. Would one of you be so kind as to help me carry this unfortunate fellow to my lodgings?’

To my surprise, it was the son, whom I’d been certain I had offended beyond repair, who wordlessly picked up the corpse like it was as light as a pencil.

I entered through the garden and bid the fisherman lay the seal on the grass. I hastily bid him Adieu, hoping to dispose of the seal before Maurice and his wife saw. No such luck: Maurice’s wife had heard our voices and came into the garden just as the fisherman disappeared down the path.

‘Mr Walker!’ she exclaimed, ‘what on earth is going on?’

‘I beg your forgiveness, ma’am,’ I replied. ‘I’d asked the fishermen to precure a specimen for me but missed telling them when I no longer had need of one.  Do you know where your gardener keeps his shovels?’

‘Shovels? No, I—oh, you can’t mean to bury it here?’

Her voice, loud in her astonishment, drew out Maurice, and I had to explain the whole thing again, and he, too, refused to let me bury the corpse in the garden. But he told me he’d help me bury it beneath the cliffs, and so we did. My arms still ache. I shall go to bed.

No, there is something I forgot to record—in the hope that the poor seal’s death would not be completely in vain, I sketched its teeth before Maurice and I went to bury it. I shall work the sketches into illustrations tomorrow and send them off to Manchester post-haste; I hope my engraver is patient with me.

Now! to bed.

 

26th of July.

{‘I feel braver when I’ve been with you,’ he told me to-day. ‘I defy the law every time I meet with you for longer than a brief trade of goods. I defy the law every time I lie with you. I used to be a terrible liar; I nearly stopped coming to you for fear I could not keep my transgression a secret.

‘But now, the thought of you, and of losing you should our secret be discovered, gives me strength. I go about my days and I don’t think any among the village can discern any difference in me, and  yet, the colours of the sea are bolder, the currents kinder, and a lie, when I need to tell it, is no longer shameful, but affection.’

I must say, as much as his speech touched me, it frightened me a little, as well. I understand the necessity, and I am touched by the length he tells me he goes to so he and I can continue to meet (I should mourn bitterly, should we ever be forced apart for good), and yet, how gleeful he sounded when he spoke of how habitually he lied chilled me. Not much, though; I’d be a fine hypocrite.

And yet, and yet… I am so torn! Would that none of us would ever have to resort to telling half- and mistruths when we speak of our lovers! Would that I could say ‘my husband’ as easily as other men can say ‘my wife!’}

 

31st of July.

That was too close.

I nearly came to ruin to-day. Bless and curse Maurice and his wife! Bless them for their care for me; curse them for the danger they put me in!

My illness struck again three days ago. This time, my illness had me in a grip terrible enough for Maurice and his wife to be convinced now would be the time I bid this world adieu. I cannot blame them; I have barely any memory of the past three days other than the brief respites of a cold towel on my forehead. I’m still not well enough to leave the bed; I am writing this entry in bed, with my diary propped open against my knees.

I must concentrate, I’m getting all over myself. So, Maurice and Wife called the doctor. The doctor swiftly came; I was unconscious of any of this occurring, and only regained my senses when the doctor drenched me some medicine. As I woke right as the liquid trickled into my mouth, it went down entirely the wrong way and I was seized, on top of all else, by a coughing fit. I distinctly remember thinking that it would be frightfully unfair if I survived my illness for over thirty years only to give up my ghost by choking on some medicine!^[37]

The doctor, I’m happy to report, is a young man (younger than me, I wager) and a strong one; he held me quite firmly as I spluttered all over him.

As I was thus preoccupied, I glanced at the night table and choked all over again—my diary! It lay open { to the page of my intimate sketches of my merman! The only saving grace was that they were partially covered by the loose sheets I composed the plain text for the previous entry on, but of course, if the doctor saw those, too…!

I was at a complete loss as to what to do. Knock the diary off the night table? No, surely the doctor would pick it up right away and that would only serve to ensure he saw the sketches. Deciding to fly forwards,} I reached over and closed it firmly as soon as I had stopped coughing. ‘My diary,’ I said by way of explanation. ‘Private, I’m afraid.’

‘And quite right, too,’ said the doctor with a smile. Then, talking to me about my illness, he said a word I had not expected at all—influenza!

I echoed the doctor quite stupidly, but the patient man just nodded and repeated himself. Just my luck, to contract influenza and have a flare-up at the same time!

The doctor talked to me about the medicine he left me and lectured me on the proper use of laudanum. I, having heard it all before, nodded along. He told me I should rest in bed for at least a week and left soon after.

I lay back in my pillows for a while. A week! Even my worst flare-ups resolve themselves in less than that.

I picked up this diary and regarded my illustrations within. {The shock of near discovery is still in my bones. As soon as I am well enough, I shall tear the intimate sketches out and burn them, though it will not be easy—I am so fond of the subject!}

 

2nd of August

{I miss him so! And he must worry! If only I could send him some message to tell him I have not abandoned him! Every now and then, I wonder if I could not send Maurice down to our meeting spot, but I discard the thought as soon as it comes to me. Our spot is secret and private. I cannot risk anyone wandering in on us while we are intimate. Maurice would furthermore inquire into the nature of our relationship, and I am unwilling to reveal it to anyone.}

 

4th to 10th of August.

Most of the past week I spent in bed. I ate little and slept more. Occasionally, I would read a page or two of whatever book I happened to grasp from my night table, but I had no energy for more. Once or twice, I felt strong enough to go down into the garden and sit in the sun, which perked me up, if only a little. Unfortunately, it made the gloom of the house only more intolerable, and the stairs may as well have been Mont Blanc.

But most of the time, I sat in bed, and looked out the window at the glistening sea, thinking of my merman.

Finally, my strength is returning to me. I had another bad fever once, I cannot recall which day it was, but I remember waking up at one point from a dream that wasn’t quite a nightmare; something ridiculous about a jungle explorer chancing upon some kind of sinister homunculus that then pursued him all the way to England but only revealed itself to him at the hour of his death. I remember rolling on my back and being fully conscious of having woken, but unable to move. It was as if my body was anticipating something I was unaware of. When I finally could move again, a minute or two later, it was as if a spring uncompressed and catapulted me on my side. I read a handful of pages—Dickens, of all things—while a lackluster thunderstorm grumbled outside my window. I fell back asleep.

Since then, though slowly, I am on the mend.

 

12th of August.

To-day, I am thirty-five years old.

Perhaps fuelled by what she thinks was my close brush with death, Maurice’s wife doted on me the whole morning. She had had Cook make me a cake, decorated with flowers. It is sweet of her, even though I hardly consider my life worthy of celebration. What have I achieved? The thing I am proudest of at the moment is that I’m finally reasonably well again, and that is hardly a personal achievement!

Maurice had a present for me, as well—Volume II of Alexander von Humboldt’s Cosmos.^[38] I already own Volume II, of course (and all the volumes of Cosmos)—in English, French, and German, in fact. This English translation Maurice got me  is furthermore my unpreferred one.^[39] It is a nice gesture regardless and I appreciate the difficulties Maurice must have gone through to acquire it for me, as the local bookseller is quite useless. Nearly everything that isn’t the Bible needs to be ordered, and when I tried to order some French literature, he asked, quite astounded, why I would want books written in French if he stocks perfectly good ones in English, and then tried to placate me with the latest Dickens just because that’s partially set in Paris!^[40]

My hosts and I whiled the day away with card and parlour games. I thoroughly beat both of them at whist, but Maurice’s wife has an uncanny talent for Hide the Object, being able to find the aforementioned, a thimble in our case, within minutes when I or Maurice hid it, as well as hiding it so well Maurice and I actually gave up and told her to reveal its location, which was on her finger!

But my thoughts were never quite on the object at hand and rather meandered towards the sea. My anxiety finally grew too strong, and I told my patient hosts I would go for a walk, now that I finally had enough strength to stretch my legs and breathe clean air. They welcomed my plans, but they insisted I wear a scarf and put on my heavy coat, even though the weather is still mild enough to be in shirtsleeves.

It was a beautiful afternoon, and it was a thrill to escape the confines of the house for more than a brief spell in the garden. A soft breeze ruffled my hair, and I took deep, invigorating lungfuls of salt-tinged air. I used the land entrance to our cave, but was careful to take my time. I still feel not quite steady on my legs.

The cavern, when I reached it, was deserted. At a loss as to what to do, I sat down by the pool, my feet in the water. I watched the afternoon sun sink slowly towards the waves, chasing my own thoughts. The closer the sun moved to the sea, the heavier my heart grew. It appeared he would not come to-day. {Oh, if only I had sent him some message! Surely he thought my affections had grown cold!

I was just about to return home when I noticed an irregularity in the waves. I stood and shielded my eyes with my hand to see better. Was that the head of a seal, or perhaps…? I lifted my arm in experiment. If it was a seal, it would be spooked, but if it was not…!

The round object submerged in the waves again. I could faintly make out the outline of a large, long body swiftly swimming towards me. And not a minute later, he emerged in the pool by my feet.

I fell to my knees in relief and stretched my hands out to him. He pushed himself up and I pulled him out of the pool. He seized my shoulders and kissed me; I kissed him back. His fists tightened in the fabric of my shirt. We parted again only when I needed air.

‘You were gone,’ he said, full of anguish. His hands dug quite painfully into my shoulders, but I did not heed it. ‘You were gone for so long, and you’d said you would leave for good one day, and I thought—but without even saying farewell!’  And he burst out in tears.

I pulled him close and he wept into my shoulder. It was all I could do to hold him and shush him, apologising for the distress I had caused him all the time.

He finally regained his composure, wiping at his eyes with the backs of his hands. I took his face in my hands and held his gaze. ‘I will leave, it is true. But I will return. And I would never leave without saying good-bye,’ I promised firmly.

He nodded, still tear-constricted. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and new tears fell. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

I kissed his tears away, apologised some more, but told him he shouldn’t apologise for this. For why should he be sorry? Do his tears at my absence not prove his affection to me? Is this not the greatest birthday present any man could ever receive?

I asked him what he wanted to do, and he told me just to hold him, and so I did.

We spent the rest of the day talking. He asked me to sing him a song or two, and so I did, though I apologised in advance. He sang me a few in return. There is one I have grown very fond of. He told me it speaks of the seasons, the tides, the phases of the moon, and everything else in nature that is constant in mutation. I only returned home after sunset.}

 

15th of August.

I received the long-awaited letter from Manchester this morning: the summons to return and oversee the final stages of the publishing of my Illustrated Guide. I had imagined I would leap for joy, and Maurice and his wife were certainly perplexed when I did not, but then she said I was certainly still feeling ill. I did not correct her. For what should I tell her? That I did not wish to leave, now that I had made the acquaintance (and more besides) of that charming merman?

I had not grasped fully how dear he had become to me. Of course I knew I was fond of him, but I had not expected to feel such distress upon our imminent parting. Sweet sorrow,^[41] indeed. My only consolation is the plans I have made to return to Cumberland once my Guide is printed, bound, and published.

 

17th of August.  Final Entry.

{I found him already waiting for me. He kissed me in greeting; what an injustice it is that he is such an adept in it at last, now that I must leave! We had some fun for a while, which ended with me swallowing down his seed—heavenly ambrosia, now that I shan’t have it for a while!—to his great rapture.

Afterwards, he had me in his arms, my back to his chest. His tail lay protectively across my legs. ‘You are quiet to-day,’ he observed.

‘Compared to you, I may appear dumb,’ I retorted. I absently stroked the scales on his tail; how they glitter!

But he shook his head; he was not having my feeble jests. ‘What is on your mind?’

I leaned deeper into his embrace and watched the low afternoon sun glitter on the waves. It is such an attractive little sea. ‘I am leaving early to-morrow,’ I said, even though this was not news to him.

His hands rubbed over my chest. ‘Did you not say you would return?’

‘As soon as I can!’ I cried, gripping one of his hands. ‘I promise you.’

He put his chin on my head. He always tries to establish as many points of contact between my body and his as he can. I shall miss this, too,^[42] I can tell; I already missed it whenever circumstances forced us apart for entire days. ‘How long will you be gone?’

‘I cannot say,’ I replied. ‘A month, at least. Though probably more.’

He moved his head so that now his cheek rested on my crown. ‘And you will come back?’

‘My darling, I promise you.’

He kissed me on the forehead. Together, we watched the sun move ever closer to the horizon. Far too soon, it was time for me to go. We kissed for one last time. He held onto my hand for as long as he was able.

On the cliffs, I turned to watch the sun sink into the waves. I whispered into the wind, imagining Zephyrus^[43] might convey my message to him, ‘I promise you.’}

*

There remain some pages yet in this diary. I am loath to let them go to waste;^[44] but I am also loath to pass by happy circumstances, and I do like the coincidence that the entire stay here in Cumberland has fit into the one volume. Surely I will pick this volume off the shelf to reminisce more than any of the others. This little book’s successor has already been appointed (a handsome fellow it is too) and shall begin its duties as my companion to-morrow.

As for that, all that remains to be said is, Farewell Cumberland!, Farewell Maurice and wife! and Farewell, my sweet merman! I shall see you all soon again.

 

Explanatory Notes.

[1] For a comprehensive view on taxonomy, including an excellent and comprehensive chapter on the history of taxonomy, see Flanagan, An Introduction to Linnaean Taxonomy.

[2] For a detailed analysis of the effect On the Origin of Species had on nearly every part of life, see Whitman, The Book that Shook the World: Darwin’s ‘Origin of Species’ and its Aftershocks

[3] For an excellent discussion on this topic, see Williams, “Don’t Say Gay? On the Cautious Use of Anachronistic Sexual Identity Terms ” in Journal of Historical Queer Studies, Vol. 5, no. 8, pp. 10-21.

[4] ‘Buggery,’ a term that at this point in history was defined as only including anal sex but that was broadly understood to mean any kind of sex between men, was a capital offence until 1861, though the last execution occurred in 1835. After 1861, the punishment was imprisonment. While the law only specifically outlawed ‘buggery’ in itself, any homoerotic acts could be persecuted as ‘attempts’ to commit the felony. See Kincaid and Parker, Homosexuality and the Law, pp. 130-36.

[5] For more information, see Turner, Frghv and Dwdrffg: A Brief History of Encryption.

[6] A traditional workman’s lunch, served cold, and usually consisting of beer, bread, cheese, and sometimes onions or seasonal fruit such as apples.

[7] This usage predates the first recorded usage by the OED by several decades.

[8] “Venus, like Fortune, favours the bold,” a quote by Ovid from his parodic Ars Amatoria.

[9] Walker’s publisher.

[10] Grass-of-Parnassus or bog star.

[11] That is, to Peters & Cobbler, his publisher.

[12] The picture Walker mentions did indeed make it into the diary. The page immediately after this entry is taken up by a full gouache painting depicting exactly the scene Walker describes. The viewer looks into something of a clearing in the undergrowth. The fireflies are not immediately noticeable; rather, the viewer finds more the longer they look.

[13] The lilting intonation, the alveolar trill, and the final devoicing (occasionally exaggerated into a click) are all congruent with the phonology of the dialect of the merfolk of the Irish Sea. The whistle on /s/, though, appears to be idiolectic. For more on this particular dialect, see Jason and Spencer, “Dialects of British aquatilis populations” in Handbook of Merfolk Dialects and Languages, edited by Kirklane, pp. 781-790.

[14] Usually, Walker always begins a new entry on a new page (excepting supplementary entries made later on the same day, such as on 10 June or 15 June). Here, however, the date is simply in a new paragraph. It is clear that Walker wrote the entry 19-20 June and 21 June at the same time.

[15] The sexual connotations of this word appear only in the 20th century; the merman is presumptive and forward rather than sexually suggestive.

[16] i.e. cry out, exclaim.

[17] A voiced alveolar lateral fricative. This, too, is congruent with local aquatilis phonology.

[18] This is where the testicles of aquatilis are located. They are internal most of the time, but capable of descending to prevent hyperthermia. See Cox, Encyclopedia of Homo sapiens aquatilis biology, entry on ‘Reproductive Organs,’ pp. 446-447 (this work is, incidentally, dedicated to J. Walker).

[19] i.e. ejaculate.

[20] The common dolphin.

[21] The common or harbour seal.

[22] An archaic form of fellatio; this use of the word in this diary predates the first  use of it in English recorded by the Oxford English Dictionary by a good seventeen years. However, the root word, lat. fellare, which literally means to suck, was already in use in Classical Latin to denote penile-oral sex. Walker refers to performing fellatio as to fellare, somewhat awkwardly combining the Latin root with English grammatical particles (e.g. ‘I fellared him,’ see entry for 5th July).

[23] Bathing was one of, if not the only area of Victorian life in which nudity was not only tolerated, but publicly approved of and even celebrated. While occasional bylaws were passed to prohibit nude bathing except under certain circumstances (in sex-segregated areas, early in the morning, in a secluded spot etc.), they were rarely enforced. Bathing suits (for men) were only widely adopted during the 1870s. For a detailed history on bathing during the 1850s and 1860s, see Davies, From Hydrotherapy to Skinny Dipping: A Chronicle of Swimming, Chapter 7.

[24] In 1860, the word ‘bloody’ would be quite the most shocking and intensive expletive possible, as strong as or only second to fucking. It is the only instance in the entire diary that Walker swears.

[25] H. s. terricolus has twelve.

[26] This is the same number that terricolus has.

[27]  see note 22 on fellation above.

[28] This entry was published in 1861 in a somewhat modified and expanded form in Annals and Magazine of Aquatic Biology and continues to be J. Walker’s defining legacy. He was the one to coin the terms Homo sapiens aquatilis and terricolus, and according to taxonomic convention, this is the official name (though the term terricolus is usually only used alongside and as a distinction to aquatilis). Walker was also the first to view aquatilis as not an animal, but as a different human (sub)species, and to study them as such, though this view did not take on as scientific consensus until the late 1870s, after his disappearance from the historical record. For a deeper discussion of the status of Homos sapiens aquatilis as a subspecies of Homo sapiens equal to terricolus, see Xiao, Homo sapiens aquatilis: A Taxonomic History.

[29] Treating terricolus and aquatilis as subspecies rather than separate species was controversial in Walker’s day and continues to be controversial to this day. Evidence exists to support either argument, and until the terms ‘species’ and ‘subspecies’ are more firmly defined, this ‘taxonomic war’ will have to continue without resolution in sight. For a deeper discussion of this topic, see Xiao, as well as Burton, A revised analysis of H. aquatilis genomes.

[30] This is also the case for other marine mammals such as dolphins or seals.

[31] Further research was subsequently done and confirmed that hybridisation is possible, though a rare occurrence naturally, largely due to cultural taboos on both sides. See Lupine-Smith, An investigation in the genetic possibilities of hybridisation between homo sapiens aquatilis and Homo sapiens terricolus, and Vanderhoek-Holt, Cultural and social stigma of hybrid offspring.

[32] This probably refers to the pose, often referred to as the ‘banana pose,’ in which the seal lifts its head and flippers off the ground. It is often adopted by seals when sunning themselves. The reason for this pose is not known, but it is theorised that this helps keep the head and flippers dry and warm.

[33] The switch from the remote it to the more affectionate, almost humanising he appears to have been unconscious.

[34] There are a number of rough, uneven edges in the diary before this entry. Evidently—unfortunately— Walker later tore the drawings out, after all. See entry for 4th of September.

[35] The way he describes them here and later on strongly indicates a series of quick sketches. Skilled artists are able to fully and accurately capture a pose within two minutes; possibly Walker worked just as quickly, or thereabouts (see also entry on 5th of July).

[36] This is an archaic form of the term gouache.

[37] It is unclear whether this is to say Walker had the illness for over thirty years or if he simply refers to his own age.

[38] Friedrich Wilhelm Heinrich Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859) was a German explorer, scientist, and author. His five-volume work Kosmos—Entwurf einer physischen Weltbeschreibung (commonly translated into English as Cosmos: A Sketch of a Physical Description of the Universe) aims to present the entire universe then known in a structured and orderly manner. It was highly popular from the moment it was published, read by an academic and lay audience alike, and left a lasting impact on scientific progress.

[39] No less than three translations of Cosmos into English were available. Which one Walker prefers, and which one Maurice gifted him with, can only remain speculative, though the first, by Augustin Pritchard, is generally agreed to be of the poorest quality.

[40] This must refer to A Tale of Two Cities, which was published in 1859.

[41] A quote by William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. It reads in full, ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow / that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.’

[42] It is not entirely clear what this ‘too’ refers to; possibly. he means he misses ‘his’ merman and shall miss ‘his’ merman’s abundant physical displays of affection, too.

[43] Personification of the Western Wind. As the gentlest of the anemoi, the wind gods of Greek mythology, and the son of the dawn goddess Eos, Zephyr or Zephyrus is associated with springtime and, by extend, new beginnings and even sex. Compare Cygna, Scattered to the Winds: The Anemoi in Greek Mythology, Chapter 2, “Zephyr”, pp. 42-85.

[44] Evidently, Walker later did think of a use for the last pages, filling them with gouache portraits, including the undefeated jewel of this collection, a full-body portrait of ‘his’ merman. There is an enciphered line at the bottom; the key is ‘aquatilis,’ and the line, unencoded, reads Bold colours, kind currents, and lies told not for shame, but affection

 

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