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‘Are you sure you’re cut out for moving to a small town? They all have secrets, you know.’
A statement the farmer had heard far more times than they could count, years ago. As if any secret a small town could hold couldn’t be held by a megacity, as if the existence of some hypothetical ‘secret’ would be worth passing up the opportunity of an escape from a desk job intent on sucking out their soul, as if this hypothetical ‘secret’ could be much worse than a silently agreed-upon cover-up of some long-ago murder. They could live with that; it wasn’t like the city didn’t have those, too. And certainly in larger quantities.
‘Are you sure you can, you know, deal with the locals? They’re always so strange.’
The statement that was the inevitable follow-up, at which point the now-farmer had always decided to give up on the conversation. And those who spoke so? They couldn’t have been more wrong, the farmer had found. Pelican Town’s inhabitants had welcomed them with open arms, only taking mere days for them to be known by name, and only a few weeks to no longer be “the new one.” They’d felt welcomed; they’d felt loved. And they still did.
Though, perhaps the combination of those two statements rang true: Pelican Town did have a secret, and it certainly was a strange one. It’d taken a year or two, a few levels worth of mines, some reading at the library, and finally meeting a strange little shadow creature and hat-making mouse, but they’d accepted it easily enough: creatures of myth and legend very much existed, and one just so happened to reside in town.
Specifically, in a little cabin on the beach, a stone’s throw from the ocean waves, and even closer to the small river that flowed out of town to meet the bay.
There’d always been something a bit strange about the man, even without the gift of hindsight. Everyone in town was unique in their own way, and it would be a lie to say that the farmer didn’t have a few other suspicions floating about, but the man in question had always stood out.
The farmer could still so vividly remember their first meeting: it had been in spring, sometime in the early evening of a Friday, at a table in the corner of the saloon. The redhead had practically beelined for the new arrival, the excitement at the prospect of meeting someone new apparent on his face, and followed ever so faintly by the scent of seawater. Looking at him felt strange, as well; a warm, fond feeling had bubbled up within the farmer, even before he spoke, though at the time the farmer merely attributed it to the ale already in their system— and it didn’t hurt that theory when he’d ordered a round for the rest of the patrons, then graciously offered his mug of said round to the farmer.
Elliott, he had said his name was, and he’d ordered a glass of water for himself. The farmer remembered seeing the clear liquid as he sipped at it, thinking it was some sort of cocktail, made out of some colourless champagne or maybe even white wine melding in with the saloon’s warm lighting. Suspicion and disfavour alike seemed to slide off the writer as if they were water on a duck, and despite his pompous, and sometimes even pretentious, words, the farmer simply couldn’t find themselves disliking him, let alone hating him, and their heart always seemed to skip a few beats when they saw him around town, after that. Now they attributed that to their fondness of long hair.
There was a certain grace to how he seemed to move, though the farmer could never quite put it into words. It wasn’t the sort of grace one would attribute to a dancer; that description felt too stiff, too choreographed. Nor was it the inherent grace of a martial artist; too fast, too violent. His was a slow, relaxed sort of grace, one with the enrapture of a dancer, but the flow of a martial artist, and its own form of serenity. Almost as if he were drifting when he moved, free-flowing; the farmer had eventually settled on deciding it was the grace of a swimmer. And they had been surprisingly close to a truth they didn’t even yet suspect.
They’d see him leaving that little cabin of his fairly often, and small talk would always be struck— usually while the farmer tended to their crab pots, sometimes while they did their fishing. Elliott never seemed particularly fond of watching them fish, save for when they reeled in trash. This had always confused the farmer: was he laughing at their expense? Was he really that much of an egoist? But that dislike had simply slid off; soon they began to excuse it to themselves as he merely was happy that the ocean was being cleaned up. And maybe he just didn’t like seeing fish out of water; that was fair, really, they’d never been particularly fond of fishing before either.
Now, in retrospect, they knew how on-the-nose those ‘excuses’ had been. But they wouldn’t know that for quite some more time, even after Elliott had finally extended the offer of visiting his little cabin once the weather had begun to grow harsher. The pretense he’d suggested didn’t matter to the farmer, really, that warm, fluttery feeling still arose in their chest, and now its subject was inviting them to his home?
They could still remember their first visit, clear as day. Elliott had seemed a bit reserved at first, though he let them in all the same, offering them a seat at his piano, and soon the two had fallen into conversation as easily as ever— the farmer hadn’t known the importance of his question at the time, but the writer had asked their favourite genre of novel, then once he was satisfied with an answer quickly moved on to asking their opinion of the wilted rose growing in his windowsill. In truth, the poor thing had looked beyond saving, but the farmer had told him the all generic advice nonetheless; it took mere days for it to recover entirely.
Soon the responsibilities of the farm became overwhelming, and the farmer’s visits to the beach became more and more infrequent, and eventually their only socialisation became nights spent at the saloon. They’d met Elliott again there, and oddly enough, he’d been the one to apologise for their lack of communion; once again he ordered drinks for them both, still drinking that clear cocktail despite asking after to hear about the flavour of theirs. The farmer was no poet, but the actual poet had still seemed so wonderfully enthralled, and those old feelings of warmth bubbled up again. Still the farmer suppressed them; there was no chance a hermit such as Elliott would bother with the effort of reciprocation. It was better they remain friends, wasn’t it?
All the same, the visits to the cabin picked up once more once summer rolled around, a wonderful escape from the summer heat outdoors. They could still remember the first time they’d walked in on Elliott playing that piano of his; frankly, considering its dust, the farmer had assumed it was an old gift or abandoned hobby. This assumption, however, simply couldn’t have been more wrong.
It seemed as if Elliott hadn’t so much as noticed the door open, hadn’t noticed the other presence in the room with him, and he looked so, so gloriously at ease as he played. The way his fingers had danced over the keys, the way his hair was tied back into a loose bun, the way he seemed to melt into the music, almost— it was then the farmer decided those feelings they had simply couldn’t be ignored any longer.
The tune didn’t go on for long, and Elliott hadn’t expressed all that much surprise with the farmer’s appearance, and the farmer took their chance to offer a compliment; but the conversation returned to writing, as it always seemed to with him, and the farmer could still so vividly remember the words he’d said.
"Sometimes I wish I could just throw it all away and become a farmer like you.”
The farmer had laughed at this, and in return received one of those puppy-dog looks Elliott was all too good at, confusion painting his features: furrowed eyebrows, curious eyes, slightly pouty lips. Being a farmer was hard work still, they’d explained, and in a moment of boldness offered the writer to come live with them, provided he lended a hand now and then.
Elliott had apologised, then, saying how it was only that he wanted to experience a ‘real life’, but he simply couldn’t convince himself to leave his little cabin by the ocean, and he still had that novel to focus on.
But the farmer didn’t remember the tangent their offer had caused; they were certain that his voice had been as nice to listen to as ever, with its singsong cadence and odd-yet-charming accent, the one which nobody could quite agree on its origin, but the details of the rest of their conversation always seemed to escape them. Had Elliott played his piano again?
The next invite had arrived in the mail, nestled between recipes from the saloon and requests from the mayor. The message was brief, only a mere three lines, but joyful news nonetheless: Elliott’s novel had finally been completed! The first reading was to be held at the library the next day, and Elliott would be overjoyed should the farmer decide to attend.
How could they have said no?
They were amongst the first to arrive, of course, and they could still so clearly remember the adoration, the pride, their neighbours listened to the writer with. The farmer themselves had done much the same; that perpetual fondness settling firmly within their stomach, their heart skipping a few beats upon the realisation that a character happened to share an old nickname of theirs— had they told Elliott of that, during one of their many waterside chats? Or was it merely a coincidence?
The now-novelist certainly lived up to his reputation as a romantic, and his fondness of the ocean was so beautifully explained; a classic trope, a human and mermaid’s forbidden romance, a la The Little Mermaid though nowhere near as tragic, interspersed with his own observations of small town culture and those he’d come to know. He took Pelican Town as his muse, his pen and paper weaving it into a pure fantasy, flowery prose blooming an aura of pure whimsy within the little library— and his gaze so continuously sought to meet the farmer’s, his voice always growing just a tad bit bolder after every encouraging nod.
A glass of water had been by Elliott’s side throughout his reading, and every so often he’d pause to take a sip, and once or twice cracked a nervous joke at how dry the air was. In the moment, the farmer hadn’t thought much of it, but now, looking back… well, his husband’s intentions couldn’t have been more clear, and the farmer still chided themselves for not making the obvious conclusion sooner; they’d met the little shadow creature within the sewers, they’d fought and defeated all sorts of monsters within the mines and seen more at Spirit’s Eve, they’d even watched mermaids at the Night Market the last winter— mermaids that spoke about Elliott with such an air of familiarity, inquiring about how he was doing, asking if he still retained his aspirations of writing the way only an old childhood friend could, one nostalgic for the past.
They hadn’t walked, of course, their tails on perfect display, but their accents had all been so familiar, and the following week the farmer couldn’t help but find themselves comparing the way Elliott carried himself to the way they swam: a self-assured drift of sorts, as free-flowing as the water they moved within. And hadn’t the lead singer so blatantly shared a name with one of the mermaids in his novel?
But those revelations didn’t come until much later; in the moment the farmer was still enraptured with Elliott’s story, still mulling over the most poetic of his prose, and they weren’t snapped out of it until the author himself had asked them for their thoughts. And what else had there been to say besides how much they loved it?
For perhaps the first time in their years of knowing each other, the farmer saw Elliott speechless, a wonderful cocktail of relief, excitement, validation, and everything else in between overtaking his face; the farmer still regretted that they didn’t kiss him then and there.
That evening, Elliott had invited everyone out to the saloon on his dime, though he and the farmer didn’t get much chance to speak. The farmer still sat at their little table tucked away in the corner, as their tradition had become, but the novelist was so often dragged to the front of the saloon, so often approached with questions and compliments alike regarding his work; these never flustered him, but they demanded his attention and conversation all the same— every so often he’d glance to the farmer, an unspoken apology in his eyes, and the farmer would return with an unbothered smile. They were happy just listening to him speak, even if it wasn’t with them alone.
A few days later, another letter by the poet’s hand had been delivered; another invitation, though this one happened to be far, far more personal. Again: who was the farmer to ignore it?
Even now, so many years later, the farmer could still remember the weather of the morning, and even the rosy tint of recollection wasn’t the cause of their fondness for the day. They still so vividly recalled the way a butterfly had fluttered by their face as they stepped outside, the way their hives’ bees seemed to dance excitedly as they flew, the way the fish in their ponds seemed so content. The farmer had thought a supernatural sort of bliss enveloped the farm, and in a way, they had been right— this particular assumption was confirmed much sooner than the rest.
The sun blazed down when they arrived to Elliott’s beach, though the heat didn’t bother them; they hardly took notice. There were other things drawing their attention. Elliott had smiled, yes, but he’d also worn little more than a thin, plain shirt and shorts— utterly jarring, it almost felt wrong to look at. His hair was loose, as it always was, blowing softly in the breeze, and he’d stood beside that old rowboat of his- finally repaired, the hole in its hull patched nicely and the broken oars replaced.
It felt self-indulgent to think about the events of that day, now, but oh, how they had been burned into the farmer’s memory; they’d rowed out together, alternating every so often, until the docks were little more than a blip on the horizon and the blue depths beneath them became endless; the world became that little wooden boat, and that world was no one but theirs.
The little details seemed to be the ones that stuck the most. The curious-looking fish that swam beside them, the seagull circling above that took particular interest, the way waves still whenever Elliott would skim his fingers over the ocean’s surface, sometimes dipping his hand only to cup water to splash the farmer with— not unprovoked, of course. The farmer had done it first; he was merely returning the favour.
Blue stretching into eternity, the skies and seas melding into one on the horizon, Elliott’s words revealed things the farmer never thought possible, secrets far too otherworldly, too fantastical, to even be so much as suspected— and yet, when the poet dove into the water, his green eyes glimmering and red locks floating freely, his leisurely drifting putting his humanly grace to shame, the farmer found themselves believing every word, drinking them in lest they drown otherwise.
And Elliott, floating in that perfect water, light blue and shimmering, had opened his arms in invitation; who was the farmer to turn down such an offer?
The sun blazed, but the sea comforted; where the horrors of the depth below should’ve reigned came a sense of safety, an enveloping peace. Elliott’s fingers had intertwined with their own, and with little more than a warning to take a breath had he pulled them down beneath the surface.
The water didn’t sting their eyes, though still blurring their vision— but that did little to hide the glittering tail Elliott’s legs had become, an emerald green as piercing as his eyes, which now peered into the farmer’s own. Neither voice could carry below the waves, but it mattered little; his question was clear, and the farmer remembered nodding, remembered squeezing the merman’s hand with a smile.
And then they remembered those full lips against their own, an arm around their waist, their need of air both suppressed and satiated, and the two dove deeper, ever so deeper, the pressure that should’ve suffocated them instead an enveloping blanket, comforting and warm.
Something had changed, then, when the surface broke. The sun had begun to set, the sky painted vivid tones of orange and red; had sunsets always been so vibrant? Always had so many hues? Elliott had laughed, they remembered— that twinkling, but still deep, good-natured laugh of his, the one that could’ve made even the most vicious mockery feel like nothing but light fun. His exact words had been long-forgotten, but it was a small taste of how he could see the world, he had explained, helping them into the boat before following suit, taking the responsibility of rowing upon himself.
The muggy, hot evening air of the summer didn’t let the slightest chill find the farmer, despite their soaked clothing, and the two had returned to shore in a comfortable silence— broken only when the little rowboat hit the dock and the farmer finally asked Elliott if anyone else knew. He’d smiled and shaken his head, offering his hand to the farmer as they’d stepped up to the solid, wooden platform, now dimly lit only by the moon and stars.
The rest of the night became a blur, the farmer’s next clear memory being waking up in the merman’s cabin, Elliott already working at his desk despite the early hour. Even now, the farmer could remember the haze clouding their memories, a whimsy only claimed by dreams, and a sense of familiarity hung in the air; the farmer wearing what must’ve been Elliott’s shirt, a still-hot mug of coffee waiting for them on the bedside table, their clothes from the day before hung to dry in a patch of sunlight.
They remembered sitting up, sipping at the coffee and watching the writer work his craft. In retrospect, it was near comical how long it took for him to notice their awakening, his pen scribbling away so incessantly— but he’d looked up eventually, his hand about to reach for another page, and their eyes met; neither wanted to be the first to look away.