curiosity.
And oh, right; she also had a tail.
“Good morning, dear.” Patrick slides at the breakfast table. He doesn’t ask me how I slept and I do not blame him. The answer he already knows. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing special.” I put my notes away. The more I try to remember last night, the blurrier the images linger. I’ve been thinking about it so much the last few hours that I almost start believing it was a dream. An illusion.
“I get it,” Patrick says thoughtfully. “May I have a look?” He nods toward my bundle of notes.
Thoughtless I slide the book to him. “If you think of anything, then...”
“Priscilla,” he interferes. “Did you really want to leave me there for hours bobbing around in the ocean because I happened to think that you suffered from a heat stroke?”
“Um,” I say ashamed. “That part was... That’s not the point,” I say primly.
“I was just worried.”
“You should have believed me right away,” I say angrily.
“I do believe you. I just don’t believe in fairy tales.”
I mutter something he cannot hear and decide to enjoy breakfast. Askance I watch Patrick grumbling continues looking through my notes. He is silent and looks at the sketches I made. Then, unexpectedly, he says: “You are talented.”
“What?” I stammer shy.
“You’ve got talent. You can draw very well,” he says again. “Perhaps you should design dresses.”
“Well, thank you, but I think I’d rather just go to the store and then...”
Patrick laughs. “Whatever you want, dear.” He returns my notes. Lost I browse through my diary. I look at the human face that I have outlined. It negates what I’ve seen last night. Then I look up. “Do you think we’ll see her again?”
“No idea.”
“What is it?” I still stare at the sketch.
“No idea,” recalls Patrick.
“Do you think...?” I look up and lean over to him confidentially. “Do you think we should tell?”
Patrick draws a frown. “Tell who, dear?”
I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know to whom I should tell this. But I do not want to carry this burden alone. I want answers.
Patrick leans a bit forward and continues our conversation whispering: “No one will believe us, Priscilla.” His face is serious “We need to keep this between us. Otherwise they will declare us crazy and I will lose my job.”
Questionable Jerry Allen closes the diary. Picks it up again. Scrolls back to have another look at the page with the mermaid and then carefully stores the diary in his bag. If he wasn’t a scientist... If he wouldn’t need scientific proof... That Blextone wrote so extensively and in detail about possible mermaids that Jerry almost was going to believe her.
4
“Finally,” barks commander Clousteau as Jerry reports himself.
“Well, finally… It is only that you did not have me picked up from my bed, but there’s no way I could have been coming over here any faster.”
“Good,” grumbles Clousteau. “I think it is important to look at this case from your point of view.”
“What case?”
“I cannot tell you much. Defense, secrecy... You know how these things work. Don’t you?”
“Well,” sighs Jerry, “I had to sign so many papers before I was allowed to come over here; I feel I unconsciously even sold my body to the Navy.”
“Good,” Clousteau repeats nervously and without going into Jerry’s joke. “Sit down Dr. Allen. I’m going to show you some disturbing images.”
“Disturbing pictures?” Tensed Jerry sits down at the long table. “Will there be more people?” he asks, looking around the empty room.
“No, the less people know about this, the better.”
“Well, I’m curious ...”
“Me too,” says the commander.
“Excuse me? Haven’t you seen the images yet?” Jerry asks, surprised.
“Of course I did. I mean, I’m curious to hear your opinion.”
Commander Clousteau takes place next to Jerry Allen. Quickly typing his password on the keyboard on the table. Sweeps his thumb on the scanner, and then, together with Jerry, silently looks at the images that appear on the wall.
Afterwards Clousteau looks intently at Jerry. “And? What do you think? As a professional?”
Jerry is petrified looking at the blank screen.
“I... This is... How is it...? Commander, when were these images made?”
“That’s secret Dr. Allen. I just want to know what you think. What do you think it is?”
Jerry rubs his eyes. “As a scientist, I’m not supposed to say this; not even think it... But, um ...” he looks intently at the commander. “May I speak freely?”
“Please do,” the commander confirms curious to hear Jerry’s professional opinion.
Jerry grabs his bag. Rummages circuitous until he finds Priscilla Blextone’s diary. He quickly browses to the page with The Being, as Priscilla described it neatly. Folded open he puts the book on the table, in front of Clousteau.
“1815 Clousteau. A diary from 1815. Look at the similarity between this drawing and the creatures that you have captured on video.”
Astonished Clousteau stares at the drawing. Shallowly he reads the accompanying text and then looks hopeful at Jerry Allen. “We are on the same level, huh? Allen?”
“I would almost say, coincidence does not exist...”
The men look at each other in silence.
“"Now do you understand why I had to let you come back as soon as possible?” Clousteau says. “We need to investigate this; do additional research.”
“With all due respect Clousteau. To examine this carefully, we need more people.”
“That can be arranged directly.”
“Wow, ho, ho ...” Jerry mutters. “I would love to. I mean, I feel honored... but I have other commitments.”
“But Dr. Allen... I need you here!”
“Commander Clousteau,” Jerry continues, “I know exactly who you need to unravel this mystery.”
5
The somewhat flabby professor overlooks the unknown visitor sitting suspiciously behind his computer.
“What can I do for you, hnn?” he moans.
“Jerry Allen, marine biologist,” the visitor says briefly. “I want to talk to you about a diary.”
“Ah, you write a diary. Really nice for you,” the professor growls almost rude.
“I do not write; I read, professor. And not just a diary; an important 18th century document bequeathed by the Blextone family.”
“Oh, really, hnn?” the fat man continues.
“The Dutch navy has asked me to accompany her on her journey to the locations described in this journal.”
“Nice. I am really glad for you. Have a good trip. Or a safe journey, whatever.”
Fortunately, Jerry Allen is somewhat accustomed to people like this. Without responding to the blunt professor, he starts telling: “The Diary of Priscilla Blextone contains very detailed descriptions of... let’s say, strange sea creatures in the waters around Australia. I brought the book along for you, so you can see it yourself”
“Lovely,” moans the professor. “Chicklit from the 18th century...” He grabs the diary; browses through the first pages without much interest until his eyes catch some curious illustrations. Surprised he reads the text Priscilla Blextone wrote more than two centuries ago underneath her impressively detailed drawings.
“Yeah, yeah,” says Jerry, “that’s quite interesting, isn’t it?”
“Hnn? Quite what?” He has another look at Jerry. “Young man, this sort of apparitions used to be observed frequently. Pure imagination,” the professor perks as he returns the book to the marine biologist.
“You think so? Do you really think that all these stories are based on fantasy?” Jer
ry Allen looks defiantly at the professor. “What would you say if we, the Navy and I, believe that we may have found these creatures?”
“I would say you probably drank too much or have a very vivid imagination. Good afternoon.”
“Then let me tell you about the most recent location I’ve been with the Navy, where we found the gray-green shadows described by Blextone and recorded them on video. Sea creatures with a unique way of communicating.” Jerry Allen laughs triumphantly: “Fantasy has become reality professor.”
The professor moves uneasily in his chair back and forth. “Hnn. Without scientific evidence, every theory remains fantasy,” he bluffs.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“To convince me? Do you have any conclusive evidence?”
“No, the Navy has asked me to invite you to prove our suspicion.”
“Hnn... and why hasn’t the Navy invited you?”
“Oh, they did. But the next few months I will be in Peru. I can help with the excavation of a Leviathan.”
Surprised the professor looks up at him. “Livyatan melvillei, known as the Leviathan. A fossil killer sperm whale prey with a skull of three meters in length; teeth in upper and lower jaw, a huge predator; a monster.”
“You’re well informed,” laughs Jerry.
“Hnn, I read my literature ...”
“I notice. You know professor, if I had not been invited for the project with the killer sperm whale, I would certainly cooperate with the Navy. What a great project. As soon as the Leviathan turns up...” Allen needs to laugh himself. “Above ground, of course... Once we have uncovered the fossil and shipped it to the Natural History Museum, then I’ll be happy to help.”
“Agreed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I agree with your