Long ago, the fairy Pressine married a mortal king on the condition that he would never look upon her while she gave birth. He broke his promise, and Pressine left him, taking their daughters to the Isle of Avalon. When her daughter Mélusine learned of her father’s betrayal, she punished him with magic. For this act, Pressine cursed her: every Saturday, from the waist down, Mélusine would become a serpent. Only if a husband swore never to look upon her on that day could she live in peace.
Years later, a nobleman named Raymondin, grieving after accidentally killing his uncle, met Mélusine beside a forest spring. She comforted him and promised him prosperity and glory if he would marry her and swear never to seek her out on Saturdays. Raymondin agreed.
Their marriage brought great fortune. Mélusine built magnificent castles in a single night and bore many sons. The lands flourished under her care. For years Raymondin kept his oath, but at last suspicion overcame him. He spied upon her on a Saturday and saw her in her bath, beautiful above but coiled into a serpent below.
Though he kept silent at first, he later denounced her publicly in anger, calling her a monster. With a terrible cry, Mélusine transformed into a dragon and flew from the castle tower, vanishing from the world of men.
It is said she still returns to watch over her children, and that her wailing is heard around the towers of her descendants whenever death approaches their house.
Tradition / Region: British Mythology Category: – Related figures: Mermaid, Swamp dweller
The Myth
In the marshes and stagnant ponds of northern England, something waits beneath the surface.
The Grindylow is said to dwell in meres, bogs, and reed-choked pools—especially in Yorkshire and Lancashire. It is described as a small, humanoid creature with scaly green skin, sharp claws, pointed teeth, and long, sinewy arms ending in unnaturally long fingers. Those arms are its most feared feature.
The Grindylow does not roam far from water. It hides below the murky surface, patient and unseen. When a child wanders too close to a pond’s edge, when small feet slip on wet stones or lean too far over still water, the creature strikes. With its powerful grip, it seizes the victim and drags them down into the dark.
Few tales describe what happens beneath the water. The horror lies in the suddenness—the splash, the grasp, the disappearance.
In the third year of Kōka, in the middle of the fourth month (1846), strange lights were seen shining upon the sea in Higo Province. Night after night the glowing shape appeared offshore, casting an eerie radiance over the waves.
At last, a local official went to investigate. Approaching the coast, he beheld a mysterious being rise from the water. It had long hair and a mouth shaped like a bird’s beak. Its body was covered in scales from the neck downward, and from beneath it extended three legs—or three fin-like limbs—supporting it at the shore.
The creature spoke.
“I dwell in the sea,” it said. “For six years from this year, the harvest will be abundant. But after that, an epidemic will spread across the land.”
The official listened in fear as the being continued:
“If disease spreads, draw a picture of me and show it to the sick. Those who see my likeness will be protected.”
Having delivered its prophecy, the creature returned to the sea and vanished beneath the waves.
News of the encounter spread quickly through printed bulletins. Woodblock sheets bearing the creature’s image were copied and distributed so that people might keep them as charms against illness. The strange being was called Amabie.
In other tellings, similar creatures appeared under the name Amabiko or Amahiko—three-legged prophetic beasts who likewise warned of plague and commanded that their portraits be displayed to avert disaster. Some were described as ape-like, some as bird-like, some glowing in the night. But the Amabie of Higo remained the most vividly remembered: the long-haired, scaled messenger of the sea who promised both abundance and pestilence.
And so her image endured—drawn and redrawn—whenever fear of sickness rose, her strange form offered as protection against unseen calamity.
Sources
Wikipedia contributors. (n.d.). Amabie. In Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Retrieved February 14, 2026, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amabie
In the waters of the Passamaquoddy homeland, there is a spirit remembered as Ne Hwas—a being of river and sea, half woman and half fish, moving between the world of people and the deep places beneath the surface.
One story tells of two young girls who wandered too close to the water’s edge. They were drawn by the shimmer of the tide and the distant singing that seemed to rise from beneath the waves. Whether through curiosity, longing, or enchantment, they entered the water—and did not return as they had been.
When they were seen again, it was in the currents. Their bodies had changed. From the waist down, they bore the glistening tails of fish. Their hair flowed around them like riverweed, and their voices carried strangely across the water. They were no longer bound to the shore.
Some say they had become spirits of the water, Ne Hwas, belonging now to the hidden world beneath the surface. They swam through inlets and along rocky coasts, appearing at times to fishermen or children who lingered near the tide pools. They were not cruel, but neither were they fully human anymore. The water had claimed them.
Those who glimpsed them told of sadness in their eyes, as though they remembered the warmth of the land but could never quite return to it. And so their story remained—a warning and a wonder—about the deep waters, and how those who step too far into their mystery may find themselves changed forever.
In the rivers and coastal waters of Wabanaki lands dwell the Lumpeguin, small and powerful water spirits. Some say they appear as little people with shining eyes and long hair dripping with river water. Others say they are like tiny mermaids, with human faces and fish tails flashing silver beneath the surface. They move easily between water and shore, belonging fully to neither.
The Lumpeguin are beings of quiet magic. They can multiply food from almost nothing. A scrap of bread may become a feast in their hands. A handful of snow may be baked into warm loaves. Some carry enchanted pots that never empty, feeding those they favor. Their gifts, however, are never given lightly.
Like many nature spirits, a Lumpeguin’s power is bound to a magical garment—an article of clothing that allows them to move between worlds. If that garment is stolen, the Lumpeguin falls under the power of the thief. In old tales, men—and sometimes even animals—have hidden these garments and forced Lumpeguin women to remain on land as wives. Though they may live for a time among humans, their hearts remain with the water. If they ever recover their hidden clothing, they return at once to the rivers and are never seen again.
One tale tells of two Lumpeguin sisters who were captured in this way by Marten, a clever forest being. He hid their magical garments and claimed them as wives. The sisters lived with him, but they did not forget who they were. Through patience and cunning, they eventually regained their garments and set off on journeys of their own, traveling through forest and water alike, neither fully captive nor fully free until they reclaimed their power.
The Lumpeguin remind those who hear their stories that the spirits of the rivers cannot be possessed without consequence. Water gives life and sustenance, but it belongs first to itself. Those who try to bind it may hold it for a while—yet in the end, it always slips back to its own depths.
Tradition / Region: Micmac Mythology, American Mythology Alternate Names: Sapowanilnu, Sapoqwanilnu; Halfway People Category: Mermaid
The Myth
In the rivers, coves, and ocean inlets of Mi’kmaq lands live the Sabawaelnu—the Water People. They are called the Halfway People because they are neither fully human nor fully fish. From the waist up they appear as men and women, with long hair that flows like currents in the tide. From the waist down they bear the powerful tail of a fish, swift and strong in the water.
They dwell beneath the waves, in places where the water turns dark and green and deep. Sometimes they rest among kelp forests that sway like underwater trees. Sometimes they gather near rocky shores where the sea breathes in and out with the tide.
The Sabawaelnu are masters of storms. When the wind rises suddenly and the waves grow sharp and angry, it is said that the Water People are moving beneath the surface. A flick of a tail can churn the sea. A song rising from the depths can call the clouds together.
Yet they are not wicked spirits. They do not trouble those who honor them. Fishermen who greet the waters with respect, who never mock the sea or boast against it, are left unharmed. Some elders say that if you listen carefully to the wind over the water, you can hear the Sabawaelnu singing. Their songs carry warnings—of coming rain, of shifting winds, of dangerous tides.
Those who understand the meaning hidden in their voices can prepare before the storm arrives.
On calm evenings, when the surface of the water lies smooth as glass, a watcher might glimpse a shape moving just below. A pale arm breaking the surface. A dark head slipping between the swells. Then nothing—only ripples spreading outward.
They are the people of the water, halfway between worlds, powerful and watchful. The Sabawaelnu remind all who live near the sea that the waters are alive, and that respect is the price of safe passage.
In the deep lakes of Macedonia dwell the stia—mysterious female beings who are half woman and half fish. Their long hair flows like river weeds in the water, and their tails shimmer beneath the surface like the scales of a great silver carp.
The stia rarely reveal themselves to humankind. By day they remain in the dark, silent depths, where sunlight cannot reach. There, among sunken stones and drowned branches, they gather and drift like pale shadows. But when the moon rises and lays a path of silver across the lake, they rise closer to the surface.
Fishermen tell of hearing soft singing carried over still water on windless nights. Those who follow the sound may glimpse a pale face rising from the lake, framed in long, wet hair. Some say the stia watch quietly from the reeds, their eyes shining just above the surface before slipping away without a ripple.
They are said to guard the hidden places of the lake—the deepest hollows and coldest springs. Anyone who ventures too far into their waters, whether out of greed or arrogance, risks being drawn downward. A sudden tug at the ankle, a swirl of water where none was before, and the lake closes again as if nothing had happened.
Yet the stia are not always cruel. In some tales, they have been seen weeping beside the bodies of drowned youths, combing their long hair in sorrow. Others say they sometimes guide lost children back toward shore, pushing them gently with unseen currents.
Beautiful, distant, and dangerous, the stia belong to the still waters and moonlit depths, where the boundary between the human world and the hidden world beneath the lake grows thin.
Tradition / Region: Japanese Mythology Alternate Names: Girl of the Sea Category: Mermaid
The Myth
During one summer in Kamakura, a clever but willful girl named Namiko went to stay near Yuigahama Beach while her sick mother rested in a hospital nearby. Though she excelled at school, at home she was stubborn and often caused her father trouble with her selfishness.
One day, while playing alone on the shore, Namiko encountered an old woman selling fish. Among the catch was a beautiful striped sea bream, its scales gleaming in the sunlight. Entranced by its natural beauty, Namiko declared that she wished she could be as beautiful as that fish.
The old woman laughed.
“A kimono fades and wears out,” Namiko insisted. “But a fish’s beauty never falls away. If I were as beautiful as that, I would never lose it.”
“Then become a fish,” the old woman said, her eyes sharpening.
“Yes, I would!”
At once the old woman’s laughter ceased. She chanted a strange sutra, and before Namiko could protest, she was transformed into a striped sea bream. The fish-seller’s true form was that of a powerful magician.
Thrown into the sea, Namiko swam bewildered through the underwater world. At first, she was amazed by the shimmering waters and the strange creatures gliding past her. It felt like exploring a living aquarium. But as the currents grew rough and hunger gnawed at her, she was forced to eat small fish she once would have admired. She could not cry; fish have no tears. Loneliness overtook her, and she longed for her parents.
Resting against a rock on the ocean floor, she lamented her foolish words. “All I did was stubbornly wish to be a fish.”
Meanwhile, on the shore, her father and their maid searched desperately. When they found her clothes abandoned on the beach, they believed she had drowned. Their grief was unbearable.
Then the old woman appeared before them.
“Your daughter lives,” she said calmly, and instructed Namiko’s father to take a boat out to sea the next morning.
At dawn, they followed her directions. Pointing to a struggling striped sea bream in the waves, the old woman declared, “That fish is your daughter.”
Understanding that this had been a lesson for his child’s stubborn pride, Namiko’s father fell to his knees and begged the magician to restore her.
As he lifted the sea bream into his arms, the old woman once again chanted her spell. The fish began to grow, its head transforming first, then its body, until Namiko stood once more in human form. Father and daughter embraced in tears, and Namiko vowed never again to let selfish pride rule her heart.
The magician suddenly vanished.
Then a voice drifted down from the sky. The old woman spoke, saying that though she had once used magic to torment many, she had now redeemed herself by correcting Namiko’s ways. Her sins were forgiven, and she would ascend to heaven.
She warned of a coming storm and asked Namiko to send down five-colored thread from the shore.
That afternoon, as winds rose and the sky darkened, Namiko kept her promise. A five-colored thread was cast toward the sea. From the heavens, the old woman—now transformed into a dragon—received it as she ascended.
After that day, Namiko treated her parents with devotion and filial piety. Her mother recovered from illness, and peace returned to their home.
And by the sea at Yuigahama, people remembered the tale of the girl who became a fish—and the dragon who rose to heaven.
Along the rocky coasts of Ireland, where grey waves strike the cliffs and sea-mist hangs in the air, the merrows dwell beneath the waters.
They are sea-people—half human, half fish. From the waist upward, the merrow-maiden appears as a beautiful woman, with pale skin and long green hair that she combs as she sits upon lonely rocks. From the waist downward, she bears the scaled tail of a fish, shimmering with a greenish sheen. Between her fingers lies a delicate webbing, fine as the skin within an eggshell.
But a merrow cannot freely pass between sea and land without her magical cap—the cohuleen druith, a little enchanted hood. With it, she may dive to the deepest waters or rise to the shore. Without it, she is bound to whatever realm she stands upon.
Many tales tell of fishermen who glimpsed a merrow combing her hair at dusk. Some men hid her magic cap and so prevented her return to the sea. Bereft of it, she became their wife. She bore children, tended the hearth, and lived gently among the people. Her nature was said to be affectionate and kind, capable of loving a mortal man.
Yet no matter how long she remained, the sea called to her.
If ever she found her hidden cap, her longing for the deep would overcome all earthly bonds. She would take it, kiss her children, and vanish into the waves, never to return. The sea was her first home, and it would not release her forever.
The merrow-men were another matter. Unlike the maidens, they were said to be grotesque—green-haired, red-nosed, sharp-toothed creatures with pig-like eyes and scaly limbs. Some were known to dwell in houses beneath the sea, where drowned sailors’ souls were kept like treasures in cages. They loved strong drink and strange company, and though fearsome in appearance, they too belonged to the same hidden kingdom under the waves.
The music of the merrows sometimes rises from the ocean depths. It drifts across the surface like a distant song—sweet, haunting, and perilous. Those who follow it may never return.
In older tales, the murdúchann appeared as sea-singers, akin to sirens, whose melodies enchanted sailors. In still other legends, sea-wanderers such as Lí Ban were transformed into fish-tailed beings, destined to roam the waters between worlds.
Thus the merrow stands at the meeting of land and sea—beautiful yet sorrowful, loving yet unbound, forever torn between hearth-fire and tide.
Sources
Wikipedia contributors. (n.d.). Merrow. In Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Retrieved February 14, 2026, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merrow
In the year 1819, on a lonely shore in Hizen Province, an unusual creature was seen upon the sand.
It was long and serpentine, nearly six meters in length. Two horns rose from its head. A dorsal fin ran along its back, and flippers lay against its sides. Its tail stretched behind it like that of a great sea serpent. Yet its face was not that of a fish. It was the face of a woman.
The creature spoke.
“I am a messenger from Ryūgū,” she said, naming the palace of the Dragon King beneath the sea. “My name is Jinja hime.”
She declared that for seven years the land would enjoy abundant harvests. Rice would grow thick and heavy; the people would prosper. But after those seven years, a great sickness would spread across the country—an epidemic that would bring suffering and death.
Yet she offered hope.
“Those who look upon my image,” she said, “will avoid hardship and be granted long life.”
Having delivered her prophecy, the shrine princess slipped back into the sea and vanished beneath the waves.
Her likeness was drawn and shown to the people, so that they might gaze upon it and be protected. The image spread from hand to hand. Fishermen, farmers, and townsfolk spoke of the sea princess who foretold both blessing and plague.
From that time on, stories began to circulate across Japan of other strange beings who emerged from the sea or the mountains to warn of disaster and promise protection through their image.
But it was Jinja hime—the shrine princess of the deep—who first rose from the waters, spoke of fate, and returned to the palace of the Dragon King below.
