The Skunk River Mermaid

Washington: I stopped in the town of Seventy-six Center for breakfast last year, on my way to Keokuk for the re-enactment of the Battle of Pea Ridge. The town lies along the Skunk River, and like most Iowa towns has its own individual brand of local color. Seated in a booth at the Coal Bin Cafe, I overheard the most remarkable conversation. A group of darkly clad Germans were hunched low over their coffee and muttering back and forth in urgent tones. I copied what I could make out into the little notebook which I always carry.

     "Ja, bin ich es... die Tochter von Sarganatanas sicher. Imprisoned in dieser Höllenbohrung!"

     " Wir müssen sie freigeben, zurückbringen sie zum Fluß."

     "Aber wie? Wir zeichnen bereits zu viel Aufmerksamkeit."

     "Nannjhizzeedha führt uns."

     My knowledge of German is very limited, but my translation ran:

     "I am safe it...the daughter of Sarganatanas. Imprisoned in this hell drilling!"

     "We must release them, return them to the river "

     "However how? We draw already too much attention."

     "Nannjhizzeedha lead us!"

     At this last there was mad gesticulation and much slurping of coffee. I looked in the direction their beady eyes continued to furtively glance and saw above the counter, affixed to the wall, an aquarium with no water or fish. Inside was what could only be described as an ugly shriveled black conical shape with hair. My food arrived and I became focused on breakfast. At some point during my meal the group of Germans must have left, because when I looked up again they were gone.

     Paying my check brought me close to the aquarium, and what a terrible sight to see after just finishing a plate of runny eggs! A hand painted placard announced to the world that this glass case was home to the "Skunk River Mermaid." She was hideous in the extreme, a combination of shrunken head and poorly mummified catfish. I had seen the like before, in curiosity shops in New Orleans, and even the Fejee Mermaid so prized by that huxter P.T. Barnum. His tiny fake had made him rich, with thousands of people paying 25 cents each to see it, which was considerable sum in 1842.

     This object clearly fell into the camp of those manufactured cryptozoological specimens made of combined animal parts and then touted as an authentic mermaid for profit. I had seen shaved monkeys stitched to the body and tail of fish, even a larger "mermaid" composed of a shaved orangutan and the tail of a porpoise. All were invariably ugly and obviously faked. It would take a great deal of imagination or a very lonely sailor many months at sea to picture these objects as in any way sexually attractive. This dried up, ugly, black looking, and diminutive specimen was no exception.

     "Does that thing really bring in better tips? I would think it would drive customers away." I remarked, setting a ten dollar bill on the counter.

     "Oh, no. She's kind of famous around here. Some folks said Herman ought to have buried her when she died, but Myra would have preferred it this way."

     "When she was alive? Dear, that thing was never alive. At least not in that form."

     "Oh, sure she was. I didn't know her too well, I was just a kid when she and Herman got hitched up."

     "Darling, surely these wrinkles ought to indicate to you that I was not born just yesterday."

     "I was at the wedding. If you don't believe it, I can show you the pictures. Herman keeps the wedding album in the office in the back."

     "Yes, I would love to see the pictures!" Not believing a word of this fanciful tale, I followed the pretty blonde waitress into the back office. She rolled the tumblers on the safe and pulled back the heavy door. Once opened, she withdrew a large and well oiled leather bound collection of pictures. The photos showed a wedding ceremony, and to my horror the bride was indeed that fishy creation hanging on the wall! Herman was a large man by any standard and he looked freakish enough himself in his two tone brown tuxedo flanked by the country cousins of the family from Deliverance. At his side was a large round tank made of glass which was filled with murky water. The finny creature I had seen out front was in the tank, clutching to its rim, and wearing a white veil. She looked lovingly up at Herman, with the most horrible grimace you can imagine. I was captivated, turning page after page the way you would if you came upon a collection of autopsy photos at an antique store. To have faked these pictures would have required a great deal of expertise and a lot of technical equipment not to mention money---none of which was in abundant evidence at the Coal Bin Cafe. I was about to ask some rather pointed questions about the authenticity of the photos when we heard a resounding crash from out in the main room of the restaurant. We left the album and ran to investigate.

     The aquarium glass lay in shards all over the floor, and the Skunk River Mermaid was gone. The waitress calmly walked to the payphone by the door and dialed a number. I heard her say in hushed tones, "Herman, its Kate. Your wife's been kidnapped again."

     When Herman arrived on the scene he was beside himself with grief. He was behaving in a manner consistent with a husband whose wife's body had just been stolen. Certainly any man who was capable of marrying a hideous creature like the Skunk River Mermaid, and then displaying her corpse in a restaurant, was capable of anything. I proceeded with great caution. "Herman, my name is Abigail, and I have some experience in these matters....I would like to offer my services. I may have some information on the culprits."

     "Anything you can do to bring Myra back, I want you to do!"

     "I heard your hostess say that this wasn't the first time your...uh, the mermaid has been taken?"

     "That's right, its the third. The first time it was some kids, just playing a prank. The second time was after this van full of long haired heavy metal boys stopped in here on their way to Mardi Gras. They broke into the place after dark and took it with them to New Orleans. Sold it to one of them Voo Doo places. I went kind of crazy....till I saw her picture in a World News Weekly story. Myra was on the cover, and they said the name of the place that was displaying her. I drove down there the same day and it cost me ,500 to buy her back from that damned voodoo queen.

     "I see. I don't think this time the theft---"

     "Kidnapping." The hostess interjected.

     "Body snatching." Herman insisted.

     "I don't think it was a teen prank or for profit. I think there is more at foot here than any of us realizes. There was a table full of Germans here a while back, do you remember?"

     "Yes," the waitress said, "All they wanted was coffee and they did seem awful interested in Myra."

     "Yes, they did, didn't they? I copied down some of what they were saying....it didn't make much sense at the time, but now...." I opened my book and read back the conversation I had recorded there.

     "'Free her from this hell drilling?'" Asked Herman.

     "It may be hell hole, I'm not sure of the translation."

     "Hell hole! I built this place with my bare hands!"

     "Its a wonderful cafe, Herman, and its name suits it perfectly. Now, what about the names they were saying, do you recognize them? Sarganatanas or Nannjhizzeedha?"

     Well, yeah, that first one. That was Myra's maiden name. She ran away from her father, she never spoke of him."

     Best not to point out that I wasn't entirely convinced that Myra was real. I told Herman I had a few phone calls to place. To get the necessary background information on this case, I spoke with a contact at the B. Lavatsky Museum in Hopkins Grove. What I found out was startling. Iowa Native Americans had a river god who lived in the Mississippi, named Saargantaanas, or "the Keeper of the Deep. The entity had been described by Marquette during his explorations, saying that it was a gigantic aquatic monster having the head of a tiger set on a long eel-like neck, and the body of a giant catfish. Further, both this name and Nannjhizzeedha had been mentioned in the journals of Professor G. G. Angel on the date of June 22, 1864. This finally jogged my memory, as this information appeared within the pages of this magazine only a year ago!! (see: Wreck On The Mississippi, August, 1996, vol. 3, Issue #8)

     At the local library, I consulted back issues of Third Eye Over Iowa. There I found the reprinted journal entry for that date. It seems that a group of German cultists had been involved in that incident, and had used those names in a ritual which conjured up the beast Saargantaanas. They had been bound for New Orleans, and certainly if the cult had survived its members might fanatically pursue a link to their twisted faith. Somehow they saw the little mermaid as the true daughter of this river god. When I shared the information with Herman, he grew wild eyed with rage, and pulled a revolver from the cash drawer. "They're not gonna toss her in the Skunk!"

     The waitress and I had to scramble to keep in sight of him as he ran. The river is not far from the center of the town, but the day had been spent in research and investigation, and now the sun was dipping low. We followed as best we could through the brambles.

     "He's going to where he met her! Where Myra came up from the river---" The waitress shouted, stumbling to a stop and lighting a cigarette. "You just follow this trail through the woods. It opens up on a rocky area....used to be sacred to the Indians....I'll catch up to you! I just need to catch my breath."

     I left her puffing and followed her directions into the woods by the water. It wasn't long before I heard shouting and a shot fired. I redoubled my efforts and came into the clearing. In a pool of blood lay Herman, an ornate dagger protruding from his back. His gun lay about three feet from his hand. Torches were ringing the area and nine black robed figures encircled a carved stone altar upon which the Skunk River Mermaid lay. The altar depicted some obscene fish god with a mass of tentacles supporting its body, each tentacle covered with either suckers or eyes. The head of the fish god had gills, and multiple eyes ringing its gaping toothless maw. Metal rods protruded like the whiskers of a catfish from the sides of its head. I knew that this was a larger version of the idol described by Angel in his journal. The cultists were chanting, not in German but some strange tongue which might have been the language of fish, for it made me feel slime covered and cold just to hear it.

     "Sargantanas , nigass mitak! Sargantaanas tanstpost bedow neb ta nig wassertum! Nannjhizzeedha! Surpenst nal deebt! Otak al dur , datne ma intur! Meeyrall, su dankulrna, sumo nig suug!" They chanted this over and over and all around a dark fog seemed to rise. Above the night was clear and the stars shining brightly, but this odd purple fog began to blot out the surrounding trees and obscure the cultists from my view. The whole area had a rancorous odor, like that of a fishmarket in summer. I heard splashing noises then, like hundreds of large stones were being tossed into the river, or that many fish were leaping out into the air and falling back again. I ventured into the fog, I had to see if Herman were still alive.

     As I crept forward, blinded by the fog, I found his cold hand. Dead, then. Suddenly I was hit from behind and struck unconscious. When next I woke, the cigarette smoking waitress was standing behind a sheriff's deputy who was pouring water on my face. Herman lay beside us and the cultists were gone. The idol I had seen earlier was just a jumble of rocks and sticks.

     The entire incident was officially put down as a simple robbery, and a merchant slain attempting to recover his property. Privately, however, I was alarmed to discover that even the police in this community claimed to have been at Herman and Myra's wedding reception. Since Herman's murder, there has been an increase in sightings of "merpeople", a male and female of the species, playing in the waters of the Skunk River. I can not say that these reports are not simply a fanciful denial on the part of a community which gave too much support to the delusions of one of its citizens. I am waiting for conclusive proof, and in the mean time have passed my notes on the Germanic fish cult to our occult investigations divisions.