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Maid of the Sea

by Hereswith
November 1, 2005

She bore no regret for those she had lured to an early grave. The song carried her, even as it bound them, her voice and her tone and her promises the links of the chain that would hold them fast and bring them to her. Old or young, frail or sturdy, meek or arrogant, it mattered not, she took them all, and they were all alike in her mind, she could not tell them apart. Out
of the multitude of faces, there was but one she had not forgot.

Mist had lingered on the sea, that day, and the sun had shone pale and sickly in a colourless sky. She sensed the ship long before it was possible to see it, she heard the faintest whisper of it in the water and began to hum, sweetly and gently and softly, at first, then ever louder, weaving words into that lilting, ancient melody.

She did not break the flow of the tune, until the mists parted and a man stood before her. At the sight of him, she drew a sharp breath and the air was still, in that single moment, and as brittle as it was still.

He shadowed her, this sailor with his buckles and belts and the plume in his hat. He did not reach for his sword or his pistol, but he smiled, and that served him as well as any other weapon.

“Sought to drown me, did you now,” he said, as he approached, absently petting the small, furry creature that clung to his arm. “I fear I must disappoint your hopes. The ocean won’t have me.”

He claimed the whole of her attention; she noted the others only when the net came down upon her, and she fought, twisting her voice into an ugly thing, but had to swallow defeat in the end, like a poisoned draught, as bitter as the tears she did not shed. Her breath staggered, fury stole it from her, and she could do little except watch as the motley crew of men circled around where she lay.

“Are ye sure about this, Capt’n? I mean, it’s a—she’s a—“

“I know what she is,” her captor replied, and he leaned down, stroking the blade of her shoulder. “I’ll teach you to come to hand, my pretty.” His eyes were barren, like the cold rock beneath her, where the slanted, faded sunlight fell upon them.
“And you shall sing at my bidding.”

She spat at him, lashing out, and his laughter grew heavy with a dark and terrible purpose, but he straightened, relieving her of his touch. “Take her to the ship!”

“Aye, Capt’n!”

They lifted her up and they carried her across the isle, tangled in their net like a fish. The mist had cleared, on the northern shore, and she spotted their ship: black of hull, it was, and black of sail, a cage of wood from which there would be no escape. And she clawed at the cordage, thinking she was lost, but fickle Fate gave her a tiny sliver of hope. When she chanced to meet the gaze of one of those who hefted her weight, he stumbled and quavered and swiftly looked aside.

She kept her silence, though her heart beat fast and faster yet, and she bided her time, waiting with scant patience until
they stopped, near the edge of the sea.

“I live,” she said, as they made to lower her into the rowing boat, and she said it quiet, but she said it clear, “but you are as the dead.”

The tall, gangly man started, his grip half loosening, and she tensed her body and jerked violently, flicking her tail and, “Me eye!” he cried out, letting go, letting go, to run stooped after a round object that rolled towards the ragged cliffs.

She tore herself free of the net, ignoring the shouts and the curses, ignoring the burning pain of hitting and scraping against the stones. Her skin was slick, all their fingers slipped where they might have grasped, and she scrambled away, sliding beneath the waves with a sigh.

It was a mere illusion of safety, she had listened and she had learned as much, but they had limbs like common mortals had, and surely that would be a disadvantage here, should they follow.

She rose to the surface again, at a distance, daring a last glance at the man who would have made himself her doom. She
saw him, and he saw her, in turn, easily identifying her shape, somehow, amidst the churning blue and grey and the white of the foam, and the plume trembled as he threw his head back and roared.

She dove quickly into the deep, leaving them behind, and she swam as far as her strength would allow her, mindful of sharks as long as her shallow wounds bled. She imagined, on occasion, in the dusk, or at the dawn of the day, that they searched for her, that she could make out the sound of oars and the flicker of a lantern. And she dreamed about walls that were solid and strong. When they did not find her, the fear dimmed, but it never entirely vanished.

“You will remember me!” had been his final threat.

And she had.

~.~

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