The Cold Calm Beneath The Waves

The sea was beautiful, wild. The waves crashed against the rocky shore two hundred feet below. Grave watched the rising tempest, grey clouds swirling above, darkening with each passing minute. Rain began to fleck his weathered face, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes, glad of his long hide coat, still looking out to sea. He stood as he had each night of the twelve months since his return.

There it was again. There was no mistake this time. A glint of light had caught his eye. He just caught sight of the silver-grey tail fin as it flicked above the surface, before it was gone, back to the cold calm beneath the waves. The tail was too big to be a fish, not in these waters; sometimes a cod of three feet had been caught off this very coast, but that was rare, and this was bigger. No, this was different.

Grave's thoughts turned to the past, to his grandfather, a tall man, and strong. They had lived not far from the cliff-top where he now stood. It was a small house, stone built by his grandfather some sixty years ago. It was gone now; only a few bricks lay testimony to its ever having stood. The rest had either been taken by the locals, to build and repair their own houses, or been covered by the thick marshy reeds that carpeted the landscape along the coast.

His grandfather, Arron, had been a man of the sea. He took his first voyage at the age of twelve as a deck hand on a transport to the East Indies. Since then, he had worked all the oceans in the known World, and had brought back tales of other lands and other people, the likes of which had never been heard. To some, they inspired wonder and a lust to explore; to others it fuelled a resentment of Arron, a resentment reinforced by his manner, which could be cold, as if a deep sadness that bore down to his very soul, was awakened in the memories of his days at sea.

Arron was not a cold man, not by any means. In his heart, he still held a love for life, and for those he shared it with, but at times, he seemed consumed by his thoughts. He often stood, as Grave did now, on this very spot, his eyes fixed upon the surf below. Grave, just a child then, would watch, although his father told him to stay away. He knew not to approach his Grandfather at these times; once he had, and his cheery youthful smile was met by eyes without life, that looked but did not see, as if they were in another time, reliving an ancient memory. Grave had run from those eyes. They were not the eyes of his grandfather who had made him laugh, taught him to sail, to tie his knots and mend his nets, not the eyes of a man, more like windows into an empty house, long abandoned, dark and cold. Grave had run.

Still Grave gazed out to sea, hoping for another glimpse of the creature that had taken all he had. A creature that lives alone, sad beyond our comprehension, a creature that longs for love it can never have. A creature without a soul, more beautiful and hideous than a man can bear. Grave knew them too well. He knew now what his grandfather had been looking for all those years ago, his eyes fixed on the surf. He knew now of the tale Arron never told. Grave knew, for now he looked himself. His hand felt the bump in his pocket that was his knife. Many a fish had lost its life to its blade; many a meal was owed to its keen edge. Grave looked on. His anger rose.

There have many names, murgen, see wyf, siren, or mermaid. All cultures know of them, living in the waters, on the edges of civilisation. They long for acceptance, for love, for a soul, but live alone, a sad and desolate existence, a parasitic life, siphoning off the joy and love of their human victims. Like a drug, they intoxicate us. They love with a passion no human can comprehend, and sing songs of such beauty as to inspire joy in the most heartbroken sailor, but there is no restraint, they are blind with a love that bores into our souls. There was never a more wretched creature than a murgen that cradles the love of its life, singing and mourning, the one it loved to death.

Grave knew them too well.

His grandfather had been dead these thirty years. Grave had heard the song that lured him toward the waves. It was a stormy evening, grey clouds circling overhead, and waves crashing hard against the rocks below. Hiding, as he so often did, in the reeds, watching, he heard a song on the air. The voice was as sweet as an angel, and filled his mind. A song so beautiful, and so sad, that it captured his heart. He felt his cares tumble away as the song lifted him to a beautiful place. There was only the song. It was a tune he had never heard, and could never remember after, but it felt so familiar, as if it was written for him, about him. It was in no language he knew, but made more sense than any song he had heard. It touched his very soul, and his heart ached. For a lifetime, the music filled his mind, and love filled his heart. He walked, but did not know it. He looked but did not see.