The Siren's Ballad

They say the siren’s song lures you under the waves to your demise. That they seduce sailors with their charms and illusions.

The oceans' harbingers of death.  

They say that sirens are ravenous, savage creatures. Who only desire destruction, and will stop at nothing to achieve it.

They’re wrong.

Lightning came, a brilliant shock of hot white light pierced the sky. I felt my breath hitch in my throat and it became difficult to breathe. Saltwater sprayed up, the ocean mist blinding me. Shaking my head, I took a deep breath in a futile attempt to collect my bearings. I clutched onto the side of the ship, praying. To who? I didn’t know for sure. I suppose any god would do– any god that would listen.

I strangled out frantic commands to my crew in vain; my voice drowned out by the crashing of the waves that battered our ship ruthlessly from all directions. 

The thunder that followed seemed to crack the air, so loud and so close that it felt as if heaven had split open, provoking the fury of the gods with it. A bolt of lightning flashed again, this time barely a few metres from our ship. What happened next went by like a haze. My clothed form hit the water and I was dragged under. 

I’ve held my breath before while swimming in a lake, or the reef. But this isn’t like that. This isn’t like that at all. This is like having a gun to your head and being told that you can't let your heart-beat. And just like the heart will beat, my lungs inhaled. It didn’t matter if it was air or water. At the moment that it rushed in, filling, burning my lungs, I could only watch blearily as the water hauled me deeper.

At first, I thrashed around, desperate to survive. I couldn’t tell whether or not I was crying– it was impossible to know. Every fibre, every muscle, every cell in my body told me to move, screamed at me to survive. Writhing around beneath the tumbling, relentless waves, I flailed my limbs avidly, trying desperately to make it back to the surface. My clothes felt like chains, weighing me down. I twisted and squirmed around as violently as I could, hoping it would do some good. It didn’t. Even if I managed to swim, I didn’t have any idea which way was up.

I don’t know how long I was under. I don’t know how long I battled against the torrent. With every second that went by, the more sluggish my limbs became. The longer I spent under the water, sinking, the less I wanted to swim back up. The longer I went without air, the less I yearned for it. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Then I heard it. A beautiful, alluring voice, singing the melody of an old, forgotten song. It’s haunting ethereality enraptured me the moment I heard it.

They are wrong about the siren’s song. 

It brings no devastation.

It harbours no wicked intent.

When I'd forfeited my life to the torrent, it was their song that filled my senses until I could no longer feel the briny water invading my lungs or the stinging of my eyes and nose. It was because I heard the siren’s song, that in my death, it felt as if the ocean itself was caressing me in a gentle embrace. Their song took the pain away and so my death felt like slumber. I’d closed my eyes with a smile, forgetting all I’d just endured.

I awoke with a tail of silver-black scales and my skin a sickly, flaky imitation of what it once was. My fingers were stiff, with strange webbing fixing them together; as if someone had sewn my fingers to each other, joined by translucent skin. The salt no longer stung my eyes, and despite the darkness around me, I could clearly see what was dull, bestrewed ocean floor. What had been done to me? What was this? Was I dreaming? I couldn’t tell you.

A soft, silken voice spoke, ‘You needn’t be afraid, my dear, you’re one of us now.’

I turned, my bemused eyes meeting melancholy ones. I blinked in horrified surprise. They looked like what I had become: with a tail of black scales and pale, grey skin. But unlike me: scars littered their body, their ribs showed, their body lacked muscle, they lacked life. I choked back a scream. Is that what I’ve become? They didn’t approach me. They didn’t move. They simply watched me, their gaze brimming with sorrow.

‘Your humanity is gone my dear,’ they began, their silvery voice quiet, tentative. ‘Your mortal body is gone. Your mortal life has ended… These waters are cruel. They drown all who dare enter it. Then they sentence its trespassers to an eternity of imprisonment beneath its surface. Ignorance cost us our lives. We are the sirens of the sea. Now, so are you. Please, sing with us. Despite our draconian fate, we can still make peace. We can yet bring ease of passage to the next victims of this unsparing sea. We are the sirens of the deep. The least we can do in this life of incarceration is use our voices –the only gift we have– to alleviate the suffering of the ones next to fall victim to this curse.’

A siren’s song is only heard before you die, that much is true. But I assure you, we only wish you solace. Do not be afraid of the siren’s song; if you listen carefully, you will realise it; the sirens sing for you. Years of heartache and melancholy forever entangled in our voices and our beings. You needn’t be afraid. Of us, or what we bring. We only sing for you: mourning what you will become. But with what little power we have, as the ocean’s prisoners, we will gently welcome you to our domain. You, at the very least, deserve a soft epilogue.