Sea's

Deep in the murky, salty waters of the sea, under the billowing waves, beneath the scum which lays dead on the surface and the debris which floats in limbo is the cave of the siren.

The mouth of the cave is an abyss, carved in the shape of a tidal wave. The flowing rock, eroded by time, curves flawlessly like the soft movement of the waves and the steps descend in the spiral shape of a wentletrap into the ebony liquid. Through the cave, the walls etched with dark crevices, burnt, in the shapes of lightning whelk, tower over in a tunnel formation. A door leads out of the twirling staircase, in the shape of a beautiful angel wing shell, and through these angel wings waits the devil.

The room is small, circular, and dark. Pinned to the wall are pear whelks, slipper shells, true tulips, fighting conches and many more beautiful hand-painted seashells. They are painted with the natural colours of the ocean; blues given by the running water, greens taken from the flailing seaweed, goldens stripped from the grains on the seabed and reds seeped out of the bodies of her victims.

Sea was her name. Sea sat on her rock pile in the middle of her tavern and painted her shells while singing songs of sorrowful tales. Her hair, a stunning cascading waterfall of turquoise locks, floated in the water behind her head, swaying with the rippling movements of her brush strokes. Her dark navy skin, prickled with yellow dots, blended in with the cloak of darkness that loamed over her cave. Her fingers, dainty as angel fish, slice the water as she moves from shell to shell. Her eye, one big gorgeous yellow eye, like the sun it shines like a thousand balls of fire, like the sun it is deadly.

Around her rock throne are small sea slugs that crawl along in random directions, not knowing what to do with themselves, slow as if they had a heavy weight on their back, sad as if they were being punished. To the side was a pile of dark grey shells, cracked down the middle, forced open with the strength of a broken heart. The small, dark creatures which lurked at the bottom of the room, edged ever further away from this mound of sorrow, once beautiful, gone sour.

Sea turned her head, lushes locks swayed along with her, and she reached for a small king’s crown which had been painted only a few hours ago; red flames stroked the surface of the shell, in the swirling motion of a seaweed brush. In those graceful fingers, she scooped up a small grey slug from the floor and placed it in the shell. Whispering into the shell, she spoke “find me one” and with that she plopped the snail on the floor and watched it as it journeyed through the angel’s wings and out of the cave.

The snail travelled for miles, crossing deep sea volcanos, passing coral reefs, trekking the nothingness in-between. Until it finally made it to shore. The snail slowly etched up the grainy sand, carrying up the exquisitely painted king’s crown onto the hot sand of the land. As its small, soggy, body trailed onto the scorching gravel, it tried to bring the shell further up, energy draining as if it was trying to get home. It died. The shell remained halfway up the beach as the sun dipped below Sea’s ocean. 

Just along from the beach was an old cottage, where an old man lived alone. Every morning he would go out onto the beach and listen to Sea’s song, listening to the rolling waves melody. The next morning, he did the same, as he made his way down to the shore, he came across the fiery shell and picked it up in his aged, coarse hands. The snail had done its job. The old man took the shell back to his cottage and placed it proudly on the mantel piece next to the picture of his late wife.

For many days Sea heard nothing. Through her shells, she could hear what went on in the outside world, but nothing came into her ear from that particular shell, only rustles and the movement of furniture. She was suspicious. So, on one Sunday morning she ventured out of her desolate cave and into the bay where the old man had found the shell. There stood the old man, looking at the rising sun and the big yellow ball which hovered in the water. Once, he had disappeared from sight, Sea came closer, edged nearer to hear better. As she did so, she heard mumbles, small flickers of words.

“my love,” said the broken voice, “not to long now, you will be in my arms again. I brought you this king’s crown, they were always your favourite, I miss you. Why did you have to go?”

Sea had never heard such words spoken in her shells before. But Sea did know the answer to the old man’s question. She remembered this bay, she remembered this man, she remembered his wife. Only a few years ago had this man’s wife come to the shore and picked up another one of her shells, a streaky blue shell which curved around like a bull horn. Through this shell Sea had heard of her affair with the young man down the road, in shock, Sea had taken the old woman and diminished her into a small floor creature.

Sea had a heart cold as ice, but it thawed for this man, the man who loved a woman who was unfaithful, a woman who he didn’t know had used him. Sea began to cry. Her salty tears came gushing out of her buttercup eye, they began to wash up against the shore. Slowly the old man’s house flooded, leaving behind nothing but a wreckage of wood, a bundle which had been the sleeping old man and the king’s crown.

Sea picked up the shell in her angel fish hands and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She returned to the ocean.

Once down in her dreary cave she broke the shell, the whisper in her ear faded and the colour died. She forgot all about the old man and his wife. Sea picked up another shell and began to paint.

One thing you should know about Sea’s shells; when you hear the water in her cave in the shell, she can also hear you. Make sure not to take home a shell if you know you have something to pay for. Sea’s shells should always remain on Sea’s shores.