A seacliff.
Dark.
Haunted even.
But what’s that perched atop?
A form.
White, not white like European, white like porcelain, white like a blank paper.
Human, or well, almost. Something was strange about this figure, a little bit too tall and much too skinny. Emaciated even. And they held something, a long white rod. Something that radiated a sense of yearning, something that wanted to be touched.
The hair, white like her skin, tangled and dripping with brine.
This rod. As it came into focus you saw it for what it was.
A flute.
Some warped facsimile, an attempt to make something of silence. You got the sense that it was compensatory. You’d heard tales of this land. The seacliff. The songs, sailors drawn to their death by a beautiful voice.
But you had never heard of someone drawn by a tool. Bone, driftwood, a vain attempt at the replication of vocal cords.
You couldn’t help but stare.
You wanted to move closer.
The call. You had heard it from the ship. So alluring, enthralling.
But you saw now.
This was no maiden.
This was a witch, playing a bone.
You could feel it. Every little detail was a manifestation of this witch’s sorrow. The cold fog against your jacket. The wind whipping against your face. The crunch of gravel under your boots.
But it all came back to your ears.
You felt something.
Something missing.
A yearning. The silence simply wouldn’t do. The whistles of wind were a tease.
Just as you thought of sound, she brought this rod to her mouth. A faint whistle. But something was missing. This facsimile, artificial. A substitute for something lost.
You had heard the stories.
Men like yourself.
Driven mad across the rocks.
You did a double take. Had she really done that? Brought the flute to her lips. Clearly, you could hear a song, but you could tell she was delusional.
The sound was good, bordering on enchanting, but it was a substitute.
The notes quivered.
The melody collapsed halfway through every bar.
The air didn’t respond the way it should.
The cliffs didn’t echo back.
Something was wrong. Very very wrong. Sirens were meant to sing, but this one was clearly covering up.
Ahh.
That was it.
She had lost her voice, that must be it. Delusional, she played a cobbled flute in an attempt to sing once more.
That’s when she looked up. Made eye contact. I could see her revelation. The illusion she made for herself shattered.
Her hands shook.
Her breath broke.
A sudden hitch caught in the melody.
Her shoulders collapsed inward.
A single note hovered, then fell short of its mark.
Her eyes widened as if she were hearing the absence for the first time.
I could see it. It all came crashing down.
The weight was crushing.
This realization. She had been rocketed through the stages of grief. You saw her look down at the flute, then look at her hands. Her jaw dropped.
Disgusted. She realized that without her voice, what use was she.
You were still alive.
You had heard her flute’s song, yet here you were.
Pitiful.
Sad.
What kind of siren has no voice.
No angelic call. Just the facsimile attempt at something worthwhile.
You had seen enough.
It was time to go. She had tried, and she had failed. Her little bit of hope, you crushed.
Nice job.
At least that’s one less siren haunting the seas.