On the longest day of the year, three sirens with murder on their minds basked atop the immense, lichen-covered stone looming over their Greek island’s shore. Far below their perch, a dozen fishing boats bobbed atop the Aegean waves.
Breathing deeply of the salty air, the half-bird, half-human trio launched into their song, a rich, cloying melody promising endless unspecified yet irresistible delights. Countless sailors had gone slack-jawed at these eerie notes. With wheel, oar, and rudder, they turned their crafts toward the sirens’ strains. Boats and ships then surged toward their inevitable end, marked by the deadly jolt of jagged rocks tearing them apart. High above, the sirens would quiver with savage glee at the crack of the hull, splash of the mast, and screams of their victims.
Such was not the case this morning, however. “Curse her!” The Eldest shook her claw-fist at the cloudless sky. “This solstice marks the tenth straight year without a single wreck to show for all our work. I say again, curse Circe and her loose tongue!”
“You may as well curse honeybees while you’re at it,” said the Middle-Hatched, preening her hair and feathers with one smooth, practiced motion. “It would do as much good.”
“Honeybees? What are they — a kind of fish?” asked the Youngest, tilting her head.
The Eldest stretched out her puny, dark-winged arms against the glorious blue of the heavens. “Don’t you remember what the ocean nymph told us? I shall never forget it.”
The Middle-Hatched let out a throaty chuckle. “She wasn’t long out of the shell that day, sister. Likely she was napping.”
“It was a year after we had begun to fail in our quest to cause death and destruction.” The Eldest scowled. “The nymph said a witch called Circe warned a human king of the danger we pose. She cautioned him that crews must clog their ears with beeswax — a squishy substance made by a flying insect — when they pass this shore, in order to avoid our song’s lethal allure.”
“The king, of course, spread the word far and wide.” The Middle-Hatched flicked a round pebble over the rocky ledge. “Those who do not hear us need not fear us.”
The Youngest gasped. “You mean our song is now harmless?”
“When it goes unheard, yes. Which it clearly has been for quite some time, since no ship has sunk due to our treacherous tunes in years. Humans now dare even to settle here on our island. If you squint, you can see their new-built village and harbor over there.” Yawning, the Middle-Hatched pointed.
“Impudent invaders!” The Eldest threw back her head. “Curse you, Circe!”
The Youngest crept forward, leaning far over the edge as she peered at the fishing boats. “Maybe — maybe someday someone will forget the beeswax and we’ll have a chance to — oh!”
Losing her balance, the Youngest plummeted, her sisters’ shrieks ringing in her ears as she desperately flapped. But a siren’s wings are little more than feathered arms and proved useless at slowing her fall.
She hit the ocean, sending up a foamy fountain of spray as cold, dark waters closed over her head. Frantic thrashing brought her to the surface, where she spied a boat nearby, its owner staring at her. Panicked, she swallowed her pride — and a mouthful of saltwater, making her gag — to beckon wildly to this possible rescuer. She retained enough sense not to call for help, knowing it would likely stupefy him. As the boat headed in her direction, she sagged with relief and focused on treading water.
Which is why she didn’t see the fisherman’s dilated eyes, nor his slack jaw. Like the others who had settled this island, he had been deaf since birth. Therefore, he communicated through signs and gestures — and the Youngest’s flailing arms compelled him with all the power the sirens’ voiced song possessed over those who could hear to aim his prow directly at her.
Only after the fisherman struck the siren was her spell shattered. Shocked, he gave the rudder a sudden jerk just in time to escape a fatal collision himself. He scanned the waves around his craft, yet could spot nothing but a single dark feather, floating in a circle.
Of course, he could not hear the lament of the Youngest’s sisters. A few of his tears added to the sea’s saltiness before he turned back to rejoin the fleet.
Pamela Love was born in New Jersey. After graduating from Bucknell University and working as a teacher and in marketing, she turned to writing. Her speculative fiction has appeared in the anthologies Havok: Legendary, Bitter Become the Fields, and The Dragon’s Hoard 3, among other publications. Her story “The Fog Test” appeared in Cricket and won the 2020 Magazine Merit Award from SCBWI. She now lives in Maryland.
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