The Mermaid's Treasure

Deep under the ocean’s surface, the flame flickers.

Its wick has long since burnt away, the wax that once held it high now a pool beneath it. It is surrounded by the sea and buffeted by the tides.

Yet still, it burns on.

Algae creeps across the stone altar it rests upon. Once fine cloth trappings, reverently threaded with gold, lay upon the rock, but time has claimed them too. In the nave above, The Mother, delicately rendered in stained glass, mournfully looks out across her missing congregation. Overgrown fingers of seaweed caress the cheeks of the cherub in her lap. Next to her, a knight astride a white horse is frozen in motion, brandishing his sword at nothing but the small fish who dare to venture close.

San Mitri. Once a hero, now forgotten.

The hard oak of the church’s wooden pews held out for hundreds of years, but now, even they too have given in to time’s call. Towering stone walls stand empty.

Empty - except for one.

Alone the skeleton kneels, bony hands pressed together in prayer. Engaged in a holy battle, a battle remembered in nothing but fragmented myth. Her bones have long kept her kind safe. For a thousand years the skeleton has kneeled, its only adornment the rosary wrapped around its fingers, its silent prayer the only fuel to the single tremouring flame.

A wail shatters the silence. Keening cries cascade through the currents.

A lone sirena.

Twin flippers thrash as the sirena whirls, whipping the water into a frenzy of murky bubbles. With a snap, she halts high above the church. Pauses. Prepares herself. Then, breathing deeply, gills fanning out, she plunges downwards.

She streams towards the ornate window, picking up speed as she descends, powerful tails propelling her on. A crash sound out as she careens into the glass, but it does not break. It holds, solid, as wails of fury turn into peals of pain, the cries distorted by the currents.

Pressing her birdlike face against the glass, the sirena stares through the Mother’s glazed eyes down at the skeleton below. She sneers, the reflection of her thin lips against the glass contorting the Mother’s solemn expression.

Still, the skeleton stands. Still, the flame flickers.

Trapped. The sirena has been trapped away from her kind for over a thousand years. The only thing between her and them? This single, lonely church on the bottom of the ocean floor that she cannot enter. And the only thing between the walls of this church and the inevitable? Their reduction to rubble with the passing of time?

That single flame, still lit by the holy prayer of the woman who has long since passed.

The sirena gnashes her sharp teeth. Webbed hands brush against her thin hair, knotting, unknotting. Sobs burst forth from her wrecked throat.

Her cries are futile. The flame blocks any power her voice once held - a voice that had once lured sailors from their ships and women into the waves. She no longer has powers, no longer any allure, she cannot tempt her prey. She is nothing but anguished features and harsh angles.

But she does not care about her lost power. She’d give it up all over again, if only to get her family back.

They’d been reckless with their power, she knew that now. They’d underestimated their prey, thinking them brainless and gullible, unable to compete with the strength and speed of the mythical. They’d never anticipated the power of that saint, that godforsaken holy light that drove them back to the underworld, dragunara to xifajk alike, and sealed them there. Forever.

Sealed with the fervent prayer of an anguished woman. A mother, so desperate to save her son she’d face the dark itself.

With a mournful wail, the sirena pushes off from the window. She’s done this every day for a thousand years. Every day the same, waiting, watching. Wanting nothing but to go home. To be reunited with her family.

She too, has lost a child. Yet no matter how much she grieves, her sorrow is no match for the skeletons. Has she not suffered enough?

A puff of sand rises as she settles onto the ocean bed, her tails folding beneath her. She is hungry, starving, but she wants only to grieve. The fish she survives on all taste the same to her, nothing but ash in her mouth.

After all, there is no joy in consuming something that puts up a fight.

As she does every day, she sits, wallowing in her memories, eyes fixed on the church as she sways back and forth, signing her mournful song. Singing to her son, her sisters, her brothers, her mother. Perhaps they can hear her, trapped below. She believes they do.

Nearly invisible in the deep ocean sea, only clear to those who know how to look for it, a single iridescent tear buds in the corner of her eye. It is quickly swallowed by the currents.

Still, the skeleton stands. Still, the flame flickers.

Far above the church, three trails of bubbles descend. The sirena squints towards the shadowy figures descending from the light that streams down from above. Slowly, they come into focus.

Three pairs of twin tails. Her bird-like mouth opens in a joyous squeal.

Is it them? Could they have returned? Had they found a way to break the curse on their own?

In a burst of sand she shoots from the ocean floor, spiralling upwards towards the figures. She cuts through the currents in a dance of joy, crowing her delight. Her iridescent tears flow freely now, they block her vision as a rainbow of colour sparkles in the water behind her. Snatching at the closest sirena she pulls them into an embrace, dragging them down towards the sea floor, inviting them to dance with her, to celebrate with her.

But the sirena does not dance. It struggles in her arms.

Blinking away the blur of tears, she finally sees. There are crude tubes stuck to the creature’s mouth, bubbles hissing from a contraption on its face. The tails are not fins, but instead stiff rubber attached to its feet.

With a cry she lets it go. The creature flounders backwards, ungainly limbs flailing in all directions as it lets out a strangled cry. It can barely even swim. Glancing upwards she scans for its companions, but they have disappeared from sight.

She cocks her head. Seams criss cross its body, as though its been sewn together from many an injury. It is no sirena, not even close.

The sirena has yearned for her kind for too long. She is a mother at heart, and this awkward creature will need her help to survive in this harsh ocean. Perhaps if she pretends hard enough, this strange creature could be her child.

She caresses its cheek fondly, its patchwork skin rough beneath her hand. The creature thrashes, trying to rise to the surface, but she knows better. It is safest down here in the deep, it is safest down here with her.

She binds its limbs with seaweed, ties it to a rock. Its eyes roll in their sockets and she purses her lips. Gazing into its eyes, she tries to convey her newfound love. It shakes gently as she kisses it on the forehead. Comforting. Reassuring. It will be safe here. Safe with her.

She will only be gone a few hours, just a quick hunt, and then they will dine together. She will teach it how to survive, how to be strong.

Filled with newfound purpose, cooing cries of joy that reverberate off the rocks, the sirena sets off into the deep. She will catch the mightiest of prey today, for even though fish may lack taste to her, she will make sure her new child is fed only the best.

Perhaps one day, she and her child will dine on human together. She dares not hope.

It is dark by the time the sirena returns, merrily dragging a mutilated megladon, humming a happy song. Rosy spots sit high on her sharp cheeks, a sparkle in her eye.

In horror, she halts. The shark’s carcass falls to the ocean floor.

Her new child floats lifeless, tethered in its weedy chains. No more bubbles rise from its tubes. Small predators have already begun to feed on its fingers.

Her face twists, contorts, the shattering of her barely patched heart into a million pieces written clearly across it as though carved into a page with a knife. Her webbed hands paw helplessly at her child, shaking its body to and fro.

The mask slips from its face, the tube from its mouth.

She sees it now. Sees it for the human it is. Rage consumes her and she shoves it backwards, pummelling it into the sea floor.

As though a balloon on a string, the body bobs back up. Taunting.

It is the final insult to all her years of pain. The very same creature that marooned her here alone, trapped her family far away beneath the earth, sways in front of her. Mocks her. Once upon a time it had been her prey. Once, if caught without a struggle, its flesh had been tender, it had fuelled her magic, making her strong.

But this? Wrists rubbed raw, face puffed and splotchy, this body passed in anguish and fear. It would drain what little strength she desperately clings to.

She sinks to the sand, the perfect picture of despair, thin hair floating around her like a ghostly halo. She is worn and beaten, her scales grey and cracked beyond repair. Gleaming tears trickle through the tatters of her webbed fingers. The water around her shimmers, as though a gauze veil laid across a ruined landscape.

A beady eye opens. Stares at the corpse.

Her intent is clear. Perhaps this is no mistake. Perhaps Nettunu himself had sent the man here for her to find. Human is still human, is it not? Perhaps she could still regain some, any power from its flesh.

Ever so gently, she nibbles at its toes.

Nothing.

She snatches the body from its tether and flings it away. What was she thinking? A creature killed in fear could never restore her.

The body tumbles across the seabed, rolls through the reeds. It bumps into the stone walls of the church and rolls to the entrance, an arm falling through the doorframe, as if pleading for mercy to the Mother herself.

The sirena goes still as a clammy hand passes through the threshold. The threshold she, nor any creature of the sea, has been unable to breach for nearly a thousand years.

The body begins to float upwards. She dashes to it, snatching it tight to her chest.

A grin stretches the tight skin of her face. Tiny pointed teeth glint.

She may not cross the threshold, but it can. It can shatter the skeleton. It can douse the flame.

She hefts the body high above her, shrieking to the waves above. Through the years she has smashed rocks, coral, and debris into the invisible barrier to no avail. It has all bounced off.

But she’s never flung a human.

With all the strength she has left, she hurls the body into the church. It careens up where the aisle once stood, hurtling towards the bones so delicately balanced before the altar.

It comes up short, barely a hands length from the spine before buoyancy takes hold. Gently it floats upwards, lodging itself between the church’s eves.

Her shriek is so loud that gulls resting on the surface above are startled into flight.

Hours go by as she tries to retrieve the body, all sense lost as she abandons herself to emotion. But hurling herself at the stone walls comes to no avail. By the time she settles back to the ocean floor, all feeling drained from her soul, she has split a fin, gouged her forearm, and smashed the side of her skull. Blood, black as ink, weeps from her wounds to mingle with the shimmering veil already re-forming around her.

Still, the skeleton stands. Still, the flame flickers.

The sirena cries herself to sleep, unaware of the rescue mission being mounted high above her. She does not hear the divers as they plunge into the sea, nor does she see the bright lights they flash, trying to find their lost friend.

But she does hear the currents. She feels the water as it whistles between their flippers, so like her fins. She recognises the blundering way they descend into the deep.

Her eyes flick open.

She’s lasted a thousand years without her kind. A thousand years alone, hoping, yearning. A thousand years of never giving up.

The ocean is dark as she rises. It is icy cold as she zips toward her prey.

She is smarter this time. Fresh loss has sharpened her mind, whet its edge.

Whirling around the divers, she beckons them with the dregs of her allure. Lidded eyes blink coquettishly as she leads them to what they seek.

Her trap is set, and she is the bait.

Fascinated they follow her, gasping into ventilators as the church comes into view. Her lips part in a mockery of a smile as they enter, pass the threshold, and exclaim at the impossible sight in front of them.

But they are wary, and they do not approach the statue. Spotting their friend high above, they recover the body, retreating carefully from the ruins.

She gestures madly. Shakes her head so hard her wound splits anew, fresh blood bleeding into the sea.

In horror, the divers back away. Again, she begins to weep.

Terrified, one clutches the body to their chest, weight belt thudding to the sand as they escape as quick as they can.

But one pauses. Her tears are beautiful, and how could beauty ever bring harm? After all, they reason, she did guide them. They think her a helper. And so, against their better judgement, they go back in.

The sirena squeals. With a cartwheel, she dashes to the side of the church, peering in through the arched windows, keeping pace as they swim up the aisle.

The diver glances at the Mother, staring down from above. Follows the Mother’s eyes, down to the blessed rosary, threaded through those skeletal fingers. It is the rosary of San Mitri himself, made of solid gold, carried by the saint through each holy war he fought.

It is the tether. The chain. The unbroken link that peace rests on. An unparalleled work of art, a holy relic for the ages.

Frantically now, frantically the sirena motions towards the skeleton, her entire body quivering, her soul alight. Her gills flare, all pretence of beauty lost as she abandons herself in the moment.

The rosary glints.

Greed? Curiosity? With humans, you can never be sure.

Eager fingers pluck at the cross.

The skeleton crumbles.

The flame dies out.

.

.

.

From deep beneath the seabed, an unearthly roar begins to rise.