Charm Against an Egg Boat

**Charm Against an Egg Boat**


Strange things often wash up on the shores of Rookhaven, and most locals know better than to go poking at them. But Calla had never been one for leaving mysteries alone.

That morning, after the tide pulled away, she wandered the beach as she always did. Bits of driftwood and seaweed dotted the sand. Then she saw it—something white and glistening, half-submerged in the shallows. Smooth, oval, and far too large to be natural. It bobbed gently, the size of a rowboat, shaped like an egg.

She knelt beside it, eyes narrowing. The surface was warm beneath her fingertips, despite the crisp wind. Cracks veined the shell, each glowing faintly with a golden light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Her grandmother’s warning echoed in her mind: *If ever you see a sea-egg, child, leave it be. They come from places we weren’t meant to know.*

But curiosity won.

She reached out, hovering her hand just above the shell.

“Don’t touch it,” a voice said behind her.

Calla jerked around to see Old Mab, the village charm-maker, standing with her gnarled staff dug into the sand.

“I wasn’t going to,” Calla said quickly.

Mab raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Her gaze settled on the egg. “That’s no gift from the sea. It’s a vessel. A kind of boat.”

“A boat?” Calla frowned. “That hatches?”

“Sometimes. Or escapes. Depends on what it’s carrying.”

The egg gave a sudden shiver, a low hum rising from within. Cracks deepened. Light flickered brighter.

Calla stepped back. “What’s inside?”

Mab didn’t answer. Instead, she drew charms from the folds of her cloak—bundles of twigs, stones marked with runes, feathers tied with twine. She placed them carefully in a circle around the egg, muttering words older than the cliffs.

“What are you doing?” Calla asked.

“Binding it. Slowing the hatch. Whatever’s in there, it’s early.”

The ground trembled faintly. The egg rocked once, and a sound escaped it—a soft, mournful tone, like a whale’s cry carried on the wind.

Calla felt it in her chest: a tug, deep and aching, like sorrow that didn’t belong to her.

“It’s alive,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Mab said. “But not ready. And if it opens too soon, what’s inside may not come out alone. Chaos leaks through before order knows what to do with it.”

Calla hesitated. “Shouldn’t we help it, then?”

Mab shook her head, sadness in her eyes. “You’re thinking like a girl. Not like a guardian. Not everything in a shell wants to be helped. Or should be.”

The egg pulsed. A sliver of shell flaked away, revealing something wet and blue beneath.

Calla’s heart pounded. “It’s hatching.”

Mab pressed a woven charm into her hand. “Then help me finish the circle. Say the words.”

Together, their voices rose—low, steady, old words spoken in rhythm with the waves.

The wind picked up, hissing over the sea. The egg gave another moan, almost a voice, almost a name. The light inside flickered—then began to dim.

The rocking stopped.

The egg lay still.

Its warmth faded under Calla’s fingers. The cracks remained, but the glow retreated, sealed away once more.

Calla exhaled slowly. “Is it… gone?”

“No,” Mab murmured. “Only sleeping again. For now.”

The tide was creeping back in, soft waves licking at the edges of the charm circle. The ocean was reclaiming what it had given.

“What if it wakes up next time?” Calla asked.

Mab looked toward the dark horizon. “Then we’ll need more than words and feathers.”

As the egg boat drifted out, half-lost in the rising tide, Calla stood watching it, feeling the hum of it still inside her bones.

Something had nearly arrived.

And someday, it would return.

Calla let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “Is it... gone?”

“No,” Mab said. “Just sleeping again. For now.”