The Siren

Long ago, on a rocky little island far out in the Southern Ocean, a siren lived all alone. Perhaps she was the youngest and most beautiful of the original three sirens, driven away by her sisters' jealousy or her own weariness with their company. Or maybe she had always been alone in that distant place. But she was not unhappy; all she cared about was the admiration and worship of mortal men, and these were hers whenever she wished. She had only to sing, and her exquisite voice would float across the waters, reaching some passing ship. Everyone who heard was instantly overcome by an irresistible longing to rush to her island and throw themselves adoringly at her feet.

One day, as she sat on a low cliff gazing out over the sparkling blue-green water, hoping to see a far-off sail on the hazy horizon, she was startled by a sound she had never heard before—the grating of a boat's keel on the pebbles of the little creek beside her.

She had been so absorbed in watching for ships that she hadn't noticed a small boat gliding around the other side of the island. When she turned, she saw a stranger already jumping ashore and securing his boat.

Clearly, she had not lured him there, for she had been too lazy to sing lately. He didn't seem to have noticed her at all; perhaps he had landed only out of curiosity.

He was young and handsome, with sun-bronzed skin and curly brown hair falling over his forehead. His face was open and honest, and his eyes were grey. As she looked at him, a strange thought crossed her mind: she wanted to question him and hear his voice. She wanted to learn what these mortals were really like, these creatures over whom she had such power.

Never before had such a thought entered her head. She had seen many mortals in her time—from noble captains to lowly galley slaves—but always under the spell of her voice, when they were struck dumb and motionless. Once they were under her power, they ceased to interest her, except as proof of her strength.

But this stranger was still free, as long as she didn't choose to enchant him. And for some reason, she decided not to do so just yet.

As he turned, she beckoned to him commandingly. He looked up and saw the slender, graceful figure above—the fairest maiden his eyes had ever beheld. Her beauty was almost unearthly: deep blue eyes and hair of the sunniest gold. He stood staring in disbelief, thinking it must be a vision.

Slowly, he came nearer, and at a careless gesture from her, he threw himself down on a wide ledge of rock just below where she sat. Still, he didn't dare speak, fearing the vision would vanish.

She watched him for a long moment, an innocent, almost childlike curiosity shining beneath her long lashes. At last, she gave a soft little laugh. "Are you afraid of me?" she asked. "Why don't you speak? Perhaps mortals cannot speak."

"I was silent," he replied, "in case speaking would anger you. Surely you must be a goddess or a sea-nymph."

She clapped her hands in delight. "Ah, you can speak! No, I am no goddess or nymph. And you won't anger me—if only you will tell me many things I want to know."

She began to ask him all sorts of questions, first about the great world where men lived, and then about himself. She was curious in a charmingly headstrong and willful way.

He answered openly and simply. But it seemed as if some influence was protecting him, for he wasn't dazzled or overwhelmed by her loveliness. He showed no sign of falling under her enchantment, and his eyes did not burn with that hopeless adoration she knew so well.

She noticed this right away, and it stung her pride. She paid less and less attention to his answers, until finally she stopped questioning him altogether.

Then, with a strange smile that showed her small, sharp teeth between her red lips, she asked, "Why don't you ask who I am, and what I am doing here alone? Don't you want to know?"

"If you would be so kind as to tell me," he said.

"Then I will," she said. "I am a siren. Are you not afraid?"

"Why should I be afraid?" he asked, for the name meant nothing to him.

She was disappointed. It seemed it was only her voice that stole men's senses, not her beauty alone. Perhaps this young man was proof even against her voice. She longed to try, yet she hesitated.

"So you've never heard of me," she said. "You don't know why I sit here watching for the grand, gilded ships you mortals build?"

"For your own pleasure, I suppose," he answered. "I have watched them myself. They're magnificent as they sail by, their sharp bronze beaks cutting through the water, their painted sails swelling against the wind. It's good to hear the rhythm of the great oars and the cheerful shouts of the sailors."

She laughed scornfully. "And you think I care about that!" she cried. "What pleasure is there in looking on and admiring? That's for them, not for me. When your ships pass by, I sing—and when the sailors hear, they must come to me. One by one, they leap into the sea and swim toward the shore. Soon the ship is left drifting, empty and aimless, its oars tangled. I enjoy that."

"But what about the men?" he asked, uneasy at her words.

"Oh, they manage to reach the shore—some of them. Then they lie at my feet, just as you are now. I sing on, and as they listen, they lose all desire to move or speak. They only lie there, gazing at me, their cheeks growing hollow and their eyes brighter... until I grow tired of them."

"I don't see them," the young man said, a mix of hope and fear in his voice. "The beach is empty. Where have they all gone?"

"I cannot say," she replied carelessly. "They soon disappear. When the sea rises, it carries them away."

"And you don't care!" he cried, horrified by her indifference. "You don't even try to save them?"

"Why should I?" she said lightly. "I don't need them. When I want more, more will come. And seeing the same faces all the time becomes so tedious that I'm glad when they go."

"I won't believe you," the young man groaned, turning away in anguish. "Oh, you cannot be as cruel as that."

"I'm not cruel," she said, surprised. "Why won't you believe me? It's true!"

"Listen," he said passionately. "Do you know how bitter it is to die—to leave the sunlight and the warm air, the beloved land and the ever-changing sea?"

"How could I?" said the siren. "I will never die—unless something happens that will never be."

"You will live on, but you take others' lives for your sport. We mortals have only brief lives, and even in sadness, life is precious. When we die, we leave behind those who mourn us. But you lure men here and watch, unmoved, as they are swept away."

"No, you're wrong," she insisted. "I am not cruel the way you think. When they become unpleasant to look at, I stop noticing them. I never see them being carried off. I never thought about what happened to them in the end. Where are they now?"

"They are dead, siren," he said sadly. "Drowned. Life was dear to them. Far away, there were women and children who hoped to see them again, who wait and weep even now. They might have lived happy years, had families, and grown old in peace.

But you called them, and while they lay at your feet, greedy waves rose up and dashed them against the rocks, dragging them down into the cold, dark depths. Now their bones rest tangled in seaweed, and their spirits wander as mournful shadows in the world below, where there is no sun and no hope—only endless longing and memory of what they lost."

She listened with drooping lids, chin resting in her hand. A slight tremble crept into her voice as she said, "I did not know... I didn't mean to kill them. But what can I do? I cannot hold back the sea."

"You can let them sail past unharmed," he said.

"I can't!" she cried. "Why would I have my power if I never use it? Why do you tell me about their suffering? What is that to me?"

"They give you their lives," he said. "They love you with a hopeless love and die brokenhearted, yet you feel no pity."

"Is that what brings them here?" she asked eagerly. "What is this love you speak of? I have been told that if I ever fall in love, I will die. But I don't know what love is. Tell me, so I can avoid it."

"You need not worry," he said. "If death comes only through love, then you will never die."

"Still, I want to know," she insisted. "Please tell me."

"Well, if a stranger came to this island one day and you felt your indifference melt away—if you couldn't bear to see him lying at your feet or letting him drown—if you desired his company, not as your servant, but as your companion and equal, forever—that would be love."

"If that's love," she said joyfully, "I will never die! But that's not how these men love me, is it?"

"No," he said. "Their feelings are a strange, enslaving passion. They die just for the chance to hear your voice. That is not true love—it is a fatal madness."

"But when mortals love each other," she asked, "do they always die?"

"No," he said. "When a man loves a good and gentle woman, even if his love is not returned, it doesn't kill him. And if she loves him in return, they live together in peace and happiness."

He spoke softly, with a distant look in his eyes. The siren noticed.

"You love a mortal woman like that?" she asked. "Is she more beautiful than I am?"

"She is mortal," he said, "but she is beautiful and gracious, my betrothed. My heart is hers alone."

"Ah," she said, a mocking smile curling her lips. "But I could make you forget her."

As she spoke, her childlike playfulness vanished, and a dangerous light glowed in her deep eyes.

"Never!" he cried. "You cannot make me betray my love. But..." He hesitated. "Still, I don't dare challenge you, enchantress. My will is weak against your power."

"You said you don't love me," she said. "You called me cruel and told me about another woman. You deserve to be punished. I will claim you, just like the others."

"Siren," he pleaded, seizing her hand as it lay beside him on the warm rock, "take my life if you must, but don't tear away the memory of my love. Let me die faithful to her."

"You mean nothing to me," she said, yet her tone was soft, almost caressing. "But I want you. You will stay here, looking into my eyes, forgetting everything else."

"Let me go," he cried, jumping up and heading back to his boat. "I choose life while I still can."

She laughed. "You have no choice. You are mine."

She seemed to glow, becoming even more radiantly beautiful. As the young man made his way to the creek, she began to sing a low, sweet melody—a song no mortal had ever refused.

He paused, but then kept walking. Yet moments later, he stopped with a groan and slowly turned around. His love across the sea faded from his mind. He no longer wished to flee. All he wanted was to lie at her feet and listen forever.

He sank down on the ledge with a sigh as a drowsy, blissful numbness overcame him, stealing his strength and voice.

Her song was triumphant and teasing, but at times incredibly tender. It made his heart throb, though her eyes only glanced at his upturned face now and then, as if he were nothing special.

He no longer desired anything but to lie there, watching her delicate hands strum the harp and following the changes of her beautiful face. He knew the sea might rise around him and sweep him away, silencing her song with the roar of the waves. But that was still far off.

And the siren continued singing. At first, she felt fierce pride in her power, that she had conquered even this young man. He would waste away here, lost in desire, until she grew weary of him. Then she would let him drift into the depths, forgotten.

Yet she didn't detest him as she had the others. In her imagination, his eyes held a saddened accusation. She found it hard to look away.

The waves were rolling in higher and higher, licking the base of the rock. As foam scattered over the shingle, the siren began to think about what would happen to him. A strange, unfamiliar pity squeezed in her chest.

She didn't want him to drown. She wanted him to stay there, gazing at her with adoration, forever. She wished she could hear his voice once more—but that was impossible.

The sun dipped low, and the sky and sea turned crimson, then faded to grey. White-capped waves crashed onto the beach, roaring and dragging at the stones. The siren's song faltered and finally stopped. She stared out at the troubled water, a wistful sadness in her eyes.

Then an enormous wave struck the cliff, shaking the rock and spraying salty water in her face.

Terrified, she leaned over the edge, fearing the ledge below would be empty. But her captive was still there, enchanted and unaware of the danger.

In that moment, she understood she could not let him die. She reached down and placed her small white hand on his shoulder. "The next wave will carry you away if you stay there!" she cried, trembling. "Save yourself—please! I don't want you to die."

But he didn't respond, lying motionless as the wind howled and the sea grew wilder.

She realized then that he couldn't break free without her help. He was doomed because of her. Hiding her face in her hands, she began to weep—the first tears she had ever shed.

His words about love echoed in her mind. "It is true," she whispered. "I love him. But I cannot love—I must not—for if I do, my powers will fade, and I will have to throw myself into the sea."

She steeled herself and turned away, afraid to die. But another wave struck the island, sending spray high over her. She couldn't bear it anymore—whatever it took, she had to save him. If he died, her immortal life would be meaningless.

"If one of us must perish," she said aloud, "I will choose that fate. I have been cruel and wicked, as he said. I've caused enough harm."

Bending down, she wrapped her arms around his unconscious body and pulled him up to safety.

"You are safe now," she whispered. "You'll live. Go back to your beloved on the mainland and be happy. And don't hate me for all the suffering I've caused. I, too, have known pain and death now."

The spell that had held him broke as she held him. He heard her sad, soft words through his fog, felt her hair brush his cheek, and his forehead warm with her kiss. As he opened his eyes, she was gone.

For the fate the siren had dreaded had come at last. She had loved, and she paid the price. Never again would her wild, sweet voice lure mortals to their doom.