The Siren's Grotto

A naive captain sailing around the Cape of Good Hope.

          In the mist of the cold November, the Nonincantus floated across the bitter sea aimed towards the Cape of Good Hope. The carrack was headed to India to trade English goods for exotic jewels and spices. The captain, Dominique Quinn, and the crew of the Nonincantus were just one of the many voyages made since the expedition of Vasco de Gama. In the bleak daylight, they followed their route along the rough shores of Africa.
          As Captain Quinn looked toward the west and spotted the sun crawling toward the horizon, the carrack rolled quietly into a thick fog. The crew members immediately began to panic and started to hastily change course. Quinn, after realizing what his crew was up to, raised his voice, commanding his crew to stop what they were doing.
          “Halt!” he screamed, “Halt all of you! What is the cause of this hysteria!? Speak, one of you before me, speak up! We will not turn back! We will move forward into the fog, make it to the cape and then to India; we shall come back with a full cargo of riches! Understood?” The captain’s second-in-command, Herald Wrath, ran up the stairs to the ship’s helm. He came up to the captain and spoke on the crewmen’s behalf.
          “Captain, with all due respect,” he spoke under his breath, “it is unwise to be sailing in fog like this.”
          “And unwiser to come all this way with tradable goods only to return home with the same materials we had left with!” Quinn countered, “light the lanterns, if you must, and I, too, will sail farther from the shore line and the shallows.”
          “But sir, we might stray from the route, or worse, parish in the sea!”
          “I have more fear of reaching the Indies in an untimely manner than a death by the sea. I am a captain; I rule the sea and I do not fear over what I reign!”―Quinn then turned to the rest of the crewmen―“Now change the course and make haste to the cape! Ignite the lanterns for we will not be turning back!” The crewmen, with unrest still in their veins, went back to their work and changed course once again toward the Cape of Good Hope. Wrath wearily obeyed his captain and ordered men to light the lanterns at the ends of the ship. The mist and the gray sea reflected the flames of the lanterns as the ship glided across its waves.
          Everyone on the boat was wearily praying from their lives―everyone except the captain―and, because of this growing fear, something terrible was being planned. The crew knew the captain was an arrogant man, but they could have never imagined him to be reckless enough to potentially kill every man aboard the ship by leading them into oblivion! The sailors all knew that they would not be able to sail through the fog; they knew they would go off course and end up who-knows-where. They knew they had to stop the captain; they had to convince him, or toss him if he doesn’t comply.
          Quinn, above, held onto the ship’s wheel and steered his boat as best as he could. They had been away from England for six months and it would take about another five months to reach India then another year to come back. The cape was close and the roughest waters were ahead, but the captain was prepared. To the captain, the fog was nothing more than a minor inconvenience compared to the hellish seas lying beside the cape; he was sure that the voyage would have no further difficulties beyond those waters; to him, everything was going according to plan. What he did not see coming, however, was his crewmen. Herald Wrath slowly made his way to the captain to speak the crew’s concerns.
          “Captain Quinn,” he spoke whilst Quinn paid little attention to him, “the crewmen―and I―are still antsy about continuing the voyage. We all think that it would just be best―and safest―to turn back around, make port somewhere here in Africa and then sail around the cape another day.” Quinn rolled his eyes and glared at his second-in-command.
          “Mister Wrath,” Quinn’s words spat from his lips like fire, “I told all of you before and I will say it once, and only once, more: we will continue our course as planned because, if we do what you plead, we will get off schedule. Do you understand?”―he waited for a reply, but Wrath gave none―“I spoke no suggestion; I command you to answer your captain! I ask: do you understand, Mister Wrath?”―Wrath nodded but stayed silent―“Good, now get back to minding the crew!”
          However, Wrath stayed put and, before Quinn could put him in his place, all of the lanterns on the boat extinguished. By then it was nightfall, and so the ship turned pitch black. Several men surrounded the captain, grabbing at him and bumping against the wheel, turning it in an undesired direction. He was dragged down from the helm and onto the deck where he was lifted into a row-boat, given one ore and dropped off to the port of the ship into the sea.
          Quinn, still in shock, felt the adrenaline rush of hate and sorrow and fear―hatred for the crew, sorrowful for himself and fearful of death. He was no longer the captain of the Nonincantus; he was now simply a poor lost soul of the sea. He clutched onto his ore with his life and, with his first instinct, paddled in the direction of land. The crew on the ship, lit the lanterns again and struggled to gain control of the vessel.
          Quinn paddled and paddled but the seas were vicious and merciless. Waves crashed into the side of his boat and rocked it violently; he barely could keep himself on board. Water poured in and soon most of the boat was engulfed by the sea. Quinn tried to concentrate to survive but his mind was swirling with the feelings of betrayal and paranoia. All he could think about was how his crew could’ve done such a thing to their captain who, if they had just done what was planned, would’ve made them rich?
          Among the roaring sound of the waters crashing and the wind whipping, Quinn swore that he heard a soft melody; a song far off into the distance being sung sweetly by a woman. He dismissed it as his own imagination and tried to keep his focus on staying alive until he saw a light. He looked behind him and spotted a fire―a blazing and ravenous inferno breathing from the sea and spitting into the sky. He saw the Nonincantus with stone shards and spikes cutting through its hull and mast and wild flames consuming the carrack and whatever was left of its crew. They must’ve taken a wrong turn, Quinn thought, I didn’t think we were so close to the shore. The thought quickly dissipated as he turned forward and saw the jagged teeth of the land before him. He dug his ore into the water and tried to maneuver around them, but it was hopeless. Quinn then jumped off of the boat just before it shattered like fragile glass against the rocks.
          Underwater, all was void of sound; the ocean was black and cold. The chilling sea bit and tore at his skin and Quinn kicked his legs but he couldn’t feel the bottom of the ocean. He flailed violently and silently underwater and thrust his body upward. He burst through the ocean surface and gasped in large breaths of air. It was a vicious storm with water and wind and fog and fire everywhere. The sea’s waves pushed him toward the rocks as the wind pulled him away. The fog and salty water penetrated his lungs when he breathed and he swung his appendages as the sea tossed him to and fro. He scrambled through the water to push toward some shoreline, some land; he pushed to get to some safe haven to survive the hellish sea. A wave soon burst beside him and threw Quinn straight into the sea of rocks.
          Quinn went back underwater and weakly swam forward with the little strength he had left. He swam softly with his feet stretching out into the endless void underneath him until they touched land. Quinn shifted his head upward to look over water. There were no longer any hungry waves or starving winds or blazing infernos. The world was quiet and still and black. He slowly swam forward in a neck-deep pool fenced in by sharp rocks. He continued and slowly the land beneath him lifted as he reached an invisible shore. He looked around and saw nothing suspicious or strange, in fact, he was elated to have found a safe sanctuary away from the open sea.
          Then, a noise broke the silence. A soft noise of strings vibrating against each other hummed through the air around him. He listened for a few moments before recognizing the instrument: a lyre. Quinn was utterly stumped on why a lyre would be playing in a secluded spot like this near the Cape of Good Hope. Thoughts swarmed his mind of what could be playing the instrument. Is it a European? He thought, or is it a vicious native? He feared the unknown around him for several minutes until a gentile woman’s voice began to sing:

Help me sailor that I see
Help this poor girl lost at sea
Help, oh please, oh help me
Come, brave sailor, set me free

          Reassured that the song was in English, Quinn gave a sigh of relief. The woman’s voice had a much higher pitch than the tune of her lyre and her song was soft and sweet and gentle and alluring. Quinn, in a romantic frenzy, searched around to find who was singing the song.
          “Who’s there?” he called out in longing, “Oh, gentle madam, sing once more! Your voice is so sweet and calming; please sing again!” After a few moments of disappointing silence, the mysterious voice sang again just as sweetly as before:

Avoid rocks with a sharpened peak
Come to me, so we can meet
Oh dear sailor, you look weak
Lay here and I’ll sing a song so sweet

          With that, a light penetrated through the darkness. Quinn looked up at the blinding small light. After a few moments of seeing nothing around the glare, his eyes adjusted to see an nude woman standing on top of a smooth patch of rocks. She held a lantern in one hand and a lyre in the other. Bewitched by her beauty, he trudged through the water as fast as he could to get to her. Once he was close enough, he was able to note every detail about this mysterious feral woman.
          Her hair was like the feather of a raven―black with a green reflection that kindly fell over her shoulders and down to her breasts―and her eyes were a sparkling sky blue. Her lips were soft and gentle and her face was that of a perfectly soft sculpture that had been smoothed with miles dense sandpaper. Her body had an hourglass figure and she stood up straight with an inhuman posture. It was then that he saw white feathered wings stemming from her shoulders. He knew it then: she was an angel!
          Compelled by her heavenly presence, he lifted up his arms for her to bring him to heaven so he could spend an eternity with her. She placed her lantern and lyre on the ground and obeyed: she lifted him with her holy might out of the water and into her grasp. They then stood on the long dense rock holding hands. The woman then let go, picked up her tools and began to walk away, beckoning him to follow. As she walked along the rocky shore, she, without strumming her lyre, sang again:

Oh dear boy, captain almighty
Who has swept me off my feet
Come, my savior of piety
I shall reward you for your feat

          She led him to a spot where the shore met the cliff. Here, a rock protruded from the cliff-side and the woman then sat down on top of it. She patted the seat next to her and he followed. She placed the lantern and lyre on the ground. Once Quinn sat beside her, she opened out her palm, and he grasped it. She wrapped her other arm around his shoulder and gently pulled his head onto her lap. She cradled him there like a child. He looked past her and looked up to the stars overhead, expecting this angel to fly him up to meet those stars and be at peace.
          “Oh angel,” he spoke softly to her, she looked down at him and their eyes met, “is it my time?”―the woman nodded―“Then please, sweet angel of death, sing me a lullaby as we ascend to heaven.” The woman nodded her head once more and began to sing without her lyre:

All good men get their reward
For all the blood at the tip of their sword

          Her voice was different this time. She sang in a lower note and her sweet voice only made her melody sound eerie. The woman tightened her grasp on the man and her gentle smile turned maniacal.

Not just victory after a war
Not just praise from their lord

          Quinn became uneasy and slowly began to try to struggle out her grasp. But it was no use; he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not just gifts for the poor
Nor for acting out of allure

          “Please stop!” he begged, “Please! Let me go!” He struggled and tried to leave, but she kept him down. She didn’t let go and she continued to sing.

Not just surviving a horrid downpour
Or for just finding a perfect cure

          He knew then that she was no angel. He knew what she was: a seductive woman who lures men into her grasp and then kills and eats them―half-woman-half-bird―a siren! He knew then that he was going to die.

Some rewards are not just for knights
Some are served best in gore
Some rewards are worth the flights
Rewards, like cowardly men, are plenty in store

Sleep now, softly, close both eyes
Fall asleep soundly to my sweet song
Dream of gifts or of some suprise
Fear not, sailor, you won’t suffer long

          Her nails dug into his skin and he began to bleed. Her eyes glistened as she opened her mouth wide open to reveal her razor sharp teeth. She thrust her head at him and bit into his torso. Quinn screaming in pain and writhed to free himself but it was far too late. Blood spattered onto the rocks, the lyre and the lantern. The black water that reflected the stars dyed red and Quinn’s screams echoed past the rocks, past the shipwreck, past the fog and out to the rest of the sea.
          The siren tore the man limb from limb with her mouth like a wolf would a rabbit. She ate what she could of the man just as her sisters had done to the other sailors. She picked off all the flesh from his bones and devoured every morsel of meat. Once she was finished, she dropped the skeleton into the sea for the fish to finish. Blood rolled down her face and body and she dipped into the water to wash it all off. She stood back up and retrieved her lyre and lantern and flew off into the moonlit skies. She soared miles above the fog and flew far from the Cape of Good Hope. She then grouped into circles with her sisters, like vultures in the sky, and surveyed the seas, seeking out their next prey.

Author's Note

This one is an old story of mine. I'll definitely be going back through it to make it less...cringy. I still hope you can get some enjoyment out of it!

Reviews

[CLR9]

Okay, this is not a bad story. And that's pretty dang cool. But I have a few suggestions. I'm sorry if they hurt your feelings because WC doesn't like that.

First off, the cliches are everywhere in this thing. And the good news is they are an easy fix. The only chore you have to do, and the only chore you should do first, is if you've heard a certain combination of words together, don't use them.

F**k them in the face by deleting them.

The backspace key is your God, bro. It dictates where your story is being a b***h, but only if you want it to.

Some examples of cliches in your story are blazing infernos, moonlit sky, pitch black, to and fro, razor sharp teeth, etc.

Yeah, just f**k 'em.

Also, avoid adverbs (pretty much every word with a “ly” ending) and tag lines (colorful words in place of said or asked.). Most writers (and sometimes, wannabe noobs) preach the same because...to be honest, they look like s**t. They are poop smeared fingerprints on your story. Even worse, they show that you have not realized that yet.

And other serious writers will point and laugh at your soggy, poop stinking story.

It's okay, though. Eventually the smell will wake you up.

Next is to avoid inappropriate use of the semicolon. Man, I wish I could tell myself this one at a younger age.

Think of punctuation as a tool—not as garnish for your story. I remember writing a story, in fact a story that made me $150. Am I bragging? Hell yeah. Was it good? I have no f*****g clue, but what I do know is I can't read it anymore because it was riddled with the semicolon (;). I was very obsessed with the semicolon to the point where it appeared every few hundred words. And this was of a story of maybe two thousand.

This is bad.

Only use a semicolon when necessary. I would recommend, similar to an exclamation point, only every ten thousand words or so. Use it in instances where you are making a list of things that contain commas, such as places (i.e. In December, I visited Long Island, New York; San Antonio, Texas; and Grand Rapids, Michigan.), or if you have very closely related sentences (Bill was a big guy; he was a football player, in fact.).

You can easily google many rules. Think of a semicolon, at best, as a weak period (.). It shows how weak of a writer you are with the overuse of a semicolon.

I can't preach that enough.

The only grip I have with your story is Writer's Cafe decided to allow a f*****g ad to pop up in the middle of it.

Internet cancer.

Keep writing.

[Franklin Rayeski]

Holy s**t thank you very much for your review. It means the world to me that you took the time to read my story and to give your opinion on it. So often, whenever I share my writing I get simple "Aw, that's good." or something minimal and unhelpful.

Truth be told, this is an old story of mine that I posted just to post something. Of course, that's no excuse and am indebted to your advice! So, once again, thank you for taking the time out of your day to look at my work and I'll definitely take the time out of my day to look at yours.

[CLR9]

It's all good ma dude. No problem.