Monthly Archives: November 2013

Sure, Pikka was a Siren, but unfortunately she’d had nothing to do with the sinking of the S.S. Winchester.

She wished she had, for the Winchester was an enormous ship carrying great herds of humans, all of whom died in a great mangled heap on the rocks, making for a fine spectacle and gripping soundtrack. It was a hard won toppling and a great victory for Pikka’s kind, for the Winchester was such a huge, vast thing carrying a countless number of human bodies. Pikka would love to have been involved. But alas, she was not.

In truth, Pikka was horrible at her job. It wasn’t that she was unpleasant to look at and therefore unable to seduce sailors in the way they needed seducing. On the contrary, with her luscious dark hair and exotic features she was actually quite lovely. That wasn’t the problem. Likewise, it wasn’t that she didn’t wish to do the work, because true to her heritage, she gleefully would have claimed that boatload if she could have. That wasn’t the problem either. The problem was that Pikka the Siren had been born without a voice.

It was difficult to lure a ship to its watery grave at night when no one could see or on a foggy day without the ability to call out, and it was foggy quite regularly in Pikka’s part of the sea. She could swim of course, as could every other Siren she knew, but emerging from the water all shriveled and dripping took from her grandeur significantly, making her feel less than appropriately alluring. She preferred to remain dry and fresh, her clothing untouched by the destructive salty fingers of brine and weed or being knocked around by uncomplimentary waves that seemed to think it fun to muss her. Also, she knew from experience that approaching a ship was useless, she needed it to come to her for a proper rock bashing.

Pikka spent years trying to capsize vessels of all varieties, often ending in failure. Decades went by, centuries, a millennia and still her success rate lacked. Sure, she managed it the odd time if conditions were just right and she aligned the perfect visual angle on a well lit afternoon, but she was nowhere near successful enough to earn the respect of her people. That would take something extraordinary. Something like upending the Winchester.

After the wreck, while the others were basking in their achievement, Pikka followed the path of the ship down to the unforgiving depths below where she was met with a truly gruesome scene. Sharks had engaged in a proper gorging, leaving broken bodies half eaten and contorted floating sluggishly at varying depths. The corpses and corpse pieces swayed in unison, their strange death’s dance almost graceful. Their faces were frozen in contradictory expressions of anguished calm, which they couldn’t possibly have felt at the time of their expiration. Great clouds of smaller fish risked the danger of being eaten by the larger ones to get their fill of the plunder, further marring what little flesh remained on the bones.

Pikka didn’t care much for the bodies, distasteful as they were. Begrudgingly, she swam around the gore and mess as she descended, giving it a wide berth. She sunk to the bottom as quickly as she could, interested in scavenging whatever glittery things she could find before the others beat her to it; they were all fond of sparkly finery. Thievery was one thing she was particularly good at.

She navigated her way to the ship’s hull and stripped it of its glamour in heaps of silver and gold. These things held little value to her kind, of course, the only currency that mattered had little to do with riches and everything to do with reputation, but Pikka didn’t care. Although worthless the jewels were pretty, just like Pikka herself.

She spent a great deal of time ransacking the wreckage and had a rather impressive haul when she finally decided to ascend. It was difficult to see underwater, especially considering the recent upset and massive amount of debris that was still settling on the ocean floor. It had become somewhat late in the day too, and everything looked distorted under the current’s shifting tricks, which was why she didn’t notice the frozen body in her path before crashing headlong into it.

She cursed soundlessly as she dropped a small percentage of her booty. With significant irritation, she scowled at the offending corpse, which had been set floating off in a strange direction due to the collision. She bid it good riddance and was just about to part ways, when something about the regressing body – now barely visible – caught her attention.

Human emotions were something Pikka found baffling. She didn’t understand, for example, why the captain of a ship felt compelled to sink with his vessel when often there was the time and means to escape. Nor could she see the reason in allowing the females and their young onto dinghies out of turn. The human sense of pride and honour was almost as strange as love, which was what she found herself looking at as the grey body floated into obscurity.

Pikka approached the body with clinical curiosity. Its eyes were open and it had a disconcerting quizzical expression on its face, as if it were equally as curious about her. The object she’d seen was attached in a most irritatingly secure way to the corpse’s front, the rigid arms still clinging to it in a loving embrace even in death.

Agitated, she made short work of the grab. For the first time in her life, Pikka felt a strange sense of guilt as she cracked the fingers of the dead man, and removed the leather satchel he had died protecting. As if defeated, when relieved of its burden the corpse dropped out of sight like an old rock and into the weed-laden depths below.

Pikka returned to her rocky outcropping alone as she did every day. With minimal bravado, she dropped her treasures onto the floor of the cave she lived in, not concerned about the glittery things that rolled toward the shadowy corners where she was unlikely to find them again. She was, however, very gentle in her handling of the satchel, which she could hardly wait to open.

Inside, drenched with water and obviously having seen better days, was a violin. Pikka had never seen a violin up close before, nor did she know how to use it, not that it mattered. She slid her finger over the strings, and much to her infinite glee, it responded in a pretty mewling way. She picked it up, strumming it more purposefully, and delighted in the noise it made.

She placed the instrument under her chin and drew the bow across the strings, making the most horrific noise imaginable. But Pikka was persistent. This item had a voice and was capable of something truly spectacular, which she desperately wanted. She would make the damn thing sing if it killed her.

She practiced like this for weeks, months, years alone in her cave with little else to do until finally she stepped out of her hovel and played the violin above the crashing sea where it rung loud and true across the waves. Almost immediately a small ship came toward her and bashed into the hidden rocks at the base of her alcove as if summoned by an angel. This was her first success in years.

Pikka the Siren had no voice. But now, with the violin on her shoulder and no way to die, she was able to fulfill her role. Night after night, day after day she played the violin, toppling boat after boat whose occupants were drawn to her beautiful song. Finally happy and with undefeatable longevity, Pikka became the most successful Siren of all.

Bio:  Kat Hawthorne’s fiction has appeared in “Shadows Express Magazine,” at “Fiction and Verse,” in “Infernal Ink Magazine,” in “Underneath the Juniper Tree Magazine,” and at “Dark Edifice Magazine.” She has four poems published in various poetry compilations, and was commissioned in 2012 by Enter Skies Entertainment to pen the narrative for two online, interactive games, both of which are still in production. Kat’s novelette, “The Oddity,” has been acquired by MuseItUp Publishing, and is scheduled for release in spring/summer 2014. For more information, please visit Kat on facebook at www.facebook.com/KatMHawthorne.