Forbidden Curiosity
The sea moved steadily, making its familiar, soothing sounds. A ship named Lucky Phantom was sailing in a light breeze.
Matthew Skidder, nineteen years old, lively, witty, and confident. The son of an exiled privateer, pirate by rank, but a good man by choice. He stood at the helm, his feet spread on the creaking deck. His dark curly hair moving in the wind and his dark eyes scanning around. At his age, he had already inherited his father's habit of standing the night watch alone, with a focused frown, the crew below, only the sounds of the wind whistling and the water splashing against the sides of the ship.
The moon sometimes emerged, sometimes hid behind ragged clouds, and in one of these gaps, a silver trail stretched across the water.
Matthew saw it.
At first, it was just a pale spot among the waves. He squinted, expecting it to be foam or a trick of moonlight. But the spot was moving, and not like a piece of wood or a barrel bobbing on the waves, because the movements were smooth and alive.
"Nonsense," he muttered under his breath, but didn't take his eyes off it. His usual confidence wavered.
A head emerged from the water. A girl. Wet, her hair flowing over her shoulders like seaweed. She was looking straight at the ship, and Matthew felt a strange chill in his chest as if the night itself had suddenly acquired a face and peered into his soul.
He froze for a moment, but then shook his head, dispelling the illusion, and looked at the compass, then at the sails. This can't be, they don't exist, he thought. He grew up on a ship; he knew the sea. The sea is salt water, wind and navigation charts. Everything else is tales for superstitious sailors.
But out of the corner of his eye, he continued to watch the silvery spot. It was approaching.
When he looked there again, she was gone. Just water with moonlit ripples. Matthew exhaled, grinned, and shook his head. What a bizarre thing to dream up after four hours on night watch.
And then – a ringing splash, like the slap of a big strong creature on the water. Very close, on the starboard side.
Matthew turned sharply. The girl was holding onto the gunwale, leaning over the side. Water dripped from her hair, leaving dark streaks on the wood. Her big glimmering eyes looked at him with a frightening, inhuman curiosity. The scales on her temples and shoulders shimmered like mother-of-pearl.
"Hello, sailor," she said softly.
"It's not real, mermaids do not exist..." he muttered under his breath and thought he feels so young and not aware in this moment.
She tilted her head slightly, smiled charmingly, and spoke flirtatiously:
"Then what am I? A whale?"
He shook his head slowly, unable to tear his gaze away from her face, from the shimmer on her hair and her cheeks.
"No," he said hoarsely, his voice sounding far less confident than he would have liked. "I would have noticed a whale sooner. You are a... vision. I have been on watch too long."
She lifted her eyebrows a little and nodded slowly, as if she believed him. Then she held out one hand. It looked human, with no webbing or long nails like claws.
"Then why do you not take advantage of this? Vision are rarely that beautiful, are they?"
Matthew looked at the outstretched hand. A perfectly ordinary human palm: slender fingers with droplets of water glistening in the moonlight and the lantern light. Only the skin was slightly paler than that of living people, and the nails shimmered with iridescent sheen.
He understood perfectly well that this was a trap. It had to be a trap. According to the stories, sirens were just waiting to drag a sailor to the bottom, and an outstretched hand was the first step to death. But her voice was so gentle and inviting it made his legs weak.
"Let us say," he said slowly, his eyes never leaving her palm. "Let us say you really are a hallucination. Then tell me: if I touch your hand, will I still live or go to the bottom?"
"I do not know," she answered innocently. "You decide for yourself."
She opened her hand wider, inviting him to come closer.
Matthew stared at the open palm. In the moonlight it looked thin, fragile and alive. Just one step separated him from touching it.
"You decide," he repeated to himself. And in that moment, he realized that she wasn't enticing or pulling, singing the hypnotic songs so often talked about in port taverns or ships. She was just offering and waiting.
Somewhere deep down he knew it had to be dangerous, but it didn't feel that way.
"Presumptuous of you," he said quietly, but his voice no longer held its former firmness. "Relying on my decision. I am actually planning to become a captain. And captains do not touch mermaids."
But his legs carried him half a step forward.
With Matthew's hands off the wheel, the ship had begun to lose its headway, drifting aimlessly. Somewhere on the deck, beyond the quarterdeck rail, sounds could already be heard, as if someone was coming out of the cabin, perhaps to check on the captain's son or the course.
The mermaid's gaze slid toward the sounds for a second, but she quickly returned it to Matthew. Her hand moved again, inviting him once more.
"You look so handsome and brave, sailor. I would kiss you. I have always dreamed of it".
The words stunned him and took his breath away. He'd even forgotten the footsteps behind him, the approaching voice, the fact that someone from the crew would soon climb up here and see their future captain conversing with the void above the water.
"Kiss me?" he repeated hoarsely.
He didn't finish. She was looking at him, without a doubt, with hypnotic eyes, and smiling.
Matthew glanced over his shoulder. A lantern flickered near the gangway, and someone's voice, it seemed to be the boatswain's Gray, called, "Mr. Skidder! Your father said to check the course..."
He turned to her again. His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat. There was no time, it had to be now or never.
But she didn't look worried. Almost. She just smiled a little wider. Then flicked her powerful tail somewhere overboard, lifted herself up on one arm and stood taller, exposing her long wet hair clinging to her skin, barely concealing her breasts.
"Come near..."
Matthew swallowed. In the moonlight, she looked like a marble statue from the prow of some sunken ship, at once beautiful and terrifying. The drops of water on her skin glittered like scattered pearls.
Gray's voice came again from behind, closer this time:
"Mr. Skidder! Damn it, lad, are you asleep in there?"
Matthew didn't answer. He looked at her, at those lips, at the wet strands of hair clinging to her collarbones, at the thin line of scales extending below. Every instinct, ingrained by years at the helm, screamed to get back. But something far more ancient and reckless, made him step toward the side.
"Just one kiss?" he whispered.
"Yes..." she whispered and leaned over the gunwale a little further, almost touching him with her outstretched hand.
Matthew stopped breathing.
Her fingers were now on his shoulder. He could feel the chill emanating from them, even through the fabric of his shirt. Another inch...
Behind him, the planks creaked under the bosun's heavy footsteps. The lantern swung, and the yellow light flickered across the sails.
"Skid, damn it! You..."
Matthew didn't turn around. He looked at her from temple to cheek. Her cold fingers rested on his shoulder, and he kissed her. Her lips were salty and cool, like the sea at dawn. For a second, the whole world disappeared. No feeling of danger; he was only feeling her. Her hand moved gently to the back of his neck, and she smoothly began to pull him into a kiss.
And then someone's rough hand yanked him back by the collar. She felt a hot human hand on hers, near her sailor's neck. She let go, pushed off the gunwale with her hands, and leaped backward, almost somersaulting.
Matthew hit the deck with his back. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but she was still before his eyes, flying, curving through the air like a magical arc. Her tail glittered in the light of the lantern and the moon with every shade of shiny blue, violet and turquoise and disappeared behind the board. A loud splash sounded.
Matthew propped himself up on his elbows. His lips still remembered the cool, salty taste. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would break through his ribs. He rose to his feet, shaking off the confusion, and walked to the side, peering into the black water. Nothing. Just the moonlit path and the ripples.
"There was..." Gray began.
"A mermaid," Matthew finished. "Yes. I know."
Gray stood there for a few moments, mouth agape, looking from Matthew to the water and back again. Then he firmly set the lantern down on the deck, grabbed the boy by the shoulders, and turned him around to face him, just like he had as a child, when the future captain would climb the mainmast without a safety net.
"Do you even understand what just happened?!" the boatswain's voice was hoarse and breaking. "She nearly pulled you overboard! Another second, and you would be feeding fish a hundred fathoms deep!"
He paused for a moment and then said more quietly, hoping the boy would listen.
"You are the captain's son. The future captain. You should know that better than anyone."
Matthew looked up at the boatswain. The old sailor's face was firm, but with a stern concern evident.
"You are right," Matthew said. His voice was muffled but calm. "I know the stories. Of all the ones the sea has claimed. My father told them, and you did too, hundreds of times."
He looked out at the water. The sea was black in the dark night.
"But she didn't sing or force me. She just... called. And I listened." He shook his head, as if admitting something shameful. "It is not her fault, Gray. It is mine."
The boatswain looked at him, then exhaled loudly and ran his hand over Matthew's shoulders.
"That is the most dangerous thing, lad. When you think it's your choice. But in reality..."
He didn't finish. Captain Skidder Sr.'s head appeared on the gangway, a serious frown on his face. The man looked sturdy and quite tall; about eight inches taller than the boatswain Gray, and two inches taller than Matthew. His hair were dark brown, just like his son's, but straight. A few hairs were gray.
"What the hell is going on here?" Captain Skidder came up onto the quarterdeck. He was wearing only a shirt, hastily tucked into his trousers, and no doublet, he had apparently just got out of his bunk. His hair was disheveled, but his gaze was sharp. He scanned the deck, lingering on the boatswain's pale face and his son's unnaturally straight back.
"I am asking: what the hell is going on here?" he repeated, his voice clanking with steel. "Gray was yelling like he had seen the Flying Dutchman. The crew is terrified. Explain."
The boatswain opened his mouth, but Matthew beat him to it.
"A mermaid," he said evenly. "Overboard. I spoke with her."
The captain froze. Slowly, his gaze shifted from his son to the boatswain. Gray nodded silently, confirming.
"I... I saw her, Captain," Gray managed to say. "With my own eyes. She was holding Mr. Skidder by the neck. And then... she swam away."
Captain Skidder approached his son. He took his chin and turned his face toward the lantern light, peering into his eyes and his lips, as if searching for traces.
"To the cabin," the captain snapped, letting go of his son's chin. "Both of you. Now."
He turned first, without looking back; the habit of an old sea dog who knows an order will be obeyed without further ado. The hem of his shirt flapped in the wind.
Matthew and Gray exchanged glances. The boatswain looked as if he'd just escaped the gallows. He raised his lantern and gestured, "Go, I will follow."
─── 𐎓 𐎓 ───
The captain's cabin smelled of tobacco, salted weathered wood, and old charts. Skidder Sr. was already seated at the massive oak table, on which navigational instruments and the ship's log were laid out. He lit an oil lamp, and the yellow light picked out his face from the darkness, he looked tired, lined, but still commanding.
"Tell me." He looked at his son. "Everything from the very beginning." Matthew stood before the table, straight as if at review, and began to tell his story. About the moonlit path, the silver spot among the waves, the voice like the tinkling of pebbles. About how she smiled, and about how he himself stepped toward the side.
The captain listened silently, without interrupting. Only his fingers slowly tapped the table, which meant he was tense. When Matthew finished, there was a long pause.
"Kissed," the captain repeated finally.
"Yes, sir."
Skidder Sr. sighed heavily, ran his hand over his face, and looked at the boatswain.
"Gray. Did you see the tail?"
"With my own eyes, Captain. Opalescent, with iridescent reflections. A huge, shiny fishtail, damn it."
The captain turned his gaze back to his son. There was no anger in his eyes, only the deep, lingering worry of a man who knows the sea all too well.
"Do you understand what this means?"
Matthew held his gaze and nodded shortly.
"I understand. She might come back."
"She will come back," the captain snapped. "They always come back. And next time, you might not resist. No one does."
He stood up, walked to the porthole, and peered into the black water beyond the glass.
"Starting tomorrow, you are not on night watch. In fact, you do not come near the sides unless absolutely necessary. And if you see her again, you call me. Immediately. That is an order."
Matthew gritted his teeth but answered calmly.
"Aye, Captain."
And yet, somewhere deep inside, in the very place where her voice still rang and her kiss chilled his lips, he knew that no order would help. Because he wanted to see her again. And that desire was stronger than fear, stronger than reason, stronger than forty years of experience as a boatswain and his father's words. Gray caught his gaze and frowned even more. The old sailor understood everything.
Matthew didn't sleep the rest of the night. He lay in his cramped cabin, his hands behind his head, staring at the low ceiling, where the flickering light from the swinging lamp danced. Every creak of the rigging, every splash of a wave overboard made his heart clench with a foolish, inexplicable hope. What if it was her? I wonder where she is now. Will I ever see her again?
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Meanwhile, the mermaid had already swum swiftly to her favorite spot on the seabed. She felt confused and quite sad.
She settled into her small, cozy cave-crevice among large rocks and corals, lined with soft seaweed. No large fish swam here, and the current was gentle like a lullaby. Here she could curl up to think or dream, her tail wrapped around her favorite smooth rock.
Today was her birthday; today she had just come of age, and that was how first kiss had been interrupted. She knew one thing: sirens kissed sailors, her older sister had once let it slip, yet nothing more.
Well, if not today, then another day. I will go back. I will find him and get to know him better. So she thought, unaware of the myths they built about them in the human world or how sirens treated people in their world.
That boy was handsome, even though he was human. She closed her eyes and tried to recall every detail: his dark hair, tousled by the wind; his eyes dark, it seemed, but in the moonlight the color was indistinguishable; the firm line of his jaw, like a wave-sculpted rock. And his lips. Warm. Surprisingly warm for a creature that lived in the air. He smelled of salt, wood, and something that maybe all people smelled like, she wasn't sure. She saw his legs, so long, almost as long as her tail, and beautiful in a human way. "I wish I could see his legs bare, stripped of the strange cloth he wrapped them in" she thought out of innocent wonder; she just wanted to see real legs with skin. She'd only glimpsed them briefly when her sisters brought people over to the sea for visits.
She didn't yet know that her older sister had long since moved beyond simply kissing sailors. And that on land there was a word for creatures like her: "drowners." And that a siren's lips could be the last thing a man feels before the water closes over his head.
But she was still young and not aware of what her kind could do to sailors.
She smiled in the darkness, rubbed her cheek against a rock, and fell asleep.
─── 🌅 ───
By morning, Matthew finally sank into a heavy oblivion. The bell woke him, four bells, the morning watch. The sun had already risen, bathing the cabin in golden light.
On deck, life was in full swing. The sailors were scrubbing planks, securing rigging, shouting to each other from the topgallants. Everything was as usual. Only Gray, standing at the wheel, watched young Skidder with a long, attentive gaze. And the captain, who had appeared on the deck earlier than usual, was also watching.
"Good morning," said Matthew, approaching his father.
"Good morning," the captain replied dryly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Then he added more quietly, so only his son could hear, "I have been thinking about it all night. We are changing course."
Matthew's heart began to beat faster. He looked at his father with a worried expression.
"Changing course? Why? We ship cargo to Port Royal, we are on schedule..."
"We will go through The Seeker Passage. It is a three-day detour, but the waters there are shallow, and I will have no such devilry following this ship." The captain finally turned to his son. "I will not risk the ship and the crew. Or you."
Matthew wanted to object. To say it was absurd to change course because of one mermaid. That she wasn't dangerous... But he fell silent. Because he couldn't explain what he himself didn't fully understand.
