Song traveled far over the ocean.
For the Captain, there was song in everything. In the waves that crashed against his ship’s hull, in the flutter of his sails battling the wind, and—perhaps most of all—in the drowsy mumbles of his men, stumbling their way to their hammocks after a laborious day. That was the song of satisfaction. Of leagues crossed and seas defied. He loved that song like a mother’s lullaby.
But on very special days, when the Captain’s ship steered within sight of land, it was sometimes possible to hear other, less familiar music. Bustling crowds in foreign ports, squeals of children running along the ocean’s edge. Laughter. The laughter of women.
God, but the laughter of women was a song of sunshine.
And yet, the most special music of all—the music that made the Captain nearly weep with yearning, with an ache to return to land, to return to the realm of the ordinary—was music with melody. Music with notes, and lyrics, and chords plucked from willing strings. Music that was really, genuinely music, of the inarguable kind. The Captain waited days and weeks and months to hear real music soaring over the water. Oh sure, his boys could carry a tune. They’d whistle their way through chores, croon their way through an evening bottle. Their noise kept the ship afloat, really. Kept it breathing.
But they had nothing—nothing—on the beauty of a song from afar, reaching their sea-tired ears from distant shores.
The Captain had been at sea eight months when he found it again. Music. He was hungry for it. His beard was overlong, his skin sticky with salt, and he craved the comfort of a voice.
And she? She had a voice.
Her voice was like silk against naked skin, like a warm breath against a shivering neck. Like love, or perhaps sex. No, definitely sex. It was love that earned only a maybe.
The Captain wanted to taste it. Wanted to drink it in, savor it sip by sip.
I’m lonely, she sang. Save me from this cruel loneliness. Hold me close, and I will save you, too.
The Captain was a man built for saving.
“The shore,” he said, staring out over the water. “Show me my shore.”
His first mate shoved a telescope into his hands. The Captain held it to his eye, pressing the metal so firmly against his cheek that he could bruise. He squinted, and searched, and breathed as slow as he could manage, and—
There.
There she was.
There was a girl kneeling in the shallows. Dark of hair, in a damp white dress. She sang to the beat of the waves against her thighs. Her face was a small, pale smudge, too distant for detail, but the Captain could hear her loveliness. He could sense it in the sound of her loneliness, for there was nary a woman so enchanting as one who craved companionship. One who pleaded for the very thing the Captain most wished to give.
“Prepare a boat,” the Captain commanded. “Fetch sturdy oars, and be quick. I must reach shore before her song reaches its end.”
The crew scurried to comply. In minutes—though the Captain measured the time only in the heavy thudding of his own heart—a small entourage had been readied to accompany him to the beach.
“Leave a seat,” the Captain said, stopping one of his men from climbing aboard. “We’ll have one more on the way back.”
The girl watched their approach with a shimmering gaze. Her eyes sparkled with light reflected off the water. And yet, her song never ceased. Never wavered. She never paused to shout “Hello there!” or to call the men to her aid. She sang on, as if it was as natural to her as blink or breath.
The Captain stepped into the sand, waves tickling against his ankles. He raised a hand.
The song stopped. Mid-word, like a vine snapped. The Captain liked that. Liked that she took her cue off his hand.
She made no move to stand. He grew nearer and nearer, until his toes stood inches from the bend of her knees, and still, she did not shift.
“Your voice is that of God,” he said.
“Is that not blasphemous?” Oh, she spoke with beauty, too: gentle, feathery speech, almost but not quite a whisper.
“Fine.” He was indulging her. It was fun, to indulge a woman. “Your voice is that of the wind and the sea, made human.”
“You’re kind.”
“And you’re lonely.”
“I am.” She agreed easily, as if it was no grand tragedy. The Captain liked that, too—a woman should be sad enough to want him, and no more.
He took her hand in his, and pulled her to her feet. Her white dress was little more than a nighty—it fell just to her knees, and clung to every vulnerable spot. The Captain could almost make out the shape of her, but not quite. He was left tantalized. Saliva gathered under his tongue.
He tugged her toward the boat, and she gave no resistance. It was only when they were past the last sandbar, minutes from the Captain’s waiting ship, that she spoke again.
“You didn’t think me strange?” she asked. “A girl all alone on the shore?”
The Captain shook his head. “I thought you lovely.”
“I know that. But strange, too?”
“No.” He patted her knee—a comforting gesture, a savior’s gesture. “Not strange.”
The girl hummed, and turned away. The Captain kept his hand on her knee.
They reached the ship. The Captain guided the girl aboard, fingertips pressed to the notch of her waist. All around, four dozen eyes from two dozen men stared at her. It was so rare, to have a woman within spitting distance. Within touching distance. The Captain knew his boys were hungry. The stomachs of their lust were practically concave with starvation.
Well. They could starve on. The Captain had found this girl, and he would keep her.
Holding his prize close, he pointed to each man in turn. “Be attentive, lovely,” he said. “Meet your brothers, uncles, nephews, and nuisances.”
The evening was long. The men crowded on wooden boxes and empty barrels, a loose circle of loose spirits, as the sky grew dark. The Captain sat in pride of place: the only chair, a rickety throne. At least a head higher than any of his subordinates. He looked powerful, he knew, and he knew she saw. He knew she liked it.
The girl did not sit. She stood at the center of the group, damp dress drying into crisp white cotton. She stared only at the Captain, and she sang. She sang and sang and sang. The men clapped after every song, but she didn’t look at them. Her gaze bore into his, heavy and wanting. And that voice. It soared over the ocean, danced between the stars, then fluttered back down to earth, back into his lap. He sipped it like a fine whiskey. He swirled it around his tongue. He swallowed it, then swallowed it again to make sure he’d gotten every drop.
When the night was so strong that the girl was only a faint white blur in the dark, the Captain interrupted her with a cough. She stopped her song immediately.
“No more of that,” said the Captain. “We’ll have you again in the morning.”
“Ah, you’ll have her tonight,” muttered the first mate. The Captain allowed himself to smirk, just a bit. Just enough to let all the men know he’d heard, and agreed.
The night was long, and the Captain made good use of it. The girl looked so lovely against his bed sheets, dark hair slipping between his fingers, pale fingers twitching against his pillows. Her skin was its own type of song: a simpler, softer melody. The most natural of lullabies.
When they were done, she pressed him down into the mattress, hand against his chest. “Close your eyes, sir,” she said. “I will sing you to sleep.”
And she did. She sang her lonely tune, again and again, until his breath was slow, and his heartbeat steady.
When the Captain awoke, his bed was empty. He stood on unsteady feet.
“Girl?” he called.
Silence answered.
“Girl! Sing for me, so I might follow your voice.”
Stillness answered.
The Captain stumbled from the room. He was so weak, like a drunkard after a night of indulging, still half-tipsy. His lungs ached with the effort of pulling in air.
All was quiet on deck. Where were his men? They should’ve been up and moving hours ago, tracking their course and readying their sales. They should’ve greeted him as soon as they heard his footsteps: a chorus of gruff welcome and respect. That was the way of things.
And the girl. Where was the girl?
He lurched back below. His heart was beating a funny rhythm now. He moved from cabin to cabin, more frantic with every empty hammock.
And then, he heard her voice.
Oh, she was an angel, truly. He had nearly forgotten, in his sleep, the glory of her song. It was a cooling balm, soothing his worry. What need did he have for his men? He had her. He had her. He had her.
I’m lonely, she sang. Save me from this cruel loneliness. Hold me close, and I will save you, too.
He ran back out into the sun, all bodily frailty forgotten.
Her voice drew him to the taffrail. He leaned out over the water, breathing her in alongside the salty air.
I’m lonely.
I’m lonely.
Hold me close.
How could he refuse her? How could anyone refuse her?
He forced himself to use his eyes instead of his ears, scanning a horizon of islands and sandbars and endless sea. And there: he spotted her. She stood at the edge of the ocean, water lapping her sweet ankles. She was watching him. Watching him, and singing.
And around her: men. His men, and others, too. They crouched on their knees, gazing up at her in adoration. They swayed to the beat of her voice. Their hands hovered, outstretched toward her hips, too afraid to touch.
Good. They weren’t worthy to touch her.
Then, there were the bones. Thousands, millions, an audience of ribs and skulls. A treasure trove, all for her. Flies danced among the fresher ones. One full skeleton reclined against a rock, hand still reaching toward the girl, still aching for her perfect melody.
But none of them mattered. Not the men, and not the bones. Because even with all that company, she was still lonely.
The Captain could fix that. The Captain would fix that.
He lurched into the ocean, and swam to shore.
