Fairy tales for drowning girls

Issue two: flash fiction by Bree Wernicke

Fishing on the Iberian peninsula, Portugal, c. 1950, photographer unknown, Biblioteca de Arte Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian

You needn’t worry, we tell you, as we massage fragrant oil into your scalp. There’s nothing to be afraid of, we say, as our deft fingers secure dozens of looping braids around your head. Haven’t we raised you well? Haven’t we told you what to expect? It’s only the sea. 

Didn’t your mother, or any of us aunties, or any of us cousins, tell you the one about the girl who walked into the sea and back out the other side? Didn’t your grandmother, or her grandmother, tell you the one where the girl plunged beneath the waves and transformed into a seal? Do not worry. It’s only the sea.

We drape the gown around you and cinch it tight, until you are as sleek and shining as a riptide. We laugh uproariously as the bawdiest auntie tells the one about the mermaid and her sailors. Where did you think the mermaid came from, girl? And she was perfectly happy. She wasn’t worried about the sea.

It’s a wonderful honor, we say, bearing you aloft on the long walk to the shore. Haven’t you been taught why we do this? You have always been a credit to us, and now you will be a credit to our people. Remember the one where the girl sinks down, and down, and down into the water, and she meets the King Below, and he is so impressed by her fearsome gravity that he keeps her forever in abyssal luxury? Of course she’s still there. You could look for her, down in the sea.

But you mustn’t copy her, we warn you, as we set you down barefoot upon the sand. These things only work once, which is why they are good tales. You must do something new. We do not sympathize with the difficulty of it, the burden of being differently sacrificed than the other girls who came before you. Do you think they groaned over it? Do you think they cried? 

You don’t groan or cry, here on the cold beach, your toes going blue, your heels digging into the sand under your puddling gown. If you’ve heeded what we’ve told you, you’ll hold your head high and walk willingly into the churn and crash of the waves. If you haven’t, you’ll try to surprise us, bolting away; but there are very few places for a girl to go, between our arms and the sea. 

And you are the skeptical kind, so you ask what happens if you just don’t go.

We shake our heads at you, purse our lips. Such a question, on such a day! But we care for you—yes, we do. How could we not? So we take turns holding your hands in ours, and we tell you the tales we haven’t yet told.

We tell you the one about the princess found inside-out. We tell you the one about the reluctant maiden found with too many teeth, and the one about the singing girl, whose eyes were open the whole time. These tales are all the same in the end. If you won’t go willingly, you’ll drown. It’s very mundane. The saltwater covets your beautiful gown: it will cling to each fiber and bead. The waves want the hotblooded creature of you, and their forceful embrace pulls you down. Even if your body emerges intact from each roll and crush, good luck clawing your way back to the surface. Your mouth and your chest and your eyes will fill with water, or maybe something worse, and before you yield to the folly of your death, you’ll feel warm, and content, and perhaps you’ll think you did it right. The drowned are usually quick to wash back up, poor fools, and then we blink back our salt tears and collect as many pieces of them as we can. 

What’s worse, perhaps, is those who disappear without a goodbye. Some of the willing girls are so quick, running into the sea, that we never learn what happened to them. Oh, how we wonder; how we fret! 

So if you care for us, as we care for you, perhaps you might pause a moment, and take our hands in yours. You might tell us a tale of your own, to set our hearts at ease. It is such a comfort to know that a girl has gone to traverse the ocean by walking along the bottom of it, or that she’s eaten strange kelp and lives a good life as a lusty trapper of sailors, or that she dwells in the high regard of the King Below. Once you tell us your tale, we will witness as you step, or dance, or march into the sea. Those of us with less faith in you may avert our eyes, but many will watch steadfast as the glimmer of your gown becomes only the glimmer of light on the water. We’ll stay here for hours, you know, to make sure you’ve been willing. Then, at sunset, we can leave the shore with light steps, and your story in our hearts. And then, when it’s time for the next girl to go, we’ll have something nice to tell her, a tale about you and the sea.

Yes, we’ll miss you. We miss you all, every one.

Will you take our hands? Will you tell us, before you go?

Bree Wernicke lives in Los Angeles. Her stories have been published in Baffling, MetaStellar, The Dread Machine, and more.

Bree Wernicke