Written for Woodland Writers’s 2000-word SEA CREATURES writing challenge. The prompts were A SONG IS SUNG, A MOON PHASE CHANGES, and A WEAVER.
Result: Eliminated Round 1
Oelira wasn’t meant to be a monster; at least, that’s what she told herself.
It all began when the girl was seven years old, and those strange blemishes started to appear on her skin. They were harmless, the village doctors told her parents — nothing more than spots of fair complexion— but such declarations of logic matter little to the minds of children. It wasn’t long before they stopped playing with Oelira. Whenever she approached, they would call her names and throw sticks in her face. Monster! they would cry out, before running away in fits of laughter.
Oelira always turned her back before the tears started to fall.
One day, when her mother was preparing a batch of salves, she told her daughter of a beautiful flower that bloomed in the wetlands near their home. The flower was believed to bring purity and clarity: a Nelumbo lutea, she called it. A yellow lotus.
It was the sort of thing that could grow twisted in the mind of a desperate little girl; and twisted it became.
At the turn of every spring, when the flora began to wake from their long winter slumber, Oelira would trek into the marshes in search of her flower. She would always be restless after months of the ice, exhausted by the too-long nights and the inevitable cold that seemed to sink down into her bones.
This year was no exception. The first day she could see the grass peeking through the snow, she could not lace up her boots fast enough.
Be careful! Her mother called after her. Don’t wander too far into the trees.
Unfortunately for her mother, this spring would bring about Oelira’s nineteenth birthday. She was far too old to be bribed into obedience by treats and trinkets, and far too young to heed the sense in her mother’s wise words.
The mud crunched beneath Oelira’s heavy boots, leaving shards of brown ice in her wake. Each footprint flooded with small pools of water behind her. She could still see her breath in the air, with winter so close behind, but it only strengthened her resolve. She would find the first yellow lotus bloom of the season; and she would find every yellow lotus thereafter to claim as her own.
After years of hunting, Oelira knew the places in the saltmarsh where they grew. She knew how to navigate by the moss on the trees and the angle of the shadows. She knew which rivers ended, and which led out to sea. She never feared that she would get lost, nor did she fear the scaled beasts that lurked beneath the dark waters. This was her land, her special place, and she would not be chased away.
She checked the pools, only a little disappointed when the first two came up empty. But when she reached the third, she gasped.
At its edge, perfectly within reach, was a yellow lotus. Its petals lay splayed in full bloom, as if welcoming her with open arms. She smiled and hastened her steps to the dark water. With eager fingers, she reached out, tearing it swiftly from its roots. Cradled delicately in both hands, she brought it close to her face, and began to sing in a quiet whisper:
Lovely flower, hear my plea,
Cleanse me with your purity.
For in this world where beauty thrives,
We mark’d ones lead lonely lives.
The song was not a proper spell, as her mother sang. But she always taught her daughter that there was power in words and intention. And so, when her verse was done, she closed her eyes and her fists tight and imagined a world where she was beautiful.
The marsh echoed with the sound of the petals crushing between her fingers.
When the surface of the pool began to stir, Oelira’s first reaction was to take a slow step back. She’d heard that the monsters that prowled the dark waters were drawn to flighty prey. But when that rippling water revealed a tangled mass of dark hair, she stumbled backwards and fell into the wet, salty mud.
The seawitch watched her with inky black eyes, too large for her sharp and bony face. When she began to sing, picking up on Oelira’s tune, her mouth opened to reveal sharp, yellowed teeth.
And who are you to claim what’s mine?
With selfish dreams and schemes malign
I curse ye’ to this wat’ry home
For what was feared, is now become.
Oelira did not scream; she couldn’t, with the fear paralyzing her body. The witch soon disappeared back into the water, and all the girl could do was shiver — shiver, and wait.
Yet nothing came: no flash of magic or burst of light. No dark whispers crept in from the mangroves. In fact, when Oelira finally managed to stand up, she felt entirely normal, save for a bit of lingering shock that made her fingers tremble. By the time her home slipped into sight at the edge of the marsh, she was almost certain the witch merely meant to frighten her.
Such were the thoughts that lulled her to sleep that night. The threat was merely a tactic, a ploy to chase away intruders from her territory. She was not cursed, she decided — she would simply give it a little time before returning once more to the saltmarsh. It was still early in the season. She could wait.
And so she did, until the next morning, when she found a brownish-green scale embedded in the flesh of her hip.
When she first spotted it in the tub, she thought it was a piece of bark stuck to her; but when she tugged, her body tugged back, and she could feel the way its roots had burrowed itself into her skin. Her fingers brushed over its surface, shiny and slick. It was monstrous and foul— far worse than her spotty complexion. She was out of the water in a heartbeat, throwing her clothes on and running straight out the door, boots still unlaced.
Oelira sprinted into the marsh, towards the pond where the witch had found her. She cried and screamed, demanding that the witch reveal herself and the nature of the curse she placed on her. But no matter how much the girl wailed, the witch would not answer. She dropped her mottled, tear-streaked face into her hands.
Why do you cry? A soft and melodic voice asked.
Oelira lifted her head to see the form of a beautiful woman in the pond. Her dark hair was woven back and away from her face, revealing eyes wide with worry. Light undulated on her pale skin like waves of the ocean. She was a Neired, Oelira was sure: a benevolent spirit of all the waters that touch the sea.
I have been cursed, Oelira replied, and the witch who cursed me will not return to set things right.
The Neired tutted knowingly. You have committed a grave offense, stealing the flowers from the witch’s waters. But worry not, child. I will set you on the right path.
Oelira shifted to her hands and knees, crawling closer to the water. How?
The seawitch requires repayment, the spirit explained. Every day, you must return to this place and offer her the scales that have grown on your body. Present them to her, each and every one, with your humble regrets. Do this until the new moon, when your sin is left in shadow, and a light will shine with new beginnings.
Oelira bit her lip, still unsure. How do I know it will work?
The woman floated forward in the water, taking her finger and twirling it around a single lock of the girl’s blonde hair. We are the weavers of our own fates, child. A single snipped thread does not change what we were born to be.
The Neired's eyes glimmered with magic, and Oelira felt her hope surge anew. She got up from her knees, thanking the spirit profusely as it disappeared back into the murky water.
The girl tried and tried to pry the scale off her skin, but to no avail. It was as much a part of her as her fingernails and teeth. Not to be discouraged, Oelira rushed back through the saltmarsh and into her father’s workshed. She took hold of the scale between a pair of pliers and pulled. She gritted her teeth and blinked through the tears, determined to rid herself of this blight upon her skin. Finally, with a groan of effort and a sharp stab of pain, she ripped the scale free. Her stomach turned at the sight of the blood, but Oelira was overjoyed. Pale and dizzy, she stumbled her way back into the swamp, back to the pool, and laid the scale on one of the flower’s floating leaves.
It is done, she told herself, full of pride and determination.
When Oelira awoke the next day, her hip was swollen and sore. She pulled back her covers to examine the wound, and she yelped when she found two scales growing out of the tender skin.
Unthwarted, the girl got dressed, pulled on her boots, and went back to the pond.
The pain was worse today, but she was resolute. She bunched the folds of her dress in her mouth and bit down as she pulled both scales from her body, placing each on a leaf at the pond. She hastily wiped the blood drops away from her leg before returning home.
On the third day, four scales grew where there were once two. She chewed her lip and hastily pulled on her dress.
While her mother busied herself over her cauldronwork, Oelira surreptitiously checked the lunar calendar on the wall. There were nine days until the new moon. Her stomach sank to imagine nine more days of this torture, but she told herself it would be worth it. If she could withstand a childhood of heartbreak, she could withstand this. Emboldened by her own tenacity, Oelira returned to the swamp once more.
Every day, she plucked her scales; and for every scale she plucked, two grew in its place.
When she would return from the pond, her parents would ask her where she’d been, and why she looked so tired. Frustrated by her evasive answers, they consulted the village doctors. Do not worry, they said, for these things are normal at such a trying age.
Eventually, her parents stopped asking.
On the final day, Oelira awoke early, while the skies were still dark. Each trip to the marsh had taken longer than the last, and she would need the entire day to rid herself of her shameful afflictions.
Seventeen hours she pulled. Pain transformed to agony, and determination to desperation. Screams tore from her throat, rendering it raw and raspy. Her pain was so great that her eyes became bloodshot. She even cracked a few teeth in her relentless clenching, leaving them with jagged, sharp edges. Her hands trembled with fatigue, and her lips grew swollen and gnawed, but still she persisted.
When the last green scale was finally pulled free, she collapsed, bleeding into the mud. Her body beneath her waist was unrecognizable, marred by her mutilation. The girl wept, overcome with pain and relief.
Why do you cry? A familiar voice cooed from the center of the pool.
It is done, Oelira whimpered. My debt is paid.
There was no moon in the lightless skies. Still, the spirit’s pale skin shone with an eerie glow. She examined the girl, gaze lingering on the ragged wounds that covered half her body. Beneath the torn flesh, fresh scales already glimmered in the darkness.
Oelira opened her watery, bloodshot eyes, darkness tugging at the edges of their periphery. Will I be beautiful? She hissed through jagged teeth.
The Nereid’s lips parted to reveal a cruel, yellow smile.
You are the weaver of your own fate, child. You will be as you were always meant to be.
