Siren by Delle Jacobs Page A

when the sea reached up as it did tonight to gather unwilling sailors into its bosom.
    But her song was Death. How easy it was to forget.
    "Come to me, John Wall. . . Come to me. . ."
    She was gone, then. . . There! Again he saw her, illuminated in the flashes, dancing, weaving in and out of the waves. Her long hair glowed Titian, its glorious waves stretching down to touch the water, then fanning out, then reaching for him like beckoning fingers. His hands seemed to have minds of their own, reaching out to touch the strands.
    He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remember. "No, Siren, I will not go. I will not die this night. "
    As if commanded by the Siren, a giant flash and roar split the air, slamming John against the deck. The lonely main mast crackled and wailed, splintering a fiber at a time, creeping in timeless descent toward the listing deck. John sprinted away, an uphill run, as the mast fell aiming toward the sea. He saw the yardarm coming at his head, too late. Brilliant stars flashed pain. He staggered, fighting for consciousness, grasping air as he slid across the deck and smashed against the starboard gunwale just as Telesto rose up in the swell, listed, then crashed once more onto the reef.
    John hit the freezing water, instantly coming alert. He swam for a dark something that floated and latched his arms around it. The broken mast, with parts of the main topsail still clinging to it, was balanced in the water by the remnants of its yardarms. Salt surf stung his eyes. Cold chills wracked him as he dragged himself onto the mast. He wrapped a part of the torn sail around himself and stretched out on his back, gasping for air, as sheets of green water washed over him.
    So odd, that he felt safe just knowing the mast would float, perhaps for days. His battered head, throbbing with an ache that pounded like a hammer inside his head, made him want to sleep. Just close his eyes. . .
    Don't sleep. You'll drown .
    John forced his eyes open. There was no way to sit to stay awake. His head began to wobble. Don't sleep.
    "Come to me, John Wall," sang the Siren. Unbelievable beauty in the midst of the storm's dire chaos.
    Beauty. Peace. Safety, warmth. . . It was a promise of paradise. . .
    "Come to me. . ."
    Always so beautiful. . . A song for no other man but him. The most beautiful song a man had ever heard, lilting up and down like the rhythm of waves. He could almost imagine it following the wind and weaving in and out like the scarf of a dancer. His body began to ache with desire despite the frigid water. His heart was wrapped up in wanting, yearning.
    For the mysterious creature who lured men to their deaths.
    "Not tonight, Siren," he said aloud, but hearing the exhaustion in his own voice. He even gave a bitter chuckle into the wild wind, for he no longer feared some mortal man would hear him and think him crazy.
    The storm began to sing with the Siren. The sea began to dance. It was a strange dance, of parti-colored light and water, swirling and dipping, all around him as if the wind had taken on colors. It sang to him, not an ominous call of Death, but a hymn to beauty, light, softness. He was losing his mind. Such things. . . Could not be. . .
    Dying. . . He was dying. . .
    And the Siren came to him. Her dress of moonbeams glowed, floating about her nude body like a sash. Her golden-coppery hair streamed over her shoulders, tossing in the wind as she walked upon the waves that now undulated softly. No, she swam in the water, or did she. . .
    Aye. He was dying–or dead.
    The Siren lay in the water beside him where he rested atop the bobbing mast. Silence filled the sea. Or had he gone deaf, and it rocked him on his makeshift raft? Like a baby's cradle, not the fierce, monument-sized walls of water that ripped ships asunder and whisked men to their helpless deaths.
    "Come to me, John Wall," the Siren said. She spoke. It was not a song that rang in his head, but words that sweetly spoke his name.
    "Am I dead?"