Inspired by ‘The Little Mermaid’ by Hans Christian Anderson and Tales of ‘Sirenas’ in Philippine Mythology.
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The wood feels coarse under the spines of my fingers. Grain chipped. Paint cracking and peeling over the body. The water is cut jaggedly as if by a blunt knife, pressing and pulling until it slices right through. A knot forms in my throat; darkness settles over my vision. Too long have I remained above water. I dive, tracing the vessel’s hull. It is a poor prince’s ship. There is rot in places: algae sequester in open pores. Carcasses cement to the bilge keels.
“Remember, only focus on one,” I instruct Magindara, whose hair floats around her like a dusky halo. “If you stray, they will know that neither of them is your heart’s desire.”
“But they’re repulsive,” scoffs my sister, averting my knowing look. “How can I be expected to desire them?”
I look at her pensively and recall humanity through the veil of the kataws, our rulers. Mortals are not desirable for their pleasing features, although there is pleasure in the ease with which their hearts fall. In truth, they are desirable for their fragility. Disappearing as fast as a bloom of ice beneath the sunlight, made more by the fact that they are constantly changing. There is magic in their ability to leave the body far behind; to flash swiftly from place to place; to ebb and flow with the tides. Fragility is a virtue for mortals. It lies in their souls. That Earthly promise of life beyond the flesh and ascent into the sky along an arch formed by rain. It is only the drowned—buried under the seafoam corpses of our ancestors—whose souls remain in the sea.
Overhead, the current pulls clouds into thin strands. The horizon darkens, tipped with blue, and I am brought back to the present. “Enough, little sister, bunso,” I say, gritting my teeth. “It’s time.”
While Magindara keeps to my side, we smoothly follow the ship’s steady pace across the water. Some time passes before the prince finally steps onto the deck and casts his eyes downward, impervious to our presence. Our fins are merely a flash of iridescent gold beneath the waves. Magindara looks at me with ravenous eyes that yearn for blood. I smile in return. We emerge from the froth and part our lips, singing in unison. Our song is a euphonious trill forged by seawater and regality. A sacred language of cadence and rhythm that has weighed on the stretched husks of the Bantay Tubig, guardians of the water, for centuries. Desire—for sound, water, skin—is a powerful pull.
Our voices echo in the sky and reverberate in the wind. We sing together as if we are one chorus. We sing as though we are an entire chorus. Our haunting melody ricochets and climbs, sinking into the hearts of the crew. The ship slows to a halt.
“Do you hear it, Dayang?” asks the prince, his voice high and dreamlike.
The princess stands beside him on the deck.
“I don’t hear an. . .”
Her voice falters as the melody strokes her into submission. It morphs into a command, bodies frozen as they search beyond the ship. I keep my focus on the prince and croon a gentle seduction that masks what my kind craves more than the sea: power. No longer shall we be idle while mortals walk among the sun and claim our waters for their own.
Within moments, his eyes fall to mine.
“Gods, diyos,” he whispers. “It’s you.” Though he smiles, a single tear slips from his left eye. “My love, iniirog ko. I have found you at last.”
I stop singing. My voice now fades into a low hum.
Grasping the ratlines, the prince peers over the edge, chest flat against the wood. The strings on his clavicle dangle loosely from his beige shirt, his sleeves are torn and moth-bitten. The thin gold of his crown looks as though it might break under my touch.
And then, there is his face. Soft and round, with skin like varnished wood. His eyes are dark and potent with mortal delicacy. Unlike our siyokoy counterparts, his palms lack webbing, and his torso is absent of tentacles. His hair mirrors our waters, swirling and coiling tightly on his head. I smell the blood that runs hot beneath his skin. I wonder if it scorches.
“You are so beautiful, maganda,” beams the princess, gazing down at my sister with reverence. “How could I have ever considered another?”
Magindara’s grin is more primordial than earth or sky. Her narrow face, large eyes, and receding jaw beckon the princess towards her. I turn back to the prince, who frantically stretches his hands out to meet mine.
“Mahal,” he pleads. “Come to me.”
I shake my head, wading further away from him. With each hum, the wind groans, lulled by my voice.
“I’ll come to you then!” he shouts—as though it was ever a choice.
Shifting his stance, the prince flings himself into the water. Succeeding him is a second splash, which I know to be the princess throwing herself to my sister’s mercy. The sounds of their descent awaken something in the crew. They lean over the ship’s edge, fifty or so of them clinging to ropes and railings, watching the spectacle below with stricken faces. But none dare throw themselves overboard to save their sovereigns. I can taste their fear, as bitter as the red algae that muddles the water’s clarity, twinged with confusion born from the sudden absence of our song.
I meet the eyes of my prince and stroke his supple skin. It is at once strange and familiar: devoid of scales and viscous coating, yet smooth as the underbelly of the mola mola fish. Gently, resting one hand on his cheek and the other on the frail bones of his shoulders, I kiss him. As my lips taste him, we submerge, brine flowing past our limbs. The kiss breaks as we sink into the depths. My song has long since ended, but the prince remains transfixed. Even as the water fills his gaping mouth and lungs, he keeps his gaze on me, touching his fingers to his chapped lips.
Beside me, Magindara’s princess thrashes. With one hand, the princess desperately clutches at her throat while the other bats my sister away. Furious, Magindara grips her ankles and yanks her toward the sand beds. The princess sneers as she tries to escape, though her efforts are futile. A sirena’s hold is adamantine.
I stroke my dying prince. Tan skin and lips blue with the sea. Hair flowing behind him like the black seaweed that shifts below. Such a pretty face, I think, running my thumb over his mouth, savoring his peaceful expression—the humanity of it all. Awoken from the depths of the Pampanga River, I let out a shriek capable of butchering bones and clawing through skin. It stings with the same vengeful lust of the ancestors that hunted before me.
In one swift motion, I plunge my fist into the prince’s chest and rip out his heart.