I sit perched on a cluster of rocks by the shore, watching the seagulls circle overhead. The briny aura of the coastal air seeps through my linen chiton. Across the docks, my father is overseeing the ship crew, reminding them to be careful with his precious pottery. Although he scorns most of them, they still manage to laugh together.
“Don’t be like my bumbling son over there,” he snickers.
If only they knew of the verbal lashing I received from him this morning.
I had watched my father make the large vase, turning the wheel head round and round for him as he shaped it. His brow furrowed as he painted the dancing women onto the form, their movements as fluid as water. All that time spent was wasted in an instant when I tripped in that messy studio. The woman’s delicately painted face laid broken before me, jagged edges interrupting her soft features. My father shook, his fury sharp as the shattered pottery pieces.
I turn the memory over and over in my head, like the silver pendant I spin between my fingers. I have worn this pendant for the past sixteen years; the engraved wave designs a reminder of my mother. A horrible accident, according to my father. Drowned in the very sea we sail on. I was too young to remember it. The necklace is my only tether to her.
My father waves me over to join the rest of the men. Of course, he isn’t coming. His slender hands aren’t meant for the rough wood of the oars. He tried to teach me pottery once, but my large hands were too cumbersome. Yet I’m strong and a good rower. Ever since my tutoring lessons ended, I’ve been accompanying the crews who man the cargo ships. We travel to Corinth’s western colonies, bringing with us the city’s most coveted goods: textiles, olive oil, and pottery.
My leather sandals beat across the coarse sand as I trudge towards the trireme. I pass by the fishermen unloading their small rafts, the smell of fresh fish wafting through the air. With each step, I feel my father’s anger grow stronger. I should be glad I’ll be getting away from him, but I can’t help but feel uneasy about this voyage. Maybe it’s the dense clouds looming far in the distance, or this morning’s disaster, or the memory of my mother.
The billowing sails of the trireme blow in the balmy wind as they are raised.
“Nereo, try not to break anything else,” my father remarks before heading back to our mud-brick home.
I grit my teeth as I row, the oars struggling to cut through the tumultuous currents. The heavy rain and sea spray whip at my face. We should head back, but the commander stubbornly faces forward, drenched from head to toe.
“Brace yourselves!” His hoarse voice is barely audible over the violent tide.
It’s the second day out, and an enormous wave is breaking over the side of the ship. We’ve been hit broadside. I’m almost washed away, but I hold my grip steady, wood splinters digging into my palms.
Another wave hits. My hands slip, and I am thrown across the boat, colliding with the other men. We are a tangle of flesh and limbs struggling to hang on. The ship is capsizing, and we are sliding towards the sea. I think of my father’s pottery, surely shattered below deck, and plunge into the water.
The sea embraces me, a shield from the chaos of above. The other men float peacefully, perhaps accepting their fates. I follow their gazes to the women swimming toward them. Their alabaster skin is stark in the murky waters, and their hair flows like seaweed. One glides to me, her mouth pressed in a close-lipped smile. Up close, her eyes mimic the blue of mine. My body freezes as if some force is holding me underwater.
Then she grins.
Spiked teeth reveal behind her lips. I thrash away, but she lunges towards me with serrated nails. Plumes of my blood flow in front of me. I grab my neck, hissing through the sharp pain. The muffled screams of the other men drift towards me. I try to swim to the surface, but the woman strikes again. Her ragged nails catch on my necklace.
The silver pendant floats between her spindly fingers. Her smirk drops, and she seems oddly human. She releases me from her tight grip, my blood clouding the water.
“Nereo?” she gasps. Our eyes lock as we both sink further into the depths.
Inspired by Hylas and the Nymphs, Arthur Bowen Davies, 1946.
Photo Courtesy of The New Britain Museum of American Art.
Campbell Karanian is a student at Central Connecticut State University.
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