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1659.
The Siam land was prosperous, food didn’t lack and good times only seemed to grow far ahead in the future; trading across continents had become more common and the country was taking advantage of that, welcoming foreign boats into their harbors. British, Portuguese, Dutch men walked around the busy roads of Bangkok emptying the taverns of the town the second they stepped in. But Oat never feared them.
Ayutthaya—the capital at that time—was strong and feared no one. The kingdom had already swallowed empires from every corner within the vicinity; perhaps that was the reason they felt confident enough to allow foreigners to walk as freely as those drunken sailors did so often. Little did they know, they couldn’t possibly mess with a woman sailor.
Oat was young—around twenty-two—and high-spirited. Not only was the strong but also taller than the average woman, so not many men dared mess with her. But these blonde men that sat on her table seemed rather reckless or unaware of her skills. They eyed her down as if she was a relic, which was true, women barely frequented taverns but Oat was no stranger to them. So, she sat there, at her usual table in that so-familiar place that reeked of arrack, bamboo and sweat.
“What are you doing here, pretty?” One of them spoke, his European accent strong.
“Clearly having a drink, as you can see.” Oat pointed at the empty glasses scattered on the table; her voice piercing through him.
“Well, I can buy you as many drinks as you want.” He continued, oblivious to the woman’s indifference. “if you can return the favor, that is.”
She raised her eyebrow.
“How would that be?” She asked, tighter grip on the handle of the jug.
“I hope you suck as good as you drink.” He dropped before letting out a loud laugh.
She smiled before chugging the remaining liquid only to smash the jug against the man’s head a few seconds later; a loud thud that made everyone’s heads turn to watch. He fell to the ground groaning in pain; blood coming out of different spots on his face. She stepped on top of the table, placing her boot on the other man’s shoulder, while he was busy looking completely shocked. Oat looked like a giant towering over the blond drunk man; a wrapped cloth around her legs created a form of pants and the fabric around her chest worked as a binder, all while her hair was tied into a braid.
“Get out.”
Her voice was calm yet the force her foot was taking to press against the man’s shoulder showed otherwise. With a nervous nod he picked his friend up and abandoned the tavern, ignoring the stares from the locals who already knew Oat’s temper.
She was not a woman you would like to mess with.
She did not hate foreigners—she had met kind ones—she was simply not going to let anyone disrespect her. Her name, in fact, came from a British man who witnessed her fall into a pile of dried oat by the harbor when she was six. He started calling her Oat ever since then and the nickname followed her like a birthmark.
She was well respected, but she had to earn every bit of that respect. Especially since being a woman had never been easy; men often looked down on her, brushed off her merits and even laughed at her when she nothing more than teenager—all because she wasn’t feminine enough. That was until she was so fed up that she got into a fight with a young sailor; thankfully, Oat had the body for it—she had been working around the harbor since she was a kid—and managed to pull a good fight. And even though she got beaten badly, she earned that sailor’s respect forever; so much that he allowed her to join his crew.
Honestly, Oat never really cared about sailors; they were all brute drunkards that smelled like poison and lack of hygiene. But the payment was good, so she was willing to endure their irritating antics; one of those being their loud personalities.
The female sailor looked around the tavern, finding all the men cheering and raising their glasses simply because she taught some outsiders a lesson. She sighed and ordered another jug of wine because, even though she hated them, the only way to fit in was to drink as much or even more than them. So, she drank until she passed out, as she often did anyway. Because even if the alcohol tasted bitter, it was strong enough to knock her unconscious and help her push through another day.
It wasn’t until a soft brush on the shoulder woke her up. With a drilling headache, she raised her gaze only to meet the young waitress; dark eyes that she could recognize anywhere, the only ones that looked at Oat with care and understanding.
“Dokrak~” Oat hugged her, still drunk.
“How much have you drunk? Seriously…” The waitress sighed.
“Only a bit.”
“A bit, my ass. Get up, I need to close the tavern.” She playfully smacked her.
Dokrak started cleaning the table, gathering as many jugs as possible on her tiny hands. Oat simply looked at her, trying to focus her drunk sight.
Dokrak was young and pretty, she had long hair tied in a bun and wore cheap garments; that didn’t necessarily make her any less beautiful. She was the prettiest woman in the whole district, so much that every customer constantly tried winning her heart, with no luck whatsoever; she never really cared about men anyway. Mostly, the reason why such a gorgeous woman would end up in such a rotten place to begin with was because she had become an outcast for the simplest reason—loving someone she wasn’t supposed to.
Dokrak and Oat shared many sufferings; one of them being rejected by society. Dokrak because she happened to love a woman and Oat because she was an orphan and a nobody. Therefore, they found comfort in one another; they had even shared a kiss on a night when Oat had her veins fueled with alcohol and courage, only to realize that they didn’t like each other in that way.
They had become friends, allies and a safe space.
“Move!” Dokrak pushed Oat’s heavy body.
“Yes, yes.” Oat groaned, getting up from the table and stumbled towards the door. “I’m leaving tomorrow, won’t you miss me?”
“Can’t wait to lose sight of that annoying face of yours.” Dokrak teased her.
“Ouch. What if I don’t come back?” Oat whined.
“You will. You always do.”
It was true.
The ocean was dangerous, but Oat’s crew had both the luck and the skill to navigate fearlessly through those merciless waters. And she always came back. So Dokrak was not afraid of losing her friend, because she trusted her blindly. Fear was not something that belonged to any of them anyway.
So, with a wide smile the drunk sailor waved a gesture that Dokrak couldn’t quite understand and she made an exit. The sky was pitch-black and the streets were too dark for anyone to walk through them without watching their steps carefully, yet Oat was no stranger to the path towards the ship. A few dogs barked her way—earning a few screams from the now awakened neighbors—as her unsteady feet took her down the road. Not long after, the smell of grass was replaced with salt and fish; she had reached the harbor.
A man who walked just as clumsily as her mumbled something and Oat, who was already fired up with the alcohol, didn’t hesitate to push him aside; the now-offended man simply cursed at her as she continued her journey ‘home’. Funny to call that ship home, while she never understood that word; but she simply mimicked her crew members, as they truly believed they belonged there. Oat, on the other hand, never felt like she belonged anywhere except at the bottom of the empty jugs she chugged down so often. And even then, she could never get used to the taste.
The nights in Bangkok had always been warm, yet for some reason, the breeze was becoming colder. She looked up towards the black sky, as if she could check the clouds above her; but they were hiding too well in the darkness to be able to spot them. So, the drunk sailor simply gave up and continued walking.
The quiet peace of the dirt roads of the city was shattered as she reached the harbor, where a few still-awaken sailors yelled unintelligible words at the top of their lungs, glass bottles in their hands.
“We are going to earn a lot of money with this one, I’m telling you.” The sailor whispered.
Oat paid them no mind and walked past them all the way up the ship. She reached the big hall where many hammocks were hung and she laid on hers shortly after; loud snores echoing through the room.
Good thing alcohol did wonders to help her sleep.
And as always, she dreamt of the sea; such an uncertain place, colder compared to the heat of the land, and full of wonder and danger equally. A voice she couldn’t quite recall called her, a voice that reminded her of her mother; the only person she ever found true peace with. She swam towards it, but the waves of the ocean were too strong for her to push through and claws gathered around her ankles, shoving her inside the deepest part of the sea. And just as she tried to scream—bubbles quickly coming out of her mouth—a splash of real water woke her up.
Cold.
She jumped on her hammock, looking around in alert only to find a crewmate laughing while holding a bucket. She wanted to curse him, but the only thing she could do was sigh in relief as she was thankful for being awakened—although now she had to change her damp clothes.
“Get up! It’s time to leave shore!” He yelled, throwing the bucket as he walked away.
She felt a sting against her temples as he raised his voice; even though alcohol worked perfectly to catch a good sleep, the headache the next day was often not worth it. And so, she rubbed her forehead before getting changed into new dry garments.
It was surely going to be a long day.
Oat reached the cargo hold, big boxes filled with tin, deerskin and aromatic woods were gathered around it and were to be sold in Japan; their destination for the day. She had been ordered to check the ropes and make sure the boxes were properly tied in place. And of course they were, she was the one loading the merchandise along with three other crewmates; Oat wasn’t the type to do things carelessly, especially when it came to work. Although, there was a big box she didn’t recognize.
“When did they bring that here?” She asked herself.
No, the smell of wood was killed by a fishy scent the closer she walked towards the box. There was a strange force within her, pushing her towards it; a sudden urge to open it. But many ropes were tangled around it, as if it was forbidden to peek inside.
“Oat, you done?” Someone yelled from upstairs.
She stepped back.
“Yes!”
As her voice echoed through the wooden humid walls, the floor started swinging, indicating that they were moving already. She went upstairs towards the deck, which didn’t take long; it wasn’t a big ship after all. Then, she caught a glimpse of the shore driving away in the distance and they moved deeper into the so-feared Gulf of Siam. It wasn’t a challenge because there was a lot of wind, it was a challenge precisely because there was no wind at all, causing many ships to get stuck. Thankfully, navigating a smaller ship had its advantages; they never endured any obstacles passing by and always reached the Chinese Sea smoothly.
That day didn’t have to be any different.
“Oat, help me with this rope, will ya?” A thin sailor asked.
She turned around silently after carving one last look at the shore into her memory.
The view of a young unexperienced sailor trying to untangle a knot made Oat chuckle. He surely was younger than her; she wondered how he made it to the ship to begin with. After noticing the man roughly pulling on the rope, she placed her hands on his, stopping his movement.
“It’s not about force, dumbass. It’s about skill.” She instructed.
Carefully, she started pulling softly on the rough edges of the rope, creating a gap in between the knot. Then, she successfully pulled, releasing the knot. The man looked at her, she had the skill to undo a knot in seconds while he had been stupidly pulling on the ropes for twenty minutes. Without a word, he nodded and left.
The next hours passed by smoothly, without any inconveniences to be found. So as the evening started approaching, sailors gathered at the deck with heavy jugs on their hands, embracing the last rays of sunshine of the day; the sky turning pink. Now, the smell of salt and fish was consumed by the stink of arrack and wine.
They sang songs and danced as one of the sailors carried a Khlui—a traditional flute made of bamboo—that he played beautifully, making the sailors cheer loudly with every note that he nailed. Oat simply sat down near the edge of the ship, staring at the horizon with a jug of wine in her hand.
The sound of the waves almost took over the off-key low voices from the sailors. And then, for a short second, one of the voices didn’t seem to match the crew. She looked into the water, seeking something she didn’t know exactly; that voice so similar to the one she dreamt of.
She shook her head, blaming the auditory hallucinations on the alcohol. She placed the jug on the edge, as she brushed her hands along her forearms, trying to calm the goosebumps that formed on them. It was suddenly getting a bit chilly.
She looked up at the sky, confused about how it could get cold in such warm weather; they weren’t deep inside the gulf yet so the temperature wasn’t supposed to drop that quickly.
But then, she saw it.
Clouds formed on top of them, very dark ones, the beautiful sunset was now turning completely gray. The temperature dropping by five degrees, making another goosebump creep on her spine. She checked on her crewmates, who didn’t seem to mind, they kept singing.
“Something’s off about the weather.” Oat yelled, walking towards them.
“It’s just a storm; don’t act like you’ve never seen one.” An old man replied, chugging on his jug.
But something was wrong, that wasn’t a normal storm.
She heard it again, a sweet melodic voice that worked better than any wine. She looked around, finding the sailors stumbling dizzily around the shaking deck as the waves started to hit harder against the sides of the ship. The thin sailor slowly walked towards the edge, opposite to Oat, who was holding herself on a heavy barrel. Her eyes widened at the sight; the young man let his weight drop on the edge of the ship, making his body fall into the water. She opened her mouth to yell, yet nothing came off. Instead, a high-pitched frequency blasted against her eardrums, forcing her hands to press against her head as if that could shut it. Her shoulder hit the floor hard as she lost her balance due to the screeching noise and the boat shaking aggressively.
She raised her gaze as her body collapsed on the wooden deck’s floor. The sailors were screaming in pain, blood flowing out of their ears and noses. Suddenly, lightning struck on the mast, making it crash and fall on two of the sailors; loud thunder making Oat jolt for a second. Needless to say, they passed away immediately.
She pushed herself up, ignoring the rain that started to fall on them. She ran to the edge and saw it; a tail swinging around the ship, beautiful and glowing. That voice, now sounding like a war cry.
Oat ran down to the cargo hold again; it wasn’t hard to connect the dots. She reached the mysterious big box and pulled on the ropes. They were too tight, even with her skills it was hard to untie such a strong knot. Either way, some ropes were not going to stop her. She grabbed a knife and rubbed on the thick ropes until they were cut and the box was now free to open.
Then, as she pulled the top of the box, a gasp left her body. Blood, scales, a long tail and a dead body laying on top of a pile of rotten red ice and salt.
“A si-” Oat’s words were cut off by a loud shatter.
Her body launched against the wall as the ship crashed; a sting on the side of her head as blood started to come off her forehead. The boat’s movement had stopped and water started to flow inside the room instead. Oat’s body tensed in alarm and desperation and ran upstairs, clumsily bumping against every wall on the way there, her palm pressed against her bleeding forehead. She reached the deck only to find more devastation, dead sailors on the floor blood everywhere. Then she found the captain, still struggling to breathe as he tried to sit up. She ran towards him and pulled on his torso.
“You did this?” Oat asked, ignoring the panting from the old man.
“We could’ve earned millions…”
“You’ve doomed us all!” Oat yelled, pushing him.
He groaned as he was thrown back against the wooden floor, smacking his head. Oat ran to the edge, trying to look for an escape, but there was none. Her heart started beating aggressively and her blood pumped heavily as she noticed water hugging her ankles. The ship was sinking very quickly and the rain was making it even harder to find a way out. She thought of jumping, maybe she could be lucky enough to be driven back to shore by the waves.
And then, once she looked down—ready to jump—she met glowing gorgeous eyes. She was frozen in place, her hands holding her body on the edge and her gaze glued to that mysterious creature looking back at her with an oddly human-looking face. She was about to speak but then, another lightning struck on the boat, making a piece of the mast fall on her.
Everything turned black.
Then, a splash.
A soft voice.
Nene swam around that bleeding body, a strange one, capturing every image possible. It had long hair and gentle features; strong muscles yet long, beautiful eyelashes, and clean cheeks where a beard didn’t seem to be able to grow. The siren moved closer to the sinking sailor, brushing her fingertips along the wet soft skin.
She hesitated.
But then, she found herself taking that weak body with her. She reached a cave, where she carried the sailor on top of a rock. There was blood coming out of her stomach and forehead, but Nene was unsure of what to do, so she simply licked her wounds. Her tongue brushed gently against her forehead, licking the red liquid that tasted somehow sweet. Then, she moved to her ribs, licking the bitter yet sweet blood that came out of it, but there was too much flowing out of it. She placed her hand on it. Then, Oat started to cough out all the water she had accidentally swallowed, the sting on her ribs growing with every compression of her torso. She groaned loudly, pressing on her ribs, then she froze. Her palm met something different from what she had expected; sharp cold scales. She lowered her gaze to meet cold sharp siren eyes, looking at her with curiosity.
She would’ve pushed her, if only she had the strength for it. The siren, on the other hand, tilted her head trying to read her. She looked at Oat’s hand pressing against hers.
“Why did you save me?” Oat grunted in pain.
A pause.
“You look different. Why is your voice also different?” The siren spoke.
A raspy yet sweet voice that tickled Oat’s eardrums. Two things that shocked her; that beautiful voice and the fact that the siren spoke her language.
“What do you mean?”
“You…” Nene moved closer, looking into her eyes. One of her palms holding Oat’s cheek. “You don’t smell like them. You have no beard either.”
“I am a woman.” Oat whispered, panting slightly; because she was in pain and because the contact made her shiver.
“I’ve never seen one on a ship before.”
Her eyes were too captivating, too alluring. Oat was now understanding the myth of siren’s attracting sailors, she seemed irresistible in a way. Her face was thin, big round beautiful eyes yet a serious expression. On top of that, she had long silky hair that fell on her torso covering her bare chest.
She gulped.
“You wanted revenge, didn’t you?” Oat asked.
“My kind is not something you humans can kill for your benefit.” She spat, her voice piercing harder than the wood that cut through Oat’s stomach.
“I didn’t do it.”
“I know, you don’t stink of poison like they do.” The siren spoke.
There was a silence. A silence where Oat simply looked into her eyes, a flicker on them that showed her maybe that siren was not as merciless as she seemed in that storm.
“What’s your name?” Oat breathed out.
The pain was becoming tolerable, or maybe the blood leaving her body was simply numbing her senses. Either way, whether she was about to die there or not, she didn’t care.
“Nene.”
“Nene…” Oat repeated, a smile tugging at her lips. “I'm Oat.” She coughed.
A groan escaped her lips, as she tugged harder on her bleeding stomach. Nene licked on her skin, on another attempt at calming the pain since she could not close such a big wound. Oat simply looked, her jaw dropping at the sight of a woman—siren—sucking on her abdomen. She would’ve definitely gotten aroused if she wasn’t on the verge of dying at that moment. Instead, she stared. She saw how the siren tugged her long hair behind her ear as her soft wet tongue brushed on her ripped skin. A chuckle escaped her, she had never believed in any mythology and yet she was about to die in front of a siren.
The cold sensation of the rock on her back made a contrast with her feverish state, as Oat’s body was warming up, in a last attempt to stabilize itself. No luck, the blood kept coming out and her vision started to get blurry, her mind feeling drunker than any wine could ever make it to be.
“I apologize for I cannot heal you.” Nene raised her gaze towards Oat.
“It’s okay, I never really enjoyed life anyway.” Oat chuckled, a spit of blood coming out the corner of her mouth.
Nene looked into those eyes, eyes she had never seen before. Eyes that held both power and kindness. She scanned the tall frame laying under her, caressing all the scars that decorated her soft skin.
And then, something gleamed in the siren’s eyes.
Regret.
She stared at the dying sailor, smiling at her ready to face the worst destiny one could ever face.
“You believe in justice and you served it on a cold plate.” Oat mumbled. “It’s okay. I never liked the heat anyway.”
Nene stared in silence, processing the heavy weight of the realization that just crossed her mind; in exchange for seeking vengeance, she had just harvested a kindred soul.
Oat had never feared death, the only thing she feared was dying alone. So, if the sea had to be the one to take her, let it be in the arms of Nene.
“Is it true what they say?”
“What?” Nene let out, confused.
“That a siren kiss is a death sentence.” Oat smiled weakly.
Nene hesitated. The weight on her shoulders grew heavier yet the sense of mercy was stronger. She nodded.
“Then…” Oat placed her weak bloody hand on Nene’s cheek, painting red. “Could you please help me go to sleep?”
Nene’s eyes turned darker, sadness crawling on the back of her neck. She pushed herself closer to the woman, holding her in her arms. The cold humid touch made Oat’s body shiver; or perhaps it was the hypothermia that came with the damp clothes and the blood loss. Thankfully, it didn’t last long because the sailor’s pale expression relaxed as soon as Nene’s voice turned into a lullaby; so soft, so gentle that it made Oat’s eyelids shut. Her unsteady breathing and panting calmed down as Nene held her cheek. She had kissed men before, but the purpose had been different; she wanted all men to die. This time though, she struggled to accomplish her mission. The sight of that beautiful bleeding woman, laying under her only reminded her of the cruelty her own species possessed. She was the cause of an innocent life to be taken by the sea; something that would haunt Nene forever.
So, every note that escaped her lips was a gift for Oat and a painful reminder for the siren. Her hand, pressed on Oat’s cold cheek, pulled her face closer to hers to the point their lips softly brushed against each other.
“Thank you.” Oat whispered softly against her mouth.
“May we meet again.” Nene replied, a whisper just as soft as the sailor’s.
She closed the gap, gently pressing their lips together into a sorrow intimate kiss. She didn’t kiss her like she did with her previous victims, no. This time, it wasn’t an act of violence but an act of mercy. A long kiss in which Nene noticed Oat’s lips move slower with every second until she stopped as her last warm breath clashed against Nene’s cold mouth.
She felt so sweet, but the aftertaste tasted like burning daggers.
Her hand slid down to her chest, frozen and numb; no sign of a heartbeat. A sting made Nene’s own heart clench into a painful squeeze. She sat there for hours, looking into that relaxed face, and wondered.
She wondered what could’ve happened if maybe life would have let them meet under different circumstances. But there was no point in wondering, life was just as cruel as death anyway.
And as a siren, she was cursed to carry that pain with her.
So, she swam away, still holding Oat against her chest. Once she reached the deepest point in that sea, she placed Oat carefully there, watching her braid draw waves as water moved around the still body.
“May the sea care for you now.”
With that, she left.
In the sea, Nene often visited the cave where she last saw that sailor. She talked to herself, chatted about her day, vented about her feelings hoping that maybe the ghost of her would still linger. She promised her memory that she would never attack another ship, even if the urge for revenge kicked in, because every time she felt hatred towards sailors, the sight of Oat would cross her mind and ease any anger.
In the land, no one seemed to talk about the missing ship. No one really cared about sailors, as they died often. But there was one place that still held some hope; Dokrak placed a jug of wine on Oat’s table every single day, believing she would come back someday.
There was a jug on the table until the very last day she died, and even after; as Oat had become a legend in that tavern. That jug had become a symbol of respect for sailors, a jug that waited for the day they returned.
Even if they never did.