Chapter One: The Terrible Town
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There are many stories of sailors falling to the wily clutches of mermaids and sirens, and there are just as many famous books about sailors going crazy, hunting down sea monsters and sinking to the depths with them in their hubris. There are even more stories about pirates. This story is a lot like all of them, and a lot like none of them. While it must be mentioned, of course, that this is partly because this story has found itself subverting those stories, the main difference here seems to be that none of those stories had enough lesbians. But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

 

This story begins in a small fishing village just off the coast of Scotland, but just too far away from Scotland to be Scotland. In fact, it was about equidistant from both England and Scotland. In this case, equidistant means “just far enough off the coast from both countries that both can pretend it was someone else’s problem”. This village held exactly nothing of material value, though it held a smattering of people, who are well known for giving things emotional value. In that village lived a young person, and this is their story. 

 

The young person in question was named Archibald, which was considered to be cruel even by the standards of the day, and of course, they hated everything about it. The name Archibald is an especially cruel name because it is such a useless name. A name like Jason, for example, can be turned into Jace, Jay, the singular letter J, Jack and even Jackson, if you’re feeling creative. But Archibald did not leave them many options. They had opted to go through life as Archie for a while, but the name Archie implied ginger hair, freckles and a sunny-if-somewhat-dim disposition. Despite the fact that they weren’t particularly bright, Archibald was neither ginger nor sunny, and their pale face was utterly devoid of freckles. 

 

Archibald wasn’t very good at a lot of things, but that was actually okay. In fact, I would like you to think back on your nineteenth birthday, and honestly try to remember what you were good at. With this I do not mean “what you thought you were good at at the time;” that is cheating. Most nineteen year olds are utterly useless at pretty much everything, and in that, Archibald was completely unique. Archibald had one thing they were very good at. Archibald was an amazing swimmer. So good, in fact, that the other children in the village had nicknamed them “Ace”. 

 

I say “other children” here and not “friends” because Ace didn’t have any friends. That didn’t bother them, on the whole, in the same way that someone who has never eaten, seen, smelled or gotten within throwing distance of, say, a chocolate cake might not be bothered by the lack of chocolate cake in their life. Ace didn’t mind not having any friends because they didn’t know any different. Ace was a quiet person without any friends to speak of, who spent as much time as possible walking down to the pier of their village. Either they watched the coming and going of the fishing ships, or they were underneath the pier in the not-quite-freezing water.

 

This was another thing Ace was good at, although an innate resilience to the cold can hardly be called a skill, and they had never done anything to improve on this quality. They had simply been born with it, and never given it a moment’s thought. Hot was hot and cold was cold, sweet was sweet and sour was sour. It was a sensation like any other, to be bothered by or not. Ace had no idea that this might not have been the norm.

 

So Ace sat, one day, watching the ships come and go, as the sun made its dim trek across the dim sky, and didn’t think much of anything. They had found that thinking often led to The Bad Thoughts, the kind many people tend to have at four in the morning, when your brain tells you that you are a failure and that you must fix your life and everything in it right this minute, to which the only appropriate response is “I’m not sure how you expect me to do anything about that right now, my good brain,” turn around, and attempt to go back to sleep. But Ace had many of those thoughts when they were awake and they had found that it was good to focus on the here and the now. They listened to the sound of the gulls and the creaking of the sails of the ships in the harbour and enjoyed the smell of ocean air and dead fish, and tried not to think much of anything.

 

That is not to say that Ace was deeply unhappy. Unhappiness requires an explicit sadness. Unhappiness is actually quite easy to pinpoint, with a clear cause and, often, a solution, although many people, myself included, can usually not see the cause and the solution when unhappiness presents itself. Ace suffered from something more insidious that is often mistaken for unhappiness. Ace was depressed.

 

Depression here does not mean unhappiness, or even the lack of happiness. What I mean here is that Ace felt a distinct lacking in their life, a distinct discord in the music of their existence that soured every experience within it. Depression for Ace meant not knowing what they would do tomorrow, and not caring. For Ace, it meant not expecting to live to see their twentieth birthday and being a little okay with this. They had no idea that they would, and that their twentieth birthday would be their first happy one, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Ace, of course, had no idea what depression was and that not everybody suffered from it. They simply assumed that everyone felt this way and that they were somehow weak or lacking for not standing up to it better.

 

That is because depression is one of humanity’s most insidious and foul diseases, and the only one to actively convince the carrier it is not, in fact, sick. And while depression may have causes and common symptoms, it is not the same for everyone. So Ace never did anything about their total lack of enjoyment of life, and simply meandered from day to day. They experienced depression quite simply as a lack of enjoyment, caused by a distinct lack of belonging. 

 

I would like to interject here and say that, if you have experienced any of these symptoms or feelings, you might be depressed, and it would do you good to talk to a friend. Depression has an underhanded way of convincing you that it is not worth talking about and that, in fact, talking about it is somehow evil and selfish of you. Do not listen to it. 

 

But back to the story, Ace was about to experience the single most important event of their life, up to that point, and it came in the shape of a large ship limping its way to the docks of their little village. While not excited -- excitement happened to other people -- they were curious, and made their way down the pier. It was a beautiful vessel. Or rather, it would have been if it hadn’t been half sinking, with parts of it hanging off inelegantly. 

 

A small crowd was beginning to gather by the docks to look at the ship. This was quite normal, as this was a boring town even to the people who actually enjoyed living there. A murmur went through the crowd as the ship struggled to make it to the docks.

 

“Perhaps it is a tax collector,” one unpopularly pragmatic man said. Pragmatic is used to mean a lot of different things, but in this case it is simply double-speak for “someone who says what many people are thinking but aren’t saying out loud because that might make it true”. I could have used this turn of phrase the first time, but I feared it would be too wordy. 

 

“Then why is it so damaged?” a woman asked. Nobody actually knew the answer, but that was okay, because it was a good question. People mumbled things just quietly enough for nobody else to hear them. They did this to sound like they had something to say without actually committing to the possibility that they might say something stupid.

 

Ace, of course, said nothing, and watched the ship finally creak and sway next to a pier. Everyone who was not experienced with sailing and docking a ship retreated to let the actual sailors do their work. Everyone who did have experience with sailing and docking a ship also retreated because this was someone else’s problem and, besides, they had already worked today and they were probably not going to be paid for their troubles, going by the state of the ship before them. 

 

That is to say, everyone except Ace.

 

Ace stood on the pier as several men jumped off the deck and onto the pier. The men who had done so looked gruff, but not in the way that you’re thinking right now. When you think “gruff”, you think of angry men in loud bars who haven’t shaved in a few days and who are looking for an excuse to threaten someone with a fight. They were not these sorts of men, although they definitely hadn’t shaved in a while. No, when you think of the word gruff here, you have to imagine people who have just gone through a very difficult ordeal and come out the other side, but not victoriously. You have to think of people whose jaws are wide and clamped tight with stress. These gruff men had callused hands and strong muscles and used them almost exclusively for the one they had made them callused and strong for (respectively). That is to say: sailing. 

 

They didn’t say much -- which Ace already appreciated -- and when Ace stood up, the sailors noticed their preparedness to help. Without saying much, they simply tossed Ace a rope, and just like that, Ace was a part of the hustle and bustle, doing what they could to help secure the ship before it sank in the harbour. Several reluctant fishermen were drafted to patch holes in the hull, with much groaning and moaning until coin was promised. 


The promises in this scenario were made by the most flamboyant and visible person on the ship’s roster. He wore a red coat and a large hat, both of which were slightly too big, as if he had bought them to appear larger than he was, but ended up looking smaller because his thin frame and slender face didn’t support the articles of clothing in question well. However, he was jovial, which is to say that he smiled a lot and that he had a loud voice that was pleasant on the ears. 

He offered the fisherpeople of the village money, which was a common way to reward people for goods and services rendered, and very soon the people were on their way. He sat down on a bollard. Ace saw him and tried not to notice the fact that the man was trying very hard not to look the way he was feeling, which is to say that the man looked sad and dejected but was trying to look optimistic and upbeat. Ace didn’t have a lot of time to look, however, as they were given several chores and time began to pass very quickly.

 

Before Ace had realized, it was suddenly evening, and the ship was docked, moored, berthed, and probably several other maritime words I am not very familiar with. If you ever have the time, look up how many maritime words there are and how many you might not recognize. There are more than you think. 

 

The gruff sailors thanked Ace for their help, and the jovial man approached them with a forced smile.

 

“You’re not like other people around here, are you?”

 

Ace didn’t say anything in response. Nobody in the village was exactly like anyone else, except Evan and Ethan, the cobbler’s sons, who were identical in every conceivable way. So Ace simply shrugged.

 

“Look…” The man seemed to hesitate, then put a hand on Ace’s shoulder. “You helped us out today, and there’s something about you. Something in your eyes.”

 

Ace didn’t respond to this either. For one thing, there aren’t many things you can say when a stranger makes a comment about your eyes. You can’t look at them, and even if you could, that’s probably not what they mean. All you can do is wait for the other person to keep talking, because people who say things like “There’s something about you” often like the sound of their own voice and won’t hesitate to say more things unless interrupted. Ace understood this, and didn’t interrupt.

 

“Have you ever wanted to sail, lad? See the world, adventure, all that?”

 

Ace had never particularly wanted to sail. However, Ace most definitely didn’t want to stay here. They hadn’t even realized how badly they didn’t want to stay here until the option of not staying here had just been offered. Ace nodded. 

 

“Look, we lost some people out at sea last night… we need to get her back home,” the man said, and gestured at the ship. “We could always use an extra crew member. You’ll be paid…” He paused and did the mental math people do when they’re trying to make sure they’re not accidentally promising somebody something they’re not willing to give. “A competitive wage. And you’ll have food and shelter, until we make it to port.” He looked around and whispered, perhaps to himself, perhaps to Ace, who couldn’t tell, “A proper port.”

 

There was an expectant pause. The kind of pause that would make you scratch the back of your neck until someone, anyone broke the silence. The man broke it.

 

“I’m offering you a job, lad. What do you say?”

 

Ace thought about this for a second. Not a long second, but not a literal second either. There wasn’t much to think about, really. There was nothing for them here, and while they doubted there was much for them out there, it wasn’t here, and that in and of itself carried with it the promise of ‘not here’. They nodded.

 

“Excellent! Good to have you on board!”

 

The man stuck out his hand with a flourish, and Ace shook it dutifully. 

 

“My name is Maria Abbott,” he said with a smile and a wink. “Welcome aboard the Siren Song!”

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