by J E Feldman
“Hello!” I call as I make my way farther into the water.
The dolphins swim closer and before long, they’re circling me. I laugh at the ruckus they make—overjoyed and elated that they’ve returned.
“Hello,” I say again, stroking each of them as they swim past me. In response, all but one of the dolphin’s screak and click. The last one to approach has a bag in its mouth. It swims nearer, offering me the bundle, so I take it. It squawks excitedly and then sprays me with mist from its blowhole. I laugh as I wipe my face. “Thanks!”
The dolphins circle me one last time, then they start swimming away.
“Wait!” I call as I walk after them. “Can I go with you?”
They click and chatter, but before I can even consider swimming after them, they disappear into the water.
“Wait!” I call again, tears welling as I take a few more steps, the water up to my chin now.
John is suddenly there, his hand on my shoulder, undoubtedly to keep me from going after them.
“What did they leave you, malenʹkyy heniy?” he asks softly, clearly aware of my despair.
At the moment, I can only focus on the fact they’ve left without me, so it takes several minutes before I’m able to walk back to shore to take a look at the contents of the waterproof bag.
When we finally get back to shore, I fumble to unseal it, because it’s made of a material I’m not entirely familiar with—a special type of plastic I’ve never encountered. When we finally do get it open, we find a perfectly round, shiny metallic orb, marbled with beautiful red streaks. I roll it around my palm for a long moment, mesmerized by its beauty.
“What do you suppose it is?” I ask John.
He takes it from me and examines it. “I don’t know…it looks like a mineral, perhaps…” He places it back in my hand. “We can take it into town and ask someone, maybe at the university.”
I nod, and then I gingerly place the orb back into the bag and reach for the bound pages within. The booklet has dark covers, so I hand it over to John, whose hands are cleaner and drier than mine. He sits beside me on the sand and we flip to the first page. It’s an academic paper, written by a M.I.T student for one of his graduate-level physics courses. It’s titled, “The Use of Thermonuclear Weapons to Restart a Planet’s Core.”
Even as a fairly smart ten-year-old kid, I know the subject matter is way over my head, but I encourage John to flip through it anyway. On the first few pages, there are random red-penned markings, as if the teacher was noting grammatical errors, but as the paper dives into stuff that’s probably too difficult for even John to grasp, other notes begin to appear in the margins, written in a language I don’t recognize—the symbols reminding me of Egyptian hieroglyphics.
When John flips to the end, there is a lengthy bit of mystery text written on the last page, as though whoever penned it was summarizing what they just read, or perhaps adding other key notes. It’s impossible to tell because, at the moment, I can’t read the language. But one day I will—even if I have to teach it to myself.
I stand and brush off as much sand as I can, then I hold the bag toward John so he can drop the booklet back inside. I reseal it and turn to grab my discarded cocoa cup.
“If you like,” John says as we make our way toward the villa, “after breakfast we can go to the university. See if there’s a professor who will speak with us about this stuff.”
I mull that over for a long moment, but then I finally decide against it. This is my secret to bear—my mystery to solve, so for the moment, I won’t get anyone else involved. Not until I know more. “Maybe some other day,” I finally say. “But I’d still like to go to the library if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” John assures me.
I stop and give him a quick hug, since I’m still soaking wet, but it’s my way of thanking him. Not only because I know he believes me, but also because I know he’ll try his best to help me solve the mystery of the dolphins and the sea for as long as it takes. I have so many questions—so many theories of what really happened the last few days, but for now I’ll be patient and cautious, because even if it takes a lifetime, I know I’ll find the answers.
Sofi Laporte
Biography
Sofi Laporte was born in Austria, grew up in Korea, studied Comparative Literature in the USA, and lived in Ecuador with her Ecuadorian husband. When not writing, she likes to scramble about the beautiful Austrian country side exploring medieval castle ruins. She currently lives with her husband, three trilingual children, and a cat in Upper Austria.
Loreley
Sofi Laporte
Our summer vacation was a disaster.
Neither the weather nor our kids cooperated.
It had been my husband’s idea to rent a car and drive along the Rhine valley, stopping at every single castle and fortress on the way. The kids were not amused. They would have preferred to go to Paris Disneyland. Instead, they found themselves on a car trip peppered by history lectures, for their father was -unfortunately for them- a brilliant historian and archaeologist. Max, the eldest, revenged himself by being surly and non-communicative and plugged up his ears with gangsta rap. Jenny complained she felt sick and little Emmy pretended to be a stuck record that knew only one line: “Are we there yet?”
It had rained from day one and no end was in sight.
My husband sat tensely in the driver’s seat and wouldn’t admit he was lost.
“Five minutes. The hotel will show up in five minutes. Probably behind that curve.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. That was a sign he was about to lose his calm.
But behind that curve was yet another curve. It was dark and the steady rain turned into a deluge.
I squinted through the window. To the right was the swollen Rhine river that seemed to climb up the bank by the minute, to the left - nothing. Maybe there was a mountain, or trees, or vineyards, but certainly no houses, no village nor town in sight.
The car slowed down, emitted a sickly sounding stutter and came to a halt.
“Please tell me you just stopped on purpose.”
Helmut cursed under his breath and pumped the gas pedal. Not even a sound. The car was dead.
“Oh God. No.” Helmut bumped his head against the steering wheel as if that was going to make the car move again.
“Now what?”
The wind howled and a blast of rain gushed down.
Helmut sighed and got out of the car. He opened the hood and stuck his head inside. After a minute he closed it again and returned to his seat.
He was soaking wet.
“I can’t see a thing. It’s pouring cats and dogs.” He took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve.
“I’ll call the ADAC,” I pulled out my cell phone. Great. No connection, either. Helmut tried his phone. Same thing.
“I think I saw a gas station back there. I’ll go and get help. You wait here with the kids.”
I had a weird feeling about this.
“No, I think we should stay together. I don’t want you out there all alone. Let’s just wait until someone shows up. At least we are dry in here.”
Helmut shook his head. “We’ll get help faster if I just go. I’ll be back in 15 minutes. You’ll see.” He was out of the car and gone before I could reply.
The kids and I looked at each other. It was black outside and the storm’s howl pitched to a crescendo. Lightning flashed.
“Mommy, there’s a lady sitting on top of a rock,” Emmy pointed at something outside.
I cranked myself around the seat to see what she was pointing at. If someone was out there, maybe they could help us?
“Where? I don’t see anyone.”
“There! There!”
“I don’t see anything,” Max grumbled. He’d actually taken off his earphones. “Why would anyone want to sit on a rock in this weather?”
“I saw it! I know I did!”
“I’m going to throw up,” Jenny said. And since she sounded strange,
I jumped up, got out of the car, tore her door open, just in time for Jenny to throw up all over my sneakers. Then she cried. We were both soaking wet in an instant. Well, the good thing was the rain would wash the puke away.
I sighed and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. I walked around the car to my own seat. Lightning flashed again. I squinted. There was a sign. Undoubtedly. Shabby and barely legible, it flapped in the wind, and it said: “Gasthaus zum wilden Fischer.” The sign was right in front of us and we hadn’t seen it. And now Helmut was running all the way back to the gas station, when the inn with the funny name of the “wild fisherman” might be right in front of us.
I made up my mind quickly.
“Kids, zip up your jackets and let’s go. There’s a Gasthaus over there. We’re going before the storm blows the car into the river.”
I tore a sheet from my agenda and scribbled on it: “We’re in the Fisherman’s Inn on the left,” and put the paper on the car dash for Helmut to find after he returned.
“Max, hold on to Emmy. I will take Jenny.” We fought our way through the rain and wind.
“I don’t see anything!” Max shouted. The river was to the right, to the left was only a gigantic rock almost hanging over the road.
“There’s got to be! Maybe behind that curve.”
And just before I was about to give up and return to the car, indeed, the Gasthaus appeared. Right next to the river. It looked like it was hewn out of the rock and the waves lapped against its walls, it was that close to the water. Old-fashioned, but definitely lit and open.
We stumbled through the door, wet to the bones.
“Thank God,” I said as I wiped the rain off my face.
“Well, what do we have here?” a burly man looked up, surprised. He stood behind the bar and poured beer into a glass.
“Five minutes outside and we are wet to the bone,” I said, grateful for the warmth.
There actually was a real fire lit in the fireplace. And it smelled of food. To my surprise, the inn was full. People sat and ate as if the worst storm of the century didn’t just howl by outside. The man handed me a clean towel and I wiped Jenny’s face with it. It was white and peaked.
The kids dropped into the seats of the table nearest to the fire.
“You shouldn’t be out there in a weather like this, especially with children,” the innkeeper scolded.
“My husband is still out there. Our car broke down and he is trying to reach the gas station. My daughter’s sick.” I lifted my wet cell phone. “And this doesn’t work. Can you help us?”
“Sit down, lady, and we’ll figure things out. First have some hot tea with rum. Some peppermint tea for the sick one and hot chocolate for the other two, yes?” He nodded at the kids.
“Yes,” Emmy and Max said in unison.
“For me, not,” Jenny groaned and curled up on the bank next to the tiled stove. I touched her cheeks. She was feverish. I pulled off her wet jacket, grabbed a small pillow from the bench and placed it under her head.
“Do you have a room free for the five of us?”
The innkeeper tilted his head thoughtfully. “We’re full,” he said after a moment. “Unless you don’t mind taking the room next to Fridrich, then you can have it.”
“Fridrich?”
The innkeeper nodded at the table in the corner next to ours.
An old man sat there, smoking a pipe. His skin was wrinkled and leathery and he wore a grey woolen sweater.
“That is Fridrich. He lives in the room on the top floor. There is only one other room on that floor which is usually empty, but it has a double bed and a sofa. Should work for you if you squeeze together.”
“We would love to.”
“Then you are the first ones to, ever.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I suppose he will tell you himself.”
Very strange. At that time, a waitress served food, some Knödel with sauerkraut, and the four of us ate like there was no tomorrow. The rum in my tea was strong and the fire was beginning to dry my jeans. The girl also brought a blanket for Jenny, who’d started to doze off. I wanted to take Jenny up to the room but she started crying that she did not want to be there alone. So she stayed with us while we ate.
The Gasthaus had an old-fashioned quaintness that was cosy and attractive.
“I wonder where Papa is,” Emmy said in between two bites.
Me too. In fact, I was getting quite worried.
“I’m sure he will show up here soon.”
In that moment, it turned pitch-black.
A power cut.
The kids screamed and my heart raced. Good grief, it was only a power cut. We were in a full room of people, nothing would happen. And yet there was something scary about unexpectedly sitting in the dark from one second to the other.
“Stay calm, everyone,” the deep voice of the innkeeper sounded. ”The storm must have interfered with some cables. Happens from time to time.”
Something scratched and fizzled, then, a candle flame appeared. The kids sighed in relief.
The innkeeper, with the waitresses’ help, brought a candle to each table.
In the end, we finished our dinner by candlelight.
“This is quite possibly the worst storm since the last twenty years,” one elderly man by the bar said and shook his head. “And I’ve been through a lot of storms.”
“It isn’t a normal storm. It is the rage of the sirens,” an old, rusty and impossibly deep voice said from the corner.
Fridrich. We looked at him curiously.
He took the pipe out of his mouth and tapped it against the wooden table. He leaned forward with gleaming eyes and looked at us.
“Do you want me to tell you a story?”
I smiled politely. Honestly, all I wanted was for Helmut to come through that door. And a warm bed.
But Jenny was sleeping deeply, her breathing had calmed, Emmy was busy spooning the pudding the waitress had brought, and Max actually looked at the man with interest.
“If you want,” I said.
Fridrich nodded thoughtfully.
“In my time, their rage was worse. It was violent and deadly, and none of us were safe. Ever. We are all sailors here, you see,” he lifted the hand with his pipe and waved it around the room. Indeed, now that he’d mentioned it, I noticed the room was filled only with weather-beaten men. Young and old. A few women, too. Some of them nodded, others leaned back as if they’d heard him tell his tale many times before.
“We are all sailors,” he repeated. “That means they were our main enemy.”
“Who?”
“The sirens.” He leaned forward. “The Rhine used to be full with them. Once upon a time. There was one in particular. The Loreley.”
Ah. Of course. I relaxed back in my seat with a smile. How well done of him, to entertain the kids with local lore and legend. And how well he did it! The drama, the intonation. He was entirely convincing.
But Max wasn’t born yesterday. He may listen to lots of gangsta rap, but he also read a lot.
“The Loreley.” He sounded disappointed. “That’s a fairy tale for little kids.”
“A fairy tale for little kids!” anger sparked out of his blue eyes.
Max looked at me uneasily as I suppressed a smile.
“You don’t know what you are saying, boy,” Fridrich snorted. “Listen closely, to what I have to say. And then, tell me, whether it is a fairy tale for little kids.”
“How old are you? Fifteen, you say? Well, by that age I was already an experienced fisherman. One had to be. The waters of the Rhine are tricky. The currents are strong and there are maelstroms. If you don’t know about them, they will suck you down. There are unexpected sandbanks, hidden rocks. It isn’t easy navigating through these waters. And there are more deadly dangers underneath these waters than you can possibly imagine.
There are sirens and Nixies, the daughters of the Rhine. They lighten a lamp in stormy nights as these so sailors think it is
a safe landing place, and yet it leads straight to a jagged rock where the boat will smash into a thousand pieces. Or they sing and lure you into a daze so you can’t think straight and you navigate the boat straight against the rock yourself. They are beautiful but deadly creatures. A seaman’s worst enemy.
But there is one, one in particular, who is immortal, who kills her victims with love. Aye, with love. For to look at her, one cannot help but fall in love with her. She sits on yonder rock and combs her long, blonde hair, singing, driving men – and some women – to insanity and to certain death.
I was a cabin boy on board of the Aurora when it happened. It was a beautiful, warm summer night, the sky was clear, the waters calm. We had a wedding party on board. The bridegroom was the mayor’s son, the bride came from a rich family. The wedding guests were dancing on deck. When all of a sudden, we heard shouts. Some boys pointed at the rock and there she sat, doing nothing but combing her hair. They provoked her. Threw stones and bottles at her. And then she opened her mouth: and sang.
She sang a song so unearthly beautiful, it cast you into a trance. It is a yearning beyond all yearning. It is impossible to resist. The entire wedding party jumped overboard to follow the song. Including some of the sailors. I was pulling myself up and over the railing, when I snapped out of the trance. Someone held me back, a hand on mine, it was Erla.
“Don’t listen to her, Freddy, look at me.” And I looked at her, her pleading brown eyes, and I snapped out of it. The song could not harm me. Neither did it seem to have an effect on Erla. But some of the others weren’t so lucky. Erla and I, we fished as many as we could out of the water. But the bridegroom drowned; he was carried away by the current. The bride, poor thing, went insane with grief.
The mayor, wild with grief at his son’s death, called out a war: we sailors against her. We were to hunt her down and kill her, once and for all. And end this pestilence, this evil forever.