The Sirens

The reef comes up without warning and the channel runs past a small stony island where figures sit on the rocks. They might be women. The wind dies. The air goes sweet and heavy, like figs warmed past ripeness. Then the song. It is not music exactly. It is a sensation in the mind, waves passing through until they find your name, and they know your name. They know Penelope. They know Troy. They know every man you fought beside and every god who watched. They know the meaning of the whole thing. The lure is not sex. It is knowledge. The skulls on the white sand are men, birds, things from the deep, all the creatures who heard the offer and went toward it. [SPOILER: Odysseus has the crew plug their ears with kneaded wax and lash him to the mast. He twists in the ropes, scowling, screaming, baring his teeth, his eyes telling the men to cut him free and his mouth shaping every plea, bargain, threat, and vile insult he can think of. Eurylochus only tightens the bonds. The island slips behind them. The cord stays. Even years later, telling the story in a Phaeacian hall, he can close his eyes and hear it pulling at him. Some hooks the cunning man never gets out.]