//------------------------------// // Story Time // Story: Washed Up // by ambion //------------------------------// Flotsam hadn’t been counting his drinks. Maybe he should have been; it might have helped him out later to have a clear head. Or at least, clearer. It certainly didn’t help that the sailors never kept track of theirs. And, through no intent of their own, tended to forget or dismiss the idea that ale was alcoholic, in the same way that snacks have no calories and that ‘one more doesn't hurt.’ He regarded the half empty/full tin cup wedged in the sand, notching its own little flickering shadow out of firelight, taking a moment to steady his head. Every time he moved his awareness wobbled. He had the urge to fling himself back into the sand and yell, and to run into the ocean, or sing, not that he knew any songs. Maybe he did…? Flotsam pushed the thought down with another swallow. They’d definitely moved to a bigger fire at some point, Harpoon and he. She’d since left, but here he was, and the fire was a crackling, occasionally spitting pile of glowing coals, blackened sand and haze-warped starlight going upwards. Charming Booty, gorgeous, snide Charming Booty was the one playing the concertina. It was like a smaller accordion, contracting and expanding as it hovered in the air. He tried to identify the song – a fruitless effort – and wondered if it even were a song she played, or just a vague melody of notes. He wondered if that was her talent and only when she answered did he realize he’d spoken it aloud. “This little thing?” she said, giving the instrument a wiggle. “No it never was. It flatters me that you think so, Mr. Flotsam. My talent is finding treasure. And getting the value of it.” She’d looked him right in the eye as she’d said it. A flick of her mane made it surge like fire. Flotsam’s heartbeat thump-thumped more forcefully, and she smiled, knowing full well what she did, knowing that he knew… A teenager interposed herself between mare and concertina, rather spoiling the moment. She grunted and huffed to make room where there really hadn’t been any, brushed the worst of the sand from her hooves and clutched expertly at the instrument. “Sure, Charming’s alright. Good, even. But that’s only practice and patience. I’m the talent. Shanty.” A hoof shot out, Flotsam shook it ponderously. “If it makes music, I can play it.” Charming looked amused. Or to be more exact, she looked like a pony that had narrowly made the choice between being amused or annoyed. “Yes,” she said, gracefully sidling back into prominence. “She is rather good. Livens up an evening.” Shanty huffed. “Rather good. I’m the best there’s been since Siren herself.” “Except Siren sang and you’ve never done.” “Whatever, I make music. So, Flotsam, any requests?” “I…don’t know.” He looked around. The next fire over had a few quiet ponies. The opposite way there was Harpoon, and further on others still. “Who’s Siren? I don’t know everyone’s names yet.” “Wow, you really are cast adrift,” she tapped her skull, “in here I mean.” So, she’d decided to pity him. Flotsam hadn’t wanted the reminder. He fumbled to get the rest of his ale into him, but he listened close. Maybe he should focus more on the present. Charming Booty clicked the two empty cups together. They drifted away, dipped into an open-topped barrel and came back full. She winked. Flotsam was still a little put out, and more than a little bit sodden with ale, but the fluster still got him. “Oh, thanks.” Shanty didn’t notice or didn’t care about the exchange. She clasped the little concertina closed and set it gently down out of harm by hoof or errant sparks way. “Siren’s a legend,” she stated. “She lived maybe a hundred years ago? Something like that? I dunno. Find a reading pony for that. There’s old ponies that’ll say they heard her, when they were small. They’ll say all sorts of things” Shanty seemed to consider her own diversion. “I believe them. Some of the really old ones go misty-eyed, really out of it, you know? Like you don’t that way get when you’re telling a yarn.” Ponderously, Flotsam moved a piece of wood into the orange-glowing centre of the fire. and watched the edges blacken. “Like they’re remembering?” Shanty shrugged. “Yeah.” Flotsam was making a conscious effort to not overbalance backwards. He blinked the brightness from his eyes and took a breath or two. “You was Siren about saying? About Siren?” Shanty’s expression went soft, even childlike. She plopped down and let her legs stretch away from her. She fed a length of driftwood to the bonfire too. “Yeah. I wish I’d heard her. They say she could sing the storms in and sing them away again. And she would. Do both, I mean. Sometimes she’d call storms onto ponies – she’s supposed to have had a real temper – and she’d help others too. Love and fear, you know?” Harpoon was a sudden apparition emerging from the night. The conversation stopped with her, and with no rush at all she settled into the sand, shifting and folding her wings into place. The wine-coloured pegasus grunted approval, and Shanty continued. “She was the closest thing to a queen the Coral Coast ever had.” “Or a goddess,” Harpoon rumbled. “Then one day she just left for the shore and was never seen again.” Genuine sorrow managed to poke its head through Flotsam’s hazy state. Some ponies say that one day the sea wanted to become a pony, see what it was like, and that pony was Siren, and that, when she was satisfied she just…went back. I don’t know if I believe that part, about her being the sea. But, yeah everypony knows Siren. “She was powerful and more or less unified the Coral Coast and now she’s gone.” There was a general, respectful down-turning of heads. Flotsam had an odd thought, namely that sometimes quiet can be more quiet than real silence. He couldn’t articulate the concept, drunk or otherwise, but it would have been reasoned something like this: Silence was an actual absence of sound, and when you had that you really mostly just listened to yourself think, and that was pretty noisy really. Like right now, he realized. But quiet, proper quiet, wave-over-sand and crackling fire and low breathing quiet, those profound, indifferent sounds, those made a pony listen, really listen hard and maybe, just maybe, the slosh and drip of a figure walking out of the water; the ocean decided on being a pony again. “T’ Siren! To whatever, whoever, wherever, she was.” It was as toasts go not the best. He hadn’t planned it. He slurred bad enough even he noticed it. His voice was going feeble and reedy from the drinking. He spilled ale on himself. They left him hanging for an awkward second. Then the drinks were hoisted. “Yeah. To Siren.” Flotsam had the urge to go to the water’s edge. Just to be sure. To indulge the little bit of superstition that lives in every soul. To chase the ‘but’ after every ‘impossible’. He stood up, or tried to, but he hadn’t moved for a while and it was such a sudden, spinning, dizzy mess with four legs on. He saw the world go careening across his vision… “Uh oh,” he moaned sickly- …and collapsed into the fire's welcoming embrace.