Blessings By The Sea

ALL THREE OF THE WOMEN CAME FROM THE WITCHING SEA, as all such magical creatures do. Nothing upon the land could carry such pain and sorrow as they could—though the man tried. The man, old now, with a white beard and weathered skin, still lived in the small, isolated cottage on the desolate shore, battered by cold wind and grey sea. All three had cursed him.
 The first, she came as a laden turtle, struggling up the coarse, black sand—the remains of a time when the land roared with fiery anger, and the fairfolk fled to the cold waters. She struggled for hours, days, perhaps it was years, while scavengers circled above, waiting for signs of vulnerability. They saw not her magic, but only her meat. Under the cover of mother night, as the winds rose from the sea, sending scavengers seeking shelter, she found this house and gave birth to the man.
 Alone together, far from safety, she taught him how not just to survive, but to live. How not just to build a fire, but to warm a place to share stories. How not just to cook food, but to create meals that provided delight or comfort. He learned not just to work, but to enjoy a growing sense of mastery. She always told him that one day the sea would call, and she would go. She spoke softly about how he would need to carry on without her magic. He would beg to come with her, but she would shake her head.
 ‘There are sacred places where those born as you are may never go.’
 The curse burnt him deeply. For years, he would plead and bargain with her to lift it. But she would only smile, and tell him, ‘That’s not how it works.’
 Then one night, as their meagre fire dwindled to a faint glow of coals, she opened the door, strode out under the cover of mother night, and returned to the sea. The man, lanky and awkward, stood in the door and watched her go. Try as he might, he could not follow, as was his curse. The sea would not accept him.

***

The next woman came as a thunderstorm. He had weathered many storms alone, but this one felt different. She rattled his windows and banged upon his door. She shook his foundation. To survive her, he would need only brace the door, and wait it out. He was now a man in his prime, who could have placed but one of his broad shoulders against the door and barred entry to the devil himself. But instead, his heart told him to live, and his gentle hands, trembling, opened the latch.
 She blew in and filled every corner with her electricity, excising the bachelor's dust and dreariness. He wondered why he hadn’t let her in sooner. Her tempest thrilled him. She made love to him like a hurricane. She blew confidence in his ear like a summer breeze. She put the wind at his back for all he needed to do.She taught him how to share; how, by giving half, he received twice in return. He learned anew how to laugh and to cry.
 She taught him how to fight for what mattered and to accept the things that didn’t. She gave him the wisdom to know which was which. She taught him the world was built for two.
 Her final lesson was to teach him about change. He had never liked it, and would ask her if, perhaps, things could just remain as they were.
 She laughed, reminding him, ‘That’s not how it works.’
 Then slowly over the course of a summer, fall and winter, she too gradually turned into a turtle. He knew where she would eventually go, where he could not follow—such was his curse. It filled him with fear. He felt he barely knew how to live alone anymore, that her magic made him a better man, that together they could overcome anything.
 ‘We still have time, don’t we?’ he would ask.
 But she shook her head. He tried to hide his tears.
 ‘You won’t be alone,’ she offered as a condolence. ‘But you will be called upon to give more of yourself than ever before.’
 The curse burnt him deeply.
 She returned to the witching sea on the day the third arrived.

***

She came as dew drops on a flower petal. Though small, she danced, played, and poked at things. She was mischief, confusion and laughter—so much laughter.
 He would teach her all that turtles and tempests had taught him. When the fire fluttered out and the darkness gave her fright, he would gather her gently within his big arms, saying he would protect her from any and all that threatened their shores.
 ‘Even pirates and dragons?’ she would ask.
 And he would regale her with tales of a knight protecting the princess from the brigands and the fire-breathing wyrms until she’d fall asleep, snuggled into his love, within all the love that had ever warmed the walls of the lonely cottage by the cold witching sea.
 When the summers brought respite and the warm sea breeze visited like an old friend, they would build castles of coarse black sand. She would pretend to be a dragon, and he would valiantly attempt to defend the castle, until one summer she decided she would prefer to just swim. He watched her with a mix of joy and trepidation, always worried the sea would, at any moment, call her back. She taught him to act braver than he really was.
 As she grew taller, and he began to grey, she tested his patience and tried his nerves. She defied him. She delighted him. She surprised and terrified him. Her magic surpassed both her predecessors. He wondered at its potential, so bright, so hopeful. He feared that her curse would burn him worst of all.
 She too was fated to leave the tiny cottage by the desolate shore. He knew the day would come long before she did, but still it felt sudden to him. It began calling to her, and she, like all mystical creatures—mermaids, witches, and fairies—could not refuse to answer, any more than they could refuse to love and be loved in return. But she delayed as long as she could for him.
 He would fill their final days with a non-stop barrage of well-meaning advice. He offered her any precious object, tool, or provision that might aid her journey. He even offered to go with her.
 ‘You know that’s not how this works,’ she replied, with a wisdom he had seen in the others before her. How she looked like them now. Her curse burnt him three times over.
 Then, early one morning, just as the gloaming light began to push the world from slumber, her winds gathered, and she was gone—blown out in search of other windows to rattle.

***

Now old, white-haired, and flabby, he lingers. The cottage gathers dust. Its fire burns low. He walks the cold black sand with bony bare feet. He feels the angry earth calling him back. The scavengers circle above. In his last lonely days, he sits peacefully watching the waves. The bewitching sea breaks against the picturesque shore. He sits counting his blessings three. 🙭

First published in Belladonna’s Garden literary magazine, Summer 2026.